Night Action (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  The dinghy bucked over the rollers towards the dark shore while the drifter and the M.T.B.s receded astern, blurred black silhouettes gradually merging into the night and the shadow of the cape. Brent gripped the tiller with one hand, held in the other the Colt .45 automatic he’d strapped on.

  The line of breaking surf was just ahead and he could see a figure standing there. He narrowed his eyes, trying to probe the darkness, searching for any other men hidden further up the beach, but he could make out nothing beyond the man at the edge of the surf. He was conscious of Suzanne at his side. He had wanted to leave her behind, but he needed her. She was the only one who knew the man who should be waiting on the beach and she had an important part to play later. Brent glanced at her quickly. She was leaning forward to peer over the lifting and dipping bow as the boat drove in. Then she nodded: “That’s Albert.”

  A second later the dinghy took the ground. As the prow grated on shingle Grundy leapt over into the surf and dragged it higher on the beach. The others followed, Suzanne and David Brent last of all. Only the seaman who was to take back the dinghy was left aboard. Grundy and the other men fanned out, watching the beach breathlessly with carbines held ready.

  Suzanne shot quick questions at Albert, then turned to Brent waiting at her side and said, “He has — dealt with — the sentry here. No one will come for an hour or more. We can go on.”

  All David Brent could see of Albert in the night was a bony face and the glitter of eyes above a slight, stooped figure. He wondered how this skinny little man could have “dealt with” an armed sentry, but did not ask. It was sufficient that it was done. He pulled the torch from his pocket and flashed the signal out to sea, then shoved at the bow of the dinghy. Grundy came running to add his weight and as the bow slid clear and the dinghy floated free he warned the man in the boat, “Don’t get lost, Charlie.”

  Charlie replied as he bent to the oars, “I’ll take bloody good care I don’t!” The dinghy turned and headed out to sea as he pulled strongly.

  Brent ordered Grundy, “All of you up to the cutting in the cliff. Get into cover and wait for the rest of us. I’ll meet the boats.” He watched them hurry up the beach in a loose group, Albert and Suzanne at their head, until their dark shapes blended into the blackness of the shadows at the foot of the grey cliff.

  He and the girl had lain on a shore like this, not far from this place, on a hot, sun-bright day. They swam, they ate and drank a bottle of dry white wine. He had made love to her.

  He turned and stared out to sea. As the other boats landed and the men scrambled onto the beach he pointed them towards the ravine. Then as the last of them trotted away he sent the boats back to join Jimmy Nash where he lay hidden in the shadow of the cape.

  Now he ran across the shingle then over soft sand. At the mouth of the ravine he found the others. They crouched in what cover they could find and in the night he could only see the indistinct shapes of a few of the men. Then Chris Tallon rose from the ground almost at his feet and whispered urgently, “Let’s get on with it!” Suzanne and Albert were standing now and she saw Brent’s nod to her. She turned and led the way into the deeper darkness of the ravine, the old man a pace behind her, David Brent at her shoulder. Tallon and his commandos followed in single file. Chris still had some doubts, but faith in Brent now. He had saved Tallon before. Then at the briefing he had not said: “We will attempt,” nor: “There is a chance.” But definitely: “This is what we will do.” Brent had made them a team.

  They walked quick-striding by the side of the stream. As they passed under the bridge Brent heard the sudden catch of the girl’s breath then he, too, saw the body of the sentry lying in the bed of the stream. But there was no break in Suzanne’s stride.

  David Brent thought that he had not literally burnt his boats, but they had gone. As soon as Jimmy Nash had recovered them he would be on his way. For Brent, Tallon, Suzanne, all of them, there was no turning back now. And as if in emphasis there was a sudden, long burst of firing in the darkness behind them and then the roar of engines. The column halted, heads turned, listening. Chris Tallon said softly, “Cannon fire. E-boats.” Brent nodded, and there came another burst, the hammering reports echoing inside the walls of the ravine. Then the sound of the engines ceased and there was silence.

  Tallon and Suzanne were looking at David Brent and the column of men waited on his decision. There had been no machine-gun fire. He thought that he could not help Jimmy Nash, whatever trouble the spare skipper was in. Brent had decided on his course of action. He was committed and would carry it through. He asked, “Where is this path?”

  Suzanne answered, “A few yards ahead.” She led on to it; they climbed out of the ravine and the padding file wound along the track through the night, headed inland to the river.

  Chapter Eight - Like jumping without a parachute

  When Rudi Halder had sighted the black mass of the cape lifting off the starboard bow of the E-boat he had told Bruno Jacobi, “There’s our landfall. We’ll run in close along this side of the cape. If the Tommis are hiding in there we’ve got them bottled up, with the shore on two sides of them.”

  The engines of the three E-boats were throttled back for silent running and they crept in towards the cape. Rudi glanced briefly to his left and saw the other two boats spaced out on that side and in echelon astern of him. Then he returned to staring out over the bow, as did the two-man crew of the 20mm. cannon just forward of the bridge. He could sense the tension in their bodies crouched over the breech of the gun.

  But the cannon fire came out of the night to starboard in a long, hammering burst that shattered the silence, tearing tracer that blinded with its brilliance and struck home. Rudi felt the jar of impact.

  He reacted after only a split second of outrage and disbelief: “Hold your fire! Hard aport! Full ahead!” The main engines boomed as the throttles opened and the boat surged forward but at once heeled in the turn to port. Rudi saw the other two boats following his example so the three of them ran away northwards as a second burst of cannon fire tore the night. Rudi bawled at the signalman on the bridge behind him, “Send the reply!” Then he saw the man already had the lamp lifted and was triggering off the recognition signal for that night. The signalman had also realised that they were under fire from another E-boat.

  That firing came again, dazzling, shrieking overhead so all of them on the bridge instinctively crouched and Rudi blasphemed and shouted at the attacking boats astern, “Hold your fire, you stupid bastards!” He knew that was a useless display of fear and fury — but the firing ceased. The signalman was still triggering off the “reply” and now there was an answering flicker of light out in the darkness. Rudi ground out between his teeth, “So they’ve woken up at last. Stop her!”

  The other two boats of his flotilla saw his speed fall away and conformed. All three E-boats slowed, slumped to rest but with engines still rumbling, idling.

  Rudi demanded, “Any casualties?” He waited, raging and anxious, hands clamped tight on the bridge screen. He had been on active service since the start of the war in 1939, first in the Baltic when the Wehrmacht overran Poland, then in the North Sea. He had learned his craft and some of the lessons were hard. He knew the terrible effect of gunfire on the human body, had suffered casualties in his crews, buried them, mourned every one.

  Now he received “negative” reports from the other two boats, lying within easy calling distance, and from Bruno Jacobi, climbing back onto the bridge after a lightning tour of his own command. Rudi heard them with relief but then Ernst Fischer, provoked, shouted across from his bridge, “What the hell is going on?”

  Rudi bellowed back at him, “Shut up!” And thought: What a bloody foul-up. But he would not have a whining session, not in his flotilla, by God! “I want a sharp look-out all around because we may be in the presence of the enemy. And keep silence, every one of you!”

  He got it. Bruno Jacobi had opened his mouth to vent his anger but now shut it and swallowed
the words. Not a voice was raised as two more E-boats took shape out of the night and closed to talking distance. Rudi waited. He could make out the bulky figure of Gunther on his bridge, could picture the face with its heavy jaw, usually thrust out for an effect of determination and aggression, but it would be chewing uncertainly now.

  Gunther’s voice came across the narrow neck of sea between the boats, “That’s you, Rudi?”

  “It is.” An even, patient reply.

  “I thought you were Tommis.”

  “Did you see my signal?”

  “Yes. That’s why I stopped firing —”

  “That was the ‘reply’ for the night.” Rudi stood with hands jammed in his pockets, his tone still patient, reasonable.

  “I know —”

  “There is also a ‘challenge’.”

  “Yes, I know —”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you send it instead of shooting up my boats!”

  “I’ve already been hit by the Tommis —”

  Rudi mimicked, “Yes, I know.”

  Gunther went on, complaining, “I lost one boat. I headed for the shore to try to beach her but she sank before we reached shallow water. The other one is holed and pumping all the time, can’t make better than ten knots. I was on my way back to base and when I saw these boats ahead —”

  “You thought you’d sink one of mine to even things up!”

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I’m here because I thought the Tommis could be lying close under the cape.” Rudi saw Gunther’s head jerk around to peer at the black mass astern, and went on, “Forget it. If they’d been there they’d have grabbed the heaven-sent opportunity of shooting hell out of us while we’re lying here like sitting ducks.” And regretted it, if they had tried; his gunners sat with fingers on the triggers as he had ordered.

  Rudi dismissed Gunther contemptuously, “The Tommis are miles away and on their way home. You’d better follow their example before you do any real damage.”

  “I’ll make a full report of this conversation!” That was bluster and the silent, listening men in the boats knew it.

  “I will also make a full report, Gunther, and if they ever give you another boat they’ll never let you out of the bath with it!” Rudi turned away and ordered, “Half ahead.” As his boat eased forward he saw the other two of his flotilla getting under way and tucking themselves into the echelon formation, swinging to port to copy his own turn as he growled it down the voice-pipe at Bäcker, the coxswain, in the wheel-house below the bridge.

  Gunther! That thick-headed blunderer! Rudi fought down his anger. He had to think clearly. He went over the events of the night in his mind: the Tommis had picked up an agent south of St. Jean and he had hit them twenty miles out as they were passing the fishing fleet. Rudi had waited in ambush again but instead of continuing on their course for home the Tommis had attacked the fishing fleet. After that engagement they had headed north, one of their boats had burned and the survivors had jumped Gunther when he charged in bull-headed.

  Conclusion: after that first action the Tommis had suspected the trap he had laid for them and to avoid it had headed north before turning for home. Somehow he had missed them as he had swept northward — maybe they had changed to silent running? But no; if they were on their way back to England they would not creep along on auxiliaries.

  He had told Gunther that if the Tommis were still around they would have jumped the E-boats while they were stopped. But would they? Suppose picking up the agent was only part of an operation to be carried out on this coast and which now demanded they avoid action? What kind of operation? He did not know, but now he thought uneasily that the Tommis could still be somewhere off this coast. Had they been lying quietly in the black shelter of the cape while he bawled out Gunther?

  Bruno Jacobi thrust another signal at him and Rudi muttered irritably, “There’s too much wireless traffic.”

  This one was from his senior officer sitting at his desk at base and ordered, “Pursue enemy along course…” Rudi scanned it quickly then slapped it into Bruno’s open palm. “They want us to chase along a course to England, and try to stop the Tommis getting that agent back — if it takes all night. Send: ‘Submit believed enemy still in my area of coast and continuing operations. Request permission to search.’ And we’ll do that.”

  The E-boats turned and started back towards the land, but five minutes later Rudi received yet another signal from his senior officer, curt but explicit: he was to carry out his orders.

  He swore and turned the boats again, on course for England.

  *

  Jimmy Nash had recovered only one of his dinghies when he heard the engine noise muttering out at sea. He stood on the deck of the drifter, head turning as he listened. Then Crozier called softly from his bridge only yards away, “You hear it, too?”

  Jimmy warned, “Be ready to fight your way out, the pair of you, but fire only on my order.” He heard the quiet acknowledgments from Crozier and little Dent on either side of the drifter, was aware as they were that all of them were pinned against the black loom of the cape. They waited for their boats, as he waited for that of the drifter to return from the beach.

  He jerked as the cannon fire hammered and tracer slid across the sky. Then the engine noise grew from a mutter to a deep booming and he saw the grey brush-strokes in the night that were the bow-waves and wakes of E-boats running at speed. A light flickered rapidly, unceasingly, and there was another burst of cannon fire but the light winked on without pause. Jimmy called, “What was that morse flashing?” He had read it but sought confirmation.

  It came from Crozier’s signalman: “B.M., sir. Over ‘n’ over.”

  Little Dent called gleefully, “They’re shooting at each other!”

  Jimmy thought: Right. So there were two groups of enemy boats out there and Brent hadn’t succeeded in removing the threat from the sea. Had he known? And landed anyway?

  The firing had ceased and now the bellow of the engines receding northward dropped to a low, idling grumble. Jimmy thought: They’ve stopped.

  But the engines were still running, would cover any noise he might make and he saw the men on the M.T.B.s alongside were hauling in their dinghies. Then the drifter’s beamy boat rubbed against her side. He called to Dent and Crozier, “Follow me out. Silent running.” He turned to the drifter’s skipper, standing at his side, pointed to the seaward end of the cape then turned his hand at the wrist to indicate “south”, and finally put his finger to his lips.

  The skipper nodded his understanding, “Oui.”

  The drifter’s boat was hooked onto the davits, swung up from the water and inboard. Her engine thumped softly and she moved ahead, leading Dent and Crozier. The three slowly, quietly rounded the cape, stealing like shadows over the surface of the sea, and turned southward. Now they were moving parallel to the coast but out of sight of it. Jimmy showed the chart to the skipper in the wheel-house and pointed to the cross he had pencilled. The fisherman peered at the chart in the dim light from the compass binnacle and grunted, nodded, pushed it aside. He had fished these waters all his life and had no further need of the chart.

  Jimmy stepped down to the deck and found Tommy Vance waiting for him. Tommy glanced astern at the two boats, following silhouettes in the night, and at the darkness beyond. He said, recalling that Brent knew he had not driven off the original flotilla of E-boats, “We’re lucky to be out of that.”

  “Yes.” But Jimmy thought their survival might have been due to David Brent’s decision to close the cape and make the landing without delaying for a preliminary reconnaissance. If he had dithered, waited out at sea, then the enemy would have found them, fallen on them while they were stopped and disembarking the soldiers. Jimmy shied away from picturing that.

  But the E-boats that had hunted them through this night were still at sea, prowling, searching.

  As if in confirmation they both heard the distant rumble of engines and sta
red out to sea. The rumble grew steadily louder — but then as steadily faded, as if the boats had turned around.

  Jimmy Nash sucked in a deep breath and said thankfully, “Gone away.”

  Tommy asked, “What now?”

  “I know what I have to do,” Jimmy Nash replied. “Now I’m going to think it through, try to anticipate any pitfalls and prepare for them.”

  Tommy Vance mentally reviewed Brent’s curt orders to him, and agreed. “Plenty of food for thought. You heard what he told me to do?”

  “I was there.”.

  Tommy muttered, “It’ll be the first time I’ve tried to do anything like that.”

  “And me.”

  It could easily be the last.

  The drifter and the two boats held to that course and creeping pace for the next hour, while Jimmy Nash paced restlessly, his handsome face sombre in thought. Tommy Vance gathered around him his little party of a dozen men: gunners, seamen, stokers, a signalman. They carried light machine-guns or carbines and wore balaclavas rolled up on their heads or pulled down so their faces only showed as ovals. Most were in thick navy sweaters but the stokers still wore boilersuits.

  Tommy told them what they would have to do, and how. Then he listened to their few questions and the muttered comment, “Bloody hell!” He tried to appear confident as he peered into their faces, grey in the night, and in return found some comfort in the way they looked back at him, not avoiding his eyes.

  Then the three craft stopped, the drifter’s skipper definite that he was on station, the position Jimmy Nash had shown him on the chart. Jimmy took him at his word. The men aboard the drifter and the boats waited, listening to the wash of the sea and staring out into the encircling darkness. Silent. Thinking.

  *

  The track opened out in front of David Brent and the river lay before him. It ran wide between reed-fringed banks but here a timber wharf had been built and the barge lay alongside this. There were no lights showing aboard her. She was about sixty feet long by ten in the beam and lay heavy-laden and low in the water. The hold ran from just short of the blunt bow for three-quarters of her length. Then the roof of a cabin lifted and aft of that was an engine-room hatch and the long arm of the tiller. The cargo stood out of the hold and some three feet above the deck, was covered by a tarpaulin.