Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  Oerlikon’s gone quiet: McKendrick can’t take his eyes off his target but he guesses the gun’s jammed, Sparrow and Hughes turning the air blue while they work to clear it, probably change the drum. Their target meanwhile is lying stopped and shrouded in smoke. The other one’s fired again – surprisingly, after that hit: God knows where their first shot went. Now another hit on him: further aft, so you’re still right for line but—

  ‘Range is shortening, Sub!’

  ‘Down 200 – shoot!’

  Oerlikon back in action: between its bursts Mitcheson yells at Sparrow to shift target, spray the tug now. Tug indeed – it’s a small steamer. A shell-spout lifts right ahead of Spartan – not all that far off – and Mitcheson’s putting on starboard wheel. One major advantage the enemy has in this kind of engagement is that he can be hit several times and stay afloat, whereas Spartan’s finished if she’s hit just once. A submarine with a hole in her can’t dive: and you’re a long way from home… The alteration to starboard has helped the Oerlikon gunners by widening their field of fire: Sparrow’s hose-piping on his new target now, hitting most of the time. And another – third – three-inch hit – on the steamer’s forepart again – then a secondary explosion, probably ammunition. ‘No correction, shoot!’

  He’s lengthening. Turning away… A shell – Italian – scrunches by, vaguely overhead. By the sound of it, might have passed very close to the periscope standards. McKendrick’s uncertain whether he actually heard it, or felt its wind.

  ‘Shift to his bridge, Sub!’

  ‘Shift target! Hit the bridge!’

  He can barely hear his own voice – it’s no more than a squeak in his head – but White has raised one hand in acknowledgement. Up here right above and behind the three-inch there’s enough blast to flatten any eardrum. The Italian’s gun may have been knocked out: it’s fired only four times that McKendrick’s seen, and he’s seen only two spouts – the last, a few seconds ago, well out on Spartan’s bow. Another hit – on his bridge, as per instructions. ‘No correction, shoot!’ Spartan under helm again though, turning to port, towards the target – so the Oerlikon’ll be out of it in a moment, blanked off. Deflection will change too.

  ‘Deflection zero—’ Weir’s set it, shouted ‘Set!’ Nothing audible, only his mouth opening, shutting… McKendrick’s yell then: ‘Shoot!’ Another blast, shell on its way, gun recoiling… Gun’s crew meshing like the five working parts of one machine, shells flowing up through the hatch hand-to-hand and down to the loader – Caute, a stoker – the breech sliding shut as Sewell slams the lever up: fire, recoil, breech open, shellcase flying out – smoke, acrid stench, Caute slinging the next one in and pivoting to receive the next from Charlie Harris – telegraphist – at the hatch. You’re hitting continuously now, the target’s a smudge in the binocular lenses, the look of a fly squashed on a window; then – in the flash of the next hit – there’s an explosion. Internal boiler gone up, maybe, looks more like steam than smoke…

  ‘Cease fire, Sub!’

  ‘Check, check, check!’

  It’s less the quality of mercy than the quantity of shells. If the job’s done, it’s done, you can’t carry enough to afford to waste them. Gun’s crew are straightening from their work. Cordite-blackened faces running with sweat, wearing expressions of – of what could be bewilderment. Back into the world – from bedlam, hard labour and a kind of isolation in that noise. Charlie White tells Caute to clear the platform of empty shellcases, which he does, he and Sewell slinging them over the side clear of the bulge of saddle-tanks. McKendrick still has his glasses on the target; it’s listing heavily to port, with smoke gushing, trailing away at sea-level on the wind, and they’re getting a boat into the water. Better be quick about it too – the list’s increasing, she’ll be right over – you’ve seen it before, how suddenly they can go.

  ‘MAS-boat now, Sub!’

  It’s lying stopped, hasn’t budged since the tow was slipped. Mitcheson’s not taking chances, though. The Oerlikon’s probably knocked out its machine-guns, but MAS-boats have torpedo tubes, only need to be pointing the right way. If you weren’t on the ball and it could move one of its screws, push itself round for a tube to bear…

  ‘Midships… Steady.’ He has her pointing straight at it. Straightening from the voicepipe: Open fire, Sub.’

  ‘With S.A.P. – load, load, load!’

  He’d pointed as he gave the order – and they’re back at work, Churchman’s and White’s eyes at their telescopes’ rubber eye-pieces, and the breech-block slamming up behind yet another round of semi-armour-piercing – what that ‘S.A.P.’ stands for. McKendrick gives Weir a range of 1200 yards, deflection zero, and tells White ‘Point of aim waterline amidships – shoot!’

  Fire – recoil – shellcase banging out. Another round loaded, breech shut – ready… The splash from that one is in line, but about ten yards short: ‘Up 200, shoot!’

  He can feel the diesels’ throb, but can’t hear it. The strange thing is that they can hear his voice down there when he yells at them, and he can hear the skipper’s. Pitch of tone, maybe.

  Hit…

  ‘Cease fire!’

  That shell burst inside her, with an explosion visibly upward through the central cockpit and very likely invisibly below the waterline as well. In a haze of smoke, some men on her forepart are holding up a sheet or large towel. McKendrick looks away to the right, sees the other ship lying on its side and a boat under raggedly moving oars crawling away from it. They’re lucky with this weather — November’s not the ideal time for swanning around in small boats. He sees Mitcheson looking up at the cloud-patched sky, and guesses what’s in his mind: in three words, you could put it as Get under, fast… Nothing to do with the weather – a lot to do with Heinkels and Savoias: in that area you’ve had luck this far, and it’s time now to take cognizance of the fact it won’t last for ever. Mitcheson stooping to the pipe: ‘Steer three degrees to starboard. Stop together, out engine clutches.’

  In preparation for diving. Keeping her bow pointing at the MAS-boat meanwhile. A submarine presents a very small, narrow target, bow-on, and even if the Italians were playing games and could get a fish away they’d be playing against very long odds. Ducking to the pipe again: ‘Up one Vickers. Slow ahead together.’

  The Oerlikon can’t fire ahead, and he doesn’t want to expose the submarine’s beam to the MAS-boat. A Vickers, mounted on the side of the bridge – there are mountings for them on both sides – can fire ahead.

  ‘Sparrow – Hughes – sharp lookout for aircraft now.’

  He’ll still want them up here, in case a fighter-bomber jumps him while he’s still cluttered with gun’s crew and can’t get down fast enough: the Oerlikon is an AA weapon, and those two are watching the sky now. A.B. ‘Shiner’ Bright meanwhile emerging from the hatch, hauling his gun up with him – Vickers G.O., standing for Gas-Operated, the gun that was synchronized to fire through aircraft propellers in the ’14-’18 war. Mounting it on the starboard side and slamming a pan on, while Colman who’s followed him up with his rope prepares to haul up spare pans. Mitcheson stops him: ‘Get the gash Oerlikon drums down, then finish.’ Looking up again: aircraft are a bloody menace when you have this number of bodies in the bridge: and a rope through the hatch so you couldn’t shut it in that kind of emergency is about all you need.

  The Vickers is only for show, anyway. To ensure those Italians behave themselves. They have a boat launched now, one man in it and another – wounded, by the look of things – being helped over the side. The other ship has sunk and its boat’s being rowed away – eastward – with clumsy urgency. Could be some wounded in that one too: may well have been men killed in either or both craft. As C.P.O. Willis would say – often did – Shouldn’t’ve joined… The MAS-boat’s lifeboat is a rubber thing like an aircraft dinghy. Still only three men in it, including the wounded one; another’s on the deck above holding it alongside but there’s a fifth right aft still.

  ‘
Stop together.’

  Come on, come on.

  If he’d spoken Italian he could have used a megaphone, told them to get a bloody move on. He wants them out of the way so he can sink the MAS-boat, finish, get under again before the Luftwaffe or the Regia Aeronautica show up.

  Maybe the bastards know it?

  ‘Bright.’ He tells them over his shoulder: ‘One burst over their heads. Aim well up.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Bright jerks the cocking-lever back, slides the first round into the gun’s breech as he swings it to the forward bearing. He points it up at an angle of about thirty degrees and lets off a long burst.

  Immediate panic: all movements suddenly much livelier. The last two scrambling in as the rubber boat pushes off. One man’s up on his knees facing the submarine with his hands up: another’s raising his hands too.

  Anyway, the dinghy’s clear of the line of fire now.

  ‘All right, Sub. Sink it.’

  McKendrick calls down, ‘Load with one round H.E. Same point of aim. No range, no deflection, shoot.’

  One round’s all it takes. The MAS-boat rolls half over and slides under stern-first. Quick, and silent – as if all sound effects have been switched off, including the sound of one’s own voice ordering ‘Cease fire, secure the gun,’ and Mitcheson’s ‘Down, Vickers. Oerlikon – down you go. Well done, Sparrow’ – and then into the voicepipe ‘Port twenty. Group down, half ahead together.’

  The Italians will be picked up soon enough. They’ll be spotted from the air – there were certainly aircraft around earlier in the day – and probably the naval command on Rhodes will send a MAS-boat or destroyer to rescue them.

  While Spartan heads north. Gun’s crew are below, guntower hatch shut and clipped and the bridge cleared. Voicepipe cock shut. Mitcheson pulls the hatch shut over his head, calls down ‘Open main vents!’

  He had it in his patrol orders that after a few days on this billet, depending on the situation locally he could at his own discretion move north for a look at Leros.

  ‘I know, Mitch, I know. Thought we’d keep our distance, didn’t we.’ The S.O.(O.) had explained, ‘Apparently it’s odds-against the human-torpedo boys trying it on here, after all. Left it too late – that’s the view now. While Port Lago is an active submarine base – as of course you know – and some of these newly arrived U-boats might be using it.’

  He leant over the chart, remembering the briefing, ten days ago.

  ‘Port Lago’s the obvious centre of interest, Mitch, but Partheni Bay could be worth investigating too. If things get too hot for you off the west coast, for instance. Use your own judgement. Elsewhere, incidentally, there’ll be various redeployments: the aim being that from now on nothing should get through to Herr Rommel.’

  The great offensive about to start, he’d guessed. There had been several ‘shift billet’ signals to other boats in the past few days.

  Spartan was at thirty feet now, steering north. Teasdale had the watch. Mitcheson had congratulated the gun’s crew on their performance, but McKendrick had spotted one aspect of the surfacing drill where a second or two might be saved; he was up for’ard now discussing it with the gunlayer and others.

  Mitcheson beckoned Forbes to join him at the chart table.

  ‘Could be as well to make ourselves a bit scarce in these latitudes now, Number One. In any case it hasn’t been too fruitful, has it. So – destination by daylight tomorrow—’ he pointed with the dividers – ‘there. Leros. Surfacing tonight at eight – about here – gives us thirty-five miles to cover. No problems for you, therefore – you’ll have the box right up by 0400, easily – even if the night’s peace and quiet’s interrupted once or twice. Right?’

  Forbes nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘There could well be new minefields, up there. It’s actually quite likely. Well – they did think so… But if we dive by – latest 0430—’ he pulled out the large-scale chart of Leros, slid it on top of the other – ‘Diving about – here. We can take our time over the approach, then, dawdle inshore and hope to see some traffic on the move – where minefields aren’t. Centre of interest – eventually – is this place here. Port Lago. Greeks called it Lakki, before the Wops took over in ’18. It’s their 5th Submarine Flotilla’s base – could be rewarding, therefore, but by the same token may be a bit – sensitive.’

  ‘So we’ll need to be on our toes.’

  ‘Exactly…’

  * * *

  Next morning, 18 November, the desert offensive codenamed Crusader opened, in driving rain. The 8th Army, comprising about six divisions, was up against the Afrika Korps with ten – two of Panzers, one Light and seven Italian. The first objective was to take Sidi Rezegh.

  Currie had known about it since the previous night. There was a heavy schedule for the fleet, convoying supplies – into Mersa Matruh and Tobruk initially – and at the same time making all-out efforts to cut the enemy’s own supply routes. Cruisers, destroyers and submarines were all involved in this, as well as a host of small ships on the inshore run. Staff work was correspondingly intensive, but it wasn’t the kind that involved Currie, whose first job this morning was to visit Henderson at Ras el-Tin in connection with a batch of intercepted Italian signals; when that was out of the way he asked him about his enquiries into the local Italian patriotic association and the threat – if any – to Lucia Caracciolo. He hadn’t seen Henderson since that meeting in the Cecil.

  The Intelligence man had shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Nothing new to tell you. Not this far, anyway. It’s a fact that Angelucci’s in their so-called Association, but so is just about every Wop in town. As for any threat to the girl – well, as I said before, unless the battle out there goes entirely the wrong way—’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Did you know – and I wonder, does Mitcheson know – that she has an uncle who’s a serving vice-admiral?’

  ‘Lucia – has—’

  ‘You didn’t know, then. But it’s a fact. Her late father’s brother—’ Henderson opened a file, flipped pages over – ‘is Ammiraglio di Squadra Cesare Caracciolo. He has some desk job in Rome – that’s all we know. But d’you think Mitcheson knows even that much?’

  ‘He’s certainly never mentioned it. You’re sure of this, are you?’

  ‘Quite sure. Would you mind asking him – over a drink, or—’

  ‘Well – not in the near future, but—’

  ‘At sea, is he?’ A nod. ‘Anyway – when you can. It might be interesting to know whether she’s told him or not – eh? Not that it’d prove anything… But she did tell him about her brother, did she not.’

  Currie thought – but kept it to himself – that since Emilio had lived here, and all the Seydoux family’s friends and acquaintances must either have known him or at least knew of him, it wouldn’t have been easy to have kept his existence secret.

  ‘Another question, Currie. Somewhat nearer the knuckle. This alleged channel of communication between the local Wops and their chums in Rome – linked to the fact we know the brother’s in their navy – well, I wonder if she has – or has had – any contact with the brother?’

  ‘If she had—’

  ‘Or with the uncle, for that matter…’

  ‘If she had, and Mitch knew of it—’

  ‘That’s unlikely, I know. To say the least. I’m not in any way suggesting that Mitcheson—’

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t know, how could I, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I suppose I was speculating, more than asking. It must be distinctly possible, don’t you agree? With relations there, and acquaintances here who do have links – presumably two-way—’

  ‘Frankly, I think she’s straight. Damn sure she is, really. And – all right, I could be wrong, but Mitch is in a much better position to know, and if he had any inkling—’

  ‘Would you ask him – please? When the opportunity occurs?’

  ‘Whether he knows about the admiral. Well – I – could tell him that you’d asked me—’


  ‘All right. No skin off my nose. Doing my job, that’s all. Not that it is exactly mine. But he can hardly complain, seeing as he came to me – uh?’

  ‘Perhaps not. My problem’s simply that he’s a friend, and he’s – more than certain of her, he’d strongly resent what he’d say were totally unjustified suspicions, aspersions—’

  ‘Yes.’ Henderson nodded. ‘He’s in love with her, isn’t he. Incidentally, how we stumbled on the existence of the high-ranking uncle – d’you ever have reason to peruse Jane’s Fighting Ships?’

  ‘I’ve looked things up in it, on occasion.’

  ‘In the Italian section, believe it or not, there’s a submarine called the Ammiraglio Caracciolo.’ He shook his big head. ‘Not the same chap, no. Far as I know they only name ships after dead admirals. No, I’m told it’s another branch of a rather distinguished family. This lot we’re talking about are fairly remote tenth cousins four times removed, that sort of thing. But it’s what made us look into it and stumble on this real live admiral. Anyway – ask Mitcheson when you next see him, will you?’

  * * *

  The battle in the desert swung to and fro for several days. Sidi Rezegh was taken by the 7th Armoured Corps in the first thrust, was lost again on the 22nd. Two thirds of the British armour was lost, in fact. But XIIIth Corps then took the Afrika Korps headquarters, and came near to recapturing Sidi Rezegh. And there’d been a sortie from Tobruk, although that was currently reported to have been stalled by German infantry.