Authors: Douglas Reeman
They all craned forward, their faces shining with sweat in the solitary deckhead light.
The port of Nestore looked for all the world like a large pouch, with the narrowest part at the southern end, an entrance barely a quarter of a mile across.
Marshall said, ‘We know there’s a boom here,’ he reached out with some brass dividers, ‘controlled by a single vessel which opens and closes it as required. The left side of the port as you enter is almost sheer, and to the right, where the main fishing village once stood, the land has been cleared.’ He tapped the small coloured circles. ‘Pillboxes have been constructed to give a good field of fire, although I doubt if they ever expected to use them.’
‘We’ll soon alter that!’ The young marine lieutenant who had spoken fell silent under his captain’s withering stare.
Marshall smiled. ‘It may not come to a pitched battle.’
Captain Lambert said worriedly, ‘If you can’t drop the cockles clear of the land, we will have to halve the time of disembarking if we’re to escape attention.’
‘Yes. I shall surface and lower the cockles as close to the boom as I can get.’
They had had a brief run-through the method of unloading two days earlier and one unpleasant fact had come to light. The cockles on their own were very light and easy to handle. But loaded with explosives, weapons and demolition gear they would break up if an attempt to slide them outboard was made in bad weather. Buck had come up with a simple solution. The submarine’s deck gun would be used as a derrick to sway them over the side. He had devised a wooden spar, to be lashed to the gun barrel like a bayonet, which with block and tackle secured at the end would make a fairly reliable crane. When someone had voiced a doubt, Lambert had snapped, ‘It’s all we’ve got, so let’s get our fingers out, eh?’
Devereaux asked, ‘What about the patrols, sir?’
‘We know about some of them, and yesterday we were able to time one of the local boats.’ He smiled. ‘I think they must have German advisers aboard, if not crews. They are regular and precise, and therefore predictable.’ He added sharply, ‘However, we take nothing for granted.’
He looked at Simeon. ‘Over to you.’
It was strange how they had managed to avoid each other, except on matters of duty.
Simeon yawned. ‘The object of the exercise is to destroy and delay. But we must make sure the enemy is not triggered off into realising our main intention. That is, to deny immediate support to his forces in Sicily.’ He reached over and took the dividers. ‘There is a railway which runs north-east across Italy to Bari, the port from which supplies are being sent to Greece and Yugoslavia. An obvious target if we really were going to invade by that route. Captain Lambert will lead half the landing force and carry out demolition. I will take the other party, and with Lieutenant Smith will do our bit above the village itself.’ His eyes flickered towards Marshall. ‘And our commander here will of course attack the main loading jetty and so forth at the top of the harbour. It is a concrete bunker construction which enables the bombs to be loaded aboard ship without ever appearing above ground until that moment.’ His eyes did not flicker as he added, ‘The engineer, Travis, stated that the construction is formidable, but once brought down would block the whole installation for weeks, maybe longer.’
Lambert said, ‘I think we’re all buttoned up then.’ He plucked at his moustache, ‘Should be interesting.’
Marshall looked at his watch. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.
‘It’s mostly a matter of tuning. The nearest German garrison of any size is sixteen miles north-east of the port, at Lagonegro, so bearing that in mind we have three vital points.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘First, the coastal patrols. Second, the boom and the inner harbour patrol, one boat to all accounts. Finally, how soon or late the port defenders will be alerted and thereby call for inland support.’ He smiled at their strained faces. ‘Any comments?’
Warwick asked, ‘Couldn’t we cut the boom and slip through undetected, sir?’
‘Afraid not, Sub. The port is only dredged for coasters and medium sized ships.’
Devereaux added wearily, ‘About six fathoms.’
Buck rubbed his hands noisily, ‘It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.’
Marshall nodded. ‘We will approach the boom at the arranged time. Fire our fish into the top of the harbour, and then drift off the landing parties who, with luck will have created their own sort of pandemonium by then.’
Simeon stood up and stretched. ‘And that is your set plan of attack?’ It sounded like an accusation.
Their eyes met again. ‘It is.’ A pause. ‘Would you care to offer an alternative?’
Simeon brushed some dust from his sleeve. ‘Me? Certainly not. Wouldn’t think of it.’ He glanced at him over the table, a smile on his lips. ‘Your plan alone.
Your
responsibility, eh?’
Marshall smiled back at him. ‘That’s right.’
He folded the plan and added, ‘We’ll go to action stations in four hours. German uniforms and equipment will then be issued, but prior to that moment I want everyone to have a good meal. See to that for me.’
The meeting started to break up.
The captain of marines adjusted his watch and remarked calmly, ‘We go in tomorrow morning as planned.
Splendid
.’
Buck grinned. ‘Sunday. Day of rest!’
Marshall walked out towards the control room with Frenzel beside him.
The latter said quietly, ‘Pity we can’t bash ’em in the dark.’
‘I know. But it’s already cutting things fine. Our chaps would be more hampered at night than the enemy.’
Marshall was still beside the chart table when Buck reported that his arrangements were complete, the crew and landing parties had been fed and fully detailed on their particular parts of the raid.
‘Thank you.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Silent routine throughout the boat as before.’ He looked at Gerrard’s bent back. ‘Watch your trim, Number One. Wait until the marines have settled down before you blow any ballast.’
More minutes passed, and he could feel the sweat running down his spine and gathering above his waistband like ice-rime.
Frenzel reported, ‘All systems checked, sir.’
‘Very well.’
He looked at the gauges. They were still running deep, the hull almost motionless but for an occasional tremble.
‘Ready, Number One?’ He tried to discover what Gerrard was thinking. How he was taking it.
‘Just a few minutes, sir.’ He was watching the senior Asdic operator.
The man called, ‘No H.E., sir.’ He gestured to the
clock
. ‘Next patrol should be due in about twenty minutes more or less.’
Cool, casual, almost indifferent.
Gerrard said, ‘Ready now, sir.’
‘Take her up to twenty metres.’ He watched Frenzel’s hands moving, the stoker by his side making notes on a pad.
Long before the submarine had glided up to the ordered level Marshall could feel the growing motion. A pencil rolled from the table, and he saw Blythe put out his hand to steady himself as the deck yawned uneasily.
‘Twenty metres, sir.’ Gerrard gripped the helmsman’s chairback and peered at the tell-tales. ‘Bad cross current.’
Devereaux snapped, ‘More than that, I’d have thought!’
‘Still no H.E., sir.’
‘Good.’ Marshall rubbed his palms on his shirt. They were wet with sweat. ‘Periscope depth.’
He waited, counting seconds, hearing Gerrard’s voice again and again as he ordered the trim to be adjusted. The motion was getting very bad, with the hull floundering so badly he thought it might even break surface.
‘Up periscope.’
He slammed down the handles, holding tight while the periscope seemed to swing against and then away from him to the violent motion.
For a while he could see nothing but bursting spray and the curling edge of a long breaker. Then, as the periscope edged cautiously to its full extent he saw the banks of low cloud, a panorama of small, steep whitecaps which cruised towards him like a vicious, bobbing army.
He steadied the handles and flicked the lens to full power. Between the spindrift he saw the first sight of the coast, seemingly low down because of the angry sea. There
was
still some sunlight, but well inland, playing across the hillsides, and blinking faintly on someone’s windows.
‘Faint H.E. to starboard, sir.’
He swung the handles and tried to see the other vessel. By rights it should be well clear, on the first leg of a rectangular patrol. There was nothing in sight, and it was unlikely they would detect a submarine even if the range closed, in all this confusion. The periscope too would be just one more feather of spray should an aircraft come snooping through the low clouds.
He heard someone give a nervous laugh, and guessed that many of those nearby were watching him intently. Trying to see their future in the gleam reflected in his eye.
Marshall tensed as a shaft of watery sunlight probed down towards the coast.
There it was. In the evening light the port entrance was a blur of blue/grey, but he could see the faint silhouette of a moored ship. The boom vessel. And beyond her the narrow harbour, jumbled and indistinct. He imgained he could see something pale at the far end, but could not be certain. But it could be the first outcrop of massive concrete which protected the jetty and the underground bunkers.
‘Down periscope.’ He straightened his back and saw Simeon watching him from the opposite end of the control room. ‘We’re on station.’
‘H.E.’s fading, sir.’
The patrol boat’s commander would be cursing the weather, the discomfort, the stupidity of his German allies who insisted on such unnecessary regularity.
Marshall rested his spine against the table. He could feel his legs quivering. As if he had been running.
‘We’ll give the patrol half an hour and then resume our original position and depth.’ He glanced at Captain Lambert, already a stranger in his Afrika Korps uniform. ‘I shall close the land as soon after midnight as I can. We will take it from there.’
Lambert, who had been checking his Luger, jammed it back in his holster and said quietly, ‘And tomorrow.…’
Marshall did not hear the rest. He was thinking of the moment when she had said
tomorrow
.
He turned towards the chart and gripped the vibrating table with all his strength. Please God there might still be a tomorrow for all of them.
MARSHALL WEDGED HIS
elbows painfully against the bridge screen and levelled his glasses towards the land. The weather was bad, and with a following sea it felt as if the hull was already getting out of control. While the conning-tower swayed dizzily through a steep arc, the gratings under his straddled legs shuddered repeatedly as Gerrard used both screws to assist the helm.
Blythe shouted above the tumult of spray and wind, ‘All clear on Asdic, sir!’ He spluttered as a wave exploded over the bridge. ‘
Hell
, what a night!’
Marshall said, ‘Tell Number One to raise her to full buoyancy.’ He watched a solitary star amongst the cruising clouds before it vanished again. ‘Open the main hatch.’
They had been surfaced for ten minutes. It seemed like an hour. He peered across the bows, seeing the lively ranks of white horses surging ahead towards the hidden land. If they could get the cockles in the water without mishap the wind might at least help them reach the shore without so much effort.
He made up his mind. ‘First landing party prepare to move off.’
The forward hatch scraped noisily, and he saw groping figures emerging like spectres from a tomb.
Warwick and his gun crew were already on deck, and he beard Buck’s harsh voice yelling instructions when the
first
of the little boats was hauled towards the makeshift crane.
From aft came more thumps and bangs as the pressure-tight compartments were flung open.
Captain Lambert joined him by the screen and shouted, ‘I’m off then.’ He staggered towards the ladder. ‘Submarines! You can keep ’em!’
Marshall smiled. ‘Tell control room to hold down the revs as much as they can. The first boats will be going at any second.’
He craned over to watch as Warwick’s crew trained the gun slowly over the side, one small cockle, complete with occupants and weapons, dangling from the tackle like an overloaded basket.
Buck snarled, ‘Easy on the fore-guy! Lower away, lads!’
The cockle touched the tossing water almost shyly, and in a second was free and away, the paddles glinting as the marines took it clear of the U-boat’s lee.
‘Next!’ Buck was clinging to the guardrail, his body black above the wave crests. ‘Hook on. Take in the slack. Ready. Lower away!’
Blythe whispered, ‘Come on, you bloody bootnecks! Let’s get the hell out of here!’
A lookout shouted, ‘Light, sir! Starboard bow!’
But it was gone almost before the others had found it. It was miles away. Probably inside the harbour. Guard-boat. Or some careless soldier with a handlamp.
‘Carry on.’ Marshall tried to relax. To remember if he had overlooked anything.
‘Number Three cockle clear, sir.’ Blythe added, ‘Two to go.’
The little canoes were paddling rapidly out of sight. A
well
trained team. Lambert had remarked just before they had surfaced, ‘If we’re caught, the very worst they can do is shoot us for wearing
their
uniforms!’
Marshall had thought of the dead major in the police post. The naked girl spreadeagled on the table.
The worst they could do
. But he had said nothing. Lambert was no fool, despite his apparent calm. He was the best available.
A chorus of shouts and curses made him jerk round.
Blythe exclaimed, ‘Number Four’s ditched, sir!’
The canoe was already sinking under its weight of equipment, and the gasping marines were floundering against the hull, groping for Buck’s heaving lines.
‘Get Number Five on the tackles!’
Marshall said, ‘Lambert has allowed for this sort of thing. He could lose most of his men before they even touch land.’
Blythe gave a great sigh. ‘She’s clear, sir. There they go. Paddles flying like bottles in the fleet canteen.’