The Lonely Sea

by Alistair MacLean

  With drawn breath, and with sincere pity in our hearts, we waited for the heavens to fall, for the captain to execute his oft-repeated, bloodthirsty promises, for, in short, the instant and complete annihilation of the Arabs (four in all), who were regarding the captain with the utmost trepidation, which they were at no pains to conceal.

  To our no small astonishment—and, it may be added, relief—the expected Arab-massacre failed to materialize. Instead, stepping quietly forward and lovingly removing his watch and chain from the neck of the cringing, violently-shivering Arab, the captain, in a strangely gentle tone, in which there seemed, to us, to be a barely repressed inflection of triumph, merely said, ‘Take these men below and give them something warm to eat; we’ll hand them over to the Bahrein police, in the morning.’

  We were astounded. We were amazed. We were utterly and completely dumbfounded. Our modest comprehension could not grasp it. What, we asked ourselves, wonderingly, was the reason for this incredible change of front? We were not left long in ignorance.

  Swinging round on us, and brandishing his watch on high, the captain shouted: ‘See!—er, I mean, hear!’ We heard. The clamorous ticktock, ticktock of his watch would have put any selfrespecting alarm clock to shame.

  ‘Waterproof!’ he cried exultingly. ‘Waterproof, you blasted unbelievers! Waterproof!’

  It was, I verily believe, the supreme moment of our captain’s life.

  Rendezvous

  It was quite dark now and the Great North Road, the A1, that loneliest of Europe’s highways, almost deserted. At rare intervals, a giant British Roadways truck loomed out of the darkness: a courteous dipping of headlamps, immaculate hand-signals, a sudden flash of sound from the labouring diesel—and the A1 was lonelier than ever. Then there was only the soothing hum of tyres, the black ribbon of highway, and the headlights of the Jaguar, weirdly hypnotic, swathing through the blackness.

  Loneliness and sleep, sleep and loneliness. The enemies, the co-drivers of the man at the wheel; the one lending that extra half pound of pressure to the accelerator, the other, immobile and everwatchful, waiting his chance to slide in behind the wheel and take over. I knew them well and I feared them.

  But they were not riding with me tonight. There was no room for them. Not with so many passengers. Not with Stella sitting there beside me, Stella of the laughing eyes and sad heart, who had died in a German concentration camp. Not with Nicky, the golden boy, lounging in the back seat, or Passière, who had never returned to his sundrenched vineyards in Sisteron. No room for sleep and loneliness? Why, by the time you had crowded in Taffy the engineer, complaining as bitterly as ever and Vice-Admiral Starr and his bushy eyebrows, there was hardly room for myself.

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. 2.00 a.m. Nine hours since I had left Inverness and only one stop for gas. I realized I was very hungry.

  A couple of miles further on a neon sign blinked garishly through the heavy drizzle. A drivers’ pull-up. I swung the Jaguar off the road, parked beside the heavy trucks and limped inside.

  It was a bright, noisy, cheerful place, about half full. I picked up my bacon, sausages and eggs and went over to an empty table by the window.

  The meal finished, I lit a cigarette and stared out unseeingly into the driving rain. Now and again I could hear the rumble and swish as a truck or night-coach rolled by on the Great North Road.

  The Great North Road. The prelude, the curtain call to all the highlights of my life—long Italian summers on my father’s ship, Oxford and the Law, the Royal Naval Barracks, Portsmouth. All these other times, I reflected, there had been uncertainty. So, too, this time. All these other times excitement, anticipation. But this time only doubt and wonder, foreboding and slow anger.

  I fished out Nicky’s telegram again

  ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG STOP HALLELUJAH STOP THE DE’IL LOOKS AFTER HIS AIN STOP NOW SUCCESSFUL BREEDER OF OIL WELLS STOP STAYING SAVOY WITH ALL THE OTHER MILLIONAIRES STOP RRR

  NICKY

  I pushed the telegram back into my pocket. RRR. The Special Service code-sign—‘Where do we rendezvous?’ I had wired back SEE YOU SAVOY 7 P.M. WEDNESDAY.

  Even now I did not know why I had done it. It just had to be done. This was one loose end in my life that simply had to be cut off. Courage, fear, curiosity, anger—these did not enter into it. There was just simple compulsion. This I had to do.

  I paid my check, climbed into the Jaguar, pulled out on the A1, set the hand throttle and headed south.

  I was confused. The bit about the De’il—the Devil looks after his own—a phrase he had picked up from me: that I could understand. He had seen the flaming eruption of disintegrating steel and burning oil as the Heinkel’s glider-bomb had smacked accurately into the engine room of the F149. I had no right to be alive, the surgeon had said—but he had made a pretty good job of my crocked leg and mangled arm.

  But I couldn’t figure the rest of the telegram. It was too friendly. Too friendly by half for a man who, when we had last parted—five minutes before the explosion—had been standing on a desolate Tuscan beach at the wrong end of my Service Colt .45. I could see him yet, could see the anger dying in his eyes, the disbelief, the astonishment, the emotionless mask. I had stood there trying to hate him—and failing miserably—and trying not to hate myself. I had failed in that too. And I heard again his promise, quiet, almost conversational: ‘Don’t forget, Mac—I’ll be looking you up one of these days.’

  I sighed. Our first meeting had been rather different. I flicked the dashboard switch. 2.45. Two hundred miles to London. I shoved the hand throttle up a notch.

  Malta, 1943. The George Cross island. The island of Faith, Hope and Charity—the three obsolete fighters pitted against the savagery of the Axis air fleets. Malta. The sorely battered capital of Valetta and the Grand Harbour, that destination of a very few, very lucky merchant ships, of the 40-knot plus gauntlet-running minelaying cruisers, of the submarine gasoline tankers, of the immortal ‘Ohio’.

  But the war was very far away that Spring morning. All was peaceful and still and bathed in sunshine as I walked into the Admiralty HQ.

  ‘Lieutenant McIndoe to see Admiral Starr?’ the duty petty officer repeated. ‘Along the passage, first on the left, sir. He’s alone just now.’

  I knocked and went in. A large bare room, with Venetian blinds and walls covered with maps, it was completely dominated by the huge figure sitting behind the only table in the room. Two hundred and fifty pounds if an ounce, red-faced, whitehaired and with bushy eyebrows, Vice-Admiral Starr had become a legend in his own lifetime. He had the face and expression of a bucolic farmer, a mind like a rapier and a deep-rooted intolerance of those who wasted either time or speech.

  He pushed some papers away in a folder and motioned me to a seat.

  ‘’Morning, McIndoe. Carried out your instructions?’ he asked.

  ‘To the letter, sir,’ I replied carefully. ‘Gunboat F149 is completely stripped. The extra fuel tanks are fitted and the short—and long-range receiving and transmitting sets were installed yesterday. She’s fuelled, provisioned and ready for sea.’

  He nodded in satisfaction. ‘And your crew?’

  ‘The best, sir. Experienced, completely reliable.’

  ‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll contact Ravallo this evening and receive final instructions from him.’

  ‘Ravallo, sir?’

  ‘Major Ravallo, US Army. A top espionage agent and just about the best lend-lease bargain ever. From now on, he’s your immediate boss.’

  I felt distinctly aggrieved. ‘Am I to understand, sir—’

  ‘These are your orders,’ he interrupted flatly. ‘Besides,’ he chuckled, ‘Ravallo will welcome you with open arms. The last time he came back from Sicily, he had to swim the last two miles. Damned annoyed, he was.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. Do I meet Ravallo here?’

  Admiral Starr coughed. ‘Well, no, not exactly. Major Ravallo is an American—’ he spoke as if this explained every
thing—‘and not subject to our discipline. You’ll find him in the Triannon bar at six o’clock.’

  ‘Have another, Mac,’ Nicky Ravallo urged hospitably. ‘You’ll be needing it tonight yet.’

  Major Ravallo, I reflected, would have made a big hit in Hollywood. With his dark, tousled hair, crinkling blue eyes, dark tan, white teeth and weird hodgepodge of a uniform designed strictly by himself, he looked ready-made material for a Caribbean pirate or a second d’Artagnan. But the gallant Major, it seemed to me, treated war much too lightly; besides, I was still smarting from the insult of being placed under an American’s command—and from his smiling refusal to give me any details of that night’s operation until we got to sea.

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied stiffly. ‘So far I’ve never felt the need for any pre-operational stoking up on alcohol. And I’m not starting now.’ I knew I was behaving badly.

  ‘Suit yourself, Scotty.’ Ravallo was not only unruffled but positively affable. ‘Starr tells me you’re a specialist on the Italian coast and language and just about the best gunboat handler in the business. That’s all I want. Come along.’

  In silence we walked through the white-walled streets towards the harbour and in silence we descended by the fearsome open elevator on the cliff-face to the gathering gloom of Christ’s steps. Here we hired a dico and were rowed out to Motor Gunboat F149, moored at the far end of Angelo creek.

  Once aboard, I had him meet my crew—Taffy, Passière, Hillyard, Johnson, Higgins and Wilson, my second in command. They seemed favourably impressed by Ravallo, and he by them, although I did not take too kindly to his cheerful invitation to ‘just call me Nicky, boys.’ They would be calling me ‘Sammy’ next and I wasn’t sure that I would like that.

  ‘How come Passière?’ Ravallo asked when we were alone again. ‘Hardly an Anglo-Saxon name that.’

  ‘Like Ravallo?’ I suggested.

  He laughed. ‘Touchè. But still,’ he persisted, ‘what’s he doing here?’

  ‘Free French,’ I explained. ‘There are thousands of them on our side—mostly in their own ships. He’s a refugee from Vichy France, a holder of the Croix de Guerre and just about the best radio operator I’ve ever known. I hope,’ I added sweetly, ‘that you have no objections to the presence of non-British nationals aboard this boat?’

  ‘Sorry again,’ he laughed. ‘I guess I asked for that.’ He ran his hand ruefully through his thick black hair and grinned quizzically at me.

  For the first time, I smiled back.

  An hour later, the 149 cleared the entrance of Grand Harbour. Ravallo was in the wheelhouse with me, sitting on a camp-stool, quietly smoking.

  He spoke suddenly.

  ‘We’re going to Sicily, Mac. Rendezvous, midnight, two miles north-west of Cape Passero. OK?’

  I said nothing, but turned to my charts and tables.

  ‘Half-speed, Chief,’ I said to Wilson. ‘Course zero-five-zero. Hillyard, Johnson on watch. Right?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Ravallo jumped to his feet.

  ‘Here, what’s this?’ he demanded swiftly. ‘Halfspeed? Look, Mac, we gotta hit the rendezvous on the nose. Midnight, Scotty, midnight—not tomorrow morning. Last time I came from Sicily it took fourteen hours. Including two hours swimming,’ he added bitterly.

  Wilson and I grinned at each other.

  ‘Chief,’ I said sorrowfully, ‘I’m afraid we’ve a doubter on our hands. The Major and I are taking a walk forrard. Ask Taffy to open her up—demonstration purposes only.’

  The demonstration was brief and entirely effective. At its conclusion we walked slowly aft to the stern and sat down, leaning against the recently emptied depth-charge racks, Ravallo looking very thoughtful, almost dazed.

  The effect was almost always the same. The hypnotic effect of the rushing waters and the gigantic bow-wave, coupled with the sheer physical shock of the bone-jarring vibrations of the deck and the banshee clamour of the great aeroengines was almost literally stunning.

  Ravallo broke the silence.

  ‘Sorry again, Mac.’ His face lit up with remembered enthusiasm. ‘My God, Mac, that must be one of the last thrills left on earth. What was she doing—forty-five, fifty knots?’

  ‘Official secret,’ I said solemnly. ‘Seriously, though, I don’t think you need worry about anything on the surface of the Mede catching us. And now—how about some more information, Major?’

  ‘Nicky,’ he corrected absently. ‘Right, Mac, this is how it is.

  ‘This cloak-and-dagger sealed orders act isn’t just for fun. It’s a must. Do you know how many agents we’ve lost this year in Italy?’ he asked slowly. ‘Twenty-six.’ He pounded his fist, very gently, on the deck, his eyes quiet, his voice level.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ I echoed. ‘That’s impossible.’ (Neither of us knew at the time that the British had already lost twice that number in Holland alone. All died.)

  He didn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘A couple by natural hazards,’ he went on. ‘Maybe half-a-dozen through leaks. The rest—’ he waved a hand forrard—‘well, that’s what this boat is for.’ He paused.

  ‘Well, go on.’ I was becoming interested.

  ‘German and Italian radio monitoring stations,’ he explained. ‘Almost all information is sent out by radio. Fairly powerful transmitting sets which are as easily picked up by the enemy as by us. A few cross-bearings and—finish.’

  ‘But you still haven’t explained—’

  ‘I’m coming to that. The idea is to fit our agents with weak, short-range transmitters—hardly more than fields—which cuts out ninety per cent of the risk of detection. Your boat will lie close offshore—two or three miles—pick up our agents’ reports on its short-range receiver and re-transmit to base by the big RCA. Starr says he will have six of these boats in action by the end of the year.’

  ‘Aha!’ I said. ‘Light dawns. I should have thought of that before. It should work.’

  ‘It must work,’ he said heavily. ‘We’ve lost too many of our best agents already.’

  We sat on deck for several minutes, companionably silent, having the last smoke on deck of the day. Presently Ravallo spun his cigarette over the side and rose easily to his feet.

  ‘Mac?’

  I turned my head.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look at the radio room?’

  ‘Help yourself. Passière’s having supper just now.’

  He left me. I sat for another couple of minutes, pondering over Ravallo’s news, then went to darken ship.

  After supper, we went to the wheelhouse. I took over from Wilson, who went below. The sea was as calm as a mill-pond and there was no moon that night. Conditions were ideal.

  I looked at my watch. 11.00 p.m. I wished I could smoke.

  ‘What happens at the rendezvous, Nicky?’ I asked. ‘Picking up an agent,’ he said briefly.

  ‘The Syracuse area is getting too hot these days.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘Sort of. One can’t afford to have friends in our line,’ he said quietly. ‘Too much grief. Besides—’ he paused—‘Stella doesn’t encourage—er—friendship.’

  ‘Stella?’ I glanced quickly at him. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a she.’ Nicky was laconic. ‘Why not? She’s one of the best in the business—and less liable to suspicion. Parachuted in two months ago.’

  I turned this over on my mind.

  ‘Speaks the language fluently, I suppose?’

  ‘Strange if she didn’t,’ Nicky smiled. ‘She was born in Leghorn.’

  ‘An Italian!’ I made a grimace of distaste. ‘Well, I suppose the money’s good.’

  In two quick strides he was beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder.

  ‘Watch it, Scotty,’ he murmured softly. ‘Careful of what you say. She’s a naturalized American, same as I am.’

  Silently I cursed myself and gently disengaged his hand.

  ‘Looks as if this is going to be a record nig
ht for apologies, Nicky,’ I said wryly. ‘Damned stupid of me. Keep your eyes skinned, will you?’

  We spent an hour of steadily mounting anxiety waiting at the rendezvous. Nicky, I could see, was worried and upset—not at all in character, I thought.

  Shortly after one o’clock we heard the angry hum of a small outboard. A 12-foot skiff with two dark figures aboard appeared out of the darkness and slid smoothly alongside. A bump, a couple of out-stretched arms, a heave—just so quickly was the small boat away again and a slender figure in slacks and windbreaker standing there on deck, shivering involuntarily in the cold.

  Nicky’s voice was harsh and low. Perhaps from relief, perhaps from anger.

  ‘You’re late. Far too damn late. How often do you have to be told not to keep a boat waiting in enemy waters? Had to powder your pretty little nose, I suppose?’

  ‘Sorry, Nicky,’ she pleaded. Her voice was warm and soft and husky. ‘Johnny found a leak in the petrol tank and had to return for more and—’

  ‘Keep quiet!’ I whispered urgently.

  Nicky spoke angrily: ‘Look, Mac, that’s the second time—’

  ‘Shut up and listen!’

  This time they, too, heard it—a muffled creak, ominous, stealthy.

  ‘Petrol, hell!’ I said softly, bitterly. ‘Nipped back to give his pals the tip-off, you mean. Take her to my cabin, Nicky, quickly.’

  She broke from his grip and caught my lapel.

  ‘Get away as fast as you can,’ she whispered. ‘The Germans have two fast motor-launches in harbour. They’re armed. They’re manned day and night and—’

  ‘Take her below,’ I interrupted. I wrenched her hand away. ‘And keep her there.’

  The crew of the 149 were superbly trained. A couple of low-voiced commands and, as our port and starboard magnesium rockets curved upwards, the 149 was already thrusting through the water at close on twenty knots. Wilson was behind the searchlight and every gun was manned.