Cotton's War

by Cotton's War (retail) (epub)

  Kitcat stared at Cotton for a second then he slapped him on the shoulder and vanished to the stern with Papaboukas and Varvara’s brother. Cotton turned to Varvara. ‘Do you know what to do?’ he asked.

  Varvara studied the throttles. ‘Yes.’

  Cotton pointed to the duplicated controls. ‘Telegraphs. Throttles. You work them together.’ He placed a broad hand over the closely set levers, then moved it to the throttles and let it rest on the brass knobs. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cotton pointed to starboard. ‘I shall be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what to do. All you have to do is as I tell you. Try it. Nice and easy.’

  Varvara stood behind the wheel and eased the telegraph handles to ahead. The boat began to idle slowly through the water, the engines poppling.

  ‘Try the throttles.’

  As Varvara moved the throttles, the speed picked up and immediately Cotton gestured to him to pull the handles back. That’s enough!’

  Varvara did as he was told, frowning heavily with concentration.

  ‘How she’ll behave I don’t know,’ Cotton said. ‘We haven’t been able to have a trial run and the rudder’s stiff. It’s up to you.’

  Varvara looked dubious, then he smiled. ‘I have handled fast boats,’ he said. ‘I have worked in the Piraeus during the summer season with the tourists.’

  Docherty appeared, irrepressible as ever. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  Cotton told him what he had in mind and his eyes widened. ‘With this bloody wreck?’ he said. Then he shrugged and did a little dance step. ‘We put the bloody thing together to get us home, not sink the German navy.’

  ‘That’s what we exist for; isn’t it?’ Cotton said. ‘Sinking the German navy.’

  Docherty shrugged and Cotton pressed him. ‘Well, come on,’ he demanded. ‘Will she do it?’

  Docherty gave a sudden mad grin, his black boot-button eyes merry. ‘I reckon she might. I expect the rudder’ll drop off and the vibration aft’ll shake my teeth out, so for Christ’s sake don’t keep her at high revs longer than you can help.’

  Cotton glanced up at the makeshift mast he’d rigged, with the rag of the white ensign at the top just beginning to flutter a little as the wind off the land caught it. It wasn’t much cop as a battle ensign but it would have to do.

  ‘How long can we keep her at high revs?’ he asked.

  Docherty gave his mad grin again.

  ‘Two-three minutes.’

  ‘That’s enough. Then we make smoke and shove off behind it.’

  ‘Leaving ’em coughin’ their bloody socks off.’ Docherty was still grinning. ‘Where’d you learn your battle tactics, Cotton? Off of Admiral Cunningham hisself?’

  Gully’s head reached round the door. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’re going to war,’ Docherty said.

  Cotton nodded. They were indeed going to war. ‘I think we owe these bloody Jerries a bit for what we’ve had to put up with,’ he said.

  Gully looked nervous, his new courage evaporating rapidly again. ‘Don’t forget I’m a civilian,’ he bleated.

  ‘Out to enjoy the war, you said,’ Docherty pointed out with mad glee. ‘You shut your bloody trap, Gully. If Cotton’s gone barmy, then okay, for once I’ll back him up.’

  Cotton could have kissed him. Docherty was trouble, every kind of trouble, lazy, awkward, difficult, boozy and over-sexed, ready to drop everything for a dance or the chance to get a girl on her back, but somehow, somewhere, what made the navy had rubbed off on him. Cotton slapped his shoulder and followed him aft as he went to the engine room, to explain what he intended to Kitcat.

  Kitcat was standing by the 20mm. It was cocked and ready and trained as far round as he could get it.

  ‘Will it go any further?’

  ‘I’d fall off the stern.’

  ‘If they’re lying into wind,’ Cotton said, ‘then their bows are towards us. I’m going to cross their T.’

  ‘What’s that, for Christ’s sake?’

  Cotton stared at him, wishing he had a crew of sailors or Marines instead of the ham-handed shore-bashers he’d been given. He explained carefully.

  ‘They’ve all got their weapons on their sterns,’ he said. ‘The caiques machine-guns, the launch something a bloody sight bigger. But if we cross their bows, they won’t be able to fire at us along their own decks, will they, while you’ll still be able to fire over to starboard at them. Right?’

  He indicated with his hands what he intended and Kitcat nodded.

  ‘I’m going to approach slowly,’ Cotton went on. ‘I shall get as close as I can with the engines idling. We’ve got to take our time, anyway, because we can’t chance too much manoeuvring with that bent rudder. But there’s a bit of gunfire and bombing and a few aeroplanes about, so they might just not hear us.’

  ‘I hope to Christ you know what you’re doing.’

  Cotton ignored the jibe. ‘Get the launch first,’ he said. ‘Go for the waterline so she won’t be able to follow us. The petrol tanks should be aft of the wheelhouse. Bisset and I’ll try to get any gunners who appear.’

  ‘Right.’

  Cotton looked down at Papaboukas standing with Varvara’s brother close to the 20mm platform. Neither of them looked very happy.

  ‘You afraid?’ Cotton asked.

  Papaboukas moved his shoulders in a gesture that meant nothing and everything at the same time. ‘My wife is forward,’ he said.

  ‘I meant about the gun.’ Cotton indicated the long barrel of the 20mm just above his head and Papaboukas’ shoulders moved again.

  As the boat idled, wallowing in the water under the cliffs, the engines still poppling quietly, Cotton went forward to explain to Bisset what he wanted.

  ‘I don’t suppose Gully’ll be much good,’ he said. ‘But he can keep down any opposition on his side. Leave the caiques until last.’

  ‘Suppose they’re waiting for us?’ Bisset asked.

  Cotton pointed to the cliffs. ‘I’m hoping that those bloody Greeks up there will start something on Cape Kastamanitsa any minute now,’ he said. ‘It might just attract their attention.’

  Bisset managed a twisted smile. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘Personally, I reckon we’ve taken enough chances for one day and we’re pushing our luck a bit.’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘Keep an eye on Gully,’ he advised. ‘Make sure he doesn’t shoot you. He might if he gets excited.’

  With a marline-spike, he jabbed two holes in the plywood of the wheelhouse deckhead and jammed the legs of the Bren’s bipod into them. Young Varvara had grasped quickly what was in his mind, and he gave him a nervous smile.

  ‘Stand by,’ Cotton said, jamming a magazine into place and pulling the cocking handle. ‘Dead slow ahead.’

  They edged forward slowly, moving away from the cliffs until they were heading out to sea. By now it was possible to see the loom of Kastamanitsa point.

  ‘Starboard.’

  The bow came round as they crept south, close against the dark shadow of the land where they couldn’t be seen. Cotton glanced aft at the wake. It showed faintly phosphorescent against the black sea but there was very little of it. The throb of the engines seemed loud enough to alert every German on the island. Then Varvara touched his arm and pointed. Just ahead he could see the big German launch he’d heard about. It was about a quarter of a mile away and was roughly the same size as Loukia. What looked like a four-pounder was mounted on the stern. If they managed to get a shot in with that, he thought, it would be the end of Loukia, and for a moment he wondered if he were doing right.

  He knew how much things could go wrong and he knew what could happen if they did.

  ‘Any person… who, through negligence or other default, shall strand, lose or hazard, or suffer to be lost, stranded or hazarded, any of His Majesty’s ships or aircraft, shall be dismissed from His Majesty’s Service with disgrace, or suffer such other punishment as is hereinafter
mentioned…’ It was an instruction designed chiefly for ships’ captains and officers, but Cotton had a pretty good idea it could apply to Marine corporals just as well, and here he was, not only about to strand, lose or hazard one of His Majesty’s ships, but probably going to kill everybody on board into the bargain.

  He swallowed. ‘Port,’ he ordered. ‘Do it gently. Bring her round. We don’t want any violent manoeuvring. Then I want a straight course across their bows. Okay?’

  Varvara nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right. Dead slow. Neutral.’

  Loukia came to a stop, wallowing in the water, the sound of the engines muffled by the mist. The sky beyond the loom of the cliff was flickering with flashes that appeared to come from the mainland where the fighting was dragging on as the navy tried to evacuate the army. The heavens echoed with the sound of aircraft and Cotton guessed their approach hadn’t yet been heard. There were faint lights on the German vessels and here again Cotton thought he might have gained a slight advantage. He’d been at the Battle of Matapan and had been shouted at for introducing a light at the wrong moment to spoil Caernarvon’s bridge officers’ night vision. The lesson had gone home, and ever since it had grown dark he had been careful to allow no lights on Loukia; he could see faint lights on the German vessels and he hoped that the Germans wouldn’t see as well as he did.

  He pointed out the boats to Bisset, then moved aft to Kitcat and pointed.

  ‘I’ve seen ’em,’ Kitcat assured him.

  ‘Right, then. This is it.’

  Returning to the Bren, he called out softly to Varvara. ‘Dead slow. Ahead both. Keep her steady.’

  The boat began to creep forward again. Cotton’s heart was thumping in his chest and his breath seemed to gag in his throat. He thought of the women and children below and of Annoula, still shocked by what had happened to her. Any shots that came from the Germans would hit Loukia’s bows first. He forced himself not to think of it.

  The Germans didn’t seem to be expecting them and by now they were within three hundred yards. Varvara glanced at Cotton. The big launch was on its own about fifty yards from the two caiques which lay to starboard, one slightly astern of the other. They were all bow-on to them and he guessed they all had their anchors down, which gave him another slight advantage.

  ‘Across their bows,’ he directed and Loukia edged slowly round. They crept closer until they were no more than a hundred and fifty yards from the German vessels. Then suddenly, above the engines, they heard the faint crackle of firing from the direction of Cape Kastamanitsa. Cotton grinned.

  ‘It’s the Greeks!’ he said. ‘Stand by!’

  * * *

  The firing on Cape Kastamanitsa came just as a radio message from Captain Ehrhardt was received aboard the launch. Ehrhardt had arrived in Xiloparissia Bay just too late, to find Loukia gone, and had immediately scrambled back up the slope to the lorry to scrawl the message for the radio operator sitting by the set in the back.

  ‘Boat gone,’ he wrote. ‘Heading towards you. Will check Kharasso Bay.’

  The radio on Baldamus’ launch cheeped and the wireless operator scrawled the words down and headed for the deck. Just as he emerged, the crackling of firing on the headland started, followed by a flash and a flare of flame that looked like a lorry set on fire by a grenade.

  The look-out on the launch’s bows swung round at the sound of shots and stood gaping sternwards over the wheelhouse towards the point. At his shouts, Baldamus and the engineer-lieutenant had appeared, followed by the rest of the crew pouring up from below. The wheelhouse door gaped open, throwing a yellow light on the waves as they stood staring towards Cape Kastamanitsa.

  Pushing through the crowding men, the radio operator handed Baldamus the sheet of paper he was carrying. Baldamus glanced at it but it was too dark to read on deck and the firing on Cape Kastamanitsa was holding his attention. As he stared, there was another explosion, acid-white this time, that suggested ammunition had blown up, and he stared, puzzled, across the slowly lifting water to the loom of the cliff.

  ‘What the devil’s happening there?’ he demanded aloud.

  ‘Looks like someone’s having a go at the look-out post,’ the engineer-lieutenant said.

  Baldamus frowned, wondering how much it was connected with the shooting they’d just heard from Xiloparissia Bay. Perhaps, he decided, Ehrhardt’s men had driven the British away from their boat and they were now fighting some sort of running battle towards the point.

  Stuffing the message into his pocket unread, he went into the wheelhouse, blinking in the light, to pick up a pair of binoculars. Outside again, he put them to his eyes but, apart from the glow of flames, he could see very little against the dark loom of the land.

  He was faintly irritated because he’d hoped that the climax of the day’s proceedings would lie with him not Ehrhardt, but at least Ehrhardt was acting on his instructions and any credit that was going would remain with him. He’d make very sure it would.

  ‘It looks as though Ehrhardt’s doing his stuff,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve probably got them.’

  * * *

  But he hadn’t. Not quite.

  Staring at the flare of light on the point, Cotton guessed that Delageorgis had got at the German ammunition and he wondered briefly in passing how many of the Greeks had gone up with it.

  It was no time to dwell on possible casualties, however. Delageorgis had known what he’d taken on and what he was doing, and at least he was there with his men, not sitting in some headquarters in safety, moving flags and pins that merely meant other men dying.

  Cotton’s eyes flickered towards the three boats ahead of him. A light had appeared on the launch, bright and square as if a door had been opened. Then another light appeared on one of the caiques and against them they could see men standing on deck staring towards the cape.

  ‘Now,’ Cotton said. ‘Full ahead! Straight across their bows.’ Varvara’s hands moved and the engines exploded into full power. The bow rose as the stern sank; the big wave aft lifted and Cotton saw the wake widen and lengthen. They were within fifty yards of the Germans now, Loukia bucking like a frantic animal. Water leapt over the wheelhouse in slashing spouts that found their way through the broken windows, and what doors remained banged and clattered as she shuddered.

  More lights appeared on the armed launch and against them it was possible to see the Germans on the deck beginning to turn as they heard Loukia’s engines. As they started running, Kitcat opened fire. The thumping of the 20mm seemed to shake Loukia to the keel. The muzzle flash lit up Bisset’s face as he bent behind the Lewis and pulled the trigger.

  With speed came surging primitive courage. The forty-knot slipstream blasted Cotton’s cheeks and the engines trumpeted beneath his feet. The boat was clear of the water for a third of her length now as the speed built up and she started planing, and astern the wake swept away with the whiteness of a mountain torrent. His senses and his brain responded to the storm of wind in a tremendous keenness to smash the Germans.

  The wildly glittering peak of water and the vast cascades on either side of the bow, the sledgehammer jolts to the spine as the boat bucketed through the sea, and the exhaust smoke feathering astern in a furious elemental cacophony of noise, seemed glorious to Cotton. The odds were dead against him succeeding, he knew, but the excitement gripped him and he knew suddenly why it was the Light Brigade had managed to charge down their Russian valley without faltering. They’d probably been carried forward by elation rather than duty and had probably even enjoyed it in part as he was enjoying it now.

  He’d held his fire, waiting to use the Bren to the best advantage. He could see Kitcat’s shots going over the German launch, little slots of light vanishing into the darkness in a flat arc.

  ‘Lower, lower!’ he yelled, the words forced out of him by his excitement, and he saw the slots of light change course and begin to flash against the German launch. The windows of the wheelhouse disintegrated and he saw one of the
stays that held the mast snap so that it heeled to starboard, while great chunks of wood flew from the upperworks.

  There was a group of men round the gun on the stern now but Cotton’s first burst from the Bren sent them all diving for cover. Then he saw the 20mm shells bursting all along the German’s waterline, lifting splashes high above the deck.

  * * *

  The sudden appearance of Loukia just off the launch’s port bow came as a complete surprise to Baldamus. He was standing by the door to the cabin alongside the engineer-lieutenant, Ehrhardt’s message still unread in his pocket, staring towards Cape Kastamanitsa where there was a new outbreak of firing. He frowned, puzzled, and was just about to push below to read the message when he heard the first bellow of Loukia’s engines. Unlike Cotton, neither he nor the engineer-lieutenant had any experience of attacks at sea in the dark and it had not occurred to either of them to protect their night vision. Neither had they allowed for the sound of gunfire and aeroplanes drowning the sound of Loukia’s engines and they had quite failed to realise how well the loom of the land and the mist on the water could hide her shape. There had been no sign of a bow wave or a wake until now and the distraction on Cape Kastamanitsa had momentarily drawn their attention away from the point which held most chance of danger.

  As Baldamus swung round, he saw a white curving wave and the faint bulk of a boat behind it, cutting across the bows of the launch at high speed; above it apparently unattached, fluttering square of the white ensign.

  ‘Fire!’ he screamed. ‘Fire!’

  But it was impossible to bring the gun to bear because the wheelhouse, with Baldamus and the engineer-lieutenant standing alongside it, were all in the way and the crew could only wait until the enemy had moved further to their starboard side.

  ‘Fire!’ Baldamus screamed again but it was almost as if the wrong people had heard because little slots of light began to float over his head. They seemed at first to come straight at him, then they appeared to change course and whip beyond the launch. The windows of the wheelhouse disintegrated, showering him with glass and he heard a twang as one of the stays that held the mast parted.