Wouldn’t have Grazzi either, this time. The poor fellow had taken a real beating in the Gibraltar action, had spent weeks in hospital. He’d strained his heart, doctors had said the damage was irreparable, and although he was back at work now he was restricted to light duties, and would certainly never be allowed to dive again.
He’d had tears in his eyes when Emilio had said goodbye to him, a few days ago.
‘Good luck, boss. Sink ’em, eh?’
‘I’ll do my best. Despite the handicap of not having you with me.’
‘Well, I hope this Maso lad won’t let you down.’
Petty Officer Fabio Maso was about Emilio’s age, a competent diver and strong swimmer, and pretty good when things were going wrong. The assault team’s workup had been intensive over the past two months; they’d been put through it as never before. In the Sercchi River mouth mostly, but in other locations too, and in confrontation with all manner of specially devised situations such as it was thought they might encounter at Alexandria. Valerio Borghese – who was a commander now, promoted after the Gib attack – had set up and run the training programme, and he’d be running the operation too, commanding his pig-carrying submarine Sciré; in fact he was on his way to Leros in her now, with the four torpedoes in her containers.
The torpedoes themselves had been modified in ways aimed at avoiding the various types of breakdown that had occurred in the past. Each pilot and diver had had one of these super-pigs during the last few weeks of training, and since then they’d been returned to the workshops for overhaul and small adjustments, correction of even the smallest incipient defect. Finally – on 3 December, five days ago – Sciré had left La Spezia at dusk with her containers empty and no extra hands on board; her own crew had thought they were going on a routine patrol. But outside the harbour, in darkness by then and still in sheltered water, they’d rendezvoused with a lighter in which were the four S.L.C. torpedoes and their eight operators, who’d seen to the loading, then taken leave of Borghese – whom they’d be meeting in Leros on the 12th – and returned ashore in the lighter while Sciré continued on her way.
The eight were: Lieutenant Luigi de la Penne – team-leader – with P.O. diver Emilio Bianchi; Engineer Captain Antonio Marceglia, with P.O. diver Spartaco Schergat; Gunnery Captain Vincenzo Martellota, with P.O. diver Mario Marino; Sub-Lieutenant Emilio Caracciolo, with P.O. diver Fabio Maso. Additionally, there was a reserve crew, namely Surgeon Sub-Lieutenant Spaccarelli and Engineer Lieutenant Feltrinelli.
They were all volunteers, but also hand-picked, since every trained operator in the flotilla had volunteered. All they’d been told when volunteers had been called for was that it was for an operation from which return was considered unlikely. Borghese and the new C.O. of the flotilla, Ernesto Forza, had made the selection, choosing men who were in their opinion the crème de la crème. Emilio, pondering whether he’d have been included in their number if it hadn’t been for all that earlier string-pulling by his uncle, had decided in all honesty that the answer was yes, he would have. For one thing he didn’t believe that either Borghese or Forza would have allowed themselves to be influenced by anything other than their own impartial judgement; for another he knew in his heart of hearts that he was at least one of the best.
Tenente di Vascello Roberto Scalambra, an egghead Arabic-speaking Intelligence officer drafted to the Light Flotilla solely to take part in the planning of the operation, had drawn Emilio aside after the final briefing on possible escape routes and methods. Emilio’s first-hand knowledge of Alexandria and its surroundings was comparatively recent, and he’d helped Scalambra with his lectures, interpretation of street maps and so forth. It wasn’t expected that more than one or two of them – if any – could hope to survive the action in the harbour and from there make it into town; for any who might have that sort of luck there were (a) safe houses, names and addresses of which had to be memorized, and (b) arrangements for offshore rendezvous and pick-ups by submarine within a period of two to five days after the attack.
Scalambra had asked him: ‘As you have your own special – er – commitment, should I take it you’re not much concerned with this other stuff?’
‘Right. Yes. I’ll look after myself. Thanks all the same.’
‘But the offshore arrangements?’
‘Well.’ He’d shrugged. ‘If one gets that far.’ He tapped his own forehead. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all in here. One problem I do have is my diver – Maso. I can’t have him hanging round my neck, once the main job’s done. Normally we’d stick together, help each other out, that’s what he’d expect, you see.’
‘Well why don’t I tell him you have a secondary task to perform solo?’
‘That’d be a big help. What I don’t want is for him to think I’m leaving him in the lurch. Which he might – we don’t know each other all that well, you see—’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll tell him you have your orders.’
And now, after that second stage of the session with his uncle, Emilio reckoned he had quite a good chance of getting ashore – as long as he got into the harbour in the first place, and then didn’t get killed by one of their bloody depth-bombs. Or shot, or taken prisoner. The individual whom Uncle Cesare had produced was a former diplomat now serving in Naval Intelligence. His knowledge of Alexandria was rudimentary, derived entirely from a study of maps and books, but his area of special expertise and personal contacts was with the Vichy French – and this, all things being equal, provided a neat answer to the problem.
So that was fine – as far as it went. But the Lucia thing – that was a bad dream. All the worse for the fact it was no dream at all. Almost worth not making it that far.
* * *
On 10 December, a Wednesday, Mitcheson met Josh Currie and a man called Fallon, with whom Currie had been playing a lot of squash, at the Sporting Club at about half-past five. Currie had asked Mitcheson to play that afternoon, but as he hadn’t been able to get away early enough, had arranged instead to meet him for a drink at the club at five. So he was slightly late even for that; but it was on his route to Lucia’s flat, only a few minutes short of it by gharry, and she’d be back from her office at about six, six-thirty.
Spartan was only getting twelve days in Alex, this time. Actually that wasn’t ungenerous: with the present concentration on blocking all convoy routes to the desert, no-one was getting any long stand-offs. Wasn’t at all bad, really: only seemed so – as if he’d only just got back from the last patrol… Anyway, it had been confirmed this morning that he was to sail on Friday evening, and this was one of two reasons he’d been fairly busy all day. While in relation to Lucia, who he’d allowed to assume he’d be here at any rate over the weekend, it loomed like a dark cloud.
For the first time, really. He’d never been happy to leave her, but until now there’d always been a positive side to it as well, a balancing pleasure in getting back to sea. You were here to fight a war, after all: it was what the boat was for, what her crew were trained for. The war had to be fought and won, and it wouldn’t be done in the Auberge Bleue or the Monseigneur.
The feeling would come, he told himself. As it always did. Once the farewells were over and you’d cut adrift. Except that one didn’t make farewells – not overtly, not in words.
The other thing that had been occupying him was that Leading Torpedoman Hastings’ younger brother, a Lance Corporal in the 7th Armoured Division, had been killed in the desert. It must have happened while Spartan had still been at sea, on her Leros patrol. When she’d got back to Alex, late on 30 November, the news had been that the Afrika Korps was pulling back – driven back in disorder from the Egyptian frontier to Bardia and thence westward in full-scale retreat, while the Tobruk garrison and the New Zealanders had retaken Sidi Rezegh. Good news, in fact: especially the prospect of a snowball effect, the Army as it rolled west recapturing ports and airfields.
Casualties had been high. One knew that, but didn’t think too much about it – until
one’s nose was so to speak rubbed in it, as now in the case of Lance Corporal Hastings.
His brother was in a quandary as to whether to apply for compassionate leave. The conflicting factors were that he knew his parents would be desperately unhappy and he felt he should be there to help them over the worst of it. Against this was the fact he didn’t want to go: and C.P.O. Chanter, the T.I., had made the point that it wouldn’t do the old folk much good if they lost their other son as well now – his premise being that taking passage home via Malta in whatever ship or ships might be going that way could well be more hazardous than staying put. There undoubtedly would be problems in arranging transport, at this particular time; and there was certainly no such thing as safe transport, through the Mediterranean.
Mitcheson had some doubts about the torpedoman’s state of mind. He seemed to be concerned only for his parents, hardly at all affected by his own loss of a brother, and one wondered whether this could be accepted at its face value – whether he wasn’t suppressing his true feelings. There were small signs: a slight shift of the eyes occasionally, a tone of voice that seemed to slip – just now and then, with a quick recovery… Not so long ago Mitcheson had had Lockwood, second coxswain, in a similar crisis – a worse one, in fact, a much greater personal loss – and his observable reactions had been quite different. Different circumstances, of course, different characters entirely. So that comparison didn’t help. But in this case he thought that if he was guessing right, sooner or later the suppressed emotion was likely to break out: and it would be better both for Hastings and for Spartan if he wasn’t on patrol when it happened.
They’d been in Mitcheson’s cabin in the depot ship, and he’d seen an opening suddenly – by instinct, exactly the moment in which it might take very little to – as it were – lance the emotional boil.
‘Tell me about your brother. You were close, were you? Younger than you by four years, you said. Good Lord, only – not twenty-one yet?’
‘Twenty, sir. Bloody twenty!’ The break – this quick, this sudden ‘Just a damn kid! I mean – how he’d’ve made Lance Corporal – I ribbed him, like – well, like I always have – I asks him what, you Mike? I wrote him – oh, month back, no more – Army that short of fucking N.C.O.s is it, I asks him, jumping up little kids? See, I – Mike, that is, he – well, he’s a – I mean, he was – oh, Christ—’
He was in tears. One of the fore ends’ toughest hands. Which could be why he’d found it so essential to remain unaffected, perhaps. Mitcheson gave him time, then suggested, ‘I’ll see the chaplain again now, then I’ll leave it between you and him. Talk it over with him, work it out between you. Whether you go home – might be best or stay inboard, miss this next patrol anyway. I don’t have to tell you I’d rather we didn’t lose you if we don’t have to. But – your decision…’
The upshot, after further discussions, was that Hastings was to change places with a Spare Crew leading torpedoman – name of Agar – for this next patrol, and then see how he felt. The padré meanwhile would get a signal off to his counterpart in the Blockhouse submarine flotilla – at Gosport, Hampshire – asking him personally to visit the parents, who lived in that area, and report back.
At the Sporting Club, Mitcheson shook hands with Fallon, whom Currie had introduced as ‘our electrical genius – I’m giving him squash lessons’. A tall, ginger-headed man. He’d found them in the anteroom adjacent to the bar, which was already crowded. Dumping his greatcoat on a spare chair – the nights were cold now, even the days more wintery than autumnal – he told Currie: ‘Got held up. One thing and another. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. Not least, one of my chaps had the news his brother’s bought it, in the desert.’
‘Poor bugger.’ Fallon grimaced. ‘I suppose I mean your man. But the brother’ll have bags of company, as I hear it.’
Currie nodded. ‘Huge casualties. Theirs about twice ours though, so I heard. Mitch, haven’t seen much of you, this time in. Been back – what, a fortnight?’
‘Ten days. And you were at sea – again?’
‘Believe it or not.’
‘Since the Barham sinking?’
‘Briefly. That was bloody ghastly, I tell you. We all had friends in her, too. How was your last patrol?’
‘Oh – so-so.’
‘Score, did you?’
‘One MAS-boat, one steamer, one destroyer.’
‘Good on you, cobber. What d’you think of the Pearl Harbor business?’
‘Well – new way of declaring war, I suppose. Incidentally, Yanks haven’t declared it against Germany and Italy yet, have they?’
‘No. Not yet. But—’
Fallon put in: ‘Won’t make that much odds when they do, I reckon. Not in the short term – with the Japs on their hands, uh?’
‘On our hands too, unfortunately. Singapore, for instance.’ Currie added: ‘Repulse and Prince of Wales have arrived there, by the way.’
‘Might help to stop the rot.’ Fallon pushed his chair back. ‘Look, I’m not staying long. Get us one for the road, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’ Currie had an empty beer glass in front of him. ‘What’s yours, Mitch?’
‘Well – the way the day’s been, what I’d really like would be an arak.’
‘Damn good idea. My back teeth are awash with bloody Stella. Arak for me too, please.’
‘Two araks, one beerah.’ Fallon wandered off towards the bar. Mitcheson looked at Currie. ‘How’s his squash?’
‘Beats the pants off me, when he tries. Yes, he’s all right. How’s Lucia?’
‘Very much more than all right.’ He looked around: they were on their own out here. ‘Jungle drums are saying, Josh, that you’ve been seen around with Solange, of late. How does that go down with Simone?’
‘Frankly, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Chodron’s been there every time I’ve looked in. Gloomy-looking sod, only takes his eyes off her when he’s counting money, and she – well, hardly dares speak to the customers. Wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked her about. The other girls seem to be staying away, too. Maybe he’s banned them. Place’ll go bust, you’ll see.’
‘Perhaps he saw that heart you mentioned. I imagine a jealous husband might – well, wonder…’
‘Damn-all to do with Solange, anyway. No connection whatsoever. In case you should be discussing it with any third, fourth or fifth parties?’
‘You mean Lucia, of course.’
‘Anyone.’
‘One wouldn’t anyway.’ Mitcheson shrugged. ‘But – nice work, I suppose, if you can swing it.’
‘Put it this way. Simone is – really is Alexandria. I mean – that cosmopolitan quality, seductive as hell and a touch – well—’
‘Might the word be louche?’
‘It might.’ A shrug… ‘To anyone blind ignorant and bloody rude—’
‘If she’s Alexandria, what’s Solange?’
‘Paris. In the spring and as it was, as one knew it. Paris young at heart. Eh?’
He’d nodded. ‘And you think you can run both?’
A spark of anger: ‘I’m not running anyone!’
‘All right.’
‘Solange is – a young girl. Bright, happy – well, lovely, really. Fun to be with, and – decent, you know?’
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Josh.’
‘A bit young for me, admittedly. Makes me remarkably well behaved, I might add. But there you are… Changing the subject – your business now, Mitch – I have a question to ask you, at the request of our mutual friend Henderson. It’s this. Are you aware – has Lucia told you – that she has an uncle who’s an admiral in the Wop navy?’
‘Well – as it happens, yes. Yes, I was aware of it, and yes, Lucia did mention it. Some time ago. But what business is it of bloody Henderson’s?’
‘You put him on to it, old boy.’
‘I didn’t put him on to making innuendos about Lucia, did I?’
‘
No. On to certain members of the local Italian community, though, and he can’t do his job in blinkers. What he comes up with, he comes up with. Give the poor sod a chance! ’
‘I’ll give him nothing. All I was concerned about was the threat to Lucia. As he said himself, it’d only be real if the Afrika Korps were to bust in here – and as they’re now legging it the other way—’
‘Here’s Fallon.’
Behind him, a suffragi in a white nightdress and skull-cap was bringing a tray with the drinks on it. Fallon muttered to them as he reached the table, ‘Crikey, have I got news for you…’ Judging by his expression, it wasn’t good news. The boy took a wad of small, filthy-looking piastre notes from him, checked the amount, looked happy as he retired, shuffling in loose sandals. Fallon said: ‘You mentioned Prince of Wales and Repulse, just now. ’
‘So?’
‘Sunk. Both of ’em. Around midday, off Kuantan in Malaya. Around midday Singapore time, say sunrise here. Jap torpedo-bombers. News flash on the wireless a minute ago.’ Displaying the face of his wristwatch: ‘Six o’ clock, see…’
* * *
He told Lucia: ‘Thought I’d book at the Auberge. That all right with you?’
‘Why, yes. Lovely…’
‘I’ll ring, then.’
‘But-aren’t we supposed to be going there on Saturday?’
Dialling. Pretending not to hear her, murmuring the numbers as he dialled. ‘Hang on…’
By Saturday evening he’d have been twenty-four hours at sea – in one direction or another. He hoped not Leros, this time. For some silly reason – as if one billet could be worse or better than another… All the boats currently on patrol, both from here and Malta, were deployed south of the Strait of Messina, in the Gulf of Taranto and on the convoy route to the Greek west coast. So the odds were that with Spartan’s comparatively short range she would be used to fill some nearer gap: Kaso or Scarpanto, perhaps. Or Leros, or the halfway stage to it, where they’d started last time. Rationalizing his dislike of that area, he attributed it to a lingering aftertaste of the minefield episode – which had been a bit of a toss-up – and the somewhat frenetic anti-submarine activity, and on top of that the scarcity of worthwhile targets.
Love For An Enemy Page 28
