Not Lucia. Certainly not her.
Renata. Renata in the mountains. Dark trees behind and above them and the summits way up there, gleaming white against blue sky; an expanse of unscarred snow falling away below. Where they’d been going, when she had her breath back. Her wool-capped head turning, face alive with happiness, calling – still panting – ‘Ready, ’milio?’ She was a lot more competent on skis than he was. He was too heavy, clumsy. And she wasn’t just a fantastic screw, now, she’d become – well, an anchor. Even a million miles away – as she might have been, from here. Effectively, in another world. Which couldn’t, surely, be just two tedious, sick-making hops away, via Athens? Well – whatever the distance, if he ever saw her again he’d be damn lucky… Nausea was beginning to recede now as the ’plane broke out of the cloud’s low, trailing fringes, the noisy, corrugated-iron rattletrap of a Junkers more or less steady, lowering itself towards the sea, engine-note changing again as the pilot throttled back. Emilio with his head back, eyes shut. He’d never been sick at sea; he thanked God now that he’d had the sense to join the Navy and not the Air Force.
Well – Uncle Cesare’s choice, as much as his own. Although it would have been his in any case. Having both an addiction to water and a fear of heights.
Renata: this time yesterday she’d been clinging to him, sobbing…
Crash. Like a heap of scrap-iron dumping itself. Shaking itself to pieces now. From the rear of the cabin someone roared: ‘We’re here, lads!’
‘Where the fuck did you suppose we’d be?’
Laughter. Relief, of course, spirits lifting. Everyone else’s, anyway. Lucky bastards. All they had to worry about was taking a ten-to-one chance on getting drowned or blown up. He thought – not for the first time – Sins of the fathers… That, really, was what it amounted to.
That, and a touch of bribery. Promotion to full lieutenant, and – most importantly – a permanent commission. Irrespective of Gold Medal or no Gold Medal: which would depend largely on the success of the operation as a whole. Uncle Cesare’s promise provided the solution to a major problem – the question of what one did for a living after this war was won. Commercial diving had seemed to be about the only option: if there was a living to be made from it.
And if one was alive to do any damn thing.
She’d have to agree to come with him, that was all there was to it. Somehow, he’d persuade her. He’d decided this about 200 times, but kept coming back to it, saving his sanity by arriving at that same answer. Telling himself – now, yet again – Leave it. Nothing you can do until the moment comes.
Not so damned easy to leave it, though. He went to sleep with it in his mind, had nightmares about it and woke in a muck sweat, pleading with her…
The ’plane’s brakes were being applied in brief, hard jerks, slewing it a little off-course each time. Time – 1600. Date – 12 December. Friday. Sciré had been here at Leros since the 9th. Commander Forza, C.O. of the Light Flotilla, had confirmed that she’d arrived and was awaiting them in the Port Lago base. Forza had flown with them as far as Athens, where he was now establishing himself and would be in constant wireless communication with Sciré – with Valerio Borghese – feeding him the latest Intelligence reports, results of reconnaissance flights over Alexandria, weather forecasts, anything else that was likely to affect the mission – Operation EA3, as they were calling it.
The ’plane rolled to a halt; and that was Borghese – with a bunch of others – Emilio recognized Olcese, one of Sciré’s two navigators – coming out of a shed over which the Italian flag drooped somewhat despondently, weighted by the rain. Lights had already been switched on, in there. He glanced over to his right, called to Luigi de la Penne – who was on the other side, so couldn’t see the reception party; half up on his feet and stooping almost double, on account of his height. Emilio called in to him: ‘The boss is here!’
‘Damn well hope so!’
Laughing: blond hair in a mop all over his big head, and one hand clamping down on Emilio’s shoulder as he heaved himself out into the gangway. ‘Won’t be sorry to be out of this contraption, eh?’
‘Say that again…’
He’d tell her: I’m here to save your life. If you won’t come, people here’ll be told to kill you. Nothing I could do or say would stop it. So please in the name of all we once were to each other…
He’d adored her, when he’d been a little boy. She’d been so kind, so companionable and encouraging. It had begun to change in their Balilla days, when he’d found his feet and she – he thought – had lost hers. It had taken a situation like this one to remind him of those earlier times.
‘Yeah – there he is.’ Tony Marceglia, leaning over from behind to peer out of the window. He was at least as big as de la Penne. Booming in his deep voice that he hoped the skipper’d have a decent meal laid on for them: ‘And a glass or two of wine…’ Clambering out into the gangway: between them, he and de la Penne just about filled it. Although most were on their feet by this time, and one of the Aeronautica men was getting the door open. Martellotta bellowed – ducking and aiming a mock punch at Emilio’s jaw – ‘Alexandria, here we come!’
Their spirits were high, all right. Straggling out into the wind and rain, taking it in turns to shake Borghese’s wet hand. Borghese telling them – addressing de la Penne actually, as team leader – ‘They’re giving you a meal at the base here, then you’re moving out to the north end of the island, Partheni Bay. You’ll have comfortable accommodation there in a transport, the Asmara. Nice and peaceful. Beautiful, in fact. It’s mainly for security – place is crawling with Greeks, we don’t want ’em wondering who you are.’
They moved in a crowd towards the shed. There were some vehicles parked behind it, a truck and two or three cars. De la Penne asked Borghese: ‘When does the balloon go up, sir?’
‘Not for a day or two. Two, it looks like. The moon’s one consideration. Also we have technicians from the works checking over your pigs. They flew in yesterday and got straight down to work. You’ll want to see what they’re up to, obviously. After supper, perhaps, before we send you out to Partheni Bay. As to a starting date – I’d say probably Sunday. Depending on what comes in, between now and then.’
Whether the battleships were still in the harbour would be the primary consideration. Previous operations against both Alexandria and Gibraltar had been cancelled at the last minute when targets had disappeared.
Could still happen this time, too. If they put out to sea while you were on the way. If they did – too bad, you couldn’t hang around.
Partheni Bay, in summer, would be a fine place in which to spend a few inactive days, he thought. With Renata, for preference… It was empty now except for their transport the Asmara and some fishing-boats in the bay’s outer reaches. Just outside, they were told, was the wreck of a destroyer which had been torpedoed at anchor only a few weeks ago; it had in fact escorted the Asmara here from the Piraeus, and been fished by a British submarine within hours of dropping its hook out there. Commander Spigai, the 5th Flotilla’s C.O., had assured Borghese that further enemy submarine activity was neither to be expected nor feared; intensive patrolling was in progress both by sea and air and would be continued throughout the period of the operation.
They didn’t have the Saturday all to themselves. Borghese visited them in the forenoon for a refresher planning session, analyzing recent aerial photographs and relating them to the harbour plan of Alexandria – which by this stage any of them could just about have re-drawn from memory; and in the afternoon he came back with Admiral Biancheri, the Commander-in-Chief Aegean, who’d flown from Rhodes to inspect them and wanted – Borghese told de la Penne afterwards – exercises or demonstrations carried out, for his own entertainment, presumably. Fortunately Borghese had absolute authority over every aspect of the operation and had been able to refuse this – which accounted for the admiral’s noticeably bad temper. But there wouldn’t have been time, anyway, Borghese was def
initely banking on Sunday as departure day, was only waiting for last-minute communications from Athens. Sciré meanwhile was lying alongside the pier at the Port Lago base with tarpaulins rigged fore and aft to hide her pig-containers from curious eyes or enemy air reconnaissance. The story had been put out that she was from some other flotilla and had put in here to make emergency repairs; this also explained the presence of the technicians – who in fact had now completed their work, under the tent-like tarpaulins.
By late Saturday afternoon Borghese had received all the information he’d been waiting for, and gave orders that the operators were to embark early next morning. Sciré would sail as early in the day as possible. They could have embarked the night before, but the aim was for them to be on board not a minute longer than was necessary. Depending on the weather – a bad patch was expected, en route, but it would be followed by calm – it was going to be a three- or four-day trip. They’d be running submerged by day, surfacing only to charge the batteries at night. Silent-running procedures would be adopted right from the start, to minimize risks of detection. Sciré would have sixty men on board – a lot more than her normal complement – and the operators would be encouraged to spend as much time as possible in their bunks, to conserve air as well as their own energies. They’d have medical check-ups every day from Spaccarelli, the reserve crew pilot who happened also to be a doctor.
On the Saturday evening the priest from the Port Lago base visited them on board the Asmara to hear confessions, and in the morning after they’d been collected by truck from Ayios Partheni and had dumped their personal gear on board Sciré a Mass was said in the 5th Flotilla’s barracks.
It was a more than usually moving occasion, despite the early hour. There probably wasn’t a single member of the team who did not have it in mind that this might well be their last Mass on earth. Emilio was certainly aware of that possibility, and of the generally sombre ambience which such awareness generated. But to his own surprise – joy, as the reality of it sank in – the final few minutes on his knees gave him – out of the blue, as it were – sudden and complete release from that over-riding personal anxiety. A phrase from the New Testament had sprung into his mind: Lord, take this cup from me…
Just that: and he had peace of mind. Leaving the vestibule temporarily converted to a chapel, then filing back on board over the submarine’s plank, the issue had become quite straight-forward. The cup would not be taken from him, but he didn’t have to struggle to convince himself that she’d come with him, either. There wasn’t the slightest doubt she would. He’d only have to explain it to her, and she’d see sense – for the simple reason that it was plain sense. He didn’t have to think about it any more: had no sense of anxiety about it at all. The time would come, he’d take care of it then, and it would be all right.
Well – tricky enough, no doubt, actually getting away, but – nothing one couldn’t handle.
Now – Alexandria…
Forza’s signal for which Borghese had been waiting yesterday had been to the effect that de la Penne’s and Marceglia’s targets, respectively the battleships Valiant and Queen Elizabeth, had been in their netted berths in Alexandria harbour that very afternoon. Also present had been the large tanker, moored inside the coaling arm, which was to be Martellotta’s victim. An additional aim, incidentally, was to set the entire harbour alight, and to this end all four pigs would be carrying floating incendiary bombs, time-fused, to ignite oil which it was hoped would have spread widely from that tanker and with any luck from the other ships as well.
Emilio’s and Maso’s target, the submarine depot ship Medway, was to all intents and purposes a fixture. At any rate if she moved in the next couple of days it would be such damned bad luck it would be really incredible. Ships of that kind weren’t moved in months – years, even. And the explosion of the pig’s warhead under her could be expected also to sink or wreck however many submarines happened to be moored alongside her at the time.
Sciré cast off from Port Lago pier shortly after the conclusion of Mass on that Sunday morning. Clearing the harbour by nine-thirty, she dived to twenty metres and set course for the Scarpanto Strait.
* * *
Oh God Our Help in Ages Past…
The ceremony known as ‘Sunday Divisions’ was over. Queen Elizabeth’s ship’s company had been fallen in by divisions (Forecastlemen, Foretopmen, Main Topmen, Quarterdeckmen – and others) all over her upper deck, and inspected first by each division’s own officers and then by the captain and his stern-faced entourage. Currie’s lot had been drawn up roughly amidships on the port side – between the battery of four-fives, the ship’s secondary armament, and the gap between her two great masses of dazzle-painted superstructure. Here the ship’s two cranes slanted diagonally against a background of grey, fast-moving cloud; also up there was her Walrus amphibian aircraft – known in the vernacular as a Shagbat – which for some reason had been brought out of its hangar and left on its catapult platform. Flying scheduled for later in the day, perhaps. But now, captain’s inspection being over and Roman Catholics having fallen out to attend Mass ashore, the rest of them had marched aft to pack the quarterdeck, where the chaplain was perched on a dais with his surplice blowing in the wind and all the top brass – A.B. Cunningham himself foremost and central – in a phalanx between the dais and the Royal Marine band.
One didn’t have to be of a particularly religious turn of mind, Currie had found, to be moved by the nostalgically traditional hymns and prayers, especially in this setting. Hymns sung with gusto by the horde of sailors and led by the Marine band, and prayers that would have been just as familiar to Horatio Nelson a century and a half ago. Just out there, indeed – about fifteen miles east of this harbour, where he’d smashed the French in Aboukir Bay. He’d have intoned – as Cunningham – and Currie, and roughly a thousand others – did now: Eternal Lord God, who spreadest out the heavens and rulest the raging of the sea…
Beyond Valiant, Currie saw as his gaze wandered, the moorings of the 15th Cruiser Squadron were deserted. Admiral Vian had sailed yesterday to rendezvous this evening or tonight with cruisers and destroyers from Malta, their joint purpose being to intercept enemy forces which had been reported to be at sea covering some convoy.
—receive into thy most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants and the fleet in which we serve…
The boom gate was open, he saw. Trawlers were entering. Back from Tobruk, probably. Tobruk was no longer under siege: Derna would be the objective now. Three – no, four A/S trawlers: and those two tanker-shaped vessels would be water-carriers. Tobruk, and Mersa too, were absorbing huge daily tonnages of water, which had all to be delivered there by sea, in convoy. The leading trawler was calling-up the signal station at Ras el-Tin by Aldis lamp, and Currie, reading the start of that swift flow of dots and dashes, learnt that she was the Wolborough – whose skipper, name of – damn, lost it for the moment - he’d met in Simone’s one evening. A most impressive character, a genial seadog of a man who wore a black patch over an eye-socket that had been emptied in some sea-battle in the ’14 –’18 war.
Sooner or later, he reflected, you met everyone who was anyone, in Simone’s.
Well – one had done.
—from the dangers of the sea and the violence of the enemy…
The enemy had had a fairly violent come-uppance in the early hours of yesterday. Off Cape Bon in Tunisia, four destroyers – Sikh, Maori, Legion and the Dutch Isaac Sweers – on passage to Malta from Gib, had run into two Italian cruisers and two destroyers, attacked from the dark (inshore) side and sunk both cruisers and one destroyer, incurring no damage to themselves.
Nelsonian. Truly so. Actually, a commander by name of Stokes. But this might have been what had brought Horatio to mind, a minute ago – the quality of that short, decisive action did invite comparison. Simone, though – yesterday afternoon after squash he and Fallon had dropped in – from Currie’s point of view mainly to reconnoitre – and depressing
ly enough Chodron had been there, in his usual place close to the cash register, a morose man-mountain exchanging a word occasionally with the evil-looking barman and with virtually no-one else, except occasionally to snarl at his wife. Simone was – understandably – subdued; even her nails were a paler shade. But she’d whispered – pausing at their table to offer Fallon a menu – he guessed being careful not to offer it to him, not looking at him either but with two fingers crossed inside it for him to see – ‘He won’t be here much longer, my darling. Une semaine, dix jours, pas plus…’ Fallon had been noticeably alarmed, and had begun to stutter; Currie had snatched the menu, covered up by instigating an argument as to whether or not they should have an early snack. Handing it back to her, then, murmuring: ‘That’s great news.’
Mitcheson’s question came to mind: Think you can run them both?
He’d realized he was having his leg pulled, but he’d still resented it. Because it had struck close to home – and still did, having it in mind again after that whispered message. Only a couple of weeks ago it would have sent him into transports of delight, but now – well, conveniently, he could hardly have reacted with any display of enthusiasm, under her husband’s baleful surveillance; and she’d moved on, wearing that duplicitously proper little smile and leaving him wondering – the brain leapfrogging, rather, as it tended to after about the second or third Pernod – whether after the estimated period of a week or ten days that heart would have grown out of shape.
He’d have to see her again. If only to hear how it had panned out. Mitch would want to know, too. Currie smiled to himself – his bared head bowed, hearing the padré’s sonorous blessing and wondering where Mitcheson might be now. He – Currie – had purely by chance seen Spartan leaving for patrol on Friday; he’d been taking the air on this quarterdeck, some time in the last dog watch, and had come alive suddenly to the fact that the very small silhouette plugging its way towards the harbour mouth didn’t have that upward swelling at the bow that the T-class had, was therefore an ‘S’ and could only be Mitcheson’s – heading out to God only knew what, or where. He’d borrowed the officer of the watch’s telescope and had been able to pick out the man himself, a head taller than others who’d been with him in the front of the submarine’s bridge, and had remembered Mitcheson having told him that his last patrol had been off Leros and that he was half expecting to be sent back there. The prospect hadn’t pleased him, for some reason.
Love For An Enemy Page 30
