Marine L SBS

by Ian Blake

  As the truck drew up, one of them came over to it and proffered his hand to Tommy. ‘Crichton-Stuart. G Patrol, Long Range Desert Group. Glad to see you. You’re in good time.’

  Ayton looked at the officer with curiosity. He had heard of G Patrol, made up of members of the Scots and Coldstream Guards. Earlier in 1941 it had launched a famous raid with Free French troops on the Italian stronghold of Murzuk in southern Libya. He knew they were in good hands. He wandered over to look at the trucks and introduced himself to the other LRDG men.

  ‘Seen these before?’ one of them asked Ayton, tapping the long bonnet covered in camouflage paint. Ayton shook his head. It bristled with weapons.

  ‘Thirty-hundredweight Chevrolet truck, specially converted for our nefarious purposes,’ the man said, ‘Left-hand drive, of course. Not that that makes any difference in the desert. Extra-wide tyres, extra-large fuel tanks, extra everything.’

  The truck’s windscreen lay flat on the bonnet. There was no roof over the driver’s cabin, so that the Lewis gun, easily identified by the cowling over the barrel and its ammunition pan, could be fired as an anti-aircraft gun by the front passenger. Sticking up behind the driver was the aerial for the wireless mounted in the back of the truck. Also in the back was a half-inch Vickers machine-gun on a vertical swivel. Along the sides of the truck were jerrycans, boxes, batteries and an array of other equipment. Not an inch of space was wasted. Even the front mudguards had a folded tent on one side and a roll of camouflage netting on the other. Ayton pointed to two steel troughs strapped to one side and asked what they were for.

  ‘Unsticking is what we call it,’ came the prompt reply. ‘When we get stuck in the sand – which is often – we put those steel channels under the wheels. Colonel Bagnold took similar ones with him when he crossed the desert during the 1920s. These Chevrolets carry fuel for eleven hundred miles and enough food and water for their crew for three weeks. Not bad, eh?’

  Ayton nodded. ‘But how the hell do you find your way about?’ he asked.

  ‘We use a sun compass. It’s not affected by magnetism, like an ordinary compass is, and gives the true bearing of the truck’s course. With that and the odometer we can end up within two miles of our objective after a hundred-mile run. But we also use sextants to take star sights – and a noon-sun sight if we can.’

  That night they ate roasted goat meat and drank harsh arrack, which they traded with the Arabs camping nearby. Then at dawn G Patrol and its seven passengers headed eastwards towards Egypt.

  9

  General Marker’s replacement was a different kettle of fish, Pountney could see that immediately he was ushered into his office.

  Several weeks had passed since the raid on the Rommel-Haus, mostly spent on a very pleasant leave in Beirut. Now it was back to business.

  Poutney gave his smartest salute. He had his hand shaken and was asked to sit down. The hubbub of Cairo’s street life floated through the open window as the two men sat for a moment in friendly silence, weighing each other up.

  Pountney’s personal file was tucked safely away in the General’s top drawer, but the man knew it by heart and had been much intrigued by the thumbnail sketch that each file always included. Pountney, he had read, had been a professional hunter and gold prospector in East Africa between the wars and had paddled down the Nile in a canoe with a sack of potatoes and an elephant spear, his sole possessions at the time, before becoming a sergeant in the Palestine police. When the war had started he had been commissioned in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps before secondment to the Commandos. Then the sketch had given a brief description of how Pountney had demonstrated the potential of canoes as a weapon of war. The assessment ended with the verdict: ‘is not easily assimilable into any normal infantry role.’

  The General had chuckled at that. They could say that again.

  In a way it was a pity the war was rapidly changing from being a romantic battle for survival into a cold-blooded, scientific, calculated drive for victory. But that’s how it was.

  Time for business.

  He leant forward and offered Pountney a cigarette from a silver box bearing the engraved crest of the General’s old regiment. Pountney refused the cigarette. He did not recognize the crest, a rose within two laurels surmounted by a crown. The General, who had been watching him closely, said: ‘Intelligence Corps. Newfangled outfit. I dare say you’ve never heard of it.’

  Pountney hadn’t, but he didn’t like to say so. He was slightly unnerved by the General’s perspicacity.

  ‘Its motto is “Knowledge Gives Strength to the Arm."’

  Pountney noticed for the first time that the General was formidably young, not much older than himself, and the red tabs and the crossed swords and the pips on the epaulettes of his bush shirt, which showed he was a major-general, were brand-new.

  The General looked at Pountney shrewdly. ‘Shows the nature of the war is changing, Captain.’

  Pountney nodded politely. As far as he was concerned the war hadn’t changed at all. However you looked at it, it was still kill or be killed. No good taking it personally, as Davidson had, but that didn’t make it any less clear-cut. Obviously the General didn’t agree with him, for he now said: ‘Not as straightforward as it was at the start. Nothing’s quite black or white any longer. Do you agree?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Pountney was being cautious. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Take what happened in Syria. The Vichy French fighting the Free French as well as ourselves. Complicated situation. Downright tricky, really.’

  The General’s words hung in the heavy Cairo air, inviting a response.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, sir, those who aren’t for us are against us,’ Pountney replied. It seemed simple enough, not complicated at all. But he knew now that the General had heard about the little tiff he’d had with a French Navy lieutenant in a Beirut nightclub the previous week. Well, the man had got what he’d deserved and a few days in hospital might cool him off. Pountney held no particular brief for the Royal Navy, but he’d been their guest aboard their submarines on a number of occasions and had come to appreciate their total reliability and steadfastness, and he wasn’t going to have any Froggie saying otherwise.

  ‘Fair comment,’ said the General, ‘but officers must set an example, Captain. I’m sure you would agree.’

  It was the gentlest of rebukes, not even a rap over the knuckles. Best let it pass, not argue the toss.

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Good. Just a little misunderstanding, I think we can call it.’

  Perhaps war itself was just a little misunderstanding, Pountney thought bitterly. He noticed that the General had only one medal ribbon, and that was a decoration for distinguished service, not bravery. No Great War campaign medals for the new generation. The General would have still been in short trousers when it began. Here was the new British Army.

  Again, the General seemed to read Pountney’s thoughts, for he said: ‘Congratulations on your MC, Pountney. A very well-deserved one, from what I hear. How many aircraft did you destroy at Maritsa?’

  ‘Fifteen, sir, I believe.’

  ‘Fifteen, eh?’

  The General was doing some quick calculations in his head. ‘At the beginning of the year the Italian order of battle included three hundred front-line bombers in the Med. So far they have sunk nine of our merchant ships for the loss of twenty-one bombers, or seven per cent of their total bomber force. From our point of view that means they lose three bombers for every ship they sink. You destroyed five times that amount, or five per cent of their total bomber force, and we didn’t lose one ship. That’s good going by any standards.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, sir,’ said Pountney, bewildered.

  The General opened the silver cigarette box, offered it once again to Pountney, who shook his head, and tapped his cigarette on the top of his desk. ‘Why should you? That’s my end of the business.’ He paused. ‘Sorry you had no luck
in the Rommel operation. It was a good idea. We might try that again sometime.’

  ‘Count me in, sir, if you want to have another go at him.’ ‘Not at Rommel perhaps,’ said the General, smiling. ‘There are one or two softer targets we might try.’

  He flicked open the top of a silver cigarette lighter and spun the flint, then looked over the flame at Pountney as he lit the cigarette. He seemed to have made up his mind about something, for he said: ‘Let me come to the real point of our meeting, Captain Pountney. The War Office are playing merry hell about the establishment and administration of your unit. It’s highly irregular for an Army outfit to be attached to the Navy in the way yours is. Put simply, the war can’t be run like that. If it was, everyone would have their own private armies and navies. Everyone would be fighting their own private war, rather like you and that French gentleman were.’

  ‘But sir . . .’

  The General raised his hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Vice Admiral submarines, in Alexandria, is absolutely tickled pink having you around and you’re raising the prestige and the morale of his submarines no end. But that’s not the point.’

  ‘Isn’t it, sir?’ Pountney retorted. ‘I would have thought it was very much the point. Especially if we can destroy five per cent of the Italian bomber force without any losses to ourselves.’ He thought of Daly and the loss of the team in the Salmon, and added: ‘Not any material losses, anyway. There’s bound to be a loss of personnel occasionally.’

  Leaning back in his chair, the General studied Pountney through a pall of cigarette smoke. ‘I was told you would fight your corner, Pountney, and I like that. I also happen to think you’re right; and so, obviously, did General Marker. It took my staff weeks to find the necessary files. Unfortunately, that doesn’t alter the situation.’

  The General paused as the cry of an Arab street vendor wafted through the window. The wail was loud and persistent. Pountney wondered what he was selling. His camel? His house? His daughter? The General stubbed out his cigarette and said: ‘Here is what I propose. You know Major Stirling?’

  Pountney scratched his head. ‘David Stirling? Scots Guards? He was in Eight Commando when I last heard of him. He’s part of Middle East Commando now, isn’t he? Something called L Detachment?’

  ‘That’s the chap. Well, he’s rather like you, Pountney: a persuader, someone who’s got an idea and is determined to see it fulfilled. God knows how, but after the fall of Crete he managed to convince the Commander-in-Chief to let him form L Detachment – parachutists trained to attack German airfields in Libya. The Prime Minister probably had a hand in its formation. Anyway, Stirling’s men recently carried out their first operation at Gazala. They weren’t parachuted in but were taken behind the lines by the Long Range Desert Group. It was not dissimilar to your operation against Maritsa, though between ourselves it was not as successful. I think your men would fit in very well with this outfit. Officially, it’s still part of Laycock’s force, as you are. But Laycock’s about to return home to command a new formation. So it makes sense to put your men with Stirling’s lot. His unit is now unofficially known as the Special Air Service Regiment.’

  ‘Never heard of it, sir,’ said Pountney. He didn’t like the trend of the conversation.

  The General nodded. He understood how Pountney felt. But business was business.

  ‘Quite. I think the best solution would be to put your chaps nominally under Stirling.’

  He saw Pountney’s reaction and added: ‘There’s no question of complete absorption, of course. Everyone’s very keen that the name Special Boat Section be retained, and doubtless it will still operate independently with the Navy. But the matter would have been regularized, Pountney. I’m sure you understand how important that is from Whitehall’s point of view.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pountney said stiffly.

  It was all a foregone conclusion, he knew that now. While he had been out risking his neck in the desert, in Cairo they had been busy stabbing him in the back.

  ‘I presume I still retain command, sir?’

  The General rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure that would be desirable. I think the C-in-C’s keen to spread the talent around a bit – not concentrate it all in one unit.’

  Pountney’s gloom deepened, though he appreciated the way the General sweetened what was a bitter pill. The bastards were not only intent on fucking up his ideas; they were busy fucking him up, too.

  ‘Besides,’ the General went on airily, ‘Combined Operations at home are very keen on your concept. Lord Louis Mountbatten, who has recently succeeded Admiral Keyes at Combined Ops, wants you to expand the SBS.’

  Pountney tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. ‘He does, sir?’

  ‘He does indeed, Pountney. He wants you back in the UK as quickly as possible so that you can recruit and train men for a second section which will then almost certainly operate here in the Mediterranean. This is where all the action’s going to be for the foreseeable future. It’s pure speculation, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, with the Americans now in the war, there wasn’t a large-scale operation in the Med next year. I don’t doubt that the SBS will play its part in that. And, oh yes, I forgot. You’re promoted to major as of today. Congratulations. Now who’s going to fill your shoes here?’

  ‘Ayton,’ Pountney replied promptly. ‘Lieutenant Philip Ayton. He’s a Marine, but we mustn’t hold that against him.’

  10

  ‘Captain Ayton, sir.’ Maitland’s rasping Glaswegian accent jerked Ayton awake. ‘The Captain says quarter of an hour, sir.’

  Ayton swung his legs off the narrow cot in the torpedo compartment and folded it back against the bulkhead.

  The Sentinel was submerged at eighty feet and Ayton could feel no motion under his feet. As always when they had been submerged for any length of time, the atmosphere in the submarine was stuffy and hot. He dressed, pulled on his woollen hat and rope-soled shoes, checked that the soft leather holster containing his Welrod snuggled comfortably under his left armpit, then walked the few feet along the narrow gangway to the wardroom, where a plate of fried eggs and sausages, supplemented by a pile of toast, was placed before him.

  He ate absent-mindedly, thinking of what he might have forgotten, or what possible incident might arise which would need quick action. Raiding from submarines had now become so second nature to him that he had to force himself consciously to try to anticipate trouble. For there was no doubt in his mind that anticipation – thinking through every scenario – saved lives.

  Maitland put his head around the mess curtain. ‘The Captain says, when you’re ready, sir.’

  Ayton nodded and wiped his mouth. ‘Thanks, Jim. Have you eaten?’

  ‘My usual porridge, sir. The cook’s a dab hand at it now that I’ve shown him how.’

  Ayton followed Maitland into the control room. It was daylight on the surface, so the lights had not been dimmed, and he could see that the whole control room crew was ‘closed up’ and ready for action. Only Timber Woods, who had continued to be a regular conveyor of No. 1 Special Boat Section during the year the unit had been in action in the eastern Mediterranean, seemed inactive as he waited for the navigator to tell him they had reached the right spot. He stood with his feet apart, his hands stuck in the pockets of his reefer jacket with his thumbs outside.

  ‘I make it we’re about a mile offshore, sir,’ said the navigator from the chart table.

  ‘Thank you, Pilot. Take her up to thirty feet, Number One.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The planesmen swung their wheels and the needles flickered back around their dials. When they reached thirty feet Woods ordered the main periscope to be raised. He waited for the water to drain away, made a quick, all-round scan of the surface, then handed over the periscope to Ayton, who eagerly grasped the handles and peered into the eyepieces.

  Out of habit he first took a quick sweep round the horizon in low power, noticing that the lens was thinly
coated with oil, which created a rainbow haze across it. Probably there had been a sinking close by. The Mediterranean was choppy and waves slopped against the lens as Ayton slowly swivelled the periscope through a full circle. But the horizon, burnished by the evening sun, was unbroken by mast or hull, and the sweep of sea was empty. He changed to high power and concentrated on the stretch of shore that lay directly ahead of the submarine.

  He had never seen Crete before. It looked very much like any other part of the Mediterranean coastline. At first the shimmering sun on the water made it difficult for him to see properly, but as his eyes adjusted he began to follow the contours. The submarine was moving forward slowly, which encouraged the waves to slap against the lens, sometimes obscuring his view completely. But as the Sentinel neared the shore, he was able to identify the landing beach which he had studied on the chart: a promontory to the left with a low, crumbling cliff, then a semicircle of sandy beach to the right which ended in a rocky point.

  Sensing Woods at his elbow, he snapped the handles closed and stood back.

  The Captain looked at him questioningly. ‘Well?’

  ‘It looks fine,’ Ayton said. ‘But let me just check the chart again.’

  ‘Be as quick as you can, there’s a good chap. At this depth we’re a sitting duck to any aircraft which happens to spot us.’

  Ayton didn’t need to be told that and he knew Timber knew that. He wondered, as he pored over the chart, if the man had been sent on one patrol too many, for he was as jumpy as a bloody kangaroo. But Ayton was determined not to be rushed; in the year the SBS had been operating with the First Submarine Flotilla out of Alexandria, too many mistakes had been made. Understandable mistakes, caused by pressure of time, or the proximity of the enemy, but ones that could have been avoided.