“Highflier’s boats are in sight, sir.”
Whiffen had spotted them, on the port bow. Drisdale was checking Tuareg’s drift, bringing her back into position for the umpteenth time. Whiffen added, “And again. Halberdier’s, sir.”
“Boats in sight starboard bow!” Chalk, this time. They’d be Afghan’s over there: Ashcourt surely couldn’t have done it twice … Sweating with impatience, Nick reminded himself that Brownlees, who was to command the next phase, was coming off in Tuareg’s boats on this last trip and that he’d have wanted to see the others get off the beach first.
Afghan’s boats were well out now, two-thirds of the way to her. “Time, someone?”
Leading Signalman
Lever told him, “Half past, sir.”
Should have finished: should be clear, getting off the coast … Houston was calling “Bridge!” into the voicepipe. Nick ducked to it. “Captain.”
“Our boats are in trouble, sir, I think. About halfway out or nearly, and stopped. I’d guess the motorboat’s seized up again.”
Jesus Christ Almighty …
“Bearing now?”
“Just about right ahead. Bearing now is—one-nine-eight, sir.” “Distance?”
They’re roughly halfway, sir.”
Two hundred and fifty yards, say …
“Slow ahead together.” He straightened. “Chalk.”
“Sir?”
“Run to the first lieutenant. I want two strong swimmers ready on the foc’sl with all the grass line we’ve got, and power on the capstan to haul the boats in when the line’s fast. When I’m as close in as I can go I’ll give them a shout, and they’re to wait until they get it. Understood?”
“Aye aye, sir.” Chalk was throwing himself down the ladder at the back of the bridge as he yelled it. Whiffen reported, “Torch flashing from the boats, sir!”
“Don’t answer it.” He wasn’t flashing lights that could be seen ashore. The engines were going slow ahead: he told Habgood, “Steer one-nineeight.” Then to Drisdale, “How close in can I get without going on the putty?”
“Another half-cable, sir. If the chart’s reliable.”
It probably wasn’t: he recalled the stuff about silting on this coast. But you had to take your chances. He told him, “Watch your bearing on the dome and tell me when I must stop.”
“Better just check it.” Drisdale dived for the chart alcove. The other destroyers’ boats were all alongside their respective ships, or at least so close as to be hidden by them. Nick told Whiffen, “Blue lamp to Afghan —and don’t let any of it leak shorewards: Proceed in execution of previous orders.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Drisdale had done his checking and he’d put the bridge messenger, Crawford, to watch the echo-sounder: he himself was back at the pelorus. “Three degrees to go, sir.” Chalk came back, out of breath. Nick told him, “Keep a look-out for’ard; tell me when they’re ready on the foc’sl.” He called down, “Stop starboard.”
“Two degrees to go, sir.”
Chalk reported, “They’re on the foc’sl, sir.”
“How much water under us?”
The messenger said, “About four feet, sir.”
Nick had remembered that he had one hundred and eighty or so extra men on board. Extra bodies, anyway. She wouldn’t be drawing less than usual.
“Stop port.” He asked Chalk, “D’you know who the swimmers are?”
“PO Mercer and Leading Seaman Sherratt volunteered, sir.”
Nick guessed, focusing his glasses on the boats—they’d swung broad-side-on now, and the torch was still flashing seawards—that the swim would be roughly a hundred yards. But Mercer and Sherratt could manage more than that, he thought, rather than have their ship smash her Asdic dome on some obstruction. “Slow astern together.”
“Still one degree to go, sir.”
She still had forward way on, too, and he aimed to take it off her. Grass line was actually coir rope, made from coconut fibre and so light that it floated. Paid out properly from the foc’sl it wouldn’t impose much drag, if any, on the swimmers. He’d called for two of them in case one got into any difficulty.
“Ship’s stopped, sir.”
“Stop both engines.” He shouted at Chalk, “Go!” and Chalk yelled it down to the dark foc’sl; a second later two splashes were clearly audible. Action behind the beach now: it seemed to have spread this way from the area behind the town … “What are the other three doing, Yeoman?”
“Moving off, sir. Afghan’s turned round and the other two’s getting round astern of her.”
He went to the front of the bridge, and put his glasses on the boats. Fireworks flickered along the coastline: flashes of small-arms and machinegun fire. Drisdale reported, “Bearing’s steady, sir, and there’s three feet of water under the sounder.”
They were all right as long as they didn’t drift sideways: on either side there could be shallower patches, silt deposits.
“How’s the ahead bearing?”
“As it should be, sir.”
Chalk began suddenly, “I think—”
Then he was silent. It had been wishful thinking, and he was thinking better of it. It was never difficult to imagine you were seeing what you were waiting to see.
Minutes passing. Slow minutes …
The torch from the boat flashed slowly and clearly, O … K … Nick shouted down at the foc’sl, “Heave in!” and Dalgleish’s “Aye aye!” floated back to him. The sky had been lit for a second by an explosion among the houses: now it was dark again and he was temporarily blind from it. He told Chalk, “Nip down and remind the first lieutenant to bring the tow in very steadily with no jerks or straining. Otherwise the grass could break. “The breaking-strain of coir was only one-quarter that of hemp: Dalgleish wouldn’t be unaware of it but it could be as well to remind him. Nick checked the time: twenty minutes to three. By cracking on full speed, 34 or 35 knots, he’d catch up on the flotilla’s 30 or 32. But they’d only just beat the light: in fact they might not beat it, now. It was a three-hour passage to that deep harbour in Milos Island.
En route, there’d be some painting done.
He was awake: what had woken him was the lurching and scraping of the caïque running aground on rock. It had roused Alphonso too: he was panicking, in Italian.
“All right, all right …”
The sunken forepart seemed to have anchored itself: the caïque had been swivelling on that pivot so that the stern was now pointing at the land. He could see it through the darkness—high, and higher still behind that, a hill or mountainside blacking out the stars. Alphonso was still chattering like an excited monkey: he told him, feeling the total contrast of his own Britishness, “Wait a mo’. Steady on. Attendo—momento!”
He had no idea what time of night it was, except that he felt as if he’d slept for a long time.
Sorting out some stars, he got his bearings roughly. This had to be an east-facing coastline they’d fetched up against: and that made sense, because at dusk they’d been moving into a westerly drift. The only place that fitted this was the shoreline south of Cape St John, in the Gulf of Mirabella.
The distance to the actual shore and from where the caïque had stuck on its submerged rock was hard to make out, in the dark. It might be two yards and it could be twenty. But the thing was, obviously, to get ashore, before the caïque either washed off again or sank: more likely, both. Five, ten yards, he thought. The sea was washing regularly over a rock ledge there, sluicing over and pouring back each time in a miniature white waterfall; it might be an easy place for getting out.
“Come on, Alphonso.” He sat on the transom, swung his legs over; there was a list on the caïque and he was at the lower, starboard side. The sea felt warmer than it had when he’d last been in it: probably because the night air was so cool. Alphonso hung back, muttering what sounded like a prayer. Jack reached back, grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged at it. “Come on. Venez. Allez oop!” Alphonso pu
lled back, protesting. “All right, suit yourself, I’m off.” He let himself down into the sea; he was expecting his feet to touch bottom, but they didn’t. He let go of the transom, dropped right in and began to swim; he was climbing up on to that shoreside ledge when he heard a splash and then gasping noises as Alphonso floundered after him.
“Time now?”
“Five-thirty-six, sir.”
And as near as damn it, daylight: except that the bulk of Milos Island close to starboard was keeping the flotilla in shadow as they raced northward within spitting distance of the rocky coast. Black, forbidding: it didn’t look like a place the Venus could have come from. It would look prettier, no doubt, when the sun was up and shining on it, and by that time they’d be tucked away inside the inner harbour, the landlocked dead-end of the splendid bay called Ormos Milou which was in fact the ancient crater of a volcano.
He said to Dalgleish, “We’re going to make it by the skin of our teeth.”
“Please God.”
“Let’s not rely on him too heavily.”
Drisdale said, “Time to come round, sir.”
“Bring her round, then.”
And the three other destroyers would follow, one after the other heeling as they put their rudders over to turn in Tuareg’s gleaming wake. She’d only caught them up at a little after five, about ten miles south of Psalis Point. Now at 32 knots, creaming up along the sheer black coastline, they were about to round the corner which the chart called Akra Vani. Then they’d turn again, first east and then south-east to enter the bay, which might or might not have Italian destroyers or MAS-boats in it. He’d suggested to Dalgleish that they shouldn’t try to saddle the Almighty with too much responsibility for the outcome because he had a feeling that the Deity’s concern might be more for grand strategy than for tactics. Saint Paul, after all, did find himself having to “cast four anchors out of the stern and pray for the day” when he arrived at Malta, and even for the Saint that prayer neither brought the day any closer nor saved the ship from being wrecked. He shouldn’t have got himself on to a lee shore in a force 8, that was all.
Any more than Nick should have allowed his flotilla to be half an hour behind schedule, the one thing he’d sworn must not happen.
“Course is oh-six-five, sir.”
Akra Vani would be abeam in about one minute, distance four hundred yards. Then they’d alter round again. There was plenty of water here and it was safe enough, but so close to the rocks 32 knots felt like an enormous lick of speed. It was necessary, and so was corner-cutting, if they were to have any chance at all of getting in there before the enemy knew they’d arrived. He wondered if there might be anyone up on those slopes to see them, see the rushing ships and the white bow-waves curling, the wash rolling away powerfully and fast to break in surging foam along the steep-to, rocky coast. In the villages—one hamlet at the little harbour and the main village higher up, inland—there’d be some kind of garrison. Probably Italian, possibly German. He’d gone into the idea of putting landing-parties ashore on their way into the bay, to take the main village from its rear, the north-west, but he’d decided against it, for several reasons that still seemed sound. Primarily because of the delay involved and the difficulties of finding a landing-place on that area of coast; and as things had turned out, there certainly wouldn’t have been time.
The cape was abeam. He nodded to Drisdale’s unspoken question, and said again, “Come round.” Drisdale called down for 15 degrees of starboard wheel.
Growing light showed them the entrance now, a gulf about two and a half miles wide narrowing to no more than one mile farther in. In just a few minutes they’d be tearing through those narrows into what would then be a widening, figure-of-eight-shaped harbour, a wonderfully sheltered and spacious bay which the enemy had used as an assembly point and jumping-off place for those caïque convoys which the Navy had broken up or turned back. Nick’s plan was a gamble on the theory that now the Germans had Suda Bay, and there was no Royal Navy north of Crete to threaten their south-bound convoys, they’d have allowed Ormos Milou to relapse into the peace and obscurity from which they’d disturbed it.
He was also gambling on the accuracy of Intelligence reports which indicated an almost total lack of liaison between the Italian navy on the one hand and the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht on the other. And on one other hope: there’d been an incident recently when German aircraft had attacked an Italian destroyer. There might still be minimal contact between the Master Race and its lackeys, but it was a reasonable bet that after that fuss the German planes would shy away from Italian markings.
All the same, a week ago there’d been five Italian destroyers in this harbour. And the flotilla ought to be making a quiet approach in semidarkness, not galloping in in broad daylight.
“Midships.”
“Midships, sir …”
The water was absolutely flat. Afghan under helm astern of him, tucking her forefoot neatly inside Tuareg’s outdrifting wake. Highflier about to follow round … Behind him Brownlees, the captain of marines, said, “I’ll go down and get my chaps ready, sir.”
“Good. Best of luck.”
“Steer one-one-oh.”
Dalgleish suggested, “Cable party, sir?”
“Have them piped, but only to stand by down there.” He looked round, and beckoned to Ashcourt. “We’re cutting this so fine I shan’t anchor until the boats have got to the jetties.” He thought, And that’s if there’s no shooting … But it was the racket of cables running out and waking the garrison from its beauty-sleep that he was thinking of—as well as counting on there being no Italian ships in the inner harbour. If there were, nobody ashore would sleep on much longer. He told Ashcourt, “Muster your cable party behind ‘A’ gun, to start with.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And watch out for the wet paint. We don’t want Mercer’s artistry all buggered up.”
Ashcourt would be taking charge on the foc’sl while Dalgleish got the motorboat away with 25 Australian soldiers under their own lieutenant and with Captain Brownlees and Sergeant Foster as well. The two commando lieutenants and Sergeant Davies were now in the other three destroyers as liaison officers between Brownlees and the three other detachments of the landing-force. There’d been written orders for the soldiers in each ship, but the commandos had been used to explain Brownlees’ own intentions for when they got ashore. There’d be roughly a hundred men landing, more than enough to take and police the two villages and keep the lid on tight until dusk this evening.
Dalgleish said, “I’ll go down now, sir.”
“Yes. Tell Mr Walsh to train the tubes out on both sides.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Guns’ crews were closed up, circuits tested, ammunition-supply parties standing ready. The ships would be stopping to send their landingparties away in less than ten minutes. Running straight into the gulf now, and daylight reaching down inside the bowl of hills.
“I’d like to come round a bit more, to hug that next point, sir.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“Starboard ten.”
“Starboard ten, sir!”
“Steer one-two-oh.”
Nick hoped the artificers’ night’s work on the motorboat was going to prove effective … The point Drisdale was about to embrace was called Akra Kalamaria. And the time was 0544, already a quarter hour past the deadline for having all four ships at rest in the inner harbour looking like Italians, and the soldiers in possession of the harbour village—Adhamas—and of the larger village of Milos a mile and a half up the road.
The paint was spread in three colours—green, white, red, the colours of the Italian flag—right across the foc’sl of each ship, and duplicated on their quarterdecks between “Y” gun and the depthcharge chutes. It had been done in a hurry and in the dark on the way up from Retimo, and as artwork it might be a bit rough, but it should pass inspection from the air. Planks had been put across the painted areas so men’s feet wouldn’
t smudge them, particularly on the foc’sls during the anchoring.
Akra Kalamaria was two hundred yards abeam to starboard. And on about red three-oh, up on the hill and right against the background of brightening eastern sky, he saw the village: houses, two church spires …
“Yeoman, hoist the Italian ensign.”
“Aye aye, sir!” They were all ready with it: almost in the same breath Whiffen confirmed, “Eyetie flag’s up there, sir.”
“Very good.” He didn’t particularly want to look at it. “Now make to Afghan: Will postpone anchoring until boats have reached shore.”
Oh-five-forty-seven: the point coming up to port now was called Bombairdha. Just around it—they’d be turning to port, circling it—was the anchorage and the harbour, with two jetties of sorts. The nearer one would be used by Afghan’s landing-party, who were to take control of the waterfront and the houses near it, and the other three contingents would land at the eastern jetty, which was where the road up to Milos and to its subsidiary village of Tripiti started.
Chalk said, “Mr Walsh reports tubes trained out both sides, sir.”
“Very good.”
He hoped there’d be no use for them. He’d know in about ninety seconds’ time.
Jack had been right when he’d guessed they’d landed on the western shore of the Gulf of Mirabella. It was getting light now and he could see the Spinalonga peninsula offshore to the south, and the little islet this side of it. Here, behind them, a spur of mountains ran south-westward and another, less dramatic, formed a coastal ridge. Calm sea, with nothing in sight on it except the wreck of their caïque a few yards away, edged a high, stony landscape which would become a hot one when the sun was up.
Alphonso sat hugging his knees, facing the sunrise and Jack Everard. He was silent, for the first time since they’d become shipmates. Perhaps he was realizing that now they hadn’t the sea to isolate them and to contend with, they’d become part of the world again and therefore enemies. But they still had needs in common: food, drink, perhaps shelter. The biggest difference between them would be that Jack’s ambition was to avoid meeting Germans, while Alphonso would probably like to find some.
Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2 Page 28
