To Risks Unknown Read online

  He said flatly, ‘It’s the Nashorn.’

  Coutts murmured, ‘What do you think?’

  Crespin tried to picture the islands as he had studied them on the chart so many times. ‘She’s doing about eight knots. Our speed is no more than four.’

  Coutts looked away. ‘So that’s it then.’

  Crespin moved the glasses very slightly. The German was altering course already, so that he would pass around the opposite side to his usual patrol. Jutting out from the dark cliffs was the steep spur of headland. In the powerful lenses he could see the fine line of broken water at the foot, around which lay the inlet, and safety. It was pointless even to consider it. The headland was like a magnet, towards which both vessels were being drawn. Even in spite of the German’s massive guns they might still have made it in safety, he thought bitterly. But for the storm and the great weight of passengers they could just have scraped through.

  Soskic spoke at his side. ‘The German will cut off your chance to enter the inlet. You are too much hampered to make up the required speed, yes?’

  Crespin was still watching the other vessel. How strange and menacing she looked with her massive covering of armour. His glasses enabled him to see the false bow wave which had been painted below her anchor. It was an old trick and gave the impression of far greater speed.

  He replied, ‘Something like that.’

  Soskic grunted. ‘As I thought.’ He rapped out an order to one of his men, and when Crespin looked round he saw the tall commandant striding aft, a long knife gleaming in the sunlight.

  Coutts said tightly, ‘He’s going to cut the boats adrift!’ As Crespin made to move after him he caught his arm. ‘Leave him. Don’t take away their pride now. You need that extra speed. Otherwise they’ll all be killed.’

  Soskic reached the taffrail and called something to the nearest boat. Then very deliberately he began to saw through the towrope. As it parted the two boats seemed to fall astern with terrifying speed, their hulls rising on the schooner’s growing wash. Nobody spoke, nor was there any display of emotion or despair. Most of the men in the boats had risen to their feet and merely stood swaying in tight groups. Just watching and saying nothing. As if they were already dead.

  The schooner dug her stern more deeply into the sea as she drove forward unhampered by the tow, and when Crespin at last tore his eyes from the two dwindling shapes he saw that the headland was already creeping out to meet them. There was a bright flash from the Nashorn’s bows and a shell screamed overhead, the shock-wave pressing them down like some physical force. They saw the shell explode far abeam, throwing up a column of broken water and brown smoke. It was a badly aimed shot, and he guessed that the German gunnery officer had been caught out by the sudden change of events. The next shell ripped overhead with the sound of an express train, and another column of water lifted and shone in the sunlight like virgin snow.

  Through his glasses Crespin saw the black line of headland cutting across the Nashorn’s superstructure, the sudden twist of her bow wave as she began to turn seaward and away from the lurking reefs. Then she was hidden completely, and he knew that by the time she had curved right round the entrance to the inlet the schooner would be safe inside.

  Nobody was looking at the entrance any more. Sickened, Crespin lifted the glasses and watched as with methodical care the Nashorn’s gun shifted to the two drifting boats. It was all the more terrible because the enemy ship was still hidden from sight by the headland. In the small, silent picture of his binoculars he saw the water-spouts rising nearer and nearer to the boats. He could see the faces of the partisans, some of which he knew and remembered, their mouths calling to one another as they waited for the end.

  Coutts spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘The bastard is taking his time. He’s playing with them!’

  It was true. The shells seemed to explode all around the boats, playfully, cruelly, until some of the men on the schooner’s deck were openly weeping with anger and despair.

  But as the Nashorn’s ugly bow crept around the headland the game was finished. A shell ploughed alongside the two boats and exploded with a livid orange flash. When the spray and smoke drifted clear there was nothing to be seen. Not a plank or a fragment.

  Then the Nashorn’s siren bellowed across the glittering water and boomed into the inlet like a great howl of triumph. As she steamed across the opening and around the next headland Crespin found that he was shaking so badly that he could hardly hold the glasses.

  ‘You bastard!’ He was oblivious to Coutts and Ross who were watching him. ‘If it’s the last thing I do on God’s earth I’ll get you for what you did!’

  Ross dragged his eyes from Crespin’s strained face and stared towards the end of the inlet. He could see the village; the people were already running down to the water’s edge to see the returning ship.

  ‘Stand by to let go the anchor!’ But even his voice seemed hushed, and in his ears he could still hear that siren, obscene in its petty victory.

  Soskic crossed to Crespin’s side and watched the people thronging the waterfront and the black rocks above the village. Together they saw the others scrambling through the hatch and running to the bulwark as the anchor splashed down into the clear water, letting the joy and the sense of release wash over them, cleansing them, as if to free them from the horror they had left behind.

  Then Soskic said, ‘This was our war until you came. Now, whatever happens, we will know that we are no longer alone. Let the Nashorn’s captain and those like him enjoy their tyranny while they can.’ His voice was taut with suppressed emotion, but still he kept his eyes on some point above the village. ‘In another world or a different time I might find it in my heart to pity them. But there is no more room for compassion. They made sure of that themselves.’

  The first of the small dinghies from the village were alongside and the work of unloading was begun.

  By nightfall the schooner’s deck seemed strangely deserted, and the stream of men, women and children had vanished into the village as if it had never been.

  Outside the inlet the moon cast a pale reflection on the unruffled sea, and at the foot of the forbidding headland a mere handful of charred fragments bobbed amidst the rocks to make the end of a gesture.

  The schooner remained at her anchorage for a full week before Crespin decided to risk trying to leave. There was no doubt in his mind the enemy was fully aware of what had happened, but it was essential they should go on believing the raid and the rescue of the other Yugoslavs from the mainland was solely a partisan affair. If the Germans realized what the schooner’s presence really represented it was unlikely that they would leave any escape route unguarded.

  Every day the Nashorn paid her customary visit, firing a few shells into the hills before continuing her patrol amongst the islands. But now when she passed Gradz she never failed to sound her siren. It was like a taunt, as if to drive the partisans to some act of senseless daring which might place them squarely across her gunsights.

  The small spotter plane made several visits, too, and it was all Crespin could do to prevent the partisans from firing at it with the newly assembled Vierling gun which he had sited above the village. There was only limited ammunition for it, and it was not to be wasted.

  On the seventh night Crespin decided to make a move. The spotter plane had not been over the inlet for two whole days, and it seemed likely the enemy was satisfied that Soskic was still licking his wounds and would be content to stay at arm’s length for a while.

  Their departure was strangely moving, not least because of the silence. As the schooner slipped quietly towards the entrance she was escorted by every available dinghy, each of which was filled to capacity with partisans and their new companions in exile.

  Soskic stayed aboard until the schooner was almost up to the headland. As a dinghy came alongside he joined Crespin beside the rail and held out his hand. ‘When you return we will make some history together.’ He looked towards the moonlit water beyon
d the cliffs adding, ‘Take good care of yourself. You have many miles to go.’

  Crespin thought of the voyage ahead and the uncertainty of what he might find. ‘I will be back.’ He in turn looked round at the place he was leaving behind. The watching people in the boats, their tribute more stirring than if they had paraded a regiment and military band to send the schooner on her way. ‘And I will not forget either.’

  Soskic nodded and threw one leg over the bulwark. He paused and thrust something into Crespin’s hand. ‘To keep that memory alive, my friend!’ Then he was gone, and as Ross stamped his foot on the deck Crespin saw the dinghy bobbing astern on the rising wake before it, too, was swallowed in the shadows below the headland.

  He walked to the binnacle and held the gift against the shaded compass light. It was Soskic’s watch.

  Coutts murmured, ‘Now that really is something.’

  Crespin thrust it into his pocket and turned away. He did not want Coutts or anyone else to see his face at that moment.

  Ross said, ‘Bringing her on course now, sir. West-south-west.’

  When Crespin stared back along the schooner’s pale wake Gradz had vanished.

  Before dawn they had Pelagosa Island abeam, that last lonely point on the chart which marked the centre of the Adriatic between Yugoslavia and Italy, then they turned again and headed south-east, the daylight bringing an empty sky and bare horizons as far as the eye could see.

  Thirty-six hours after leaving Gradz Crespin was dozing in the bright sunlight when Preston shook his arm and announced, ‘Fast surface craft to the south-west, sir! Could be E-boats!’

  Crespin climbed to his feet and saw the others already lining the bulwark, their faces set with tired despair. They had come so far, had seen so much. To be caught now would be too hard to bear.

  But Crespin did not even use his glasses. He dropped one hand on Coutts’ shoulder and said, ‘The war must have moved quite a bit while we’ve been away.’

  Coutts stared at him as if he thought he was suffering from sunstroke or delayed shock.

  Crespin smiled. ‘I’d know that sound anywhere.’

  There were in fact four of them. Two M.T.B.s and two motor gunboats, their ensigns streaming, the black gun muzzles already swinging to cover the little schooner as they swept down on her with a roar of power which brought back so many memories to Crespin.

  A loudhailer barked some attempt at Italian across the narrowing strip of churned water, to be greeted with great shouts of laughter from the schooner’s crew. Coutts was pointing at Crespin, the tears pouring down his cheeks as he tried with sign language to sweep away the last of their deception.

  When one of the boats came alongside Crespin found his hand being pumped delightedly by the M.T.B.’s captain, a face vaguely familiar, but in the mist across his eyes he was no longer sure of anything.

  The man was shouting, ‘Where the hell have you been, John? Christ, I thought it was a ghost.’

  Crespin heard himself say, ‘I never expected to see any of our boats this far up the Adriatic.’

  The officer grinned and pumped his hand even harder. ‘You must have been out of circulation, old chap! My unit is already based in Taranto! We’re right across southern Italy now, from Sicily to Brindisi!’

  Coutts said, ‘We’d better go with them.’

  Crespin nodded. ‘The sooner we get our information to Scarlett the better.’ He saw Ross watching him and nodding in silent agreement. To the grinning M.T.B.’s captain he said, ‘I’m with the Special Squadron now. Can you get us back to base?’

  The officer looked at the battered, listing schooner and said, ‘I’d never have believed this.’ Then he said firmly, ‘Hop aboard. We’re going to Taranto anyway.’

  The farewells were brief but strangely sad. Ross and Preston, the weary motor mechanic, and the rest of the small crew.

  As the boats formed into line and growled noisily across the glittering water Crespin looked astern and watched the little schooner until it was lost from sight.

  He was back now in a world he understood, but when he thought of Gradz and what they had achieved together, he knew that he would not rest until he returned there.

  13. Expendable

  ON THE EVENING of the following day the frigate in which Crespin had obtained passage from Taranto slipped past the protective guns of Malta’s coastal batteries and picked up her moorings. The anchorage was filled with heavy ships, and while Crespin waited impatiently for the accommodation ladder to be lowered he was conscious of the feeling of release, a freedom from fear which these big ships represented. As the Allied line hardened across southern Italy, Malta could at last face each day and night without dread, safe in the knowledge they were no longer in the centre of the enemy’s net.

  The few hours spent in Taranto had left him with a confused picture of a town which appeared glad to be occupied. While he had searched for some suitable naval authority and had composed a signal for Scarlett, he had been aware of the mixed emotions all around him. There seemed to be Italian sailors everywhere, pathetically eager to salute him, to bar his way if necessary until noticed, as if to prove that they at least were not just members of a beaten enemy, but new allies with a common cause. It was as comic as it was sad.

  After sending his despatch he had enjoyed his first bath for over three weeks, resting and dozing in a grand, marble-walled room and letting the water soak into his tired body, like a sensuous embrace. A harassed staff officer had given him a clean shirt, and in spite of the fact he was still wearing the same crumpled battledress in which he had lived and slept since first stepping aboard the schooner, his revival felt complete.

  Coutts, on the other hand, seemed happy to stay as he was, and when they had received authority to take passage aboard a Malta bound frigate he remained unrepentant and indifferent to the wardroom’s obvious disapproval.

  Now, at Crespin’s side, he was puffing at one of his black cheroots and studying the bombed houses above the harbour with something like affection.

  ‘Nice to see the battered old place again. I wonder what Scarlett has been cooking up for us?’

  Crespin watched the frigate’s motor boat casting off the falls and chugging astern towards the ladder. The whole time he had been away he had not thought much about his own command. Now that he was here he could hardly wait to get back aboard.

  He said, ‘I expect he’ll be waiting for a full report.’

  The frigate’s captain climbed down from the bridge and walked stiffly past his busy seamen. He was wearing a stained duffel coat and his eyes were rimmed with fatigue. A typical commanding officer, Crespin thought. The Navy seemed to produce such men without effort, yet to the world at large they were nameless parts to the whole.

  The captain said, ‘Nice to have you aboard. Pity we didn’t get more time to yarn about it all.’ His eyes flickered towards the motor boat, his mind already busy with the hundred and one things waiting to be done before he could retreat to the sanctuary of his cabin.

  Crespin held out his hand. ‘My pleasure.’

  As he ran down the ladder the other captain called after him, ‘And get your smelly friend to take a bath! The wardroom stinks like a goatshed!’

  But he was grinning as the boat cast off and headed up the anchorage.

  Purple shadows were darkening the harbour as they surged past the cruisers and neat trots of moored destroyers, and Crespin found himself looking towards each ship in turn, as if he still could not believe he was back. Just over three weeks, yet it felt as if he had been away from the only life he knew for months.

  Then he saw the Thistle, almost end on and swinging gently at her own isolated buoy. Even in the deepening shadows there was no mistaking her stubby stern, the jaunty rake of her solitary funnel.

  Across the water a voice called, ‘Boat ahoy?’

  The boat’s coxswain cupped his hands. ‘Thistle!’

  Coutts said, ‘You look like a lad with a new toy.’

  Crespin
saw figures gathering at the corvette’s gangway and grinned, ‘I feel like one!’

  The bowman hooked on, and with Coutts slipping and cursing quietly at his heels, Crespin ran up the short ladder to the side deck. In the shaded police light he saw Shannon standing stiffly at attention with the gangway staff by his side, their eyes watching their returning captain with something like awe. The frigate’s boat had already dashed away, but Crespin did not even notice.

  Shannon said awkwardly, ‘Welcome back, sir.’

  Crespin controlled his sudden elation as something in Shannon’s voice sounded a warning. Without speaking he looked around him, and as his eyes probed beyond the little circle of blue light he saw the uneven patches of new paint, some discarded pieces of plating, each pockmarked with telltale splinter holes.

  ‘Has there been an air raid?’ A chill of anxiety moved through him. ‘Where is Number One? Is he all right?’

  Shannon looked uncomfortable. ‘I think you’d better come to the wardroom, sir.’ He glared at the watching seamen who seemed to shrink back into the shadows. ‘It would be easier to explain there.’

  Crespin walked to the ladder, but once they had reached the deck below he caught Shannon’s arm and swung him round.

  ‘I’m waiting for an explanation. From you!’ He knew his voice was unnecessarily harsh, but the sudden sense of foreboding pushed everything else aside.

  Shannon said dully, ‘We returned to harbour two days ago, sir. We’d been sent on patrol to look for a Special Service M.L.’ He dropped his eyes under Crespin’s flat stare. ‘There had been a raid by some commandos, but the M.L. got separated from the group and shot up. We found her all right, but we were jumped by six Ju. 87s. The M.L. was sunk, and we lost five men killed.’