Night Action (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  He thrust the thought aside; that was a bridge he would cross when he came to it, and please God, he never would. He ordered, “Test guns!”

  The signalman on the bridge lifted the Aldis lamp and the beam flickered pale in the last grey winter light. The sun was setting somewhere astern, hidden by low cloud. The guns, twin Vickers .5-inch machine-guns mounted in a small open-topped turret aft of the bridge of each boat, hammered in short bursts, red tracer curving out to sea, then were silent. Brent turned to face forward and nodded acceptance, not satisfaction. The machine-guns were the sole armament of the flotilla. The torpedo tubes mounted either side of the bridge had been left empty for this operation to lighten the boats.

  He stood, bulky in oilskins, in the right-hand corner of the narrow bridge. He rubbed shoulders with Grundy, the coxswain, standing at the wheel in the centre of the bridge, eyes intent on the compass. It was a silent intimacy. They were a team now, still divided by rank but joined by that year of shared hardship. Their conversation was sparse and formal, limited to the working of the boat, but talk had nothing to do with respect and liking.

  Lieutenant Jimmy Nash, next in seniority to David Brent and his second-in-command, stood at the back of the bridge. He was “spare skipper” for this trip because his own boat was one of those in the dockyard. He would take command if any of the four captains became a casualty. Jimmy was a raffishly handsome young man, curly-haired, confident and humorous. Before the war he had sold cars and raced them — and power-boats.

  He watched Brent, curious and assessing, because the commander of the flotilla was an unknown quantity, a stranger. He had come only two weeks before, bringing Grundy with him. He was tall and lean, taciturn. Jimmy thought: He doesn’t look tough but you never can tell. Nash believed he was in line for his own flotilla and looked forward to it with eagerness tinged with apprehension. He had been disappointed when Brent was given command although he came with the reputation of being a fighter, a victor in savage encounters with the enemy. Fair enough, but he had to prove himself here and Jimmy would watch him.

  Brent turned and caught Nash’s speculative gaze. He guessed at Jimmy’s thoughts, knew he had that reputation but believed it had come by chance; he had simply faced crises and dealt with them as best he could. He wanted only to come out of this operation alive. Correction: he wanted all of them out of it alive. He grinned at Jimmy and then faced forward.

  Nash found himself returning that grin, then his eyes shifted to Tallon. He did not look a soldier at that moment, anonymous in oilskins like the rest. He was short and broad, square-faced and sharp-eyed.

  This was a “silent” patrol, which meant they were to avoid action at sea and go for their primary objective: land the commandos and bring off the prisoner from the train. Jimmy thought: It’s silent, all right. Brent and Tallon knew each other, that had been obvious to Jimmy when the soldier came aboard, but he and Brent had only exchanged nods, had not spoken a word to each other except on matters of duty. There was distance and silence between them.

  Now Chris Tallon turned on Nash and snapped at him, “What are you staring at?”

  Jimmy replied mildly, “Just day-dreaming, old lad.”

  Tallon glared, “I hope we don’t have any of that when we’re on the other side.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t. I just make damn sure it doesn’t happen.”

  Nash shrugged and moved away. The soldier was on edge and Jimmy didn’t blame him; he would be landing on the enemy coast before long. Jimmy stopped at David Brent’s shoulder and raised his voice above the roar of the engines, “You said you knew this stretch of coast around St. Jean.”

  David Brent did not turn his head, answered only “Yes.”

  Jimmy waited, but Brent said no more, offered no explanation of the source of his knowledge.

  *

  In one of the rooms in the warren beneath the Admiralty a tall man in a tweed suit sat erect in a straight-backed wooden chair and watched the officer at the telephone on the other side of the desk. The two men were of an age, in their early fifties. The sleeve of the navy blue uniform of the man behind the desk bore the thick and the thin gold rings of a rear-admiral. He said into the telephone, “Thank you.” Then he put the receiver back on its cradle and told the man in the tweed suit, “They’ve sailed, General.”

  There was still formality between them though they had worked together for some weeks and their countries were now allies; Pearl Harbor had been attacked only the previous Sunday.

  The general nodded and was silent for a moment, then asked, “They’re your best men?” His voice was deep and the accent was that of New England.

  “They are the best available.”

  The general noted that careful choice of words, and questioned: “Available?”

  The admiral spread his open hands, palms up. “The cream of the commandos are already committed to a raid on the Lofotens. It would be impossible to bring any of them back in time. The flotilla of boats I would have used, experienced and with a brilliant leader, were the targets of a dawn air-raid yesterday. The boats were badly damaged, crews decimated, their captains killed.”

  “So these really aren’t the best.”

  The hands lay still on the desk now and the admiral conceded, “No.”

  “I see.” The general kept his tone neutral, but thought, Jesus! “Do they know?”

  The admiral hesitated, then admitted, “I think they do.”

  “All right.” The American was silent for a minute, thinking he would have to report this. But the point was... He demanded, “Can they do it? Can they bring that man back?”

  The admiral looked down and used one finger to open the slim file on the desk. He read again the orders given to him and phrases jumped out from the page: ‘At all costs’... ‘No price is too high to pay.’ He thought that he had got that across to Brent and Tallon, remembered their faces, expressionless, not looking at each other. He said, “I think so.” The initials scrawled at the foot of the curt directive read W.S.C. He said, “Your President spoke directly to Churchill about this operation. Why does Roosevelt want this man brought out of France? Why is he so important?” The American stared back at him, not answering, and he smiled wryly and nodded, “I see. I have no need to know and you aren’t permitted to tell me. That’s right, of course.”

  The general asked, “When will we hear from your men?”

  “If all goes well, around one in the morning. They’ll be home then. They’ll maintain wireless silence throughout.”

  “If all goes well,” the American repeated. Then: “I went down to Southampton a couple of days ago. The train was late both ways. This train they’re going for, suppose it’s late?”

  “It would make the job more difficult, even more dangerous.” The admiral explained, “They must be clear of the French coast and well on their way home by dawn. If they are still on the other side at first light they will be bombed and strafed out of existence.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The American also thought: I’m not a bloody fool, to have the obvious pointed out in simple words. Maybe his dignity is hurt because I couldn’t answer him a minute ago. Tough. Aloud, he said, “A lot of things can go wrong.”

  “Any operation is subject to chance, or the enemy not acting as you expected, and amphibious ones are the devil. You can lose a lot of good men.” The admiral stopped abruptly, shook his head then smiled. “You must excuse me. You know all that. I think possibly your suit deceived me. I sometimes have to explain military or naval decisions to ill-informed civilians.”

  “O.K.” The general had suffered that experience and he returned the grin sympathetically but did not relax in the chair. “But you know these men and you still think they can do it?”

  The man opposite met his stare, thought a moment, then said slowly as if marshalling his thoughts, reasoning his way to a conclusion: “The commandos are well trained and their officer is brave. The man in overall command
believes himself to be a conventional naval officer, but he can behave in unconventional fashion. He is resourceful, can retrieve a situation that is apparently lost.” He paused, then answered definitely, “Yes.” But it was not only down to the men.

  *

  In the old port of St. Jean, Kapitänleutnant Rudi Halder tucked his cap under his arm and entered the fishermen’s café on the quay. He was a tall man in his mid-twenties with crinkly hair the colour of copper. He was not handsome but a humorous grin was never far away. His men knew him to be a strict disciplinarian, but fair. The girl Ilse knew him to be strong but gentle.

  He ordered a glass of beer and drank it standing at the bar and looking out to the harbour. The fishing fleet, a score of drifters, were putting to sea. They were broad-beamed little boats with a wheel-house aft, a mast forward and a hold between for the fish. They slipped past the guardship moored just inside the entrance to the harbour, another drifter like them but armed with a 40mm. cannon in the bow. They threaded one by one through the narrow gap between the grey sea-walls and their masts stood like a forest of bare poles against the dull yellow glow of the sun setting behind the low cloudbase. This was a brief interlude of peace and Rudi savoured it.

  He glanced around the bar and saw the few Frenchmen in there were deliberately not looking at him. Rudi was used to that, and the thin beer, and was prepared to put up with both. ‘Count your blessings,’ he told himself, ‘that bastard Ostmann isn’t in tonight.’

  He drained his glass, left the bar and walked down past the S.S. Headquarters on the quay to the three Schnellboote where they were moored side by side in a trot against the harbour wall. Rudi halted on the edge and stood frowning down at the boats, his eyes sliding, searching, over each one in turn, from the 20mm. cannon in the bow and the torpedo tubes flanking it to the second cannon aft of the bridge. The crews were lined up in the waist of each boat and Rudi examined them, too. He was not merely looking for smartness of dress, but at faces and how the men bore themselves. And after a minute he nodded, satisfied. He could find no fault with the boats and the men looked fit and confident.

  He stepped down to the deck of the inshore boat, saluted and ordered, “Carry on!” The rigid ranks broke up and the decks swirled with activity as Rudi crossed the two boats nearest the quay and so came to his own. Bruno Jacobi, his first lieutenant, short, broad and swarthy, waited for him and saluted as he came aboard.

  Rudi said, “I take it we’re ready for sea; no problems.”

  “Ready for sea, sir.” And Bruno added, “It could be a good night.”

  Rudi nodded agreement, “Dark and dirty with some fog.” He grinned at Bruno. “A good night for hunting Tommis and I’ve got a lucky feeling. Let’s get after them. Start up!”

  *

  The sun was sinking behind low clouds as Suzanne and Louis dismounted from their bicycles at the top of a rise. The road before them ran down gently to the railway and ended at a siding. There was no station or platform, just a spur-line leading off from the permanent way. A train could be shunted off into the siding, to get it out of the way so another train could pass, or to load it. Beyond the siding was the bridge carrying the railway over a defile. This was the one place, near the sea and in open country, where the railway was vulnerable and the rescue could be made. Or might have been.

  The bridge was a quarter-mile from where Suzanne and Louis stood but there was no need to go down to it. There was no train in the siding but one was to be loaded there. A battalion of infantry was bivouacked around the siding and down to the bridge. Some of their vehicles were close to Suzanne and she saw that these troops were not middle-aged nor stoop-shouldered clerks. They were young and smartly turned out; they looked tough and efficient, a thousand men of a crack fighting unit.

  Suzanne turned away and Louis asked, “Why did we come here?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” The soldiers would not land tonight; the raid would not take place. Suzanne felt a load of responsibility lifted from her shoulders, and then was ashamed. She had not thought of the man on the train who would now die. She said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Louis shrugged and they cycled back along the road. Suzanne led the way to a café she knew and they found it crowded with men from the battalion. The proprietor was too busy and harassed to talk but Suzanne managed a few words with Madame in the kitchen, who told her, “They are on their way north. They entrain tomorrow, going back to Germany.” She lowered her voice to add, “I wish they were all going back.”

  The fresh-faced, fit, noisy young men turned their heads to watch Suzanne and she kept her eyes cast down as she went to the telephone. The doctor answered from his house near the coast and Suzanne asked, “How are you this evening?”

  “I am well. I took a short walk and got back only a few minutes ago. It is fine and clear.” That meant there were no sentries at the landing place this night. When that area was to be patrolled a section of six men and an N.C.O. took up occupation of a guard-hut in the last light of the day.

  Suzanne pushed through the crowd of soldiers, evading their hands, shaking her head at the invitations. She rejoined Louis who waited outside the café and they cycled away through the gathering dusk.

  It was full dark when Suzanne gestured to Louis and the soft hiss of tyres on the wet road ceased as they dismounted. They hid the bicycles behind the hedge then Suzanne led the way off the road and up a narrow, rutted track. After two hundred yards the wood loomed ahead as a rough-edged hump against the night sky. To the right was the square black shape of a house but they turned away from it and towards the corner of the wood close by. They halted when they were just short of the overhanging branches of the trees and Suzanne called in a low voice, “We’re here!”

  They heard the rustle of movement in the blackness of the wood and then a voice demanded, “Who’s that with you?”

  Suzanne answered, “Louis. He’s here to give extra protection.”

  Louis lifted his right hand above his head to show the pistol he held, pointed at the sky.

  The voice asked, “Why do you have that out now?”

  Louis answered, “In case somebody else was in there instead of you.”

  “You don’t know who I am.”

  Louis jerked his head at Suzanne, “She does.”

  She did, and had recognised Michel’s voice at once. Now he stepped out of the blackness of the wood and she told Louis, “Stay where you are and keep watch on the track.”

  She moved close to Michel but before she could speak he glanced over her shoulder, saw Louis was out of earshot and whispered, “I saw my Gestapo contact just before I left Le Havre. Six S.S. men will travel as escort in the last coach of the train, the prisoners in the next two. But the time of the train leaving there has been put back by three and a half hours because they want to send more deportees.”

  Suzanne said flatly, “It doesn’t matter.” And when he looked at her questioningly she told him of the crack battalion bivouacked at the siding: “The raid is impossible now.”

  Michel’s shoulders slumped and he sighed, “Well, I told you this was our last chance to save that man and now it’s gone.” He was silent a moment then added, “I liked him.”

  Suzanne said softly, “I’m sorry, but now we have to meet the boat.” She turned back to the track.

  Louis eased in front of her. “I’ll lead,” and he explained, “in case we run into trouble.”

  “You don’t know where we’re going.”

  Louis paused, and turned his head to ask, “Not back the way we came?”

  “No.”

  Louis shrugged, “All right. You two stay back about ten metres. Just tell me when to turn left or right. Which way now?”

  Suzanne pointed towards the distant, unseen coast and Louis nodded. He led back along the track until it forked and there took the left turning. The other two followed. Suzanne glanced down to make sure of her footing. She had passed this way before and knew the ditch at the side of th
e track was deep. She saw she was walking a metre clear of the black void that was the ditch and looked forward again.

  They were passing the derelict house that was roofless, the beams making a black lacing against the sky. The shutters hung askew by the windows that were no more than holes in the walls, like embrasures —

  The track was suddenly flooded with light and there was a shouted order, “Stand still!” Louis half-turned, pistol lifting to point at the lights but the firing came from behind the glare, three shots, the reports running into each other: crack! crack! crack! Louis spun away and fell on his face in the mud, arms splayed wide. Suzanne threw herself down. A bellow came from the outer darkness, “Stay where you are or we’ll shoot you down as well!” But she remembered the ditch, rolled towards it and over the edge to fall into a foot of water as another shot crashed out and ricochetted, whining, off a rock.

  All the time she was praying, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  Chapter Four - “We’ve done this before”

  David Brent’s four boats were running at near full speed now, tearing through the dark night at close to forty knots. Their square sterns were tucked down and their bows lifted high out of the sea, splitting it in two flaring white waves that flashed past either side of the bridge. At times the spray drove in like a torrential rain to run salty down Brent’s face. That of Grundy, poised above the glow of the compass binnacle, glistened with salty rivulets.

  David glanced to right then left and saw the other M.T.B.s were neatly holding the arrowhead formation. Crozier’s boat tore along to starboard and astern of Brent, while little Dent and Tommy Vance were in echelon to port. The arrowhead formation was to avoid the turbulence encountered by boats steering in the wash of that next ahead. This way the M.T.B.s on either side of David Brent were running just in front of his boat’s wash and in clear water.