This was the most highly charged moment of the operation -the fragment of time between the setting in motion of the attack and when the guns began. They sat on their kit, their eyes moving constantly and giving the impression that they were listening intently. Every one of them was gripping something, a bamboo assault ladder, a rifle, a pack, their hands unrelaxed and knotted into heavy fists. They didn’t look at their watches because they knew the time only too well and were counting every second.
The tannoy clicked on and eyes lifted to it immediately as though the speaker were there inside the little box where they could hear him breathing.
‘This is the naval padre,’ the disembodied voice came. ‘We are now running in to the coast, and that seems a good reason why we should have a prayer. It’s one that Sir Jacob Astley offered before the Battle of Edgehill and it seems very apt. “Oh, Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me.” Good luck to every one of you.’
That was all and they were grateful that it was no more.
‘Are you religious. Oxshott?’ Sugarwhite asked.
Bradshaw’s head turned. ‘Not really. In any case, I’m not all that sure I’d enjoy Heaven if I went there. It sounds to me a bit like a non-conformist social evening with no beer and the girls determined to hang on to what they’ve got.’
Sugarwhite was silent for a while. ‘I wish I was married,’ he said unexpectedly.
Bradshaw turned and stared at him. ‘In the name of God, why?’ he asked.
‘Oh -’ it was hard for Sugarwhite to put his thoughts into words without feeling embarrassed ‘- you know. All that stuff about Abdul and so on - I’ve never been with a woman in my life.’
Bradshaw nodded. ‘It’s a thing that bothers a lot of men at a time like this,’ he agreed.
As the tannoy had switched off, the main lights had gone out, leaving only the dim secondary bulbs glowing, and Taffy Jones was staring up at them with haggard eyes.
‘Black-out,’ he announced loudly, driven by his mounting terror to say something. ‘Got your carrots?’
On board ML 138, Swann hitched at his straps yet again and felt his buckles for the thousandth time. ‘Stand by, you chaps,’ he said once more. ‘And remember, if you give it everything you’ve got, it’ll be a piece of cake.’
Nobody answered, chiefly because, unlike Lieutenant Swann, they weren’t kidding themselves. Someone in the shadows began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer. When he finished there were one or two murmurs of ‘Amen.’
On the bridge of
Umberto,
Hockold stared ahead with Babington. His face was haggard in the dim light.
‘Any minute now,’ Babington said.
There was still no sign from the shore.
‘Must be watching the fireworks on the airfield,’ Babington commented, ‘Let’s hope de Berry can keep it up, because those bastards ashore must have spotted us by now.’
They had. Just.
‘Herr Oberst! Radar reports ships approaching.’
Hochstatter, Nietzsche and the others tumbled down the steps from the roof to the darkened radar room. The sergeant in charge pointed to the dial and the sweeping arm.
‘What have you got?’ von Steen asked the operator.
‘One medium-sized ship, two smaller ones and several others that are probably motor boats.’
Hochstatter swung round. ‘We must have the Italians back,’ he said. ‘Get hold of Ibrahimiya.’
By this time, Nietzsche’s orders were going out to Schoeler in his command post above the POW compound and Wutka’s shouts were stopping all the work on the mole. Men reached for equipment and, bawled at by Unteroffizier Upholz, others were running through the streets, strapping on webbing and humping weapons into position. In the compounds, the last rolls of wire were dropped into place.
Hochstatter was yelling down the telephone to the Luftwaffe colonel at Ibrahimiya. ‘Send my Italians back! They’re coming at us from the sea!’
There was a moment’s silence and a little muttering, then the Luftwaffe colonel’s voice came again above the din of bursting bombs. ‘I gather they haven’t arrived yet,’ he said.
Hochstatter frowned. The Italians hadn’t hurried and they were now in limbo, of use neither to the Luftwaffe nor to him. ‘I must have them back as soon as they appear,’ he snapped, and slammed down the telephone before turning to Nietzsche. ‘Warn all the look-outs,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’
‘And advise Veledetti to make sure his prisoners are safe. We don’t want any attempts at a break-out.’
Standing in the little concrete bunker near the 47 mm on the end of the mole, Private Alois Jumpke, aged only nineteen and formerly of the Stiffelmayer Battle Group but now attached to the garrison of Qaba as he recovered from a bad dose of dysentery picked up in the desert, stared at the bursting bombs five miles behind the town. As he watched the flickering lights along the horizon, the telephone alongside him made him start with its shrilling.
‘Mole,’ he reported automatically.
‘Alles gut!’
‘We have ships on radar,’ the voice in his ear said. ‘Keep a sharp look-out.’
Jumpke replaced the telephone. As he swung his glasses across the horizon, he picked up the dark mass of the Abba Sid peninsular, towards Fuka; then he swept across the sea, bored, uncertain and caught by a gnawing unease. But there was nothing on the dark water except the wreck of the German freighter,
Lotte,
which had been hit by bombs three months before and been beached on a sand bank in the bay.
He was about to move the glasses on when he realized that
Lotte
seemed to be growing in size. Then he realized that behind the shadowy shape of the wrecked freighter another ship was coming into view. It looked like a small coaster and he knew it shouldn’t be there.
Colonel Hochstatter and the other officers had taken up positions on the verandah overlooking the harbour when Jumpke’s message arrived. To their right the 75 near the POW compound and the 47s by the Mantazeh Palace and on the mole began to swing to the east.
They trained their glasses out to sea.
‘I have it,’ von Steen said. ‘It’s a coaster by the look of her.’
‘Well, they don’t set up raids in coasters.’
‘It could be
Umberto,’
Hrabak said quickly. ‘Coming in, in the dark.’
They turned and stared at him, smiling and relieved, and von Steen turned to the yeoman of signals alongside him.
‘Make the challenge.’
On the bridge of
Umberto,
Babington turned to Lieutenant-Commander Hardness.
‘Where’s that Italian-speaking chap, Fusco?’
‘Here, sir.’
‘Right, Fusco. Give him
“Umberto.”
That’s all. Nothing else. And slowly. Badly. As if we’re in trouble.’
‘Aye aye, sir.
“Umberto.”
Badly.’
The lamp clicked. After spelling out the first three letters the signalman sent the erase signal and began again. The word went out once more, slowly, hesitantly.
The lamp in the square building ashore flickered.
‘It’s the challenge again, sir.’
‘Perhaps they’re not satisfied.’
‘Right,’ Babington said, ‘let’s give ‘em a bit of Italian, Fusco. Keep it simple. Remember we’re in trouble. Tell them, “Captain and mate dead. Wounded on board. Request permission to enter.” And keep it hesitant. Can you do that?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The lamp flickered again. There was a long pause and the shore remained dark. With every second the ship crept nearer to the land.
‘Perhaps they can’t read,’ Hardness said.
‘Or perhaps they’re Germans and they’ve sent for one of the Eyeties to help ‘em.’
In fact, that was exactly what they had done.
Tarnow had swung round to the telephone and yelled into it. ‘Send Tenente Rizzioni up here. At the double.’
Tenente Rizzioni, one of the few German-speaking Italians on the staff in Qaba, had been outside watching the air raid when the telephone went and it was several minutes before he arrived in Hochstatter’s office.
Hochstatter waved his hand. ‘We want you to read signals,’ he explained. ‘There’s a ship out here. What’s this mean?’
He handed Rizzioni the form with the message the yeoman’s mate had written down to the yeoman’s call.
Rizzioni stared at it. ‘It says, “Captain and first mate dead. Wounded on board. Request permission to enter.” ‘
‘Not possible!’ Von Steen turned to the yeoman. ‘Tell him to anchor outside the harbour.’
‘Why not open the boom?’ Hochstatter said. ‘There’s room alongside
Giuseppe Bianchi.
Just.’
‘No!’ Von Steen turned. ‘We shall only have to haul her out again when the tug arrives tomorrow. Let her anchor outside. She’ll be safer, anyway, if bombs fall in the harbour.’
‘Suppose the raiders come?’
‘How do we know
these
aren’t raiders?’
‘Umberto?’
Hochstatter smiled, but von Steen wasn’t in the mood for humour.
‘How do we know it’s
Umberto?
’ he demanded. ‘Make “Who are other ships?” Put it into Italian, Rizzioni.’
They had moved another quarter of a mile by the time von Steen’s signal came.
Leading Seaman Fusco turned. ‘He wants to know who the other ships are, sir.’
‘Tell him, “Escort from Fuka”.’
The lamp clattered once more and there was another long pause while they all held their breath. Then the lamp ashore flickered again. Fusco turned to Babington.
‘It’s the “Proceed”, sir. Anchor outside.’
The tension on
Umberto
could be felt now almost as if it were a material thing.
‘A few more knots, I think,’ Babington said, and Hardness increased
Umberto’s
speed a little, but carefully so that it would not be immediately obvious to the watchers on shore.
‘Three-quarters of a mile to go,’ Babington said. ‘Warn
Horambeb
to stand by.’
The water boat began to creep closer in to
Umberto,
so that it was almost nuzzling her and the water between them was boiling like a mill pond.
Everybody was keeping their fingers crossed now, or more exactly, were clenching their fists and praying. LCT 11 was well in to
Umberto’s
starboard beam so that it was impossible to spot her in the darkness and the Fairmiles were clinging close to the landing craft.
‘Soon be there,’ Babington said. ‘Oh, God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, just a little bit further, please!’
The ship was only half a mile from the end of the mole when von Steen came to life.
‘Why the devil would they escort
Umberto
from Fuka?’ he snapped. ‘I’d have thought they’d got enough to do there at the moment with watching their own back door.’
‘The army’s pulling back to Fuka,’ Hrabak pointed out. ‘As far as the Rahman track. Perhaps they’re clearing the place.’
Von Steen said nothing, still unconvinced, and stared again through his glasses. To his surprise the profile of
Umberto
had altered and it dawned on him her bow was swinging to starboard.
‘He’s turning,’ he said. ‘He’s heading west of the entrance.’ He stared through the glasses again and this time he picked up the shape of the smaller
Horambeb
in front of
Umberto.
Her low profile had kept her hidden in the darkness up to that point.
‘What the hell’s that?’ he snapped. ‘It looks like a water boat. It’s coming past on the port side.’ He lowered his binoculars and spoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m not so damned sure that
is Umberto.’
‘Half a mile,’ Babington said. ‘Keep it up, Hardness. And a few more revs, please.’
Once more the speed increased imperceptibly.
‘Right.’ Babington turned. ‘Yeoman, flash the landing craft to break off.’
The lamp flickered towards the sea and they saw the nose of LCT 11 begin to swing and could pick out the white foam under her blunt bows. The Fairmiles began to close in alongside to take her place.
Down below nobody seemed to be breathing, then Jacka’s voice came through the hatch. ‘On deck, gangway party. In your places. Stand by, mole party.’
‘ ‘Ere we go,’ Cook-Corporal Rogers said. ‘Eyes down for the count. Never mind your ‘at. ‘Old your ears on.’
‘ ‘Ow long, Sarge?’ Waterhouse asked Jacka.
‘Five minutes. Why? You scared?’
‘Not’alf, Sarge.’
Jacka grinned. ‘Nemmind. Barring shooting the sergeant-major or raping his wife, if we pull this off you’ll be out in about ten years.’
They were scrambling up the ladders now in the order they’d been instructed, Brandison’s party first, to crouch on deck with their gangways. The man behind the forward gun gave it a tentative swing, made sure it was cocked, and applied his eye to the sight. Inside the dummy crates on deck, the Oerlikon parties put their faces to the holes drilled in the wood and waited for the command to drop the sides.
‘Oi told the sergeant Oi didn’t want to go on church parade,’ a nervous Birmingham voice was saying in the darkness at the bottom of the ladders. ‘He said, “Whoy?” An’ Oi told ‘im Oi didn’t believe in God. You know what he said?’
Nobody answered.
‘Charlie, you know what he said?’
‘Go on.’ The long-suffering Charlie sounded bored. ‘What?’
‘He said, “If you don’t believe in God, ‘oo the ‘ell do you think makes the fuckin’ flowers grow?” ‘
The invisible Charlie made no comment and the speaker became silent.
‘Nerves,’ Sugarwhite whispered nervously to Bradshaw.
On the bridge they were still staring towards the shore.
‘Quarter of a mile,’ Babington said. ‘I think they’re going to let us go right in, by God!’
They weren’t, though. Not quite.
Von Steen was still staring suspiciously through his glasses as
Horambeb
moved towards the mole. ‘It’s not
Umberto,’
he snapped. ‘They’re going to lay her alongside the wall!’
‘They can’t!’ Hochstatter said. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘It is with that damned water boat!’ As he stared again, von Steen saw the shape of
Umberto
growing perceptibly longer. Then he saw what appeared to be two bow waves, and realized there was another vessel beyond her, hidden up to now. He saw blunt bows and swung round.