To Risks Unknown Page 13

  Around him he could hear the lookouts moving quietly at their stations, the occasional rasp of an ammunition belt on one of the bridge machine-guns as it swung against the steel plates. Everything was tense but normal, and this realization added to his sense of apprehension. They all had such faith. He gave his orders, they obeyed. If they had any doubts or uncertainties in his ability, his translation of the facts at his disposal, then they gave no sign. But his mind was so crammed with stored details and preparations for this single moment, how did he not know that he had forgotten some vital point? It was not unknown for a captain to get so keyed up, so immersed in the actual technicalities of his job, that he suffered a kind of mental blackout just when he was most needed.

  And even if the first part of the plan worked, was it not just possible that the enemy was there, right now, waiting for him? In his mind he got a stark picture of the inlet, each ledge and piece of roadway ringed with waiting armour, the long guns already pointing at the uncertain, wallowing shape of the corvette.

  He dashed the sweat from his eyes. It was no good getting like this. He heard the steering mechanism creaking again. Joicey was having great difficulty in holding his course.

  He snapped, ‘Up two turns!’ He heard Wemyss’ deep voice murmuring down the voice-pipe, the answering ‘Revolutions seven-zero, sir!’

  It was still dead slow, yet it felt as if the ship was heading for the hidden land with the speed of an express train.

  A lookout said sharply, ‘Light on the starboard bow, sir!’

  Feet scraped nervously on the gratings and Crespin trained his glasses across the pale wedge of the Thistle’s forecastle. Nothing. The man’s nerves were playing games with him. He stiffened. There it was. Very low down on the water. Two blue flashes.

  He said, ‘Starboard ten. Midships.’ He saw the signal appear once more. ‘Warn the side party. They’ll have to be sharp about it. I’ll not be able to stop.’

  So Scarlett had been right about this, too. He seemed to have agents everywhere. Perhaps if the Germans had been able to invade England they would have had a whole list of readymade spies there also. Traitors? Patriots? … It depended entirely on your point of view.

  The small open boat bobbed out of the darkness like a sodden log. One minute it was well clear and the next it seemed to be wallowing directly under the ship’s bows. There was a dull thud and a few muffled shouts, followed by a steady scrape of wood against steel as it staggered sluggishly down the ship’s side where Dunbar and his grappling hook were ready and waiting.

  Wemyss was leaning over the starboard wing. ‘Got ’em, sir! Just three men.’ He half turned. ‘What about the boat?’

  ‘Cast it off!’ Crespin could feel his hands shaking badly. ‘It’d be a damn hindrance now!’

  The newcomers eventually arrived on the bridge accompanied by the thin shape of Major Cameron. In the dark it was not possible to see them properly, but one of them, a man with long, greasy hair and a crude goatskin coat, had an odour of dirt and sweat which could be appreciated on every part of the bridge.

  Cameron said, ‘These are the leaders of the partisan group.’ He gestured at the other two men. He rested one hand on the goatskin. ‘This one is Lieutenant Coutts, Grenadier Guards.’

  Crespin smiled in spite of his aching mind. ‘You surprise me!’

  Coutts pushed the hair from his face. ‘Filthy, I agree, Captain. But rather necessary if one is to exist with these chaps.’ He had a gentle drawl which made his appearance and his scent all the more grotesque.

  Crespin asked, ‘Is it all fixed up?’

  ‘Almost.’ Coutts was peering around the bridge. He had probably been away from this sort of atmosphere for a long time, Crespin thought. ‘The partisans moved in on time and captured the coastguard post on the headland. They have, er, explained to the few local inhabitants that it would be prudent to remain in bed tonight, no matter what they hear outside!’ He laughed quietly. ‘This is, after all, bandit territory. The folk around here are careful not to ask too many questions.’

  Cameron asked impatiently, ‘Where are the Germans, for God’s sake?’

  Coutts looked at him. ‘The nearest force in any size is at Palermo, thirty miles away across the other headland. Then there is the Italian garrison down at Trapani. That’s only half the distance, but the roads are pretty grim, and in any case the old Eye-ties are not too keen on moving at night.’ He gestured at the two Sicilians. ‘These gentlemen have a great dislike for authority of any sort.’ He drew his finger across his throat and said, ‘Mussolini?’

  The taller of the men bared his teeth and then spat on the deck.

  Coutts grinned. ‘Unreliable bastards. They were going to kill me until I got some guns and ammo dropped to them in a special airlift.’ He saw Crespin’s warning glance and added, ‘It’s all right. Neither of them speaks a word of English.’ He became serious again. ‘When the Allies take Sicily we shall have just as much trouble with them as the present management, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He pulled a luminous watch from his coat. ‘Right now you should be getting a signal.’ He followed Crespin to the front of the bridge. ‘The pier is slightly to the left. I’m having a light put at the outer end of it.’

  Sure enough the light appeared. A yellow eye hanging in space, but to Crespin it looked as good as any modern beacon.

  ‘Port ten. Midships.’ To Coutts he added, ‘What happened to the coastguards?’

  ‘They were local policemen actually.’ Coutts sounded weary. ‘They killed them.’

  He did not elaborate.

  Crespin would have liked to turn the ship and go in stern first. It would have made a better chance for a quick exit. But there was neither time nor room, and with the sudden offshore current as well as the swell to contend with he headed straight for the pier. There was to be no second chance, and in spite of the massed fenders and coils of stout rope hanging along her side to withstand the shock of impact he was almost thrown from his feet as the hull lifted and then ground down on to the wooden piles of the pier.

  There seemed to be dozens of people on the pier, all armed to the teeth, and hindering rather than helping as they collided with hurrying seamen and mooring wires, and then with the marines, who like an unpenned flood clattered over the rail and then surged towards the land with hardly a glance at the pitching ship which had brought them this far.

  Coutts pulled out a Lüger and swung it carelessly in his hand. ‘I’ll go with Major Cameron and act as interpreter and so forth. The marines tend to be a bit possessive when it comes to acts of daring. We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding between them and our new-found allies, would we?’

  Crespin watched the three figures scurrying after the rest of the raiding party. It was all so ridiculously casual and easy, yet here was the ship. Moored alongside an enemy pier within thirty miles of a German military outpost. To say nothing of what might be out on the roads.

  Wemyss interrupted his thoughts. ‘It’s damn peaceful, sir.’

  Crespin looked over the screen. Apart from a few seamen standing by each mooring wire the pier was deserted.

  ‘According to Cameron’s schedule that situation is about to be changed, Number One.’ He was startled by the sound of his own voice. Cool, able to joke about it. It was strange how this madness got into you.

  There was a violent explosion, the echoes of which rumbled around the invisible hills behind the inlet as if some ghostly battery was already opening fire.

  Wemyss breathed out sharply. ‘That’ll be the railway line going up. The telephone wires’ll be buzzing any minute now!’

  Two more savage explosions followed in quick succession, the last one bringing a dull red glow which lit up the side of a nearby hill and brought the tang of scorched wood on the wind.

  Crespin thought of the unfortunate Italian policemen. The partisans had probably cut their throats as they slept. Cameron would be annoyed when he found out about that, he thought. Not because he had a spark of
feeling for the enemy, but because the partisans had wasted a valuable method of spreading panic. They could have released them after the raid, and in their eagerness to cover their own incompetence as St. Martino’s guardians they would be sure to exaggerate the size of the attacking forces.

  A rattle of automatic fire crackled around the hills, followed by sharp, thudding detonations as the marines brought their mortars into play. They would be bombarding the bridge above the inlet now. The vital bridge which linked the rough coast road to Trapani, and along which the first enemy troops might come.

  Crespin found time to think of the poor inhabitants of this dismal place. In peacetime they were preyed on by bandits and bullied by an unfeeling authority which found it necessary to make them more afraid of them than of the men they hunted. They probably paid some sort of unlawful tax from their meagre living to the local Mafia, and were always caught between the warring factions no matter what they did. Came the war, and with it the troops and more harsh regulations which they would barely understand. Finally came the Germans. The latter might bring law and order for the first time in years, but the price was higher than threats or taxes.

  The explosions were more varied and almost constant now as the marines scampered from one act of demolition to the next. Railway track, junction boxes and storage sheds were being blasted skyward with far more explosive than was really necessary. In one place about a mile along the coast road some of the gorse and bracken had been set alight, and from the ship they could see the dense black smoke streaming across the dancing flames in an unbroken plume.

  Petty Officer Dunbar appeared on the bridge. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  Crespin did not lower his glasses. ‘Yes. Set the demolition charges along the inner end of the pier. We’ll blow it as we pull out.’

  He heard Dunbar hurrying away calling names into the darkness. Blowing up the pier would not make much difference, but it all helped to keep his men from wondering about what would happen when daylight came. It was amazing how excited they seemed now that the raid was in progress. Gunners called to one another, reporting the various explosions, airing their knowledge on ranges and the extent of each piece of destruction. It was more like a regatta than a serious raid.

  It was nearly an hour before they heard aircraft approaching from the east. As the guns lifted skyward to track the invisible planes Crespin guessed that they were from the other side of the island, probably from Catania itself where a big buildup of enemy bombers and fighters had already been reported by aerial reconnaissance. Well, it was a start.

  It must make an impressive picture from the air, he thought grimly. Scattered fires and smoke which must appear all the more damaging in the strong wind.

  Once an aircraft dived down low across the inlet itself, and Crespin could imagine the pilot straining his eyes into the darkness, searching for signs of an invasion fleet. Seeing none, and not being fired on from the sea, would most likely make him suspect that the enemy had made a landing in force with parachutists and gliders. Either way his report would soon reach the rudely awakened staff at his base, and the wheels would begin to turn. Whatever the purpose of this raid proved to be, it could not be overlooked, just as it would not be assumed to be a major invasion. Again Crespin found himself agreeing with Scarlett. The Germans would no doubt isolate the headland, the whole bay if necessary, and await the daylight, when they could mop up the impudent invaders at leisure. But to do this they would have to move men and tanks, which right at this moment in time were worth far more in the south where sandy beaches and gentler terrain would soon ring to the clamour of an Allied invasion.

  Boots thudded along the pier and two marines climbed on to the bridge breathless and sweating from exertion. One was the young lieutenant who had been at the receiving end of Cameron’s sarcasm.

  He said, ‘We’ve got all our objectives, sir, but things are getting out of hand with the bloody partisans.’ He took another deep breath. ‘It seems that there are two factions. One lot are bandits, and the others are a Communist group from surrounding villages. The Communists are okay at the moment, but the other mad bastards are all for striking further south-east to the other end of the bay. It’s something to do with the mayor there, a matter of honour, or some such rubbish.’ He turned to his orderly who was already setting up a portable radio. ‘Our lads on the headland caught a lorryload of Eye-tie infantry in their crossfire, but it’s pretty safe from that end.’ He opened his map and flashed a shaded torch across it. ‘The real problem is the main coast road from Palermo. Without the partisans to back us up we’ll never hold it once the armour comes for us.’

  The radio crackled at their feet. ‘Hello, this is Tango. Do you read me? Over.’

  There was no mistaking Cameron’s terse voice or his obvious anger.

  Crespin took the handset from the marine. ‘This is Harlequin. Receiving you loud and clear. Over.’

  Cameron said, ‘So he got there all right, did he?’ Crespin felt the marine lieutenant tense at his side. ‘Well, listen to me. We can hear tanks coming down the road. Can’t say how many, but could be a dozen or more. The road surface is quite good, so they’ll be up to us in about fifteen minutes. Can’t hold ’em with mortars, so I want a bit of artillery support.’ There was a rush of static, or it could have been Cameron chuckling, ‘Try a sighting shot on the road. We can give you spotting orders from this hill. God, and what a hill! Like a bloody bobsleigh run!’

  The marine lieutenant said quietly, ‘The place where the road comes down to the bay is about four miles off your port beam, sir.’

  Cameron spoke again. ‘Well, can you do it?’

  Crespin said, ‘Right away.’ He stood up and ran to the forepart of the bridge. Below the screen he could see Shannon’s white cap cover and his crew standing idly around the four-inch.

  ‘Load with H.E., Sub! We’ve got a spotting team aboard and another above the coast road!’ He did not wait for a reply but added to the watching marines, ‘Carry on, Lieutenant. I can’t see it’ll be much help, but do what you can.’

  The marine grinned. ‘When you’ve got nothing, sir, anything’s a help!’ Then he ran for the ladder and disappeared towards the forecastle. Fifteen seconds later the four-inch crashed out like a thunderclap, the shell ripping across the black water like tearing silk.

  Drifting smoke hid the explosion but the marine looked up from his radio and said, ‘Short, sir! Up five hundred!’

  And so it went on, with the gun banging out at regular intervals and the various changes of range and bearing coming back just as smoothly.

  Once Cameron broke radio silence to say that one shell had started a miniature landslide and some of the tanks were held up beyond it. But four, maybe five were already through and on their way towards the inlet.

  Crespin peered at his watch. It was only one o’clock. He shook the watch angrily, but it was not lying. It did not seem possible that so little time had passed since he had conned the ship alongside the pier. And there were still two hours at least before he could consider making a withdrawal.

  A searing white flare burst above one of the hills, and Crespin saw the high cliffs, the grim hostility of the surroundings for the first time.

  A long orange tongue licked out of the smoke and a shell screamed over the pier, making the waiting seamen fall flat on their faces. The flare was dying, but Crespin had already seen the low, squat shape rounding the bend of the road, its long gun muzzle swinging and then settling on its target.

  Crespin crossed the bridge in three strides. ‘Port Oerlikons open fire! There’s a tank a red four-five!’ He winced as another shell shrieked overhead to explode in the cliffs beyond the pier. All hell broke loose as the Oerlikons jerked into life, the bright tracers smashing through sheds and cottages alike until with a roar some of them found and held the tank in a vortex of bursting cannon-shells. A great tongue of red flame licked out of the turret, against which Crespin could just make out a solitary, writhing shape before it fe
ll back again into the tank’s blazing interior. But another tank was already thrusting its ugly snout round the bend, the gun firing as it moved. To avoid its blazing consort it mounted the side of the road, gouging into a small dwelling house and smashing it into rubble with the ease of a man demolishing a child’s sandcastle.

  Crespin yelled, ‘Tell the four-inch to shift target! If those tanks get down here we’re finished!’

  He felt the deck jump beneath him, the scream and whine of splinters as a shell exploded against the hull. He heard Shannon yell, ‘Shoot!’

  Seconds later the four-inch shell slammed into the fallen building, setting it alight and hurling pieces of stone and wood into the air like leaves in a wind. Figures were running across the road, outlined against the flames, bent double with desperate urgency as the tank slewed around the side of the road towards them. Partisans or marines, it was impossible to tell, but before they could reach the next huddle of buildings the tracers came from the tank’s machine-guns, streaking across the smoke and rubble and cutting down the running figures like puppets. Some were only wounded, and Crespin turned away as the tank rolled across them, grinding them into pulp.

  The next shell caught the tank squarely in the side. There was a bright flash and a black object flew into the air, shining in the billowing flames before dropping back on to the roadway. It was the tank’s gun-turret. Shannon was yelling at his men to reload, and as the drifting flare died on the hillside Crespin saw Porteous gripping the guardrail, his eyes fixed on the blazing litter of tanks and buildings as if he was mesmerized.

  The marine at the radio said, ‘First wounded coming back, sir.’

  Crespin pulled his mind away from the burning tanks. ‘Tell Lennox to take his stretcher party along the pier at the double!’ To Wemyss he added, ‘The other tanks will think twice about coming down here now!’

  The glass screen shivered to fragments and one of the bridge lookouts fell back clutching his wrist. From aft an Oerlikon began to fire long bursts of tracer towards the hillside, but Crespin shouted, ‘He’s wasting his time! That was a sniper. The Jerries must be pushing infantry around the top of the inlet.’ Another heavy bullet slammed against the bridge and ricocheted viciously into the darkness. Crespin watched the wounded man being helped down the ladder and snapped, ‘Tell Lennox to put the wounded in the wardroom. There’ll be more room for them.’