Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2

by Alexander Fullerton

  Starboard shaft damaged. My best speed now 10 to 12 knots.

  In other words, the end. Victory to the Stukas … No bad dream to be shrugged off, it was reality. They’d have to turn around, admit defeat, get as far south as possible during the dark hours, pray for fighter cover some time tomorrow.

  “From Glenshiel, sir—”

  “Yes, I read it.” That one had gone for Afghan, but two more of the circling vultures were going into their dives now. Having hurt Glenshiel— her sudden slowing would be obvious to them—it would be her they’d concentrate on now. Vultures plummeting, shrieking, scenting victory and blood. Glenshiel couldn’t possibly reach Plaka Bay with the troops now. At 12 knots it would take ten hours from here, it would mean arriving in full daylight. Lorrimer had begun to flash again: that last signal had only answered Nick’s question, but now he’d had time to confirm the damage and it was obvious what he was about to say. The only thing he could say—turn about, withdraw.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The thought came to him suddenly, mainly out of distaste for the prospect of conceding victory to the Luftwaffe, that perhaps there might be some way … The light was still flashing from Glenshiel. Lorrimer would be talking plain horse-sense, not wishful thinking: Nick told himself he was being silly to allow himself the luxury of imagining that anyone could wave magic wands. Merit lay in knowing when you were beaten: in not throwing away lives and ships when there wasn’t a hope in hell of—

  “From Glenshiel, sir: It appears we have no option but to withdraw.”

  Peculiar signal to make … “Port twenty.” Stuka coming. He beckoned to PO Whiffen, without taking his eyes off that yellow nose. “Pad, Yeoman!” Signal pad, on which to take down a reply to Lorrimer—who was delaying the decision, inviting the submission of ideas. Crouching by the voicepipe and watching that foul thing hurtling down at his ship, Nick wondered whether the troops might still be got ashore …

  “Ready, sir.” Whiffen, with the pad, right beside him. When he’d told him to stand by he hadn’t known what message he’d be dictating to him: only giving himself a moment’s grace, as Lorrimer indeed had given himself some latitude by not having passed the about-turn order yet. But it came now, born of necessity and urgency: Lorrimer could accept it or reject it, might spot some weakness in the proposal that he hadn’t yet seen for himself.

  “Midships.” He heard Habgood’s acknowledgement and added, “Stop starboard. Starboard twenty-five.”

  “Stop starboard, sir. Starboard twenty-five … Starboard engine stopped, sir. Twenty-five of starboard wheel on, sir …”

  He tapped Whiffen’s pad. “To Glenshiel: Submit it should be possible after dark to transfer all troops to Tuareg, Afghan, and Highflier, using your landingcraft. Huntress would escort you homeward. On completion of landing operation I would withdraw at full speed rejoining you during forenoon tomorrow.”

  With that engine stopped she was fairly spinning round. He called down, “Half ahead both engines,” and asked the yeoman, “Got that?”

  Whiffen began to read it back: Nick cut him short. “Send it, quickly.” Before Lorrimer ordered the reversal of course: once he’d passed the order it would be less easy for him to accept this proposal. It wouldn’t be easy to accept it anyway: the weather would make the transfer of men to the destroyers and also their landing in Crete a fairly tricky business, and it wouldn’t be helped by the shortage of suitable boats. Another drawback, perhaps in the long run the biggest, was the splitting-up of this force before the inevitable air assault tomorrow morning. He had suggested Huntress as the assault ship’s escort because she had that highangle three-inch gun.

  “Ease to ten degrees of wheel.”

  “Ease to ten, sir!”

  He was reducing the amount of rudder on her, but continuing right round, which was the shortest way back now to the course of threeone-oh. The bomb had gone wide and it was Glenshiel who was getting attention now. Lever, the killick signalman, was passing Nick’s message, Glenshiel’s lamp winking acknowledgement word by word. One Stuka diving on her: several more weaving about above the barrage, waiting to pick their moments. Nick thought Lorrimer might accept this plan: the fact he hadn’t already hoisted a “red one-eight” signal did suggest reluctance to throw in the sponge. “Midships. Steer three-one-oh.”

  “Three-one-oh, sir …”

  “Two four-oh revolutions.”

  Lever reported that he’d passed the message: Nick heard Habgood’s, “Two-four-oh revs passed and repeated” and he thought, Poor old Pratt … Glenshiel was flashing: Lorrimer hadn’t taken long to sort out the pros and cons. Tuareg was steadying on course again, the course for Plaka Bay alias Ormos Plaka: dipping to the head sea, bridge aslant and wet as he looked back across it at the Glen ship, at that dot-dashing light: then quickly upwards again and all round, for Stukas.

  “From Glenshiel, sir—”

  “Port twenty. Three hundred revolutions.” He stayed close to the top of the pipe with his eyes on a Stuka that had seemed to be going for Huntress but was now aiming itself at Tuareg. A quick glance towards the yeoman: “Well?”

  “Message reads: Concur with your 2027. Transfer of troops will take place at 2200 without further signal. I will stop but maintain steerage way on course 045 degrees. One destroyer at a time is to come close into my lee with scrambling nets down port side. On completion of transfer of approximately two hundred and twenty men to each of your three ships you are to proceed independently in execution of previous orders. Time of origin 2036, sir.”

  “Midships!” Gunfire thickening again, pompoms joining in. “Starboard twenty-five!” In less than half an hour, he thought, watching the bomber rushing down, it would be dusk. Plenty of time between then and 2200—10 pm—for Dalgleish to make arrangements for the reception of the troops, and by that time it would be fully dark. One thought of “the troops”—a mass, khaki-covered, seasick … As well to remember that they were also men, individuals, lives, people with other people who loved them, worried about them … He shook the thought away: what he had to do now—when his eyes and mind had a moment clear of Stukas—was work out some orders to be passed to Afghan, Highflier, and Huntress.

  Darkness was a blessing, a priceless benefit, resting to the mind and soothing to the spirit … Tuareg, with her quota of troops safely inboard now, nosed out around the assault ship’s bow, feeling the effect of wind and sea immediately as she left the patch of shelter.

  “Steer three-oh-six.”

  “Steer three-oh-six, sir!”

  “Cox’n, you can take a few hours off, now.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  A relief quartermaster would already be down there with him, ready to take over. The ship wasn’t at action stations, but Nick had wanted that expert hand on the wheel during the transfer operation at close quarters with Glenshiel. He’d want it again in a few hours’ time when they got in towards the landing place.

  Tuareg was rolling and pitching, sliding her foc’sl into the black water and flinging it back in white sheets at the bridge. Astern, hidden now behind Glenshiel’s bulk as Lorrimer held her broadside to the direction of wind and sea, Afghan was getting her troops up out of the plunging landing-craft while Highflier waited for her turn and Huntress circled on anti-submarine guard. Darkness was velvet, a surrounding comfort: it was only when it came down around you that you realized how much you’d come to hate the daylight. Checking the luminous face of his watch, Nick saw that it was now 10:25. He heard arrivals in the bridge behind him: then Dalgleish announced in his clipped, dry tone, “Lieutenant-Colonel Oswald, sir.”

  A tall figure groped up beside him. “Commander Everard?”

  “Welcome, Colonel. Your men being made comfortable?”

  “Absolutely, thank you. Good as the Ritz any day.” The colonel laughed: he had a young man’s voice, Nick thought. These Special Service warriors did tend to get promoted young, he’d heard. The soldier added, “Even if a few of us do have a
touch of mal de mer.”

  According to a report from Mr Walsh, who’d been helping Dalgleish during the embarkation, half the pongoes had been “puking like cats” as they came aboard. Possibly an exaggeration: but it couldn’t be too pleasant for them, even less so if they had to land and go into action in that condition.

  The colonel told him, “I’ve a message from Captain Lorrimer. He wanted me to tell you that your idea for carrying on like this is absolutely bang-on, and he’s grateful to you for coming up with it. He wishes you the best of luck and says for God’s sake get a bloody move on.”

  Nick had every intention of getting as much of a move on as he could. But the inshore work wasn’t likely to be all that simple.

  “Afghan’s closing astern, sir.”

  “Very good.” One more to go. He told Oswald, “I’m praying we’ll find some shelter in Plaka Bay when we get there. If we don’t, we won’t get you ashore. It’s quite a wide bay, but it doesn’t go far in, and the only bit clear of rocks is right in the centre at the back end. It’ll mean one ship going in at a time, taking it in turn. In calm weather we could probably do it faster, but with this wind and in the dark—well, we’ll see how it is when we get there.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do the best you can for us.”

  “Another problem is we only have ships’ boats, not landing-craft. In this ship we’ve one motorboat and two whalers.” He looked round into the dark of the bridge behind him. “Number One? Listen—Ashcourt can take charge of the boats, this time. I want one whaler each side of the motorboat, and all three lashed together. It ought to make for stability, so that even if it’s a bit bumpy inside we could still load all three boats to something like their life-saving capacity. Then we’ll put the whole lot ashore in three trips.”

  The soldier murmured, “More of a business than I’d realized.”

  “Depending on what it’s like inshore, I’ll get as close to the beach as I can. Number One, work out how the boats are to be secured together, and set up whatever gear you need. Ashcourt’ll need a few good hands with him. And think about capacities—it may call for four trips, not three.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “And I’ll want an anchor ready for letting go. I’ll need Chalk up here with me: and I think Houston should stay up top, in case we run into any opposition, so either Mr Walsh or the buffer could take charge for’ard. Up to you. But now take Colonel Oswald down to the wardroom and give him a large whisky, on my wine-bill. Ditto his officers.” He told the colonel, “Sorry I can’t join you.”

  Houston muttered, when Dalgleish had led their guest away, “Likely to be an awful lot of dampish khaki socks …”

  At 0148 Cape Littino was abeam to starboard at a range of five and a half miles, the high ridge of land behind it a black interruption to the starry sky. With this wind and the cloud-patches they’d had earlier Nick had entertained faint hopes of cloud-cover for the return journey tomorrow, but it didn’t look now as if they’d get any.

  “Sharp look-out to starboard now, Sub.”

  He’d said it to Chalk but the gunner, Mr Walsh, also grunted an acknowledgement. Nick had sent Dalgleish, Houston, and Ashcourt to get some sleep: he didn’t need them at this stage, and rested men would be more use later than tired ones. He himself had been off the bridge for only about five minutes—when they’d buried Rocky Pratt, at midnight. He doubted if he’d be leaving it again before they were back in Alexandria.

  The reason he’d called for a sharp look-out on the starboard bow was that eight miles after Littino was abeam they’d be coming up to the Paximadia Islands, rocky outposts of Crete which were the reason for his having led the flotilla this far out. He reckoned to have the islands two miles on his beam at ten minutes past two. It was part and parcel of the same thing: he’d needed the running fix on Cape Littino so as to be sure of passing at a safe distance from the Paximadias but also in sight of them, in order to use them as a point of departure for the fifteenmile run from there to the landing spot. The Sailing Directions suggested no landmarks in or near Plaka Bay, and it was essential to arrive at precisely the right bit of coast.

  He moved out to the side of the bridge, and trained his glasses astern. He could see the splodge of whiteness that was Afghan’s bow-wave: it changed shape, expanding and contracting as her bow rose and fell in Tuareg’s wake. The destroyers were in close order, only cable’s-length gaps between them. He came back to the binnacle.

  Mr Walsh asked him, “What’s the height of this rock supposed to be then, sir?”

  “About eight hundred feet.”

  “Eight twenty-seven,” Chalk corrected him.

  The gunner muttered, “Oughter be stickin’ up like a sore what d’you call it, then.”

  Chalk picked them up at that moment: “There they are! Green fiveoh, sir!”

  “Well done, Sub.”

  The islands were abeam at eight minutes past two. He brought Tuareg round to 326 degrees.

  Fourteen and a half miles now, from that turn to the entrance to Plaka Bay. He had it clearly in his mind’s eye, an entrance two miles wide between Cape Stavros to port and Kako Muri—whatever that meant—to starboard, and he wanted to take Tuareg in just slightly to the left of centre. He’d memorized the land heights behind the bay and on each side of it, too, and this would be a help when he got in there.

  “Messenger—”

  “Sir?”

  “Shake the first lieutenant and Lieutenant Houston and the sublieutenant. Then go aft and tell Colonel Oswald that disembarkation will commence at 0240.”

  Two-thirty am. It was Sunday now, 25 May.

  “One-four-oh revolutions.”

  Salt-washed rocky headlands lifted on either bow, and a welter of foam boiled right across where Tuareg was heading. The offshore wind was strong and gusty, and the general run of the sea was from the west and along the coastline.

  “One-four-oh revolutions passed and repeated, sir.”

  CPO Habgood was back on the wheel now; Nick was taking his ship in alone while the other two waited close offshore. Dalgleish had the boats and gear organized and a scrambling-net ready at the ship’s side, ready to be cast loose, with men standing by to help the soldiers over the side with their weapons and equipment as soon as the boats came alongside the net.

  “There’ll be a crosscurrent, Cox’n, by the looks of it, as we enter.”

  “I’ll be lookin’ for it, sir.”

  Might turn out to be bloody awful, in there. On the other hand, it might be easy. Tuareg was acting as guinea pig for the others, and it wouldn’t be very clever to have beaten the Stukas and then end up on the rocks.

  “Steer three degrees to starboard.”

  “Three degrees to starboard, sir …”

  Due north, that would make it. Tuareg’s stem was moving up close to the welter of sea that was pouring over itself in a sort of tumbling action from around the left-hand promontory. Entering it—now …

  “Course north, sir!”

  She was being pushed round to starboard: swing increasing fast, Habgood grunting curses as he got hold of her head and yanked her back like a wayward horse. She was as much as forty degrees off course before he got her under control.

  “Carrying port wheel, sir.”

  “You’ll have to lose it quickly as we get through this.”

  “Aye, sir …”

  A few miles inland and on either side, rising ground loomed high across the stars. Wind was gusting through the gap between those mountains: it would be blowing clear across the island from Retimo.

  Chalk’s attention was on the whirring echo-sounder. According to the chart there’d be plenty of water here, but local charts weren’t detailed or reliable. And there’d very likely have been silting, in recent years.

  Ship’s head swinging away to port: Habgood whipping off the port rudder she’d been carrying, then hauling her back to her course of due north.

  Ahead, conditions looked patchy: more sheltered than it was ou
tside, but with a ground-swell and areas of whitened surface where wind-gusts from gaps in the mountains scored it. He guessed there’d be a circular flow around the bay, probably an eastward or south-eastward set so far as Tuareg would feel it. Likely as not a strong one … The most obvious hazard was over to starboard where a long spur of rocks a mile inside the headland extended south-westward from the shore. Through binoculars Nick could see a heave and swirl of broken water close inshore: but it was in two separate areas, and where the land came out in a flattish promontory between them might be a likely aiming spot for the boats. For want of an alternative, it would have to do: as long as they could get in that far, across however much of a current there might be. Lacking time as well as alternatives and information, you couldn’t dither: you had to make a quick choice, then stick to it. He reached for the telephone to the after-control position, where Dalgleish would be waiting to hear from him.

  “Number One. I’ll be stopping in about three minutes’ time. The landing area for the boats will be where our stem will be pointing when we stop—a minor promontory with broken water to each side of it. Due north, distance about one cable when we stop. Tell Ashcourt to look out for an easterly set, could be quite strong.”

  Dalgleish would start getting the boats down close to the water now. One whaler, being the seaboat and having Robinson’s disengaging gear on its davits, would be slipped quickly, with a bang, actually dropped into the water. But the other one and the motorboat would have to be lowered right into the sea before their falls could be released: an extra two or three minutes, because the weight had to come off the falls before the pins could be unscrewed. And every single minute counted now. From one problem to another: first it had been the Stukas, then the uncertainty of shelter from the north-wester, and now it was time: which made a vicious circle, bringing one back to Stukas—tomorrow morning’s. Four return boat trips, each taking, say, fifteen minutes including loading and off-loading time, were going to fill an hour. Then if he sent the other two in here together—there’d be room for them, and if the weather didn’t go mad suddenly it would be safe enough—that would add another hour. So—0445 at the earliest, before the job was finished and he could start getting off the coast again. One hour after 0445 would be 0545 and daybreak, Stuka time …