And the boat wouldn’t be long getting back.
‘Grazzi hear me?’
He hadn’t. And hardly surprising, that he’d have been deafened. But a fine situation in which to have to shout, for Christ’s sake… He leant closer, raised his voice higher: ‘Set and suits off. Hear me?’ A nod. ‘Pass ’em over!’
Because the breathing sets and the ‘Belloni overalls’ weren’t to be allowed to fall into enemy hands either, and that sight of the sentry had brought it home to him that there obviously was a risk of being caught. It had also decided him on which way to go. In particular, not to climb up on the coaling pier – which might have been possible, using the steel cables that held the boom in place.
(Might not have been possible, too. He’d have made it on his own, but with Grazzi – that was something else. Now, he realized it would have been a short-cut to a P.O.W. camp anyway.)
‘Here.’
Breathing set and rubber suit – bundled together with his own, then, straps of the sets wound round to hold it all together but one end left dangling. Bottles detached, discarded… He climbed down to a level where his head was more or less awash, reached down and tied the bundle to the net by that loose strap. The pig’s warhead would do the rest when it blew. He came up again, looked for sentries and couldn’t see any.
An arm round Grazzi’s shoulders, mouth close to his ear: ‘Over the boom here, then inside along this pier. Close to it, close in where it’s darkest. Then we’ll climb up over the North Mole – sentries permitting – into the sea, and swim for the beach. Can do?’
‘Va bene.’ Grazzi hawked, spat down-wind. ‘And listen – thanks, for—’
‘There are sentries on the quays. So breaststroke, and take it easy, huh?’
Although one did need to get a move on too. To be away before dawn – well before. Not only to the other Mole and over it, but a good distance towards the beach beyond it, this side of La Linea, where there’d be an agent waiting and escape arrangements all set up. If – enormous ‘if’ – one could get there… He was over the boom anyway – close to the head of the coaling pier, with Grazzi close to him, both of them using breaststroke for minimal disturbance of the surface. Hoping sentries would be looking out more on the seaward than the harbour side. Too much to hope they’d be doing so all the time, though: and the distance to be covered between here and the North Mole was something between 400 and 500 metres. Or less than that, of course, if you landed on one of the shorter piers which poked out this way at right-angles from it.
There’d been another underwater blast then. But they were inside the coaling pier, sheltered by its bulk as well as by its shadow. Emilio wondering where the others might be: and for that matter where their warheads might be, too. Glancing back to check that Grazzi was still with him: recalling that he’d joked once – or boasted – that he, Grazzi, was made of scrap-iron and old motor-tyres.
Mightn’t be so far off the truth, at that. Close to him again: ‘All right?’
‘Prima.’
He didn’t believe him. Although he seemed to be getting along all right. Thank God: and take it at face value. There was an important decision to be made now. However far you got, there was always another cropping up. Here, now, a whole new situation, really. On the one hand, failure: remembering the dark bulk of the aircraft-carrier, how damn close it had seemed, how seemingly within one’s reach… On the other, the revised objective – to get away, not to become a prisoner of war.
Not to get shot, either…
Those jetties pointed southward from the North Mole like stubby fingers, and had a clutter of ships alongside them. Small steamers, coaster-type vessels, by the look of them from this end-on angle of sight. They’d be creating their own areas of darkness between the piers, he guessed. Hoped. Because there were lights there too. Some. Anyway, the immediate and specific problem was whether to land on one of those jetties or stay in the water all the way to the North Mole. Most of the lights on the jetties, he guessed, would be ships’ gangway lights. You wouldn’t be invisible, exactly. You’d be dripping wet, too. On the ‘pro’ side, though, you’d have a view of whatever was on the North Mole – like sentries or sentry posts – which you would not have from water-level if you arrived there swimming.
Could be sentries on the jetties too, of course. But more likely ships’ staff, gangway watchkeepers. Some of whom might well be Spanish, might even be well disposed. Some Spaniards were, some weren’t – according to the Intelligence briefing. You might hope to strike lucky but you’d need to be damn careful. If they were Gibraltar-Spanish you’d have had it; that lot were pro-British to a man.
All right, though. Land on the second jetty in from this end. Not the first, because any sentry on the coaling pier might have a view of it and happen to be looking that way. Second jetty along, therefore: and the far side of it.
But it was going to mean leaving this shelter, swimming across open water that had a shine on it from the lights all over the damned hill there. One splash – searchlights, rifles and machine-guns.
Maybe one didn’t have to run quite that risk. Hold on like this until you were abreast the ends of the jetties. Then to the first jetty, and land on its farther side – if it looked all right when you got there. If there were steps to get up by, and some form of cover at the top of them. Cargo stacks, or whatever.
Grazzi had dropped back a bit. Emilio rested, waited for him to catch up. Better to stay close – easier for communication in emergency, for instance. When Grazzi was near enough to see it he gestured, a beckoning motion telling him to stay closed-up.
Fifty metres to go, roughly.
Thud – from behind, the direction of the harbour entrance. Hadn’t heard the boat passing. Well, you wouldn’t. He’d felt that percussion though, as well as heard it, and instinctively looked back to check again that Grazzi was all right. As he was, of course. But the gap between them had widened again by the time they were abreast the ends of the jetties. Waiting for him, Emilio dog-paddled a short way out from the pier’s shelter, so as to get a view of it. Stacks of coal, and cranes; and some sheds, one of which had light showing in a halfopen doorway. Guard-post, he guessed. No-one else would be there in the middle of the night. He and Grazzi had passed it – or them – forty or sixty metres back. But so what – one had got past it, that was all that mattered… Turning in the water, looking to his right at the sea-wall corner: the light-structure there was gaunt in silhouette against low stars. Sky clearing, he noted. Or maybe only patchy. A clouded sky would be more welcome: for a lingering dawn, a slow daybreak. Might need all the time one had, if there was any hold-up here.
Couldn’t afford hold-ups, in fact. Not if you were going to beat the dawn. If it came to the worst, you might have to hole-up – in some cargo-shed, perhaps – lie doggo until nightfall?
Probably not a very practical idea. Anyway – one problem at a time… Paddling back to join Grazzi, Emilio pointed at the end of the nearer jetty. A ship’s stern overlapped it on its far side; there was a crane about three-quarters of the way along, and what looked like a tug on this side at the North Mole end. He told him – into his ear – ‘Stay right with me. That way now – very quiet. Huh?’
He’d got it. Might have been even deafer, stone-deaf. Might well.
So again – small mercies… They were swimming away from the coaling pier, leaving that well-shadowed water and aiming for more of the same kind, the dark edging to the jetty and the berthed ships. Higher, there were patches of light at which he was careful not to look directly, for fear of spoiling his night vision. Grazzi at his side, and the jetty looming higher as they closed in towards it, ships’ masts towering. The sea’s thump and murmur around ship’s hulls, its restless and quite noisy movement between steel plating and stone quay walls.
And his own hard breaths, and Grazzi’s panting and grunting on his left. But not far to go now. Steady, even strokes, taking care not to break the surface.
A ringing clang. Then a curs
e – explosive, Spanish-sounding.
They’d stopped swimming. Were in the jetty’s shadow now anyway – at least, in its outer edge. The nearest thing to them was a lighter alongside the jetty on this side; it hadn’t been visible at longer range. That noise could have been anything – hatch slamming, rifle-butt on a steel deck… Emilio telling himself – to quieten his own racing heartbeat – that he’d known there’d be men awake, gangway watchkeepers and suchlike. In fact it gave you the upper hand: you knew they’d be there; they hadn’t the least notion that you were. He’d turned towards Grazzi, to beckon him on, when a searchlight-beam stabbed out at them from the coaling pier.
Face-down in the water. Trusting – hoping to God – that Grazzi would be doing the same. Floating, motionless. The beam of light had bored right over them – at jetty-level, lighting a humped tarpaulin on the lighter, and the quay itself and the upperworks of the freighter on the other side – lighting the water too, the brilliance actually dazzling as he’d pushed his face down into it.
Darkening, as the beam trained left along the jetty.
Pitch dark again. Pulling his head up, and a lungful of air virtually imploding. A mutter from Grazzi: ‘Fucking hell…’
Timely warning, though – to take care when you landed not to be visible from across the water.
Best not land near this end of the jetty, in fact. Swim round the end and up past the steamer on that side of it. Then, think again.
The lighter of course was deserted. And there was no movement – or figures discernible – on the jetty or the ship’s stern. So you could pass close around it, well in its shadow. Less safe as you actually passed round the end: lights on the hill, street lights presumably, imparted a shine to the surface there. Rounding the ship’s stern he was so close that his fingers brushed her rudder-post. Then it was fine – much better, the next jetty and the ships berthed on both sides of it shutting out all that glow. He’d made the right decision here, he thought. Gesturing to Grazzi to come up between him and the freighter’s sheer steel side as they swam into the deeper darkness – as it were into an alley which the North Mole across its end turned into a cul-de-sac.
But – sentry, there…
He stopped swimming. Stopped Grazzi too. Feet paddling, no other movement, watching a soldier in a tin hat and with a slung rifle shambling from right to left – a toy soldier in silhouette against a sky which in that sector was still starry.
Gone. He’d passed out of sight to the left, hidden by a ship’s superstructure. Emilio swam on – taking the lead now so they could both stay as close as possible to the ship’s black loom.
But with a glow of lights ahead of them, unfortunately. Some on the next jetty, too. This side, they’d be on the stern of the ship ahead of this one. Coaster, by the look of her. There was a patch of light all around her stern, and a streak of it lay across the slightly oily water through which they were going to have to pass. The ship’s gangway would be in that flood of light – port side, gangway from her stern to the jetty: so by way of whistling in the dark you could tell yourself there was no reason to expect any guard or crewman to be looking out on this side.
There’d be steps or rungs somewhere beyond that second ship, surely. For boats to use. Bloody well have to be.
‘Hold on…’
Stopping Grazzi physically. Because the sentry was in view again – little cut-out figure in tin helmet and greatcoat, returning from left to right. His boots were audible this time, scraping on the cobbles. Then he’d vanished to the right, behind some shed.
No way of guessing how long he’d be gone – whether his beat extended the whole length of the Mole, for instance. Going the other way, there must have been about four minutes between appearances. That would be about right, Emilio thought, in relation to the distance to the corner where the light-structure was. He might even have paused there for a while before starting back. But when he was on that side it might be safe to count on say a minimum of three minutes.
Grazzi had started swimming again without being told to, while Emilio trod water and peered at his watch’s luminous face. It wasn’t luminous enough, though. The glass being wet didn’t help either. He tried blowing it dry.
Four-twenty?
Daylight in about an hour, for God’s sake. And that fleeting thought he’d had a little while ago of maybe spending the day in hiding on one of these quays – plain crazy. Within an hour or so of sunrise there’d be sailors and dockyard workers crawling over every square metre of this harbour – even without explosions and – please God – ships sinking here and there!
So – get on with it…
To start with, they were going to have to swim through this band of light abreast the second ship’s stern. Conscious that while they were doing so the sentry might reappear. Might not, but…
Grazzi had slowed his stroke; his head was turned this way – asking wordlessly: What now? Emilio slowed too. Wondering whether to dive under the lit area. But the disturbance of water might be more dangerous than just chancing it… He nodded his head forward towards the streak of glittering ripples, waved Grazzi on, muttered – inaudibly, except to himself – ‘Avanti!’
Into floodlighting. With the feeling that half a ship’s crew were staring down at him. Aware of his own pounding heartbeats, and with his eyes fixed on the black barrier of the mole and the sky above it.
Back into the darkness, then. Having provoked no shouts, or shots. He’d been ready for both, had a feeling of shame now at having been so damn scared. Then noticing that here, roughly amidships, this coaster had a particularly low freeboard. And no lights showing other than those at her stern. He put an arm out to stop Grazzi, and began treading water, staring up into the little ship. Glancing apprehensively to the right but no sentry, as for an instant he’d imagined there might have been. Grazzi had happened to glance that way, and a reflected glitter in his eyes had seemed like fright. So calm down, for Christ’s sake… Studying the ship again. There was an outlet-pipe – outlet of cooling-water, or somesuch – close to the waterline; and to the right of it and higher by about – a metre, not much more – a scuttle which although it was closed was recessed enough to provide a finger-hold. Easy reach from there up to the scuppers, he guessed. Slight gymnastics – a matter of balance as one shifted grip. He was visualizing it, how he’d do it: launching himself up out of the water – left foot on that pipe, right hand to the scuttle: then grab left-handed for the scuppers overhead.
Well – why not?
It was good and dark up there in the ship’s waist. The jetty beyond was less so, but by no means well lit. Most of the illumination came from the lights on her stern, which didn’t reach this far on the ship herself because the after superstructure blanked it off. It would be better than landing on the jetty – much better. You’d be in good cover, and in position to see the sentry when he passed.
Wait, let him pass again, then move?
It wasn’t an easy decision to make. Having no idea how long the wait might be. He might only patrol the length of the Mole every half-hour, for instance. Or every ten minutes: might show up just as you were performing the acrobatics. Anyone’s guess… One thing was certain, though, in the area of timing: you had less than an hour now to get over that Mole and away before the sun came up.
‘Grazzi. Here.’
He showed him the outlet pipe and the scuttle, explained the programme. Having made up his mind now. Without any further weighing up of pros and cons, but with a picture in the back of his mind of the alternative to making this work – the P.O.W. scenario. A life in limbo, caged-up. No part in the Alexandria project, and no Renata either. Renata came into it, for sure… He told Grazzi – into one ear – ‘Wait there.’ (Nearer the bow.) ‘See the sentry sooner, if he comes. See him, give me a whistle. Otherwise, soon as I’m up there come back and I’ll give you a hand up. Understand?’
He watched him swim away, saw him in position – treading water, and looking the right way. So no sentry-visit
was actually imminent… Studying the ship’s side again, contemplating what he was about to attempt, well aware that if he made a hash of it he’d fall backwards and that the splash would be enough to wake everyone for miles around.
This would be a bilge-pump outlet. Cooling-water’d be nearer the stern. Left hand on it: ready to push himself down in the water then come bouncing up, flying up…
Deep breath. Go!
Up, and that foot connecting, hand grabbing for the scuttle and adding impetus to the upward movement, left hand scrabbling overhead to find one of the slots in the steel coaming – there – and right hand up – weight as well forward as the vertical ship’s side would allow, his face pressed against the rust-pitted steel. He was within a split instant of losing that hold – falling back – when the other hand’s fingers found another of the scupper outlets, and held fast. So now – heave…
Chinning himself up. One leg up over the edge, then. Whole body up, under the lower guardrail wire. Flat in the scuppers, looking down at the sheen of black oily water, ripples still spreading from his own violent exit from it. Grazzi’s head was a dark blob moving in towards the centre of them.
He wondered how much noise he’d made. Especially whether anyone inside the ship might have heard him thumping against her side. He’d thought he was being fairly quiet, but that hadn’t been the primary concern. And he was no featherweight. Once he’d had his weight on his two arms it had been easy, of course; he’d had control of it, then.
Love For An Enemy Page 13
