“We’ll be operating submarines up there, of course.”
“This one—Tamarisk—she’ll be off Retimo tonight, and you can get a signal to her when she surfaces after dark?”
“It’s already drafted, I imagine.”
“Recalling her to Alex.”
“Precisely.” Wishart checked his watch for the twentieth time. “And now, Nick—”
“Could we sit down for a minute?”
“Christ Almighty!” Wishart, flushing, pointed at the wall. “My boss is in there with two generals and one air vice-marshal, and he’s expecting the Prime Minister of New Zealand and Field-Marshal Wavell at any minute. London’s screaming its head off, our ships at sea are being bombed round the clock, I’ve given you ten minutes I can’t spare, and—”
“Give me two more.” He wasn’t apologizing this time. “I believe I could get your women and wounded out of Retimo. Two minutes, to tell you how?”
It took four minutes. Then another at the chart, checking distances and times. Finally Wishart threw down the dividers.
“It’s bloody chancy. I think it’s probably idiotic. But if ABC agrees, and you pull it off, you could ask for the Crown Jewels.”
“If I was looking for rewards I’d settle for a flotilla. In point of fact it looks like a job worth doing.”
“I’d guess you’ll be getting a flotilla in any case. If ABC didn’t have such an enormous load you’d probably have it already.” Wishart stopped talking. He stared at Nick for a couple of seconds: then he nodded. “Wait here. I’ll see if I can get a word in.”
Nick sat down, lit a cigarette, went on thinking about it. It was risky: there were certain things that could only be left to chance. But nowadays you were taking a gamble every time you poked your ship’s nose out of harbour. You took an almost suicidal risk when you tried to pass through Kaso in daylight. Risks were commonplace, routine: and he didn’t think his plan was all that chancy. It was unconventional, certainly.
He sat back in the chair, thinking about details. He’d smoked three cigarettes before Wishart came back.
He looked grim. Bearer of rotten news, Nick guessed. He was well aware there could be some fundamental snag he’d overlooked, and that ABC’s hawk eye would have spotted it right away. Or the hawk eyes of the Chief of Staff or Staff Officer (Operations) … He got up, watched the rear-admiral push the door shut and move over to the desk.
He cleared his throat.
“We are to work out an operational plan. You and I. Then the Staff will look it over. To start with”—he sat down, reaching for signal pad and pencil—“let’s decide what orders we’ll ask S/M(1) to pass to Tamarisk when she pops up at 2200 tonight.” By S/M(1) he meant the commanding officer of the 1st Submarine Flotilla. “Tamarisk’s CO is a Commander Rivers, by the way. Got a cigarette?”
“Here—”
Wishart used Nick’s lighter. Then, leaking smoke from his nostrils, he pointed the cigarette across the desk. “Nick—hold on tight to that chair, will you.”
“Why?”
“So as not to fall off it. Listen—I’m instructed to inform you that the 37th Destroyer Flotilla is now reconstituted. It consists of Tuareg as leader, with Afghan, Highflier, and Halberdier. Captain (D) is Captain Sir Nicholas Everard. To be precise, acting Captain, since this’ll need a rubber stamp from the Board of Admiralty. Now, let’s get down to your hare-brained scheme …”
He was back at Tuareg at 11:30, climbing the gangway into the screech of the bosun’s call. The news had come aboard ahead of him: there’d been a signal from C-in-C to RA(D) repeated to various people including D37, which now meant Nick Everard. On the quarterdeck, faces were smiling as the call’s wail died away.
“This is terrific, sir!”
“Glad you think so, Number One. Any problems here?”
“No unusual ones, sir.”
“Chief?”
Redmayne had washed the oil off, he noticed. “Top line, sir.” “Well done.” He asked Dalgleish, “Did you get a message about COs coming aboard at noon?”
Dalgleish nodded. “Your steward’s preparing for them, sir.”
He’d invited the captains of Afghan, Highflier, and Halberdier for a mid-day gin. The gins would in fact be small ones; the object was to give them a preliminary briefing on tomorrow’s operation. Written orders wouldn’t reach them until shortly before sailing time; there had to be a lot of information from the submarine, Tamarisk, before details could be established, and they wouldn’t get her report much before dawn tomorrow. But the basic plan was worked out, and there were certain preparations to be made now.
He told Dalgleish, “If you’re happy to, you can pipe a make-and-mend.” A make-and-mend was a half-day free of work; it was a term deriving from older times, when such occasions were used by sailors for making and patching their clothes. “But no shore-leave. And there’s one job—some stores to be drawn. Paint and timber.” He enjoyed the look of mystification that crossed his first lieutenant’s face. It was reflected in some others too, notably in CPO Habgood’s and in the buffer’s, PO Mercer’s. He asked Habgood, “All right, Cox’n?”
“Yessir. And if I may, sir, on be’alf of chief and petty officers and all the ship’s company, I’d like to offer most ‘earty congratulations.”
Mercer growled, “Hear, hear, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Cox’n.” He glanced at Mercer. “You’d better stick around, Buffer. First Lieutenant’ll have a job for you in a minute.”
“Paint and timber, sir?”
“Right.” He looked at Dalgleish. “Come and have a word, Tony, would you?” They went round to the starboard side, and in the screen door; in the day-cabin he pulled out some sheets of Wishart’s signal pad on which he’d made various jottings. He asked Leading Steward McEvoy, who was mustering glasses near the pantry hatch and had the whole cabin shiny-bright, “Are we allowed to sit down in here?”
“Och, I might permit it, sir.”
“Very kind.”
“Like tae say congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you. Sit down, Tony. Smoke?”
“No, thank you, sir.” Nick was aware that he himself had been smoking far too much, lately, and that he’d have to cut it down. After this jaunt … He saw that Dalgleish had a notebook and pencil ready: he told him, “What we need is—in total, to take into account whatever’s on board already—paint, as follows … Black, six gallons. Red, four gallons. Green, four gallons. White, also four. And have them ready before we sail in two separate lots of each colour, each lot one half of the total quantity.” He waited while Dalgleish wrote it down. From the far side of the cabin Fiona’s eyes were fixed on him, and he wondered whether she’d have had his cable yet. He told Dalgleish, “Make sure we’ve got a dozen wide paint-brushes. Widest obtainable. And the other item is timber. We need one dozen planks twenty-five-feet-long, and about six fifteen-feet-long. Usual sort of planks, about a foot wide.”
Dalgleish listed it all.
“The depot ship’s been warned they’re to meet our requirements without argument, by the way. Have Mercer start checking on what he’s got already—get it done with, then he can enjoy his make-and-mend … But also there’ll be some crates of medical stores arriving, and a lot of cots or camp-beds. Gallwey can take charge of the drugs and stuff; stow the beds aft somewhere. That’s the lot, and if you’re back here before my guests arrive I’ll give you a glass of gin.”
“I’ll make it snappy, then.” Dalgleish got up. “Actually the wardroom would very much like the pleasure of your company this evening, sir, to wet the fourth stripe. Would you honour us with your presence, sir?”
“If I’m not summoned ashore, I’d like nothing better. Thank you … Look, one other thing. Tell Drisdale he’s to check that we have chart 1658 on board, and that it has any recent corrections applied to it. It’s a large-scale plan of Suda Bay.”
“Suda!” Nick just looked back at him. The first lieutenant nodded. “Aye aye, sir.” He
added the chart number to his list.
That might provide a good red herring. Leading Steward McEvoy had visibly absorbed it. It so happened that chart 1658 had the Suda Bay plan as its main content, but it also had plans of five other places including Retimo, alias Rethimnon.
Let not the left hand know … Nearer the time, he’d tell them. News travelled on the winds—on the khamsins, mistrals, gregales. One man’s ignorance could mean another’s life.
He was positively enjoying this. His own plan, and his own flotilla about to put it into action. Unless of course whatever Tamarisk’s landing-party reported put the kibosh on it. The submarine’s signal, which would come at some time before dawn tomorrow morning, would be the trigger to action. Or the other way about, the stopper on it. Nick was due to go ashore at 6 am to Wishart’s office at Gabbari: by that time they should have the answers. But he felt guilty for enjoying the prospect of this … “lunatic operation,” Wishart had called it at one stage. Smoking now, prowling the spacious day-cabin, pausing at a scuttle to watch a felucca sliding past with its lateen sail barely holding any wind, then stopping to look into Fiona’s eyes: thinking about Carnarvon, about the letter he had to write to Sarah. Did he have to describe all the circumstances, including the fact that by his own decision he’d had to steam away from her survivors?
Yes. Fiona told him flatly, Yes, you do.
It wasn’t a job to funk. It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of—unless you did funk it. And it was a fact that, by and large, the odds were in favour of survival, in warmish waters …
There’d be a heap of problems facing him when he got back from this jaunt. Assuming the mantle of a Captain (D) meant taking on a mass of administrative work. It meant embarking a staff—with consequent crowding of wardroom and cabin accommodation—of specialists: flotilla torpedo officer, communications officer, and so on. And a secretary, a paymaster to cope with the paperwork. Extra communications ratings—both V/S and W/T—and a PO steward in McEvoy’s job, damn it …
Fiona’s look was expectant, demanding. He hadn’t noticed it until this moment, but he knew what she wanted. He nodded at the portrait, and murmured, “I’ll write to you this afternoon.”
“Sir?”
McEvoy was looking at him enquiringly down the length of the cabin. Nick thought it might be possible to push him—McEvoy—through for the PO’s rate. Something to discuss with Dalgleish … He admitted, “I was talking”—he touched the frame—“to her.”
“Oh. Aye.” Unsurprised. Setting the Angostura and lime-juice shakers on the silver tray, near the new bottle of Plymouth gin. He nodded. “I’d not blame ye for that, sir.”
The caïque had been drifting south-eastward, Jack thought, and was now in a different current that was taking it more or less due south. A finger-like object on the horizon—it had been to the north of them when he’d first seen it and now it was about north-west—was almost certainly Ovo Island, which he knew was about fifteen miles north of Malea Bay and had a one hundred-and-seventy-foot light-tower on it. He guessed they’d either drift ashore somewhere in the Malea Bay or Cape St John area, or be transferred to the western-flowing current as they came nearer the coast. If that happened they might run ashore on Standia Island, or pass it and carry on for sixty or seventy miles to Suda Bay.
He and Alphonso were keeping off the cabin-top now, because three times Messerschmitts had buzzed them, obviously looking for signs of life—in order to end it if it existed, presumably. From the caïque’s stern-sheets, where they spent most of their time now, they could dive into the cabin and out of sight at the first sight of an approaching aircraft. Alphonso seemed to have no illusions about the Luftwaffe, even if they were his country’s allies.
Through being taken sparingly, the bread and cheese were lasting well. Alphonso was a generous host, taking it for granted they’d go halves whenever they allowed themselves a snack or a drink of wine. The bread was hard, like grey rusk, and the cheese was made from goats’ milk: no mistaking that rank flavour. In the circumstances, no objecting to it either.
Apparently the caïque had been attacked and damaged by a British submarine. Jack had asked Alphonso what had happened—by pointing at the sky and at the caïque, making aeroplane and machine-gun noises, and so on. Alphonso had shaken his head, gabbled away in Italian: then, remembering that Jack couldn’t understand him, had sprung to his feet and embarked on an elaborate charade. First he’d used his hands in the sea over the caïque’s side to indicate the surfacing of a submarine. Boom … A ship blown up: then he began to fall about, jumping up and falling down again, in one place and then another. A lot of men falling dead: passengers: soldiers? Alphonso drew a swastika in the salt crust on the cabin door. Then, pointing at himself, he went through the motions of diving overboard and swimming. Looking at Jack: eyebrows raised to ask him, understand? He began a new mime: of a man resembling Jack—he pointed at him—coming aboard. From the submarine, it had to be. Going down for’ard to the hold which was now flooded: doing something or other: then coming aft here and down through the trap-door into the engine space. Alphonso dropped down into it and showed Jack the damage he’d already noticed: smashed machinery, holed and charred deckboards. Jack guessed that an officer from the submarine had boarded this craft in order to place charges, which would be the simplest way to sink a ship built of heavy timber, but hadn’t found any heavy, movable object with which to tamp down the stern charge. So the force of the explosion had been dissipated instead of directed down through the bottom. And of course the bottom would be particularly strong here, reinforced to carry the engine’s weight.
Back on the caïque’s stern, Alphonso had finished his story. First, a couple of boom-booms: then he’d shown the submarine gliding away: gone! Flashing smile from the narrator. Then himself swimming, and climbing back on board. Heaving objects overboard: dead German soldiers was a fair bet. Finally Alphonso climbed to the cabin roof and reclined on it. He spread his hands: understand? Jack had given him a standing ovation. Then he’d had to tell his story. Himself in a big ship—spreading his arms and looking upwards and from one side to the other, to suggest its vastness. Alphonso got that all right, and he was enjoying this game like anything. Jack gave him Stukas swooping, guns shooting up at them, bombs whistling down, bombs bursting all around him, Alphonso was screaming with laughter, rocking to and fro. Jack swimming, climbing aboard … Alphonso, having laughed himself almost sick, clapped him on the back and shook his hand. He wasn’t at all a bad companion to be stuck on a half-sunk caïque with.
At about 10:30 pm, Nick added the final lines to his letter to Sarah. He’d redrafted it twice: it still wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. He addressed it, and added “sender’s name and address” to the space on the back, remembering as he did it to write “Capt.” instead of “Cdr.”
He’d already written to Fiona: he’d done that before he’d gone along to the wardroom to “wet his stripe” and accept his officers’ hospitality at dinner. He’d told her nothing about his promotion; there was only that small panel on the back to catch her eye and frustrate her with the lack of news of it inside. She’d have to write back immediately now, to question him about it.
From outside on the quarterdeck he heard the quartermaster of the watch give a sudden, high-pitched yell: “Boat aho-o-oy!” Challenging some approaching or passing ship’s boat in the darkness. The answer came immediately: “Aye aye!”
It meant two things. One, the boat was coming to Tuareg: otherwise the answering cry would have been “Passing!” Two, the boat was carrying an officer of wardroom rank, a lieutenant or above, but not a ship’s captain or an admiral. If whoever was arriving had been junior to a two-striper, the answer would have been “No, no!”, while a commanding officer in the boat would have produced the name of his ship, or for an admiral a yell of “Flag!”
Nick was about ready to turn in, but he waited to see what this might be about. Hoping his guess would be right … He heard the boat coming
alongside; Harry Houston, officer of the day, had been fetched from the wardroom to receive the visitor. There was a murmur of conversation out there: and presently a knock on the door of the day-cabin.
“Excuse me, sir.” Houston’s bulk filled most of the frame. “Officer with a message for you from Gabbari.”
“Bring him in.”
An RNVR paymaster lieutenant came in sideways around Houston. Removing his cap, he handed Nick a brown OHMS envelope with BY HAND OF OFFICER stamped across it. Nick thanked him. “Who are you?”
“McCartney, sir. I work for Admiral Wishart.”
“Lucky man.”
“Yes, sir. I’d sooner have a sea job, though.”
The tone had suggested it wasn’t an entirely casual observation. Nick took the envelope and tore it open: he murmured, “So would Admiral Wishart.” Then he read the brief, handwritten note.
Our signal was passed and acknowledged at 2210. See you here at 0615.A.W.
He nodded. “Thank you. There’s no answer.”
At this moment, Tamarisk would be moving in towards the coast at Retimo, running on her diesels and trimmed-down so as to present as small a silhouette as possible. Inside her, the commandos would be blacking their faces, checking weapons, and readying their canoes. And depending on what they learnt ashore and then reported, there would or would not be a lift from Retimo tomorrow night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He’d got her in his glasses: a black hump in the dark, quiet sea on Tuareg’s port bow. And she must have picked them up at about the same moment: he’d only just settled the glasses on her when the challenge came winking on a blue-shaded lamp. Leading Signalman Lever was beside him in the front of the bridge and he had Tuareg’s shaded Aldis ready: he was aiming it, with his eye to the back of the sight on it, and now he was clicking out the reply, the recognition letters for this watch.
Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2 Page 26
