Torpedo Run (1981) (37 page)

At dusk they met Beresford’s commandeered gunboat, the remaining vessels of force
Romeo
having returned to base apparently on the assumption there would be no survivors to escort.

Beresford crossed to the stopped MTB and climbed aboard, his eyes everywhere, as if he could not accept the small amount of damage.

He met Devane on the bridge amongst the dirt and the litter of battle.

Beresford said quietly, ‘You’ve done more than enough. I was afraid. I wanted to help.’

Devane smiled. The gunboat looked like a relic from the Kaiser’s war. ‘In
that
thing?’

Beresford looked across at Mackay’s MTB. A seaman was hauling up buckets of water and sluicing down the deck. It was his own way of being normal, of staying sane.

‘And this is all that’s left of
Parthian
?’ He shook his head. ‘Thank God
you
made it. You know how I felt. . . .’

‘I’ll need fuel, Ralph.’ Devane swilled some sweet tea round his mug and examined it thoughtfully. ‘And all the ammo you can spare.’

Beresford stared at him. ‘I’ve got fuel and ammunition. I thought you might need some, but now. . . .’ His eyes sharpened. ‘You’re not still going after him?’

‘I’ve no instructions. Remember the last time I sailed without “hearing” Barker’s orders?’

Beresford nodded slowly, feeling Devane’s pain,
understanding him perhaps for the first time ever.

‘I’m coming with you.’

Devane smiled gravely. ‘Then we can both keep our heads down.’

Beresford watched him, as if afraid he would miss something.

‘Where are we going?’

Devane had thought about it. ‘The only place where Lincke can get his boats repaired now. Back to Mandra.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘He’ll take on fuel first. That will keep him busy tonight with the Russian attack going all out. So with luck we’ll get to Mandra first and be waiting for
him
.’ He saw Dundas coming to the bridge again. Questions, demands, troubles to be solved. ‘By the way, why
did
the Russians pull out from the rendezvous?’

‘The admiral fired Sorokin.’

It sounded so ridiculous they both smiled.

Then Devane remembered what had happened to
Parthian
and said abruptly, ‘Well, let’s go and prove Sorokin was right in his trust and the admiral was wrong.’

Three hours later, as the ancient gunboat and the remaining launches turned towards Tuapse, the MTBs headed in the opposite direction.

‘Sunset in three hours, sir.’ Chalmers looked at the sky, his eyes red-rimmed, his lean features telling the strain.

Devane took another mug from Metcalf and sipped at the hot contents. Coffee, cocoa, tea? It all seemed to taste the same now.

‘Very well. See if you can arrange another meal for the lads.’

That was all he needed to say. If no contact was made before nightfall they would have to scuttle for home. Even then they might run dry of fuel, in spite of the extra load.

All that day they had ploughed their way westward, alone but for Mackay’s boat which was cruising two miles off the port beam. Even at that distance he had heard the thud of hammers, the occasional rattle of drills as Mackay’s men
carried on with the repairs of battle. The Canadian had signalled in the morning that the underwater damage had been worse than he had realized. But he had promised his best, and was still there to prove it.

It still seemed incredible that the others had all gone, that the sea could be so desolate and empty.

He saw Dundas on the swaying forecastle with Leading Seaman Priest and the AB named Bridges who had got a splinter in his foot. He was hobbling along with one foot heavily bandaged. He could have gone back to Tuapse with Lieutenant Kimber in the old gunboat, but he had asked to stay.

The sea was unbroken but for an occasional patch of white. Great purple swells of water, with the sky streaked in dark clouds like tattered banners.

He rubbed his stubbled chin and tried not to think of a hot bath and bed. A bed with Claudia to take him in her arms and soothe away the pain and the terrors.

A fish jumped nearby and fell with a brief splash. Torpedoman Pollard waved a handful of empty mugs and yelled, ‘Just right for me tea, that kipper!’ There were a few tired grins, but not many.

Petty Officer Ackland climbed stiffly into the bridge and waited for Devane to notice him. He looked paler than usual, and his face and hands were smeared with grease and dirt.

‘All right, Chief?’

Ackland glanced around the bridge and beyond to the deeply heaving water. Perhaps he had not expected to see it again.

‘Not bad, sir. Pumps are playing up a bit, and I think the starboard outer screw has got a nick or two from splinters.’ He saw his friend Pellegrine squatting on an ammunition box and munching a massive sandwich. ‘Lazy sod.’

Pellegrine chuckled. ‘We’ve been workin’, lad. Not like your cushy job in the bloody cellar!’

Ackland yawned and spread his arms. ‘Did you want me, sir?’

Devane nodded. ‘Just to say thanks. I don’t know how you keep this boat going, but I appreciate it.’

Ackland grinned. ‘You keep us afloat, sir. I’ll do the rest.’

Carroll called, ‘From
Kestrel
, sir. Losing fuel.
Request permission to reduce speed
.’

The men on the open deck or crouched in the gun mountings peered across at their companion. It seemed so unfair, when the Canadian boat had managed to get this far.

‘Affirmative, Bunts. Revs for eight knots.’

Ackland observed, ‘He’s got a good Chief, sir. They’ll cope when they’re needed.’

Devane glanced at the clouds. The visibility was poor. Sunset or not, it would be darker earlier than they wanted. Then back to Tuapse, to Barker and his costly operations. He sighed. It was not Barker’s fault. It was the war. The whole bloody business.

Ackland said, ‘I’ll get my head down, sir. My young winger can watch the motors. I’d like to talk about promotion for him later on.’

Devane clapped his greasy overalled shoulder. ‘We’ll do that, Chief. I just wanted to tell you what I think about your whole bunch.’

Chalmers watched him go. ‘Made his day, sir.’

Devane moved restlessly about the bridge. With the speed cut to a mere crawl they were swaying about like toy boats. It must be worse for Mackay’s people as they fought to complete their repairs.

‘More tea, sir?’

‘Is that what it was?’

Beresford appeared from somewhere, hatless, his hair blowing in the breeze.

‘Anything?’

‘No. Not even a recall from Barker. Not that I’d hear it.’

They grinned, the tension held at bay by the old familiarity.

Beresford said, ‘Barker will know by now. It’ll be him for the chop after this cock-up. Or a knighthood!’

Devane put down the mug on the flag locker and walked to the chartroom. It was dark and cool in there, with the MTB’s own smells of oil and high-octane, of coiled rope and damp woodwork.

He switched on the chart light and studied the calculations
and the regular ‘fixes’, the straggling line of the Rumanian coast. There was not much time left. They might be spotted by an air patrol, or even a surface vessel of some kind. It was unlikely just yet, but all the same. . . . He jerked back as his head lolled over the chart and sleep threatened to drag him down.

He stood up and groped for the door to the bridge.
I’ve had it. Had it.

On the bridge he found Chalmers and Beresford with their glasses trained on the other boat.

Devane asked, ‘Trouble?’ It was amazing that he could keep his voice so level.

Chalmers nodded. ‘They’ve stopped, sir. They just signalled. The leak is almost stopped.’ He forced a grin. ‘Be as good as new soon.’

Devane looked at Pellegrine. ‘Take the wheel, Swain. Port fifteen. Close to loudhailer distance.’ Mackay was determined to stay with him. He might be too eager for his own good.

‘Post extra lookouts. Rig a bowline and hoist a man up the mast. It’ll give him an extra few feet.’ He glanced at Metcalf. ‘You’re the youngest. Up you go. Bunts, give him a hand.’

Carroll grinned. ‘I might just leave him there!’

Devane forgot them as the other boat came closer. He switched on the loudhailer and said, ‘I think the bird has flown, Red.’ He could even conceal the bitterness. ‘We’ll return to base as soon as it’s dark.’

Above the bridge, his legs wrapped painfully around the stumpy mast, Ordinary Seaman Metcalf moved his borrowed binoculars in a complete circle before giving his arms a rest. It was cold, and his body ached from the hours of waiting and watching, remembering the swift horror of the battle, the corpses which had parted across their bows to let them through.

He saw Mackay and his first lieutenant, Durston, on the other bridge, the seamen working by the engine-room hatch, some black bullet holes in the lower hull.

He could look at all these things and even recall the terrible
sights without fear. Somehow the ordeals had given him strength, and a new hope. Not just for getting a commission, a ‘bit of gold’ as Leading Seaman Scouse Hanlon called it with a sneer in his voice, it went much further. Somewhere along the way he had grown up. He was no longer a stranger amongst his messmates. He smiled in spite of his discomfort. Well,
hardly
a stranger.

Metcalf peered down at the square bridge beneath his seaboots.

Devane was right below him, talking with the regular two and a half, Beresford. The cloak and dagger expert. And Lieutenant Chalmers, the one with the burnt hands who had blown his top with the boatswain’s mate. Carroll too, he was a nice man. He could never picture the leading signalman as a baker’s roundsman.

After this, what? Back to England and maybe another chance for a commission. His mother would like that. He grimaced. She always called him Edwin. He hated the name, and was secretly glad that even Scouse Hanlon called him ‘the Baron’.

He watched Devane waving his hand to the other CO as the boats edged apart, the mast between his legs vibrating as if it were alive.

Lieutenant-Commander John Devane. What a man. Just to be here with him was enough.

Metcalf gave a great yawn and raised his glasses again. He felt sick and unsteady. It was impossible, but
there was a ship.
It had not been there before. Surely?

He shouted, ‘
Ship! Starboard quarter!
’

He knew the faces were all staring up at him but dared not take his eyes from the distant vessel. He was close to panic as he tried to identify it. An old, very old, tramp steamer of the three-island type, with a pair of derricks and a solitary funnel which at such a distance looked as thin as a matchstick.

Metcalf heard the upsurge of voices and knew that men were climbing on to the guns, to the sides of the bridge, anywhere to get a glimpse of the newcomer.

Then he heard Devane’s voice. ‘What course?’

Metcalf struggled frantically with the bearing. ‘I – I think she’s heading south, sir!’ He could imagine the coxswain muttering to himself, ‘Gawd Almighty.’

The lenses misted over momentarily, and when he looked again he saw a tiny patch of colour on the old freighter’s side, low down beneath her high, outdated superstructure. Red, with some sort of insignia in the centre.

He shouted down the information and heard Carroll call crisply, ‘Turkish, sir.’

Devane said, ‘That follows. She may not have seen us though. Heading for Istanbul probably.’

Pellegrine was peering up at Metcalf. ‘Lucky ’e saw the bugger, sir.’

Mackay’s voice, frustrated and angry, echoed across the water. ‘I can’t move yet! It’s worse than my Chief thought!’

Devane waved to him across the darkening water. It was too late anyway. Lincke had done it again. When he came looking for them in the future it would be another story.

‘Get that lad down. An MTB’s mast is hardly suited for lookout duty.’

Metcalf heard the order with mixed feelings. Devane was pleased with his sighting report, but he was not so satisfied with himself. He had been dreaming and ought to have seen the old Turkish ship much earlier in spite of the visibility. How could he hope to be like Devane or Dundas? They never missed anything. Were always ready to act and to respond to each situation.

Metcalf eased his leg from the yard and took a last glance at the Turkish ship. She was pouring out a long trail of black, greasy smoke which hung over her wake like a tail. He thought he could see streaks of rust on her side, the pathetically small bow wave to show her slow progress. A neutral. Safe from attack, and yet willing to help the enemy in other ways, or so his father had said.

Carroll shouted, ‘Come on, boy! Jump about! I’m still holding the bloody line for you!’

Metcalf did not speak. He could not. And for an instant longer he thought his eyes were playing tricks.

Then in a remarkably steady voice he shouted, ‘
Three
vessels, sir!
Same bearing as the ship! Closing fast!’ He was vaguely conscious of the sudden silence, the immensity of his discovery. ‘I – I believe they’re E-boats, sir!’

He almost fell headlong as Carroll lowered him to the bridge and Devane beckoned him to the side.

‘Sure?’

Metcalf nodded. If he was wrong now he would lose everything. His chin lifted. He was not wrong.

‘Three, sir. You’ll not be able to see them now. They’re beyond the freighter. Coming this way. Two very close together.’

Beresford said, ‘Just as you thought, John. One of them’s towing the damaged boat.’ They looked at each other. ‘The third will be Lincke.’

‘Tell
Kestrel. Make it quick
.’ Devane stepped into the forepart of the bridge, all thought of sleep gone in a flash. ‘Bring her about, Swain.’ A quick, precious second to check the compass. ‘Steer north eighty east. Stand by all engines.’

Beresford pounded his fist below the screen. ‘What the
hell
is holding
Kestrel
?’

‘Never mind him.’ Devane found he could ignore the other boat, the sudden bustle of men around him, the click of weapons being cocked. ‘I’m going to go all out for that bloody freighter. She’s our only chance. If she starts to signal the Jerries we’re in for real trouble.’ He bared his teeth. ‘What about the odds now?’