“Yeoman—pass astern ‘S’ for sugar.”
“Aye aye, sir!”Three blue flashes was the code in the operation orders for I am stopping engines. Lever reported, “Challenge answered, sir.”
“Make to him: Please transfer passengers over my port side.”
The lamp began to click again. It was a quarter past midnight—Sunday morning now, the first day of June. The rendezvous had been ordered for 0020 (with the object of making it by not later than half past) so they were five minutes ahead of schedule; it should be easy enough now to embark the commandos and get under way again by the half-hour. Tamarisk, her job completed, would continue her delayed return passage to Alexandria.
The calm conditions were ideal. If there’d been any sea running this transfer would have had to be done by boat, and it would have taken longer. Timing, keeping right up to the schedule, was vital to the plan.
“Message passed, sir.”
“Stop both engines. Where are the others, Pilot?”
“Hauling out northwards, sir.”
The other three were to patrol to seaward while Tuareg picked up her passengers. Nick trained his glasses on the submarine again. Last night she’d landed her commandos at about midnight and embarked them again a few hours later, and before she’d dived for the daylight patrol she’d signalled the report that Wishart had shown him before breakfast.
Reconnaissance completed. Approximately eight hundred personnel including twenty-six nurses and two hundred and thirty wounded will be ready for embarkation from sandy beach between longitude 24 degrees 29 point 1 and point 3 east 0130/1 June. Beach party will be transferred at rendezvous as ordered.
It had been a huge relief, getting that message; not only for the sake of this operation, but because of earlier failures to contact the garrison by submarine.
“Slow ahead port, slow astern starboard.” He was turning the ship, to make it easier for the submarine to come alongside. There’d be no need to secure her: she’d only be there long enough for four fit men to rush over. “Stop both engines.”
“Stop both, sir … Both telegraphs to stop, sir.”
Just abaft the beam now, the submarine was a low black silhouette, its length shortening as it turned. Bridge and conning-tower were easy enough to see, but you needed to look hard to make out the low, dark line of casing that swelled upwards at the bow, a curve up over the for’ard torpedo tubes. Evil-looking object …
“Take over here, Pilot.”
Drisdale came up beside him at the binnacle, and Nick moved to the side of the bridge to watch Tamarisk slide up out of the night. Down on Tuareg’s waist PO Mercer and his gang would be ready with a plank to shove over; and Rivers would probably only lay his bow alongside the destroyer, because amidships the bulge of the submarine’s saddletanks would make for a wider gap to bridge.
The flotilla had come up from Alexandria on a course that would have taken them to Plaka Bay if they’d continued on it; if a Luftwaffe scout had spotted them, it would have seemed they were heading for somewhere on the south coast. In fact no German had come anywhere near them: they’d had cover from Fulmars to start with, and then Beaufighters. How the aircraft had been spared to work with ships was something best known to ABC, air command in Cairo, and possibly a Dominion prime minister or two.
Tamarisk’s forepart slid up to overlap Tuareg’s quarterdeck. The submarine was at a slight angle to the destroyer: Rivers was keeping his screws well out and his tanks clear of any bumps. Men were standing on the casing, ready to come over: there was a forward-rushing swirl of sea as her screws went astern and stopped her, then a warning shout and a thump as the end of gangplank banged down to bridge the gap. The men were moving to it: the first one hesitating for a moment, making sure of his balance then coming swiftly across. A voice called, “Everard?”
Nick shouted back, “Yes. Rivers?”
“Morning. Listen—you’ve got five passengers. Extra chap’s a leatherneck who says he knows you.”
That would explain itself in a minute, no doubt. Nick called, “Many thanks for your help!”
“My pleasure. Good luck now!”
The men had all come over and the plank was being dragged back. A couple of submariners were retreating along their casing towards the conning-tower. And the submarine was backing off, white water lathering through the widening gap. Nick told Drisdale, “Half ahead together, three-one-oh revs.” The course from here would be due west to clear Cape Stavros, with small alterations later to bring them down to the coast at Retimo. It was twenty-five minutes past midnight: so they were right on the schedule, so far. As Tuareg’s screws began to drive her ahead he aimed his glasses out to starboard and saw Afghan leading the other two down on a converging course to get back into station.
There was a clattering at the back of the bridge. Dalgleish announced, as he came for’ard, “Captain Brownlees, Royal Marines, sir.”
Brownlees … He remembered: the marines they’d landed on the other side of Retimo, to relieve German pressure on the Retimo airstrip: Brownlees had been OC Tuareg’s detachment. They’d been one of a flotilla of four Tribals then: looking back on it, it seemed like a year ago.
“I gather I should congratulate you, sir.”
“Very good of you. I expect you’ve had a rough time since we last saw you. Perhaps you’ll tell me about it later. Who have we here, now?”
“Lieutenant Haggard, Lieutenant Scott, Sergeants Davies and Foster, sir.” They all shook hands. Haggard said, “I’m in charge of our party, sir. We brought Captain Brownlees out, though, with the idea it could be useful to have a Retimo local, as it were.”
“Might well be. Do you people need feeding, or anything?”
“We’ve been very well fed, sir, thank you.”
“Then we’ll go down to the chartroom and tie up loose ends. Number One, stay up here, will you? Sub,” he told Ashcourt, “we’d better have you down there.” He explained to Haggard, “Sub-Lieutenant Ashcourt will be in charge of our boats … Lead on down, Sub, and I’ll be there in a moment.”
There was one hour to go before 0130, when the boats’ keels were due to scrape on sand. Then one hour for the embarkation. It would mean smart boat-work and no delays at all. Joining them presently in the chartroom he asked Haggard—recognizing him by his shape, which was short and square—“The extent of the beach, according to the signal, is about three hundred yards. Right?”
The commando nodded. He had close-cropped ginger hair and a face that suggested he laughed a lot. “Wider than that, actually, but that’s a stretch where your boats can get right up to the sand-shelf instead of sticking fifty yards out. We gave you the location, incidentally, in case something went berserk and we missed this rendezvous.”
He and Wishart had guessed it. And of course they could have made the lift without these men’s help; it was just easier with guides who’d already been there. And he had another use for the commandos, at dawn, which as yet they knew nothing at all about … Ashcourt had spread out the Retimo chart: Nick reached for a pencil to use as a pointer.
“Embarkation beach—here to here. We’ll use the whole length of it. The advantage is that our four ships can stop at the three-fathom line at hundred-yard intervals, giving the boats bags of room to get to and fro without getting in each other’s way. It should speed things up, and time is a very important factor on this one.”
Lieutenant Scott nodded. “We’ll organize our Aussies into four widely separated queues. Nurses and doctors with wounded will come first.”
“Do they realize ashore we’ll be showing no lights at all?”
“Very much so.” Brownlees said, “If you showed any they’d quite likely shoot them out. They’ve had Germans heavy-breathing in their faces for quite a while now; the bastards are very close all round them. Also, they put up a starshell or two every so often. We may very easily get some interference.”
“Let’s hope we don’t … Is eight hundred the sum total?”
�
�For lifting, yes. By no means the total garrison. For the reason I’ve mentioned, mostly—there’s constant pressure on the perimeter and the blokes holding it simply couldn’t move.”
“Will they capitulate in the morning?”
“Well.” Brownlees shrugged. “It’s a decision for their commander.
None of them wants to surrender. They reckon they could hold on for ever. They question why anyone should be jagging in.”
“The CO’s an Aussie?”
“Certainly. There aren’t more than a dozen of my lot left. My colonel was killed three days ago.” He leant forward, to the flame of Ashcourt’s lighter; Nick had passed his case round. “If the Hun does catch on to the fact we’re pulling out and starts making a nuisance of himself, I take it you’ll want to join in with your ships’ guns?”
“Only if we’re certain they know we’re there. And not if we can possibly avoid it. Nine-tenths of our chances of success depend on them not knowing we’re here. Didn’t that come across in our signal to Tamarisk?”
Hammond nodded. “Loud and clear.”
“I’m only talking about what could happen.” Brownlees breathed smoke out. “The principle’s accepted—we try to do it softly, softly. But if it blows up in our faces, you’ll want to know where the Hun positions are. I’ve got it all marked out on this, anyway.” The map he pulled out of his pocket looked as if it might have been used for wrapping fish and chips. “Shall I transfer the essentials to your chart?”
“That could be useful. Thank you. But I want to make this point about secrecy very strongly to you. Wouldn’t be much point crowding people into ships just to be drowned when the Stukas come looking for us at dawn, would there?”
Sergeant Foster nodded. “There’s a thought, now.” Davies muttered, “Sooner not think about it, thanks.” Nick was saying to Ashcourt, “If you’ve any questions to ask them about the beach and approaches, Sub, now’s your time. After that I’ve something quite different to talk about.”
He checked the time. It was 0040. But the point he’d made about not being caught by the Stukas: he didn’t think any of them had really followed the implications to where logic took them. Dalgleish had, though. When Nick had been explaining the operation to him, here in the chartroom early yesterday, when he’d got to the point of 0230 being the latest they could afford for departure from Retimo with the troops on board, Dalgleish had gone on staring at the chart for about half a minute. Then he’d reached for the dividers and checked the distances from Retimo to Kaso and from Retimo to Antikithera. Then he’d looked puzzled, and gone through his throat-clearing routine.
“Hesitant as I am to look on the gloomy side of things, sir, or quibble over paltry detail—if we leave Retimo at 0230 and leg it away at 30 knots, won’t we be on the wrong side of Kaso at sunrise?”
There’d been a lot of gunfire ashore, to the west and south: machinegun fire and heavier explosions—mortars, he guessed, but there were no soldiers up here now to ask.
“Course two-oh-oh, sir.”
Drisdale was stooped at the pelorus, watching bearings—a church about two hundred and fifty yards inland of the beach and the dome of Retimo’s ancient fort off to starboard. The town, or village, was built on an out-jutting piece of coast with a little harbour tucked in this side of it; it was a tiny harbour without quays or any jetty and apparently it was always silting up. Drisdale said quietly, “Bang on for the approach, sir. Perfect.”
“Slow together.”
Aware of how close the Germans were, you tended to speak in whispers. The quiet area behind the beach was if anything more worrying than the more lively western sector: you found you were waiting for the silence to be shattered …
A mile offshore he’d positioned himself so that—by running in on a course of two hundred degrees with that church exactly ahead, its spire even at that distance easy to pick out with binoculars—when he stopped her and sent the boats away Ashcourt would only have to steer for the church and he’d hit the beach right in the centre of the strip they were going to use. Afghan was slanting out to starboard now, on Tuareg’s quarter, and the other two were diverging to port: when they all stopped roughly on the three-fathom line, their boats would have about five hundred yards to cover. Tuareg’s were already manned and lowered almost to the water.
“Fifty yards to go, sir.”
Drisdale had only the dome’s bearing to watch; Nick, conning the ship in, was keeping the church dead ahead.
“Stop both engines.”
“Stop both, sir … Both telegraphs to stop, sir.”
“Thirty yards … Twenty …”
“Tell ‘em to stand by, Sub.” Chalk passed the order by telephone to the for’ard pompom deck. Drisdale intoned, “Ten yards—”
“Slow astern together.”
“In position, sir!”
He left the screws working astern for just a little longer, to get all the way off her.
“Stop together. Away boats.” He told Drisdale, “Watch that bearing like a hawk.”
The boats would be in the water now, and their crews would be securing them together: at any moment they’d be moving off towards the beach. He could see the other ships’ boats in the water too, but Tuareg’s had a bit of a start on them. Time—exactly 0130.
“Boats are on their way, sir!”
So were Highflier’s. She was lying on Tuareg’s port side, Halberdier beyond her. Afghan’s boats moving away inshore now: and Halberdier’s. Not bad at all.
Seconds ticking by … Drisdale was muttering numbers to himself at the gyro repeater. Nick imagined that the waiting troops would be formed up in one mass: there’d be an initial delay while Brownlees and the commandos split off the first four loads, but by the time the boats went in for their second loads things should be better organized. Embarking lame men and stretcher-cases would be a fairly slow process, naturally.
He’d told Brownlees and the cut-throat merchants, half an hour ago and after the details of this bit of the operation had been settled, “When we clear out from Retimo, we’re going to take an island.”
Oh-one-forty-eight: one lot—all women and wounded, Dalgleish had reported—had been embarked, and the boats had gone inshore again. Fighting was heavier now—judging by noises and flashes—inland and to the right, the west. It was too close to feel comfortable about, even if it might be farther inland than it seemed to be. Nick asked Houston up the voicepipe whether he could see anything ashore.
“Only when flares and things light bits up, sir. I’d guess most of the action’s five or six hundred yards behind the town.”
It was rising ground there, but not all that steep: if an enemy had a sea view at all it would be from several miles away. There was a modest hill about three miles inland, and a lower one to the right, but the real heights on this slim waist of the island were near the south coast, the Plaka-Timbaki area.
Drisdale was putting the port screw ahead, to maintain the position. The drift was north-westward, and every few minutes there had to be an adjustment. He put his glasses up towards the beach again: things were going to have to speed up, now. Otherwise—
Drisdale had called down quietly, “Stop port.”
There was no “otherwise” about it. The time-limits were rigid. The next part of the operation, nearly a hundred miles away, had to be completed by first light: hence the need to be off this coast by no later than 0230. There were forty minutes left and three round-trips still to go …
“There, sir!”
Chalk was pointing. “Bit off to the right—”
“Must be Afghan’s.”
“No, sir, hers are in sight too—to the right again.”
“Are we in position, Pilot?”
“Within a few yards, sir, yes.”
And the boats were swinging round: Ashcourt must have just seen the dark shapes of the ships and realized he’d gone off course. Oh-one-fifty-two: he’d be alongside now in …say, five, six minutes. It would take a few more minutes to ge
t his passengers inboard, and it would then be just past the half-time point, with two more trips to make. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought: perhaps they would do it in the time. He wondered how the women were settling into his quarters back aft.
Hare-brained … Aubrey Wishart wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight. If Ashcourt hadn’t mucked this trip up they’d have been inside the schedule. There was nothing in hand for this kind of cock-up, or for any more of them: they’d started off five minutes to the good and now that had been thrown away.
A starshell broke overhead. He’d heard the thump of it bursting, and looked up just as the bleak magnesium brilliance sparked and expanded to flood the whole coastline, seascape, town, beaches, ships …
Drisdale muttered, shielding his eyes, “That’s torn it.”
Like a false daylight: shiny sea with boats chugging towards their ships, weighed-down, slow with their loads of passengers, sitting ducks if anyone was there to shoot at them. Nothing was happening for the moment, though, except the flare hanging right overhead, drifting lower and slightly westward on its parachute. Its stark brightness made the scene unreal, unnatural: light too bright and shadows too black, one of those nightmares when you were held in treacle or your limbs wouldn’t move. He heard the motorboat’s engine as the three linked boats ran in alongside: an Australian voice bawled, “Put the bleeding light out, Ethel!”
He didn’t get a single laugh.
The flare died. Suddenly, as if it had been switched off. Odd: the British kind burned right down to the sea. The Aussie called, “That’s my girl!” A gush of men’s laughter rose as the boats bumped alongside.
Last trip now: and it was 0225. All four ships’ boats were inshore. Highflier’s had had a slight lead when they’d last been in sight. Tuareg had lost ground—probably impeded Afghan’s boats too—through Ashcourt’s earlier misjudgement.
Anyone could make mistakes: the trouble was that everyone could pay for them.
The shore action was still heavy, but sporadic and still mostly behind the town. The Germans must have been trying to light up some shore sector, not the sea, with that starshell.
Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2 Page 27
