To Risks Unknown Page 7

That first night in Sousse the soldiers and their four sausage-like inflatable rafts had come aboard without warning or ceremony, materializing out of the burned-out freighter alongside almost before a startled quartermaster could call a challenge. They were very professional looking, with the quiet, dangerous appearance of men who had spent much time doing this sort of thing, who needed no advice on how to go about it.

  The next morning the Thistle had sailed, outwardly at least as extra escort to a small eastbound convoy, and then under cover of darkness she had turned north and increased speed, alone once more.

  Crespin had seen little of Scarlett, who had spent most of his time in close consultation with Major Barnaby or sleeping in Crespin’s unused cabin. When he did see him he always looked cheerful and unruffled, and his general appearance of confidence seemed to have transmitted itself to everyone aboard. How much of it was bluff, Crespin did not know, but if Scarlett had nothing else he certainly had charm, and he used it expertly.

  He heard feet moving on the gratings and when he turned he saw Scarlett and the two army officers groping their way around the side of the bridge. Against the night sky the two soldiers appeared to be headless, and then he realized that both men had blackened their faces.

  Scarlett breathed out loudly and said, ‘A damn good night for it.’ Then he glanced at Crespin. ‘How long now?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, sir. I have passed the word for the rafts to be ready for lowering.’

  Scarlett peered at his watch. ‘Running late. We’ll get cracking now.’ He did not wait for any comment but turned to the soldiers. ‘All right with you, Barnaby?’ He could have been discussing a cricket score.

  The major nodded. ‘I’m not bothered. There’s no wind so it should take us about thirty minutes to paddle ashore.’ He nudged the lieutenant who walked away without a word. ‘I hope our chap in Pantelleria is there to meet us.’

  Scarlett’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. ‘He’d better be!’

  Wemyss clambered on to the bridge. ‘All ready, sir.’

  Scarlett said dryly, ‘Well, Number One, we got here without any fuss, didn’t we?’

  Wemyss replied calmly, ‘It may be noisier on the outward passage, sir.’

  Crespin broke in, ‘Tell the chief bosun’s mate to rig some more fenders alongside. We must cut down noise as much as possible.’ He knew Wemyss would have attended to it already, but he also knew that he had to be kept away from Scarlett at this moment. Scarlett seemed to enjoy prodding at Wemyss’ caution, but it could break into something unpleasant and unmendable.

  Scarlett watched the first lieutenant stride away and then remarked, ‘He’s a good man, you say?’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Well, I suppose you should know, eh?’

  A tall sergeant peered over the bridge coaming, his eyes like small lamps in his black face. ‘Mr. Muir says we’re ready to go, sir.’

  Like the rest of the soldiers the sergeant made a formidable sight. On his head he wore a rough stocking-type hat, and his body was hung around with ammunition pouches, grenades and a lethal looking commando dagger, while across his shoulder he carried a Thompson sub-machine-gun with the easy familiarity of an old friend. All the soldiers wore rubber-soled shoes, and Crespin almost pitied the first dozing enemy sentry to be awakened by one of them. He would not have very long to think about it, that was certain.

  Barnaby touched his small moustache and stared at Crespin. ‘Pick us up if you can, Captain. But don’t hang about. It’ll be rough when the balloon goes up.’ He chuckled. ‘And go up it will, to an unprecedented height, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Then he was gone.

  Crespin moved to the voice-pipes. ‘Stop engine!’

  The deck gave a small shudder and then began to sway gently as the ship idled aimlessly across the offshore current. From aft there came a few splashes and one small scrape of metal, but nothing more.

  The rating at the quarterdeck telephone looked up. ‘All clear aft, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Crespin felt ice cold. It was too easy. ‘Slow ahead. Port fifteen.’ To Scarlett he added quietly, ‘That Major’s a cool customer.’

  Scarlett heaved himself into the steel chair. ‘Doing his job.’ He sounded almost disinterested. Then he said, ‘Take the ship to the nor’-east. If Barnaby gets ashore without trouble he’ll be in position by 0200 and we can make the pickup an hour later.’ He ran his fingers along the screen. ‘As you know, there’s an air strike laid on to get the Eye-ties on the jump, and in the general confusion Barnaby ought to be able to get clear.’

  Crespin studied his pale outline, noting the change in his attitude and tone. Scarlett was not excited, but there was a sort of elation, a brittleness which gave the impression he was only holding himself in check with effort.

  He said slowly, ‘If he runs into trouble before he can get to the rafts we may have to get close inshore, sir.’

  Scarlett’s fingers stopped their little tattoo for just a few seconds. ‘If that happens, Crespin, I shall decide what is best for us to do.’ He turned his head slightly and Crespin saw that he was grinning. ‘I need a lot from you, but advice I can manage without, do you follow me?’

  Crespin opened his mouth and then closed it again. The operation was very important, especially to Scarlett. So there was some justification for his sudden irritation. Yet at the back of his mind he seemed to hear a warning, as if he had seen Scarlett for the first time. As he really was.

  He heard Wemyss moving across the bridge. ‘Everything all right?’

  Wemyss nodded. ‘No trouble, sir. They went off paddling like bloody demons!’

  Crespin glanced at Scarlett’s shoulders. ‘We shall soon know now, one way or the other.’

  The first lieutenant followed his glance and replied quietly, ‘And to think that I believed the Atlantic was rough!’

  Crespin walked to the opposite side of the bridge and lifted his glasses. It was still completely black. No sudden burst of tracer, no alarm flares to break that brooding shadow of land. Things, he reflected, would get a lot rougher before much longer.

  If the slow approach inshore to discharge the small landing party was a test of nerves, the waiting was far worse. With her engine stopped the Thistle lay about a mile clear of the long tentacles of jagged reefs which marked the actual landing place, her hull rolling uncomfortably in a gentle but regular offshore swell which had also managed to swing her beam on to the island. The slow swaying motion meant that regular checks had to be made on loose equipment, ammunition belts and even the discarded cocoa mug which might slide off a ledge and so arouse some sleeping dog ashore that in turn would wake its owner.

  An hour passed and nothing happened to break the eye-straining tension. Scarlett had remained on the bridge chair, rocking with the hull and completely silent. He could have been asleep or so immersed in his thoughts that the mounting strain had somehow passed him by.

  Grespin stood on the port grating and moved his glasses slowly along the screen, covering every yard of mocking darkness. In his mind’s eye he could see his ship, the men at their stations, the blind gun muzzles and the small huddle of figures on the quarterdeck who waited to haul the returning soldiers to safety. Down in the engine room Magot would be squatting with his stokers, his eyes staring at the great dial, waiting to open the throttles and drive the little ship to his captain’s bidding.

  Scarlett broke the silence. ‘What’s the time?’

  Crespin said, ‘A few minutes to two o’clock, sir.’

  Scarlett spread his arms wide and yawned. ‘Things will be starting anytime now.’ He stood up and massaged his legs vigorously. ‘The reservoir is well protected from the air which is why the R.A.F. have drawn a blank in the past. The planes have to make a very low approach and are easy targets for flak.’ He stiffened and held up his hand. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Everyone on the bridge froze. Very faint at first, and then with increasing power like surf on a rocky shore came the murmur of far-off aircraft.

  Scarlett nodd
ed. ‘That will be the little diversion.’

  Across the long expanse of black water Crespin heard the sudden wail of a siren and imagined the enemy gunners running to their weapons, wiping the sleep from their eyes and cursing as they fumbled with shells in the pitch darkness.

  Wemyss said, ‘Let’s hope Major Barnaby’s crowd don’t get caught in the raid.’

  Scarlett half turned and looked at him. ‘The bombers are going for the harbour at the other end of the island. No fear of that.’

  It was strange to stand back as a spectator and watch the next act being played like this, Crespin thought. The bombers droned unhurriedly over the island, their course marked by small, vicious shell-bursts and occasional streams of bright tracer. The latter soon fell quiet, and Crespin guessed that the bombers were content to fly well out of range of small weapons. After all, they had no special target in mind this time.

  Minutes later the bombs started to fall. They were too far away to be seen or heard as individual explosions, but the humid air trembled to a constant grumble like thunder, while the mist beneath the stars flickered and then gleamed more steadily to a pale red glow.

  Scarlett groped for his watch and muttered, ‘Come on, Barnaby! Get your bloody finger out!’

  Crespin was beginning to share his impatience. Barnaby’s raiders must have got to their positions without being seen, but perhaps some unforeseen obstacle had blocked their final approach, or worse, they had got lost in the darkness. Aerial photographs and intelligence reports were all right in their way, but it was something else entirely to be blundering around amidst rocks and bushes, expecting at any second to walk into a hail of bullets.

  And there was not much time. The bombers were only making one sweep before they turned and flew back to Malta. If Barnaby had failed to plant his explosives by the time the raid ended he would find himself in serious trouble.

  He turned his head to watch as a small, arrow-shaped flame moved slowly away from the black hump of land, like some earthbound comet, to glide above its own reflection until both were joined and instantly extinguished.

  Leading Signalman Griffin murmured, ‘One of the bombers has gone for a Burton, sir.’

  Crespin saw Scarlett twist round, an angry retort probably forming on his lips, when all at once his whole face lit up and the glass screen by his side shone with sudden brightness, so that for a few more seconds Crespin imagined a second aircraft had plummeted alongside and exploded.

  When he looked abeam he saw a great tongue of fire, deep red like blood, which seemed to shoot straight up from the very top of the island. Then the explosion reached the ship, preceded by a great surge of warm air, and the ship trembled violently in its path.

  Scarlett yelled, ‘They’ve done it! They’ve blown the water supply!’

  Caution was momentarily forgotten as voices passed the news along the gun positions and to the men below decks. Someone was laughing, and another sound came up the wheelhouse voice-pipe. It was Joicey humming a little tune which seemed all the more macabre because of the angry glow from the shore.

  Scarlett said, ‘Give them ten minutes and then head for the pickup. There’ll be so much bloody chaos ashore I shouldn’t wonder if Barnaby gets back without losing a man.’

  Crespin nodded and moved to the voice-pipes. That was quite likely. Sentries, who seconds before had been watching the impartial havoc across the distant harbour would certainly be unprepared for the sudden collapse of the great dammed mass of water.

  The picture faded from his mind as a voice-pipe intoned, ‘Radar … bridge!’

  Wemyss bent over the tube. ‘Bridge.’

  It was Willis, the new Leading Radar Mechanic who had joined the ship with the additional equipment.

  ‘I’m getting a strange echo about four miles astern, sir.’ In the sudden and oppressive silence his words boomed around the bridge. ‘I thought it was one of those back-echoes from the shore.’

  He faltered and then said firmly, ‘Would you have a look on your repeater, sir?’

  Crespin lowered his head into the small hood around the repeater screen. Behind him he heard Scarlett say savagely, ‘Why in hell’s name didn’t he see it earlier?’

  For a while he saw nothing new on the dancing mirage of luminous weeds. Then he held his breath. Willis was right. Dead astern there was something. It was motionless and seemed to be almost rectangular, although the shape was hard to fix in the strange flickering light from the screen. But whatever it was, it was too far out to be part of any land.

  He snapped, ‘What do you think it is, Willis?’ He knew the operator was a well-trained man. He must have heard Scarlett’s angry comment and might keep silent when he was most needed.

  Willis replied, ‘It’s not very large, sir. But whatever it is, it must have come around the headland,’ he paused, ‘and then stopped where it is.’

  Scarlett said, ‘Are we going to stand here all bloody night?’

  Crespin looked at him. ‘Willis is right, sir. What bothers me is the speed at which it, or they, got to that position.’

  A bridge lookout called, ‘Flare, sir! Port beam!’

  A pear-shaped green light hung above the glowing fire on the island and then dipped slowly behind a ridge of hills.

  Scarlett said softly, ‘Well, the enemy’s on to Barnaby by the look of it.’ He swung round violently. ‘Did you say “or they”? I thought there was only one echo!’

  Crespin replied calmly, ‘Could be two ships alongside each other.’

  Willis’s tinny voice broke in excitedly, ‘That must be it, sir! One vessel a bit larger than the other, and both stopped!’

  Crespin peered at his watch. It would take all of thirty minutes to find Barnaby, even supposing he had managed to get clear. By that time the unidentified ships, whatever they were, would realize what was happening, and pinned against the reefs with the island behind her Thistle would be a sitting target.

  ‘So much for your bloody radar!’ Scarlett was showing his anger.

  And so much for your damned intelligence reports! Aloud Crespin said, ‘We will have to engage them, sir.’

  Scarlett peered over the screen as two small explosions blossomed briefly against the black wall of cliff. ‘Grenades,’ he said. Then he looked towards Crespin and added, ‘In your opinion we should attack them before we go in for Barnaby?’

  It was surprising how calm Crespin felt. His limbs were completely relaxed and his breathing seemed quite normal. It was a kind of latent madness, biding its time, waiting until… he stopped his mind from going further and snapped, ‘It is my considered opinion!’

  Scarlett seemed more composed again. ‘Very well. But if you’re wrong we may have to leave Barnaby to swim home.’

  And if we’re sunk trying to pick up the soldiers, what then? Crespin replied, ‘I don’t see any alternative, sir.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Scarlett climbed on to the chair. ‘It’s your responsibility.’

  Crespin smiled at Scarlett’s back. There was never much doubt about that.

  He shut the possibility of failure and recriminations from his thoughts. ‘All engine orders will be passed by voice-pipe, Number One. The telegraph can be heard for miles at night.’ It was an exaggeration, but probably necessary. ‘And pass the word to all positions to be ready to open fire instantly.’

  Wemyss was standing very still, his body rising and falling easily with the deck.

  Crespin added, ‘Then tell Porteous to prepare for a depth-charge attack. Minimum settings, right?’

  Wemyss faltered. ‘It’s risky, sir. Might blow the stern off.’

  ‘Have you never dropped a charge at minimum depth setting before?’

  Wemyss seemed to shrug. ‘Once, sir. That was an accident.’

  ‘And the stern is still attached.’ Crespin turned away as more dull explosions echoed across the water.

  He had committed himself and the ship. It was final. He felt his breathing getting faster. That was better. It was dangerous to
be too relaxed and cocksure.

  ‘Slow ahead.’ There was an answering flurry of foam from aft. ‘Hard aport!’

  Joicey’s answer seemed very close. ‘Engine slow ahead, sir. Thirty-five of port wheel on!’

  Crespin had his face inches from the ticking gyro. Round and further round, until it looked as if the bows were already touching that black wall of cliffs. How deceptive it was, but a quick glance at the radar repeater told him that the reefs were not so distant, and when she completed her turn the ship would be less than a cable clear. But turning towards the open sea would be too dangerous. If either of the strange ships carried effective radar they would see the corvette instantly. This way ensured that the back-echoes from the land would help the labouring Thistle, as they had once deceived her.

  Willis again. ‘Radar … bridge. Both echoes still in position, sir. No change.’

  Crespin felt the sweat running beneath his cap and splashing across the back of his hand.

  ‘Midships! Steady!’ Between his teeth he added, ‘Tell Shannon that the target is dead ahead and to stand by to fire star-shell.’

  Joicey sounded completely engrossed. ‘Steady, sir. Course one-nine-zero.’

  Wemyss appeared at his side. ‘I’ve told Shannon, sir.’

  There was a clank of steel from the forecastle and Wemyss swore savagely. ‘Jesus, what the hell is he doing?’

  Crespin ignored him as he stared now at the radar repeater. The jagged shape had turned slightly, perhaps caught in the same offshore current. But suppose it was a false echo? Every swing of the Thistle’s screw was taking her further and further away from the pick-up point, and even now Barnaby might be coughing out his lifeblood, as his own men had once done while they waited to be saved.

  ‘Six thousand yards, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Crespin licked his lips. They felt like dust. He could not wait any longer. At any second he might be seen, and there was still so much to do.

  He heard himself say, ‘Full ahead!’

  Magot must have been waiting like a runner under the starting pistol, for the ship seemed to bound alive as the shaft quivered and sent the screw whirling and seething like a millrace.