Torpedo Run (1981) (28 page)

Home whispered, ‘My boat okay?’

‘Fine.’

He felt Home groping for his hand and stooped lower to hear him. He must have been hit in the side too. He was bleeding terribly. Dying.

Devane gripped the man’s rough hand and squeezed it. ‘You did bloody well.’ He held him against the side as he tried to free himself. Not that he could. He was already as weak as a child.

Horne looked at him. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

His voice was so clear and calm Devane was barely able to answer.

‘We’re getting out.’ He heard feet sliding and crunching through the destruction, Torpedoman Geordie Pollard’s voice as he yelled for more hands to come to the bridge. ‘You just lie still.’

Horne’s eye watched him gravely. ‘Over for me, I meant.’

Devane bent over him, their hands locked together as his body shook with uncontrollable sobs.

Horne whispered fiercely, ‘Take hold, sir. People are coming. If they see you give in, what chance do they have?’ He waited for Devane to face him and added, ‘Back there’ – he took two painful breaths – ‘when the shit started to fly, I was the one who nearly cracked up. But you knew, didn’t you?’

Devane nodded brokenly.

‘Well then.’

Lieutenant Durston lunged through the smoke and gasped, ‘I’ve told the Chief to stop engines, sir. The pumps are bloody useless. We’re taking water fast. Did I do right?’

Devane reached out and closed Home’s eye. Then he gently removed his hand from the ex-fisherman’s grasp and stood up.

‘You did right. Tell the cox’n to muster hands, starboard side. Be prepared for ditching.’ Another explosion shattered the stillness but it no longer mattered. ‘Lieutenant Home has just died.’

‘God Almighty.’ Durston stared at the dead man, then at the shattered bridge. ‘You were damn lucky, sir.’

Devane looked at him despairingly, knowing the worst was over. That Home had saved his sanity. Perhaps it had helped him to die without fear?

He replied, ‘I know that now.’

Metcalf called from the wheel, ‘
Buzzard
’s coming
alongside, sir!’ He sounded dazed, as if nothing could ever harm him again.

Devane walked to the door and wrenched it back. The gunfire had stopped, and the land was completely hidden by an endless bank of smoke. But there was an airfield less than twenty miles away. They must not waste time. He glanced at his weary, filthy men, the wounded propped between them as they listlessly watched the MTB surging alongside.

Here was Petty Officer Ackland, soaked in oil, almost unrecognizable until he smiled at Pellegrine, his friend.

Devane heard himself say, ‘Well done, Chief. Did you get all your people out?’

‘Didn’t lose one, sir.’ Ackland stared along the pitted, listing deck. ‘Jerry or not, I’d have liked to get her back to base.’

Lieutenant Patolichev moved up to join Devane and Durston. He hesitated and then held out a black cheroot to Devane.

‘Good fight,
da
?’

Devane looked past him and watched the MTB making fast, the busy purpose of the seamen as they carried or dragged the wounded and shocked sailors to their own boat.

Durston hesitated. ‘You coming, sir?’

Devane did not hear him. He studied the sinking E-boat, the two ensigns still hanging from her stumpy mast. Here, he had nearly broken. But others had lost far more.

He heard steps behind him and somehow knew it was Lieutenant Rodger.

Devane said, ‘She’s sinking fast now. No need for a demolition charge.’ He turned and looked at the lieutenant. ‘Get us out of here.’ He saw the man’s gaze dart to the blackened and punctured bridge. ‘You’re in command now.’

He followed Rodger across to the other boat and watched the two hulls, the old enemies, drift apart.

As the MTB’s screws thrashed the sea into lively froth Devane climbed to the bridge, the unlit cheroot still in his mouth.

Alone, in spite of the men around him, Metcalf sat on a vibrating hatch cover and stared at the E-boat as she dipped
further and further, the sea flowing towards her bridge as if the water was moving uphill.

He had been there. On that bridge and at the wheel. The captain had trusted him. Even the grumpy old coxswain.

The MTB gathered speed and headed swiftly away from the land. Astern of her the sea was empty once again.

Captain Barker stood in the dead centre of his office, his severe features fixed in a rare smile. The smile weakened as Devane entered the room and waited for Beresford to close the door behind them.

Being here was almost the worst part, Devane thought. Incredibly, the passage back to Tuapse had gone without incident, and even the carefully prepared rendezvous with a force of Russian patrol boats and aircraft had worked like clockwork. The sea had remained calm, so that a quick stop to take on fuel from an adapted tanker, while the watchful fighter-bombers had snarled overhead, had been completed undisturbed.

At any other time he would have been jubilant, the success of the operation rising to soften the hurt, the pain of those who had died in battle.

He was so fatigued he felt like dropping to his knees, and yet he was afraid of what sleep would bring to torment him. All the way back to Tuapse he had kept busy, too busy to give time to whatever it was which awaited him. He had not even sought the solitude of the MTB’s wardroom, had not washed or shaved. The longest part of the journey had been right here in Tuapse. The walk from the jetty to this office. The other MTBs had been at their moorings, their companies waving and cheering as he walked past them like some returning warrior. Hector Buckhurst had pumped his hand, and Beresford had fallen in step beside him, as if to cushion him from the welcome.

Nothing had made much sense until Beresford had said gravely, ‘Before you see Captain Barker, John.
Parthian
was out to help with the patrols. Your own boat ran into a Jerry.’

They had both stopped dead as Devane had swung
towards him.

‘What happened?’ Devane had gripped his arm fiercely. ‘Tell me!’

Beresford had described the incident with brief clarity. The signal from the ditched airmen,
Merlin
’s search through the sea mist, and the last part when the MTB had been pounced upon by the E-boat.

Beresford had finished with, ‘It could have been a whole lot worse, John. By rights they should all have bought it. But a Russian submarine surfaced in the vicinity, quite by accident as it turned out, she had battery trouble, and she whistled up air support. The Jerry raked
Merlin
from bow to stern and then made off like a bat out of hell.’

Together they had walked to the small dock which was like the bottom half of the letter L. Buckhurst’s mechanics and artificers were working busily on the dried-out MTB, but the signs of the encounter were starkly visible. Without leaving the jetty Devane could see the splintered mahogany planking, the dark stains where men had been cut down by flying metal.

As he had stared at the boat he had listened to Beresford’s even tones as he described the aftermath. Lieutenant David Seymour very badly wounded, a seaman named Nairn missing. The helmsman, Able Seaman Irwin, critically wounded, who had died on the way back to base.

‘I must see David.’ It was all he had found to say.

Beresford had led him away from the dock. ‘Roddy Dundas has gone to the hospital with him. They can do wonders these days.’

‘He was going to be a writer, did you know that?’

‘Everyone did.’ Beresford had forced a smile but it would not hold.

‘No hands, you say. Poor David.’

Now, as he stood beneath Barker’s glaring lights, he could still not accept it. He felt bitter and cheated. All he had thought about was the attack on Mandra. Yet while it had been going on David had been crippled. It would have been fairer if he had died.

Barker said crisply ‘Good to see you back! God, the whole
place is talking about it. The HQ ship destroyed and at least two warehouses of military equipment blown up as well. I wish to high heaven I had been there to see it! There are strong indications that the German commandant of the base, a rear-admiral no less, was killed in the raid!’

Devane looked at him emptily. ‘I’m glad of that.’ He ignored Beresford’s warning glance. ‘We lost a lot of good men. Lieutenant Home was one.’ He wanted to look at the ground but did not dare in case his control broke. ‘He saved my life, did you know that?’

Barker’s smile looked unreal. ‘How could I? But the job was
done,
and that’s the main thing.’ He rubbed his hands together with a dry sound. ‘We’ll drink to it later on. It’s a bit early for me just now.’

Devane said, ‘Not for me. I think I shall probably get very drunk. After I’ve discovered what happened to
Merlin,
that is.’

Barker turned and fiddled with some signals on his desk. ‘Bad business. But it happens. Two boats meeting. One always has to be the first to act. Pity it wasn’t ours.’

‘It was Lincke. It must have been.’

Barker thrust his hands into his pockets and pouted. ‘Well, we can’t be certain.’

Beresford said, ‘I think we can, sir. Russian Intelligence insist he was sighted in the area. On his own too. Unusual.’

‘Very.’ If only the tiredness would let go. Devane tried again. ‘We need more boats. We must have support.’

‘I’ve been telling Ralph here the same thing.’ Barker tried to relax. ‘A proper staff, minds working as one to –’

They jumped as Devane slammed his hand down on the chart table. ‘I said boats, not bloody desk warriors,
sir
!’ He stared at his own hand, grimy with oil, with another man’s blood. The dirt of war.

He hurried on without waiting for Barker to recover. ‘I hear the Germans have got F-lighters now, and probably more E-boats. Well, if they can get reinforcements, and God knows they’re fighting us and the Russians on two fronts as it is, surely we can get some?’

He moved restlessly to a wall chart and stared at it
unseeingly.

‘It was Lincke. It’s got his stamp. He’s worked it all out for himself!’

Barker said sharply, ‘The operation at Mandra was a complete success. If indeed Lincke’s attack on
Merlin
was planned, it hardly makes up for the destruction of their Rumanian support base, does it?’

‘Lincke won’t care.’ Devane looked at Beresford. How much did
he
know? ‘He’s out to destroy
Parthian
. It’s personal to him. So we must get replacements. The medals can wait, in my opinion.’

Barker said smoothly, ‘You’re tired. It’s been a great strain for all of us.’

Devane smiled. ‘I apologize, sir. That was thoughtless of me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve things to do. Letters to write, a report to be completed.’

‘In that case,’ Barker seemed momentarily at a loss, ‘you had better carry on. I shall draft a signal to the Admiralty immediately.’

Devane stood in the doorway, the room swaying before his eyes.

‘More boats, sir. This is only a beginning. Lincke never gives up. I know him like I know myself.’ He jammed his stained cap on his head. ‘Well, I don’t give up either.’

The door slammed and Barker stared at Beresford as if he had just heard some terrible obscenity.

Beresford said quietly, ‘Let it drop, sir. He’s had about all he can take. You can’t go on for ever, mission after mission, and still be expected to say “sir” in the right places.’ He watched Barker’s face set for a new argument. ‘The raid was a knockout. The end justifies the means. It must. Otherwise. . . .’

Barker sounded ruffled and unconvinced. ‘It wouldn’t have done in my day, I can tell you.’ He smiled brightly. ‘Enough said. Get Kimber. I must word my dispatch very carefully. This’ll make them sit up and take notice.’

Beresford walked out of the office, but paused outside the smaller one used by the flotilla’s senior officer.

Devane sat at the table, his face flat on his forearm, his
cap lying on the floor nearby. He must have been near collapse even when he had been asking about Seymour and the others. It was the first time Beresford had ever seen him give in like this and he felt strangely moved.

He crossed to his safe and unlocked it very quietly. Then he took out a full bottle of Scotch and a glass, pausing only to ensure that the sealed letter was still there.

He put the whisky on the opposite side of the table and said softly, ‘Best medicine in the world. Fm just sorry it’s all I can do for you, old son.’

Then, just as carefully, he closed the door and walked away.

The two motor torpedo boats drifted about half a cable apart, their weapons and upperworks like burnished copper in the strange sunset. There was a late breeze, but not enough to break the regular swell into whitecaps, so that the water appeared to be breathing, lifting each boat without effort before moving on towards the shadows.

Devane rested his elbows below the screen and stared at the horizon. Waiting and listening. Hoping for an unwary enemy. The deadly game which never ended.

He heard the men on watch moving below the bridge, the occasional snatch of conversation, but few laughs. Ever since the raid on the Rumanian anchorage and the destruction of the enemy HQ ship Devane had shifted from one boat to the next in his small flotilla. So that he would get to know his command better, and they him. Or was he deluding himself? Perhaps he needed to stay aloof and at arm’s length, dreading the personal contact which had brought him so near to cracking when Home had died.

This was
Harrier,
Lieutenant Willy Walker’s boat. But in the fading light it could have been almost any MTB anywhere. Oiled weapons, dull paintwork, faces searching the horizons, the skies, each other.

Merlin
was still in dock at Tuapse, and Devane was thankful that Dundas was with her, and away from him. It was something he felt but could not explain.

He glanced abeam at the other boat as she lifted and dipped in a web of her own phosphorescence.
Buzzard,
with her scarlet number 4 painted on her spray-dappled hull. How quickly time passed, how soon the faces became blurred. Harry Rodger was in command of
Buzzard.
Did he still expect to see Home on his bridge, hear his step on the ladder
during the night watches? Home had died nearly two months ago. It did not seem possible.