To Risks Unknown (8 page)

Crespin felt the whisky like fire in his empty stomach. This must be another of Oldenshaw's strange prodigies. But it was unusual to find temporary officers either so senior or so important. He knew that many of his contemporaries would have hated to serve under a part-time sailor. Perhaps that was why he and not one of them had been chosen to command the
Thistle.

If that was so, then the little admiral's knowledge was even more vast than he had imagined.

He said flatly, ‘I know plenty of regulars whom I wouldn't trust in command of the Gospert ferry, sir. I have also met reserve officers whom I would place in a similar category.'

Scarlett wagged the glass. ‘Spoken like a man! Well, we shall get along all right. I run the outfit here, and all you have to do is get this ship in the right place when and where I tell you.'

Crespin saw Scarlett's eyes rest meaningly on the bottle. It was a third empty already and it was still only ten o'clock in the morning.

He asked, ‘Those two soldiers. Do they have anything to do with us?'

Scarlett nodded. ‘Very much so.' He seemed to relax slightly as Crespin refilled his glass. ‘I was just coming to that, as a matter of fact.' He glanced at his watch and downed the glass in two swallows. ‘I left word for your officers to join us in the wardroom, I hope you don't mind. It saves me saying everything in duplicate, what?'

Crespin smiled. ‘I'll lead the way, sir.' Inwardly he resented being kept in the dark. In front of his own officers he would hardly be in a position to ask questions without undermining his own authority. But there seemed to be no second motive behind Scarlett's words. Maybe he wanted to show that as far as he was concerned everyone involved in his scheme was being treated as an equal. Crespin imagined that Scarlett was above all, the sort of man who needed to inspire confidence, just as he needed plenty to drink.

He found his officers and the two soldiers standing in a silent and somewhat self-conscious group.

Wemyss said, ‘I've sent the steward away, sir. I hope that was what you wanted?'

The question was directed at Crespin and Scarlett's brows dropped slightly in a brief frown.

But his voice was as crisp and breezy as ever. ‘Well, gentlemen, let's get on with it, shall we?'

The major took out a chart and unfolded it carefully on the wardroom table. It showed a part of the North African coast with Sicily and the Italian mainland at the top. There were several pencilled arrows and figures and a whole jumble of dates and references which Crespin could only guess at.

Scarlett said, ‘It's getting near time for the big push.' He tapped the land mass of Sicily with one finger. ‘Next month we will launch an invasion here. Operation Husky, as it is called in higher circles. After that we will have a crack at Italy, so this first invasion must go like clockwork.' The finger moved south and stopped midway between Sicily and the African shore.

‘Now, as some of you know, there are three Italian islands here. The biggest is Pantelleria, which Mussolini in all his wisdom chooses to call the Italian Gibraltar. The others, Lampedusa and Linosa, are important, but without the main one's support will not give too much trouble.' He looked round the intent faces. ‘If the Sicilian invasion is going to work first time, as it must, our chaps will have to be given round-the-clock fighter cover. On the approaches, over the beaches, and right up to the time the jolly old pongos can capture a few airfields for themselves.' Here he shot the two soldiers a beaming smile, and Crespin saw the major reply with a dour twitch of the lips which might have meant agreement or irritation.

But Scarlett was warming to his theme, and Crespin could see little beads of sweat running down his cheek as he added, ‘Pantelleria has just the airfields we need, but more than that, if we don't take them
before
Operation Husky begins then Jerry can use this base just as we used Malta against him. In fact, it seems unlikely that our people could cope. I am informed by the C.-in-C. that an all-out sea attack will be made on Pantelleria on June 11th, and the R.A.F. is already doing a bit of softening up in that direction. However, the island is a real fortress in every sense of the word, and there is always the chance that it might be able to hold out, just as Malta did.'

He took a sharp breath. ‘This is where we come in. Before the final assault on Pantelleria, or Operation Corkscrew as it is officially to be known, we are going to carry out a party of our own!'

Crespin glanced at the others. It was amazing the way Scarlett bandied around items of secret information. Either he was as confident as he sounded, or he had great faith in security arrangements. He saw Wemyss staring at the chart, his mind obviously busy with the problems of navigation and making a safe approach. Porteous was craning over his shoulder, his expression just a bit too intent and serious, like one who has hardly understood a word but is certain that others will explain it later on. Shannon was watching Scarlett, his shoulders straight and firm as if he was on parade or facing an enemy broadside. His eyes were very bright, and Crespin felt that Shannon wanted to show that he at least was ready to follow Scarlett to the end if so required. The two soldiers on the other hand seemed almost disinterested. Their task obviously started only if the Navy played its part first.

Scarlett had his hands firmly on his hips as he said, ‘This ship will make an approach from the north-east and will cover a landing party under Major Barnaby. He will have thirty men, each one an expert in his trade, and his mission will be to blow up the fresh-water reservoir on that side of the island. Without water in bulk the garrison in Pantelleria will be less inclined to put up a long resistance, and, furthermore, as the reservoir is under the guard of German troops, its destruction will make the Italians less inclined to knuckle under the Jerry command when we put the pressure on.' He flashed a smile around him. ‘Any questions?'

Wemyss looked up from the chart. ‘It's a difficult approach, sir. If they've got a good radar unit we will be clobbered before we get within a mile of the place.'

Scarlett looked at him searchingly. ‘Good point, Number One. But the island's radar is not too hot from all accounts, and is directed mainly towards the south. The part where we will be working is well protected by high cliffs and shallows. The enemy seems to think it safe enough from his point of view.'

Wemyss said doggedly, ‘But if he
has
got good radar there, sir?'

‘Well, we shall just have to make the best of it.'

Scarlett turned away from Wemyss and asked, ‘Anything else?'

Crespin said quietly, ‘Is there any information about local naval patrols, sir?'

Scarlett sighed. ‘Our bombing has driven most of the heavy stuff away to Sicily. There are a few armed trawlers, I believe, but I will give you the latest gen on those when we get closer to zero hour.'

He stood back against the white bulkhead and studied all of them intently. ‘This is damned important for us, gentlemen. It is our first real operation of value in the Mediterranean. I intend to see that we do not make a mush of it.' His glance fell briefly on Wemyss. ‘In this game you've got to think fast and boldly. It's no place for barrack stanchions and people who are afraid to act for themselves. No use dripping over lack of detailed plans, or waiting for someone to wipe away the tears when it gets a bit dicey.' He slapped his palms together and Porteous jumped nervously. ‘Just remember that the island's defences are only as strong as the weakest men there. In this case the ruddy Eye-ties. If we can smash their water supply and rub the Jerry's nose in the dust as well, we shall be well on the way to success.'

He took Crespin's arm. ‘Walk with me to the launch. I just want to fill in a few details before I send your final orders aboard.'

As they left the wardroom followed at a discreet distance by the two soldiers, Shannon said, ‘Now
there
is someone who is getting things done!'

Wemyss grunted. He had by now taken a firm dislike to Scarlett.

Porteous said vaguely, ‘He has quite a record, I'll give him that.'

The others looked at him and then Shannon said, ‘Do you know him?'

Porteous flushed under the combined stare. ‘I've
heard
of him. He's already got a D.S.O. and D.S.C.'

Wemyss unbuttoned his shirt and muttered sourly, ‘Then he's either got a lot of our blokes killed or he's managed to survive longer than most!'

Shannon's thin face darkened. ‘Well, what else do you know?'

‘He's been building a sort of private navy down here for some time. Running stores to Tobruk, carrying out raids and that sort of thing.'

Shannon bit his lip and stared through the open scuttle. ‘Well, it just shows that given half a chance even the Admiralty can see that temporary officers are as good if not better than regulars!'

‘Well, yes.' Porteous faltered and then blurted out, ‘Of course he is a
very
influential man. Before the war he was a big stockbroker in the City, and was pretty famous as a yachtsman
and
mountaineer. He's not
exactly
typical, would you say?'

Wemyss turned away, unable to watch Shannon's anger. You had to hand it to Porteous, he thought. Soft he might be, but when he did pluck up courage he certainly had all the right words.

On deck Crespin stood beside Scarlett and watched the soldiers jumping down into the waiting launch.

Then Scarlett said softly, ‘I want you to make a good show of this operation.'

Crespin did not look at him. ‘I shall do what I can, sir.'

‘I am sure you will, old boy.' Scarlett straightened up to leave. ‘I just have a thing about people I've not worked with before.' He faced Crespin and his eyes were for once quite still and devoid of warmth. ‘It does not follow that because a man has reached a certain rank or appointment at a time when a battle starts that he is equipped in any way for fighting it. I've got very high standards, and I expect everyone under me to reach them.'

A quick smile broke the hardness on his features. ‘Still, I'm sure
you
will be all right.'

He touched his cap in a casual salute and dropped down to the boat.

Crespin watched the launch curving away towards the waterfront and realized that his hands were shaking badly. So it was not as he had imagined it at all. He had thought the
Thistle
to be a last-chance command, all that he was fit for after his experiences. Now it was quite obvious that he might not even be good enough for
her
, if what he had seen in Scarlett's face could be believed.

He knew he was getting edgy again, and he tried to hold back the sudden flood of despair and resentment with something like physical force. He looked at the ship with her bridge and upperworks shimmering in the heat as if burning from within. He had not wanted her, nor did he have any feeling which he could mark down as either pride or enthusiasm. But the thought of losing her, just like that, was almost more than he could bear, and the realization filled him with anger and disbelief.

CRESPIN WITHDREW HIS
head and shoulders from beneath the oilskin hood across the bridge chart table and walked over to the gyro repeater. In those few minutes while studying the chart and memorizing the final bearings and soundings he had almost lost his night vision, so that he had to wait, forcing himself to stand beside the compass until he could see the black edge of the bridge and the endless flow of pale stars beyond.

Then he crossed to the voice-pipes. ‘Starboard ten.' How loud his voice sounded. ‘Midships, steady.' From the corner of his eye he watched the luminous compass card ticking round. ‘Steer two-three-zero.' His busy mind barely recorded Joicey's acknowledgement from the wheelhouse, and he was more conscious of his heart pounding noisily against his ribs.

Scarlett had certainly chosen his night well. As black as pitch and with a faint haze across the sky which made the stars seem very far away.

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. He wanted to go back to the chart table, to make one more check, but he instantly dismissed the impulse. It was pointless now, for across the bows, stretching away on either hand was the blacker, more solid shadow of Pantelleria. It was about the same size as the Isle of Wight, yet when Major Barnaby had spread his chart on the wardroom table just two days ago it had looked so small and meaningless, a mere grit against the greater land masses above and below it.

Now it was here, and very real indeed. The
Thistle's
engine was throttled down to dead slow, with hardly enough revolutions to give her steerage way, yet with each passing minute the shadow of land seemed to swell in size as if to reach out and enfold the little ship and crush the life out of her. The small radar repeater beside the voice-pipes added to the impression. The distorted outlines seemed to writhe like phosphorescent weed, the picture further twisted by a mass of back-echoes, so that it looked as if the island was alive.

The sea was dead calm, not even an occasional whitecap to break its oily swell. That was another reason for such a slow approach. Any sudden burst of spray from the ship's stem would be seen instantly by any watcher on the shore.

Wemyss' big figure crossed the bridge silently like a cat. ‘Getting close, sir. I make it about a mile.'

He was speaking in a hushed whisper. It was strange how the nearness of danger made men do that, Crespin thought. And how much louder the ordinary shipboard noises seemed to have become in the last few crawling minutes. A flapping halyard was like the crack of a whip, some lookout's nervous cough a thunderclap.

Crespin plucked at the front of his shirt. In the lifeless air and after the sweat of the day it felt like a damp rag.

‘Go to the chart room, Number One, and tell Commander Scarlett. Then get aft and keep an eye on the soldiers. I don't want any noise when the rafts go over the side.'