by Ian Blake
‘I don’t like it,’ said Pountney after the staff car returning them to the depot ship drew away from the underground headquarters. ‘I don’t like it at all. In fact it stinks. If there’s not going to be any opposition, there are far more of us than necessary; if the Frogs are going to fight, there are nowhere near enough. It just doesn’t make sense.’
It had, they agreed, all the signs of a hastily conceived, ill-thought-out operation.
‘Nothing unusual in that,’ said Harmon grimly.
‘Let’s just hope that Giraud does his stuff,’ Ayton remarked.
They collected their kit from the submarine depot ship and located the two cutters, which were moored alongside each other nearby. They were handsome-looking vessels, renamed HMS Hartland and HMS Walney after they had become part of the Royal Navy, with a marked sheer and high bows and sterns that reminded Ayton of photographs he’d seen of whaling ships. The superstructure of each was concentrated amidships and mounted on their fore and after decks were single four-inch, quick-firing guns of the latest design.
The three SBS men exchanged salutes with the officer of the watch as they boarded the inboard cutter and crossed to the outboard one, where they were to meet the two captains to discuss the briefing.
‘Did you find out anything more?’ asked Harvey, after the SBS men had been taken to the wardroom and given what Crean called ‘a stiffener’.
‘Nothing,’ said Pountney, tossing back his drink. ‘Hey, what’re the ingredients for this? It’s a cracker.’
‘Smacks to me of an afterthought,’ said Crean gloomily. ‘Some bright spark woke up last week and thought, hey, supposing those Frogs just do happen to want to oppose the landings. Better send in the Marines or something, then went back to sleep.’
‘We’ve got Rangers, not Marines. What the hell are they? Some sort of Boy Scouts?’
‘American equivalent of Commandos, I was told,’ said Harvey.
‘Rather them than me, whoever they are,’ said Harmon.
While they waited for Colonel Budd and his men to join them they went over their orders once more and rescrutinized the reconnaissance photographs and sketches. When Budd did arrive he seemed equally sceptical about the operation. ‘Just hang in there until we arrive, was all I was told by General Fredendall,’ he remarked.
‘Fredendall?’
‘He’s commanding the Central Task Force.’
‘Did he tell you what reception to expect?’
‘Nope. When I asked him he just said: “Goldarn it, Budd, how the hell do I know?" He seemed to think you Limeys would be able to fill me in.’
The silence which followed this remark was broken by Pountney, who said that as they were all confined to the cutters until they sailed that evening it was not revealing any great secret to say that the Allies had a French general up their sleeve who was going to make sure the landings weren’t opposed.
‘How?’ Budd asked bluntly.
Pountney shrugged. ‘Radio broadcast, I suppose.’
‘Big deal,’ said Budd in disgust.
The British officers looked at the lanky American. They’d heard that Texans didn’t pull any punches.
Budd shifted his chewing gum from one cheek to the other and pronounced: ‘I reckon they putting us in deep shit, gennelmun. Real deep shit.’ He spoke the words slowly, almost with affection. ‘Right up to here.’ By way of measurement he put the edge of his outstretched hand on his forehead.
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,’ said Crean briskly. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage. We’ll get you into the main quay and then it’s up to you.’
‘So long as we go in expecting trouble,’ said Budd affably, ‘I’m happy. I’d put any one of mah men against any dozen garlic-eating sons-of-bitches, if you’ll excuse mah language.’
‘Our friend Budd doesn’t seem to like the French,’ Ayton said to Pountney after the meeting had broken up and they had been shown to their sleeping quarters, a tiny double cabin under the quarterdeck. Harmon had already gone aboard the inboard cutter, the Walney, where he and his sergeant paddler had been joined by a third SBS folbot team.
‘Like? It’s not a matter of liking the French,’ said Pountney. ‘No one likes them. Admire them, yes. Like them, no. Not possible.’
Above them they heard the thud of boots as the contingent of Rangers came aboard and made their way below.
Two hours later, as dusk settled over the Rock, the two cutters sailed for Oran. At dawn those aboard them saw stretched out across the horizon the great armada of ships which shortly after midnight would begin landing troops in the vicinity of Oran and Algiers.
By midnight both cutters had closed with the North African shore and had turned westwards to follow the coastline. It was a dark, stormy night – ‘as black as the ace of spades’ was how Harvey described it to the two SBS men as they all stood on the bridge of the Hartland trying to distinguish some of the landmarks they had seen on the chart. Not a glimmer of light showed along the shore.
‘Perhaps they’re expecting us,’ said Harvey.
‘You bet your bottom dollar they’re expecting something,’ remarked Budd from the far corner of the bridge. ‘Them Froggies ain’t stupid.’
Behind them they could see the Walney pitching badly. Spray flew across her bows as she dipped and lurched. Then all the officers on the bridge had to hang on as the Hartland was hit by a large wave. The compass light lit the small bridge with an eerie glow.
‘Point Canastel,’ Harvey suddenly said, pointing to starboard of the cutter’s bow. ‘Starboard twenty, Hammond,’ he said into the voice pipe.
‘Starboard twenty it is, sir,’ the helmsman replied from the wheel position directly below the bridge. ‘Steer two-eight-zero.’
The ships followed the curve of the land until the tip of the point was reached, then they changed course once more, this time heading south-west, which would bring them directly to the mouth of Oran harbour. Budd left the bridge and minutes later the Rangers began to gather on deck. They huddled where they could to avoid the cold wind and the spray which occasionally swept over the vessel’s bows.
‘Gun crews, close up, Number One,’ Harvey said to his First Lieutenant. ‘Make absolutely sure they know not to fire unless given specific orders to do so.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The two cutters hugged the coastline, its steep cliffs towering above them. Everyone on the bridge had binoculars trained straight ahead, and they were soon picking up the first pinpricks of light from the port.
Pountney glanced at the radar repeater which twirled steadily in front of the Captain. It showed the ships were some three hundred yards from the shore, the right distance to navigate the narrow channel between the sand bars which would lead them into the main channel just as it curved in towards the harbour’s outer boom.
‘Port and starboard lights ten degrees on the starboard bow,’ said Ayton. Two pinpoints of coloured light glowed through the dark. The starboard light, coloured green, marked the end of the long mole. The red speck of the port light indicated the end of a short mole that jutted out from the land at right angles to the outer mole.
‘Obliging of them to have those switched on,’ said Harvey. It was in everyone’s mind that this was a good omen, but no one said so. Pountney had sketched an aerial view of the harbour from the reconnaissance photographs and had it spread out in front of him on a small chart table at the back of the bridge.
‘The outer boom lies about two hundred yards beyond those two lights,’ he said. ‘The inner boom is no more than fifty yards beyond it.’
‘And the Ravin Blanc quay?’
‘Less than a quarter of a mile from the inner boom. Right under the battery.’
‘The Hartland was to land one company of Rangers at the quay, while the Walney headed straight for the inner end of the harbour, so that the Rangers aboard could occupy the French naval barracks nearby and the Fort Lamoune battery, which lay beyond them. En route it would drop Harm
on and a small group of British naval ratings at the Millerand Quay, halfway along the harbour. Many of the merchant ships were moored there, and Harmon’s task was to ensure that they were not sabotaged or taken out to sea.
Pountney and Ayton, their folbot filled with Campbell’s torpedoes, would be put ashore on another quay farther up the harbour, from where they would be able to attack any warship which attempted to put to sea.
Between the two navigational lights they now saw a white one blinking. The navigator counted the flashes with a stopwatch. ‘Group flashing four every fifteen seconds,’ he said. ‘That’s the centre ground buoy in the harbour.’
‘That means the entrance to the outer boom hasn’t been closed by block-ships,’ said Harvey. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t see it. Again, very obliging of them.’
‘Too obliging,’ said Budd, who had come on to the bridge to report that his Rangers were ready to disembark.
‘I want the French tricolour flown at the masthead, Number One,’ Harvey said, ‘and the largest US naval ensign we’ve got draped alongside the bridge. And tell the broadcasters to stand by.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re early. Slow ahead,’ he said into the voice pipe.
‘Watch the current, sir,’ the navigator warned as he looked at the radar repeater. ‘Its driving us too far inshore.’
‘Thank you, Pilot. Starboard five, Hammond.’
As the harbour entrance drew nearer, its two entrance lights glowed more brightly, and beyond them could be seen, in dim outline, the shapes of buildings. A minaret stuck up in the middle of them like a pencil and to the left, just distinguishable, was the square bastion of the Ravin Blanc battery, which sat on top of a small ridge overlooking the harbour.
‘Both ensigns in place, sir,’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘We’ve also got a whacking big Stars and Stripes flying astern. The broadcasters are standing by.’
Harvey glanced at his watch again.
‘Here goes,’ he said quietly, and ordered the cutter’s engine half ahead.
Both ships passed through the narrow channel between the sandbanks and entered the main channel. Still nothing stirred ashore. The seconds ticked by. The entrance through the outer boom could now plainly be seen. A shower of rain passed over the ships and a gust of wind eddied off the shore.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the wail of an air-raid siren on shore, then a blinding light cascaded into the bridge, making everyone blink and shade their eyes.
‘Searchlight on the outer mole, sir,’ shouted the First Lieutenant. As he spoke, a second one sprang to life on the inner mole and flickered along the length of the Hartland before moving on to illuminate the large American flag which the Walney was flying.
‘We’ll soon see if the old General has done his stuff,’ Pountney said to Ayton. The cutters, now brilliantly illuminated by the two searchlights, continued straight for the entrance through the outer boom.
‘Start the broadcasts, Number One.’
The loudspeakers boomed out in French, the words echoing almost mockingly off the cliffs. The Hartland was almost abeam of the two harbour lights, with the Walney close behind. Both were brilliantly lit up by the searchlights.
Then the French Navy made up its mind. A shell cracked overhead, a second hit the water just ahead of the Hartland and a machine-gun on the inner mole began an uneven chatter. One of the windows on the bridge smashed, scattering glass everywhere.
‘Full speed ahead!’ Harvey shouted into the voice pipe, and the two SBS men felt the cutter shudder under them. The loudspeakers continued their announcements, but were soon drowned by the noise of incoming fire.
‘Lay down smoke, Number One. And shoot out those bloody searchlights.’
The increase in the cutters’ speed caught those ashore by surprise. For a few vital seconds the searchlights lost their targets and the guns – there must have been half a dozen firing now – began shooting so erratically that one shell extinguished the starboard entrance light on the outer mole.
The quick-firing guns on the fore decks of both cutters opened up on the searchlights and one was quickly extinguished, but the machine-gun on the mole got the range and ran a tattoo of bullets along the Hartland’s bridge as the cutter plunged through the outer boom. The smoke containers, fired from mortars, hid the Hartland at first, but the wind was in the wrong direction and the smoke soon drifted away. Splinters and bullets flew everywhere, snapping and whining in the confined space of the bridge like angry hornets. The First Lieutenant grunted and slid to the floor.
‘Hang on!’ yelled Harvey as his ship made straight for the inner boom of coal barges. Ayton crouched down and turned the First Lieutenant on to his back, but then looked away when he saw the neat hole between the man’s eyes.
The quick-firing gun on the after deck now found a target and opened up with a sound like wood being chopped methodically at speed. Seconds later the Hartland rammed the barges with a tremendous thud which shook the entire ship from stem to stern. The boom buckled and broke under the enormous force of the steel bows of the cutter. The barges scraped and banged along the Hartland’s side and moments later the cutter had broken through into the harbour and was heading for the Ravin Blanc quay.
Flashes flickered from the muzzles of the Ravin Blanc battery, but the gunners could not now depress their guns sufficiently and their shells whirred harmlessly over the Hartland and exploded on the outer mole.
Ayton, thrown off balance when the cutter hit the inner boom, levered himself on to his feet by gripping the chart table. There was blood all over it and he could feel its sticky warmth on his fingers.
‘All right, Phil?’ He could see Pountney looking at him anxiously through the pall of acrid smoke that now filled the bridge, and he nodded. If he was hit, he certainly couldn’t feel anything.
‘Tell the Colonel to stand by to land, Number One,’ Harvey shouted without turning round.
‘He’s dead, sir,’ Ayton said.
‘Fuck it,’ said Harvey irritably. ‘You go, then. Tell Budd I won’t be stopping. His men will have to jump for it.’
Ayton half slid, half jumped down the ladder from the bridge. He groped his way aft, stepping over Rangers who were spread-eagled on the deck trying to find shelter from the flying fragments of steel and bullets. Already several had been hit. He found Budd crouched behind a lifeboat, calmly rolling a cigarette.
‘I sure hope your French general fries in hell,’ he said after Ayton had given him Harvey’s message. ‘If I ever catch him I’ll cut his balls off.’
He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, lit it with a Mickey Mouse lighter, slung his tommy-gun over his shoulder and began shouting orders. Moments later the Hartland manoeuvred slowly alongside the quay and the Rangers climbed down on to it from scrambling nets which had been lowered by the crew. They scattered quickly and the Hartland swung away, its stern jarring heavily on the quay as it turned. Ayton ran back along the deck and hauled himself up the bridge ladder as the Hartland rounded the end of the Ravin Blanc quay and headed up the harbour.
The Walney, ahead of the Hartland now, was caught in the full glare of another searchlight and was under heavy fire from a destroyer which lay alongside the next quay. For a moment it looked as if the cutter was holding its own, but as it drew abreast of the destroyer it slowed and stopped, then, with a colossal explosion, simply disintegrated.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Ayton said quietly, knowing Harmon and his sergeant, and the other SBS team, were goners. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
The searchlight switched to the Hartland, but the gunners manning the cutter’s fore-deck gun soon found its range and it exploded like an outsize firework.
The destroyer now turned its guns on the Hartland. Even without the aid of the searchlight, its gunners were remarkably accurate. The first salvo fell short, sending up great spouts of water which momentarily screened the cutter from the destroyer. Perhaps because of this the second salvo was too high. The shells screamed overhead and f
ell close astern.
But now that the cutter had been bracketed, Harvey knew the destroyer’s gunners had the correct range, and he shouted down to the helmsman to turn to starboard to avoid the third salvo. This exploded on the port quarter, exactly where the cutter had been moments before.
The outer mole loomed close.
‘Hard-a-port!’
The cutter kept her course.
‘She’s not responding, sir! The rudder must be jammed.’
‘Stop both engines! Astern both engines!’
At a distance the outer mole had not appeared to be particularly high; close to, it loomed alarmingly on a level with the cutter’s superstructure. Everyone on the bridge ducked instinctively as more glass shattered.
With a resounding jolt the Hartland hit the outer mole. It seemed that every rivet of its steel hull had been shaken loose.
‘Full astern both engines!’
The cutter shuddered and yawed, but refused to move. It had run on to the mole behind a floating dock which protected it from the destroyer’s fire, and in the sudden silence which followed Pountney looked at Ayton and said: ‘This is where we get off.’
Harvey nodded his assent and as the two SBS men scrambled down on to the deck they heard him shouting orders to get the ship afloat.
Machine-gun bullets twanged above them. The small team of ratings who had been allotted to help them offload the folbot were waiting with it under the bridge. On Pountney’s order two clambered down the netting and on to the mole so that the folbot could be handed to them. The SBS men grabbed their weapons and equipment and followed.
Mud and foam churned around the cutter’s stern as they launched the folbot and paddled vigorously towards the floating dock. As they reached it the cutter slid back into the harbour and moved out from under the cover of the floating dock. But immediately it did so a searchlight picked it out and the destroyer resumed firing. The destroyer’s second salvo blew away the cutter’s bridge and the next started a fire raging in its engine-room.
