Grazzi now. Emilio hooked one arm around a stanchion, and reached down with the other, holding it out clear of the side so Grazzi could see it and grab for it.
Beckoning: ‘Come on!’
Anticipating no problem. Granted that he wasn’t at his best – or anything like it – Grazzi was a wiry monkey of a man.
He’d missed it. Toppling back. Emilio’s desperate grab didn’t connect either. Splash like an explosion: not so much ripples rushing out, as waves. Anyone who’d heard that splash and looked over the side – from the stern for instance, where the lights were – couldn’t fail to see it, and Grazzi floundering in its centre.
Even with that hand in easy reach, for God’s sake…
Anger – all right, anger tinged with panic, in that moment – faded quickly. The man had been damn near dead, poor bastard, only about half an hour ago.
And there was no uproar. Bastards must all turn in drunk, or something. Grazzi was paddling in, back in towards the ship’s side. Emilio meanwhile using the stanchion again but this time slinging his body half over the edge, his right shoulder anyway right over so as to reach down that much further. Lower half of the body still more or less safely wedged inboard of the six-inch-high steel coaming in which the draining slots were cut.
‘All right. Come on.’ Watching intently – to grab him, if any of him came into reach. ‘Come on…’
He’d have missed it again if Emilio hadn’t caught him by the wrist and hauled him up.
‘Thanks. Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ Both panting like dogs. ‘Entirely, my pleasure.’
The surface was smoothing itself out down there. As it had to, before the sentry re-appeared…
‘All right?’ Into Grazzi’s ear: ‘Fit?’
Grazzi gathering himself up: still fighting for breath. And dizzy, like as not. Anything but fit. He mumbled as Emilio helped him up, ‘On to the quay now?’
The point was – again – that if you waited for the sentry you might wait for ever. He told Grazzi yes, down on to the jetty now: to stay close and keep his eyes skinned and if the sentry came into sight, freeze.
Port side: looking down on the jetty, with a view up the ship’s side to the Mole and all the way to its junction with the coaling pier. There was a tug – big, ocean-going, they’d seen it earlier from the water – berthed at that end, and a mobile crane on rails halfway between here and the ship’s stern. It was reasonably dark, down there. No lights on the tug either. To the left, the light from this one’s stern flooded the shore-end of a timber gangway and gleamed on the water right over beyond the jetty – between it and the coaling pier – but it didn’t reach this way to any great extent, because of the intervening deckhouse structure. So at this end of the jetty, and its junction with the North Mole, you wouldn’t be invisible exactly but you wouldn’t be floodlit either. In fact if you went carefully – and used the mobile crane as cover?
That was it. Get to the crane.
‘Over the side here.’ A hand on Grazzi’s arm, showing him. ‘That crane – we’ll stop there. All right?’
He ducked between the wires of the guardrail, let himself down over the side, waited in case Grazzi needed help. Steadying him anyway as he slid down. It was still a gamble, maybe even odds on being seen and caught. If you were seen you would be caught: in preference to running and being shot.
The North Mole ran clear and empty all the way to the skeletal silhouette of the light structure, which was visible over the tug’s stern, the tug being berthed port-side-to, her stubby forepart pointing this way. The light structure’s framework stood out clearly against a skyscape which definitely had lightened.
So – move…
No shouts. No lights switched on. That sentry must have gone home to bed. They were on the crane’s low timber platform, its base, with its girders and jib reaching vertically and slantwise overhead. From the direction of the Mole, he guessed, they’d be in silhouette against the lights on the coaster’s stern. Just as well there was no-one on the Mole – at this moment. But over the top of it – assuring himself of its emptiness – those distant, flickering lights could only be La Linea.
Promised Land… Not that anyone was making promises. It was a good sight to see and recognize, though.
In Grazzi’s left ear: ‘See there? That’s La Linea.’
‘So?’
‘Where we’re going.’
‘Swim that far?’
‘Not quite. Although it’s only – oh, couple of thousand metres.’ He extended one arm at an angle to the right of the Spanish town’s lights. ‘There, roughly. Say fifteen hundred metres, to the beach. With those lights as a marker, see.’ He paused, then asked him: ‘Up to it, aren’t you?’
A grunt… ‘Have to be.’
‘Good man. But – hang on…’
Men’s voices – somewhere to their right, eastward. Either from the eastern part of the Mole, or from one of the other jetties parallel to this one.
How near – or far, though… Especially over water, the way voices carried. But as far as he could tell they weren’t coming any closer. And even if they were—
Well. Tant pis.
His mother’s language. And his sister’s – by her own damn choice. God only knew why it should spring to mind. Because one’s nerves were racked taut, every gramme of effort concentrated on immediacies, the subconscious running riot?
The hell with her, anyway.
‘Grazzi – let’s go. Follow me, do as I do – right?’
Looking back on this part of it afterwards, he was appalled at the risk, the element of pure chance. At any second that sentry might have appeared: or they could have run straight into him – out there in the open. Those voices had been from the Mole, from a guard-post which he’d seen clearly to his right – a hundred metres away, maybe less – as he’d trotted stooping across the stone-and-cobble surface and slithered over the edge, down into seaspray, a fringe of boulders and noisy, tumbling sea. What he’d seen had been a shed with light spilling from it, one soldier filling its doorway and others outside it, standing around. Could have been a change of watch, one watch taking over from another: but if any one of those men had happened to glance their way along the Mole during those few seconds, he and Grazzi would have been done for. Grazzi in fact had been on his left, probably hadn’t seen them; Emilio had made sure of keeping him close at his side, even a hand on his arm at times – as they’d slid over and down into the waves, for instance. He’d been as worried about Grazzi as by any other factor: especially by his apparent shock at the prospect of swimming two kilometres. Grazzi was as strong a swimmer as any of them – as they all were; he wouldn’t normally have thought twice about it.
In the water, then, swimming. Breaststroke again. Thanking God for the lively sea, white water all around them – as well as the fact that wind and sea were on their side, more or less. He kept close to Grazzi and didn’t risk looking back towards the harbour until they were a couple of hundred metres from it. When he did, he found it wasn’t possible to identify the guardpost or its light from that distance and perspective. There were too many other lights as well, on jetties and on ships and the land behind.
Turning back, he looked for Grazzi, and located him after a moment’s considerable panic. He’d swum on, gaining a few metres while Emilio had been looking back at the harbour. Closing up on him: ‘Doing all right, eh?’
No answer. Just plugging on. The man had guts, no doubt of it. Considering, Emilio thought, that he himself was having consciously to keep his mind off his own state of near-exhaustion, and that he hadn’t taken half the battering that Grazzi had.
Going off course, though. Heading straight for the Spanish town’s lights, instead of well to the right of them. He grabbed at his shoulder: ‘Grazzi! That way?’
Heading him round. He hadn’t heard – hasn’t responded, anyway. Changed direction now, though. La Linea’s lights were a useful mark to steer by, but the beach one needed to land on was well
to the south of the town itself. If you’d been attacking the ships in the roadstead you could have landed on the north side of it, but the town’s beach was out of bounds. Policed, no doubt. On either of the other beaches there’d be this agent waiting: he’d ask in Italian: ‘Did you fall off a boat, my friend?’ and the answer had to be: ‘No, but it was a fine night for a swim.’
You’d be in safe hands, then. As the operators from the two previous Gibraltar operations had been. Swaggering into the base in La Spezia only a couple of days later, grinning like cats.
No explosions yet.
Well, there wouldn’t be. But the other teams ought to be well clear by now, he guessed.
Grazzi – oh, God…
Not there. Gone under? Hadn’t glanced at him in the past minute, and – Christ, in this confused sea… Then a frighteningly cold-blooded thought – which he was to remember later and actually feel proud of: that at least the body would have no rubber suit or breathing set on it, for any enemy to find when it was washed up on the rocks. As it happened, he found him almost immediately, partly by sheer luck but also because Grazzi must have passed out only a second or two earlier. The body was lying face-down, awash; if one had been just slightly slower off the mark it would have gone under and that would have been the end of it. Treading water, Emilio pulled the lolling, heavy head up out of the sea, turned Grazzi on his back and tried slapping his face. This was a procedure which had been taught in training, but it produced no result and he didn’t persist with it; instead he slid himself under the still inert body, looked round for a bearing on the town’s lights, and began the long, back-breaking tow.
* * *
‘Fall off a boat, pal, did you?’
Italian, with a foreign accent. A tall man, who’d come limping down the beach from the road with its fringe of trees. Emilio glanced up briefly: he’d seen the car’s lights crawling along up there and stopping, and for all he’d known it might have been police. He told him, concentrating on Grazzi again: ‘No. It was a good night for a swim, that’s all. Look, this guy’s—’
‘Sure he’s alive?’
Stupid question, there was a heartbeat: otherwise why would he be doing this? He had Grazzi flat on his back on the sand, was working his arms like pump-handles and using the pressure of one knee in a breathing rhythm on his chest. Just about out for the count himself, and teeth chattering from the dawn cold, but for the moment too intent on what he was doing to notice it much.
‘Is there a doctor here, who’d—’
‘I can get one, sure. If—’
‘Ah!’
Water had begun to trickle and then gush from Grazzi’s mouth. Emilio heaved him over on to his side. Spewing water, slime, retching and – now, convulsing. Over on his face then; and a minute later – incredibly – he was trying to struggle up on to his hands and knees.
‘Take it easy, man—’
‘He’ll live, anyway – thanks to you. Congratulations. But look, I’ve got transport – van, up on the road there – so we’ll get him to the villa, bring the doctor to him there. Incidentally, where’s your gear?’
‘Uh?’
‘Suits, masks—’
‘Disposed of, don’t worry. Have the others come ashore yet?’
‘One team have. I’ll bring ’em along later. Don’t worry, they’re under cover. It’s a lot of beach to watch, you know… Look, I’ve a pal with me – hang on, I’ll fetch him.’
The van belonged to some garage or motor repair business, going by the Spanish inscription on its rear doors, and this big man, its driver, was overalled like a mechanic. The other was younger and slighter, wore a dark suit and a white shirt open at the neck. Unshaven, he looked as if he might have been at an all-night party and be still under the influence. The driver called him José, but there was no conversation while they – the Spaniards – were carrying Grazzi up the beach, or during the few minutes’ drive; and at the villa – which was single-storeyed, on its own and with a wide view of the bay – it came as a surprise that the younger one’s Italian was absolutely fluent.
They put Grazzi on a bed and helped him to strip, then wrapped him in blankets and the driver went off to fetch the doctor. Emilio got himself dry too, and dressed in worn but clean clothing of which there was a selection in one of the other rooms. Joining the others then, he found Grazzi arguing weakly that he didn’t need any doctor; he was slightly knackered, that was all, could do with a bit of rest admittedly, but after that he’d be as good as new.
‘All right, my friend. Don’t worry.’ José smiled down at him reassuringly. ‘The doc’ll only want to check you over, anyway. Standard procedure, eh? So rest now. There’ll be a meal before long, if you feel up to it.’
He murmured to Emilio, ‘Best leave him to sleep. I’d give him a tot of brandy, but the doc’d better see him first.’ A hand on Emilio’s arm: ‘What I will do is I’ll brew some coffee. How’s that sound?’
‘Like music.’ It did, too. But this whole business had begun to feel weird, dreamlike. He suspected that part of it might have been his own state of physical and probably mental exhaustion, but there were other factors too. Not knowing what was happening or about to happen, for instance – this sudden loss of personal control. And the others, for God’s sake… He asked the Spaniard as they left the bedroom and he shut its door quietly behind him, ‘Look – my colleagues – I’d have sworn I’d be the last ashore, not—’
‘Listen, friend.’ The same smile he’d given Grazzi. When Emilio had known damn well he’d been bullshitting. ‘Stop worrying, and sit down – please.’ Pointing at a deep armchair, as he led him into the farmhouse kitchen. ‘Before you fall down, eh? Listen – your friends’ll turn up, in due course – please God. If it’s anything like last time, they’ll be with us during the next hour or so. Then we’ll all sit round that table and eat a good breakfast while we listen to the explosions from out there – eh?’
That, Emilio thought, would make for a really fine breakfast. He asked José, ‘You were here the last time, were you?’
‘I was indeed.’
‘So you can tell me how we’ll be getting home from here?’
‘Certainly. You’ll be going by van to Malaga – not too comfortable, but it’s not much more than a hundred kilometres. Hundred and ten, maybe. Say three hours, four at the outside. Then by ’plane from Malaga to Barcelona, Barcelona-Genoa.’
‘What kind of aircraft?’
‘Oh, God knows. That’s not our department. Anyway, who cares what kind? Now – coffee. Not bad stuff this, though I say so myself. Can you still get good coffee in Italy?’
‘Well—’ It was an effort to remember… ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Can’t in Germany. Frightful ersatz muck, ground-up acorns, so I heard. Anyway – when you want a decent cup, you know where to come, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘Just hop on your two-man torpedo.’ Spooning grounds into a jug. ‘Dare say you will be back for another go – one of these fine days?’
‘I doubt it. Speaking personally.’
‘Oh. What a shame.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the bay. ‘I’d have thought with such easy pickings—’
‘Hardly easy.’
‘I stand corrected. Forgive me. Manner of speaking, that’s all… But if not here, where?’
Emilio stared at him, frowning. Then: ‘Long way from here. Very long way.’
‘Shall I try a guess?’
He shrugged.
‘Alexandria?’ José held up one hand. ‘Don’t tell me if I’m right or wrong. Don’t comment at all. None of my damn business. Curiosity, that’s all. But it’s logical, you see. We had one shot at it before, didn’t we; and if one’s going for the enemy’s major bases, the really worthwhile targets… eh?’
‘You said – we had a shot at it?’
‘We. You, if you prefer it. But what do you think I am – a Chinaman?’
‘I’d assumed – a Spaniard.’
‘I’ve some Spanish blood. But I’m mo
re Italian than anything else. God’s sake, man, what d’you think I’m doing here – enjoying the sea air?’
Emilio began to shake his head, but desisted immediately. It hurt like hell. Wincing, he told José, ‘I apologize.’
‘Oh, no offence.’ He’d shrugged. ‘None whatsoever. I tell you, it’s a privilege to play some small part in this. You’re damned heroes, every one of you, the rest of us take our hats off to you. Well, you know that. When this war’s won – God, they’ll cheer you in the streets! But tell me one thing – if you feel so inclined. Or even if you know the answer; perhaps you don’t. As you said just now, Alexandria’s a long, long way – a long haul even from Italy. And you wouldn’t want to travel that distance by submarine before going through the mill you’ve just been through here. Eh? That’s my point, d’you see – maybe the distance would rule it out. I can’t see there’d be any base close enough—’
‘Leros.’
‘Leros? In the eastern Aegean?’
‘Where we hit Suda Bay from with our motorboats. No more than – maybe three days, from there to—’
‘Hey.’ Cocking his head, listening. Then: ‘Here they come. Excuse me.’ Hurrying to the door. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back before the coffee boils.’
6
Paying the gharry driver, Mitcheson was surprised his hand wasn’t shaking. He was sweating, for sure, inside the high-necked No. 6 suit and in the mid-afternoon Alexandrian heat – and with anxiety competing with anticipation – whether she’d be here, not out with friends or – worse, and not at all improbably – in Cairo visiting her mother and stepfather. She’d told him before he’d left for this last patrol that while he was away she’d take them up on their frequently repeated invitations; and it was less likely that she’d have gone to them last weekend. He’d only sailed for patrol on the Friday, and until he’d gone she hadn’t known he was going.
Love For An Enemy Page 14
