To Risks Unknown Page 14

  The firing was getting heavier and closer. Rifles and machine-guns intermingled with the crump of mortars and grenades as hunters and hunted changed places on the steep hillsides and below the remains of the road bridge. Moving on the upper deck was dangerous, too. The hidden marksman was probably firing blind, but every few minutes one of his heavy bullets would clang against the steel or plough into one of the ship’s boats, bringing curses and shouts of alarm from the waiting gunners.

  The marine looked up, his eyes white in another flare. ‘Major Cameron says he’ll have to evacuate his hill in thirty minutes at the outside, sir. He’s lost twenty killed and wounded, and the enemy are working round behind him right now.’

  Crespin nodded. This was bad. If the Germans could take the hill from Cameron there was nothing to stop them using their mortars on the pier and the ship.

  Wemyss seemed to read his thoughts. ‘We’ll be a sitting duck here, sir. The bastards will pound us to scrap once they get zeroed in!’

  Crespin stared at him. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

  He swung round as the marine said tonelessly, ‘Those other partisans have run right into it, sir. The Jerries are cutting them down from two sides at once.’

  Wemyss said savagely, ‘Serve them right! Running off like a lot of bloody commandos!’

  Crespin replied coldly, ‘At least they were doing something!’ To the marine he said, ‘Call up the major and ask him if we can help.’

  There was a long pause and then a new voice replied, ‘We’re pulling out! Can’t hold it any longer!’ There was a pause and they all heard the savage rattle of automatic weapons. The voice continued, ‘This is Lieutenant Price. The major’s had it!’ The set went dead.

  Crespin crossed to the starboard side and watched as the first of the wounded came along the pier. Staggering, hopping or being carried by the sailors, but all looking at the ship as if expecting a miracle. He recalled Cameron’s words. It’s better to be hated. They don’t miss you so much when you get your head shot off! Now he was out there somewhere, lying with most of his small detachment.

  Shannon called, ‘I can’t continue firing, sir. We might hit some of our people!’

  ‘Well, keep shooting on the original bearing! It might make the enemy think we’ve still got something going for us!’ He ducked his head as a bullet fanned his face like a hot wind. He shouted, ‘And be ready to shift target to the road again if the tanks try another attack down here!’

  Wemyss said stubbornly, ‘Major Cameron is dead, sir. You are the senior officer now.’

  Something snapped in Crespin’s mind and he said harshly, ‘What are you asking? Do you want me to pull out and leave these poor devils behind?’ He saw Wemyss’ face, impassive and sad in a drifting flare. ‘Well, I was left to die once, Number One, and I’m not running for you, or anyone else!’

  Tracers stabbed from behind a smoking cottage and some wounded marines scattered feebly before being cut down almost within reach of the pier. The Oerlikons opened fire, the shells clawing away the wall of the building, starting fresh fires and bringing down the sagging roof in a shower of bright sparks. The enemy gun fell silent.

  Wemyss said, ‘I was thinking of you, sir. You have your orders. No one would blame you now.’

  ‘Orders are not meant as a substitute for common sense, Number One! A lot of good men have died tonight, and a lot more will go before we get out of this. So for Christ’s sake let their deaths be to some bloody purpose!’

  There was an abbreviated whistle and a loud bang. It seemed to be right alongside the ship, and as water cascaded across the port side Crespin saw the telltale whirlpool within twenty feet of the bow.

  ‘Mortar!’ He ran to the rear of the bridge. ‘Get the damage control party up forrard at the double!’ He knew Wemyss was still watching him, just as he knew his advice had been right.

  Another mortar bomb exploded in almost the same place, and once again the hull jumped to the onslaught of flying splinters.

  Crespin said between his teeth, ‘Time check!’

  Leading Signalman Griffin replied, ‘Time check, sir. 0230 exactly.’

  Crespin looked at him dazedly. They had done it. In less than half an hour the British and American landing craft would be grinding ashore, and this raid would be a tiny memory, if that.

  He snapped, ‘Signal a recall, Number One! Warn the engine room to stand by!’

  He turned to watch as still more wounded struggled along the pier into the arms of the waiting seamen. A few marines, but this time they were mostly partisans, and in the glare of burning buildings and flares Crespin could see that some of them were wearing makeshift uniforms, all adorned with the red star. Whatever their true reasons, they had fought well, and had the discipline for this kind of war. The main body of the partisans, now dead or captured, had been more used to ambushing solitary lorries or sniping at policemen. Some would remember them as heroes. Most would give a sigh of relief.

  ‘Take over.’ Crespin pushed past Wemyss and ran down the ladder to the side deck. It was about level with the top of the pier, but the uneasy swell was making it hard for some of the wounded to climb across. He seized Porteous’s arm and snapped, ‘Go ashore, Sub! Get these people on board as quickly as you can!’

  Porteous stared at him without recognition and then heaved himself over the guardrail where Lennox was standing amidst a litter of wounded figures yelling instructions to his assistants and anyone else who was fit enough to help.

  A slim figure in a blood-stained shirt and carrying two rifles sank to his knees and almost fell between the piles and the grinding hull of the ship. Porteous caught him and lowered him gently to the rough planks. Now that Crespin had galvanized him into action it seemed as if his mind and hands could not move fast enough. With a sob he tore open the bloodied shirt, searching for the wound, and then rocked back on his heels as his fingers moved over the smooth curved skin underneath.

  ‘It’s a girl!’ He looked back at Crespin. ‘She’s just a young girl!’

  Then he seemed to get hold of himself, and with infinite care he placed a thick field-dressing across the angry wound below the girl’s right breast. Once she opened her eyes and studied Porteous’s intent face for several seconds. He looked up and saw her watching him. Saw her smile directly at him before letting her head fall back again on to the pier.

  Porteous finished fixing the dressing and said gently, ‘There. You’ll be all right now.’

  Lennox hurried past, his white jacket speckled with blood like a butcher’s. He paused at Porteous’s side and then said abruptly, ‘I’m afraid she’s dead, sir.’ Then he ran on after the rest of his helpers.

  Porteous stared down at the girl’s face, unable to move. She was still smiling, but in the flickering glare of the fires he could see that her eyes were without understanding.

  Blindly he staggered to his feet, and as he walked heavily after Lennox and into the drifting smoke Crespin saw there were tears running down his face.

  It was Lennox’s white jacket returning through the smoke which told Crespin that there was no point in waiting any longer.

  How many dead and wounded were still back there on the hillside and beside the road he could not tell. But he had done what he could, and more than was reasonable.

  As a handful of marines came running back along the pier and more mortar bombs exploded in the deep water of the inlet the Thistle sounded her siren. Those who were cut off from the pier would know that there was no point in dying for nothing now. The wounded still lying in the gorse and staring at the indifferent clouds could wait and expect help, even from an enemy.

  ‘Let go forrard!’ Crespin heard the crack of the sniper’s rifle but stayed where he was on the gratings. ‘Let go aft!’

  A seaman on the jetty released the eye of the headrope and then screamed as another bullet from the hidden sniper slammed him down. The crouching men on the forecastle watched with sick horror as they hauled in the wire and saw the
dead seaman being dragged along the pier, one foot still entangled in it. Like so much meat, already without meaning or personality.

  ‘Half astern!’ The screw thrashed eagerly below the counter, and with gathering speed the little ship backed away, leaving the pier and a handful of corpses to settle back into the shadow.

  A tank rumbled around the curve in the road and small figures darted amidst the ruins, lighting up their pitted walls with gunfire as they raced on to the deserted pier.

  Crespin was staring aft, indifferent to the whimpering bullets as he gauged the distance and watched the stern thrusting steadily through the heaving water. Because of this he did not see Dunbar’s demolition charges explode, and when he turned his head there was only a pall of smoke with a glowing red core to show where the ship had once been moored. Of the tank and the running men there was no sign at all. For the tank crew it must have been a quick death, he thought. Straight to the bottom of the inlet.

  ‘Stop engine! Full ahead, starboard twenty!’

  Another mortar bomb threw up a thin column close to the hull, and once more the bridge shook to the splinters. The side must look like a pepper pot, Crespin thought vaguely.

  ‘Midships! Steady!’ He lowered his eyes to the glowing gyro. ‘Steer zero-zero-five!’

  He felt sick and unsteady, but something was still holding him upright, his brain working with the regulated independence of the gyro.

  ‘Report damage and casualties.’ He swung his glasses back over the splintered screen. Isolated fires, almost hidden in the great bank of smoke. But no more shooting. Perhaps even now the same wires which had buzzed with the news of Thistle’s presence were screaming orders, recalling the troops who now stood by the remains of the pier.

  He thought of Cameron and wondered what had become of Coutts, the Grenadier in a goatskin. Dead or captured? Or perhaps already on his way to some new breeding ground of espionage and sudden death.

  Crespin lowered his head to the voice-pipe. ‘Port ten. Midships.’ He could feel the bows rising and falling with a livelier movement as the ship pushed from the protective headland and left the reefs somewhere astern. ‘Steer three-five-zero!’

  His head was getting heavier on his shoulders, and he knew that if he climbed on to his chair he was finished. There was so much to do before daylight. Repairs to the splinter holes, many of which would be below the surface once the ship met with rougher water. Even now he could hear the pumps thudding away to control the seepage. Casualties would have to be accounted for, replacements made for the more valuable men. The dead gave no trouble. They just had to be buried. Back in England there would be more telegrams to disrupt more lives, with perhaps a medal or two to compensate the ones left to remember.

  The Thistle climbed slowly across a steep roller and lifted her tail towards the clouds as she plunged down on the opposite flank. Crespin gripped the voice-pipes and stared at where the horizon should be. Tomorrow might bring some fresh attack to test their battered resources. But at least they were at sea. Away from the land and its stench of burning and death.

  When Wemyss returned to the bridge he found the captain standing in the same place by the broken screen, his body swaying easily with the deck beneath him.

  He said carefully, ‘The W/T office reports that the invasion has started, sir. According to plan.’

  Crespin nodded distantly. ‘Good.’

  ‘Do you think we helped, sir?’

  Crespin turned to face him. ‘I might be able to tell you that in ten years’ time.’ He watched Wemyss pull his list of casualties from his pocket. ‘My guess is that we will never know.’ He listened to the meaningless words and was conscious of Wemyss’ controlled breathing. He thinks I’m a cold, unfeeling bastard. If it was light enough to read that list I would not be able to hold it. My hands are shaking so much that I … He checked his despair and said, ‘I’ll deal with that in a moment. Right now I want to know about the damage to the hull.’

  He saw Cameron clearly. It’s better to be hated….

  Wemyss watched him without expression. You poor bastard, he thought. You’re breaking apart, but you’ll never admit it. Then he cleared his throat and began his report.

  8. The Welcome

  THE THISTLE’S RETURN to Sousse lacked both the stealth and the deception of her departure eight days earlier, and as she crept cautiously towards the same jetty in the sweltering afternoon sunlight it seemed to the weary seamen on her upper deck as if the whole town had turned out to watch.

  Crespin stood at the port wing and watched as the mooring lines sagged, tautened and then took the strain and cradled the ship against the jetty wall.

  ‘Ring off main engine.’ His voice sounded heavy with fatigue, and as he ran his eye around the bridge and forecastle he found himself marvelling at this safe return. There were splinter and bullet holes wherever he looked, and below on the main messdeck the sides of the hull were so punctured there was as much sunlight through them as came through the scuttles. And yet they had made it. In spite of bad weather and the holes along her waterline which at times had almost gained on the desperate efforts of the pumps, they had returned to base as ordered.

  On the morning after the raid the bombers had found them. Three Ju. 88s in tight formation had swept out of the clouds, dodging between shell-bursts and tracer, intent only on the Thistle’s destruction. For thirty minutes the battle had raged without pause, the guns glowing hot as the seamen poured burst after burst into their attackers. But the corvette made a small target and the visibility was poor. But for these points, and the fact that the enemy needed every available aircraft elsewhere above the invasion beaches, the ship would have died there and then. There had been two very near misses, the last shaking the hull so badly that several plates had started and two stokers of the damage control party had been cut to pieces by flying splinters. One of the bombers had been hit, too, and had been last seen heading for land with a greasy trail of smoke to lessen the chance of her ever getting there. The others had followed. They had dropped their bombs and had had enough.

  Surprisingly, there were no more attacks, nor did they see another aircraft until almost within sight of a friendly coast. And then it had been a Catalina, its lamp flashing a welcome and the wings almost brushing the masthead as it dived down to get a better look at the lonely victor.

  Crespin sighed and pushed himself bodily from the rail. He could see the bearded engineer, Moriarty, and a large party of men already hurrying to the brow, while along the jetty a line of khaki ambulances waited patiently to clear the ship of her dead and wounded.

  And the people. It did not look like the same place. They must have been in hiding before, he thought dully, for now the sea road and the town beyond were thronged as if for a public holiday. Shops and cafés were open again, and even the old scars of battle could not hide the fact that Sousse was returning to life.

  Then he saw Scarlett. He was pushing through the cordon of soldiers, waving a greeting here, pausing by a man on a stretcher there to murmur a few words and flash his famous smile before striking on towards the brow.

  Wemyss saluted. ‘Ship secured, sir.’ He was swaying on his feet. Worn out like the rest of them.

  Crespin said, ‘Very well. Go and see Moriarty and give him all the help you can. Thank God the hull’s all right. I don’t imagine the resources around here are exactly up to Portsmouth.’ As Wemyss turned to go he added quietly, ‘And thanks, Number One.’

  Wemyss looked at him, caught off guard. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You did damn well. You all did.’

  Wemyss’ lined features creased into a smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked at the squat funnel, which like so much of the ship was etched with bright-rimmed holes through which little trails of escaping smoke moved unhurriedly skyward. ‘She did pretty good, too, I thought.’ There was genuine affection in his tone.

  Crespin heard Scarlett’s resonant voice below the bridge. ‘All right, are you, my boy? Good show! Damn good show
!’

  He said, ‘And make sure the last of the wounded get away, will you? I imagine I’ll be tied up for a bit.’

  Wemyss nodded and stepped aside as Scarlett heaved himself on to the bridge.

  Crespin said, ‘Mission completed, sir.’ He should have been on the gangway to greet Scarlett, but his mind refused to care. He was half-asleep on his feet and his eyelids felt as if they were gummed together.

  Scarlett returned his salute and gave a huge grin. ‘Bloody good show, Crespin!’ He waved at Wemyss who was trying to slip quietly away. ‘Glad you made it, Number One!’ Then to Crespin he added, ‘What’s the bill?’

  Crespin studied him calmly. ‘The ship lost five killed and ten wounded. The marines have brought back thirty of their wounded.’ He paused, seeing Scarlett nodding with concern or polite interest. ‘They also left seventy-five killed and missing behind.’

  Scarlett rubbed his hands. ‘Better than I’d dared to hope. Pity about Cameron, of course, but it’s all part of the game.’

  Crespin looked past him. Part of the game. It was no game. ‘There’s a good deal of damage to the ship. Mostly splinter holes, although we did get a direct hit from a tank gun on the port side.’

  Scarlett nodded. ‘So I saw, Crespin. So I saw indeed.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘I’ve already formed what I intend to say in my report, and I’m having an official photographer come down to get some pictures of the ship.’ He saw the astonishment on Crespin’s face and added brightly, ‘No time for being coy or hiding the old light, what? It always helps to push a bit in this game, you know. Then when you make a real boob you’ve got something for you in the balance.’ He laughed loudly and waved to some marines who were marching down the brow, their steps dragging, their eyes glazed with strain.