Marine K SBS

by Jay Garnet

  ‘That’s why I took to diving,’ he confided. ‘Weren’t any way I was going back on them convoys.’

  ‘Never know,’ said Sid, with his slow grin. ‘You might be landed back on convoy as a diver. Like your chief.’

  The thought had not occurred to Mike.

  ‘Cor, bloody ’ell. I don’t want that again.’

  There was a pause. They walked on in silence, feet crunching on the shingle, the wind snatching at their clothing.

  Then Sid said: ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea at that.’

  ‘’Ow d’ya make that out?’

  ‘Well, you could go down and fetch the gold.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You’re a diver. You just said she went down nice and slow. You know where she lies, don’t you? Well, sort of. You know your way around her. You could go down and fetch it up.’

  Mike stopped and looked at Sid.

  ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘That’s not a bad idea. ’Ow deep is the Barents Sea?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Look at a map. We got one at home.’

  ‘All right, then. And if it’s shallow, blimey, all you’d need is a bit of good weather and some nice woollies. What do you think, Sid? We could go back there and ’ave a go after we’ve done for ’Itler.’

  It was more than just a joke. They looked at a map. The Barents Sea was shallow, it told them, which in this case meant between two hundred and a thousand feet.

  ‘Too deep, I bet,’ said Mike.

  ‘Never know,’ Sid replied optimistically. ‘Might be possible, mightn’t it? Anyway, who knows how deep they’ll be diving after the war?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Mike, going as silent as Peaches had when he heard talk of the gold. ‘Yeah.’

  Mike and Sid formed part of the crew of a mobile unit that went out to clear wrecks in the Mediterranean in January 1943. First stop, Tripoli, displaying even through its bomb damage the remains of its historic beauty: the great Spanish castle, the massive sea wall, the lines of palms.

  On their withdrawal on 23 January 1943 the Germans had done their best to block the harbour with wrecks, including a forty-two-thousand-ton Italian liner, Giovanni Batisti. They had also breached the breakwaters and moles that guarded the harbour, to expose it to the open sea. It didn’t really delay the Allies for long. Mike and Sid, with no time but to work, eat and sleep in their Nissen-hut barracks, were among those who laid charges to blast a passage through the block-ships. As a result the first supply ships were able to creep into Tripoli’s harbour only two weeks after the Germans left.

  Shortly after the first boats entered, when work had become more routine, Mike learnt at first hand the truth of what Wainwright had told him a few weeks before: ‘Accidents happen, lad, and sometimes there’s nought you can do.’

  They were anchored outside the harbour. Mike was on the harbour tender and Sid was down below in shallow water – thirty feet. They were off the main approach, investigating a small launch that had probably gone down during the Allied assault a few weeks before. It would never be a danger to shipping, but they had been told to take a look at it in case it contained any information that might be of value. It was a clear day and the water was calm. The outline of the boat appeared, rippling among rocks. Off to one side, the seabed became deeper and darker.

  Sid reported over the phone link that the wreck lay near the edge of a shelf.

  ‘I’m standing on the stern,’ came Sid’s distorted voice over the speaker, above the hammering of the compressor. ‘Play out a bit more, Cocky. I’m going to have a look inside.’

  Mike allowed several more feet of hose and lifeline to unwind from the drum, but as he was doing so there came a distorted squawk over the intercom: ‘Oh God, no!’

  Suddenly the hose began to unravel, accelerating at a frantic rate. Mike threw the handbrake on to hold the spinning drum. There was a screech of metal, the hose and lifeline snapped taut and the boat lurched. The compressor picked up to a higher level. There came through the speaker a strange, blood-chilling, gargling sound, then silence.

  ‘Sid! Sid! You all right? Sid!’ Mike shouted.

  There was no reply.

  It was only a month later, when he himself went down to see the launch, that he was able to confirm what must have happened.

  The launch had been balanced perilously on the edge of the rock and coral shelf that Sid had mentioned. Its stern must either have been overhanging or resisting on a weak outcrop of coral. The extra weight, as Sid had climbed aboard, had unbalanced it. As he entered one of the hatches the boat had tipped. It had begun to slide down the side of the shelf and, as it went, the edge of the hatch into which he was climbing had hooked his pipe and lifeline. The weight of the boat had taken up the slack and jerked many more feet from the supply above. Sid had had no chance to do more than cry out. By the time Mike had reacted, he must have been carried another fifty or sixty feet down into the depths. When the pipe and line suddenly sprang taut, he was jerked up clear of the hatch, while the boat continued its slow plunge down to a hundred and fifty feet, where Mike found it.

  Sid would still have been at only a hundred feet, normally well within any safety margin. But he went down too fast. In a few seconds the sudden increase in weight of water around him added another 20lb per square inch to all parts of his body unprotected by his helmet. His helmet, being circular and made of copper, was well able to withstand the increase in pressure; but the suit below offered no such protection.

  A sudden increase in pressure creates a condition known by divers as ‘the squeeze’. A small squeeze is not particularly rare, and the results are usually nothing worse than some burst blood vessels in the eyes, and perhaps a bleeding nose.

  But a squeeze on the scale of the one experienced by Sid is entirely different. The weight of water pressing on the lower body, outside the protection of the helmet and corslet, suddenly exceeded the helmet’s internal pressure by 20lb per square inch, or about six tons in all. Something had to give.

  It gave directly upwards, into the helmet, which offered the only place for expansion. Stomach, liver, heart and intestines collapsed into the lungs. These in turn were forced straight up the neck cavity and out through the mouth, nose and ears. Insofar as it was possible in the space available, Sid’s body was turned inside out, squeezed like toothpaste into the helmet. That was the frightful sound that Mike had heard through the intercom. He knew – even as his own appalled cry died on his lips – that there was nothing he could do. He knew from the compressor’s gauge how far Sid had fallen. His imagination told him the rest. He sat silent and ashen for half a minute. Then he retched over the side of the boat and when there was nothing more to retch he sat trembling with shock while the boat rode the gentle swell.

  After ten minutes, his trembling under control, he realized that he would not be able to lift what remained of Sid into the boat. The weight of both corpse and helmet would be over 300lb. In any case he could not have faced the sight of the tight-packed red face-plate. He wound in the pipe until about ten feet dangled below the boat. Then he hauled in the anchor, started the engine and headed slowly back towards the harbour.

  He moored at a suitably deep spot by one of the jetties and went off to report.

  The men he was working with had seen a good deal of death. Often in the boats they salvaged there were bodies – shattered, eroded, broken bodies. But this was something utterly beyond their experience. It was the stuff of nightmare. Nursing a brandy, Mike explained the circumstances. For the harbour-master, he also explained the necessary effects of being dumped suddenly from thirty to a hundred feet.

  ‘Christ. What the hell do we do?’

  ‘He was me mate and a diver. That’s ’ow I want to remember ’im. For all our sakes, don’t try and get ’im out of there.’

  They made a special coffin for Sid. It was very wide at the top. They took the weights off his feet, cut the pipe and the lifeline, nailed him up and buri
ed him at sea.

  Riding back from the burial in the harbour launch, Mike thought: If that can happen here, in the shallow, calm waters of the Med, what on earth will I need to dive to many times that depth in the icy, windy waters of the Barents Sea? A bit more than some nice warm woollies, that’s for sure.

  The first Mike knew of the new direction in his career was when the CO called him in and told him he was volunteering for assignment to Cairo.

  ‘Don’t ask why, Cox. I can’t tell you. But on past experience, if they ask you to volunteer, something’s up. So I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you even if I knew.’

  ‘They want divers, sir?’

  ‘Christ knows.’ The major gave him a bored look and licked his neat little moustache. He was a gin-and-tonic paper-pusher sidelined into admin for the duration, who wrapped boredom around him as a defence against disappointment. ‘All I know is, there’s a Hercules leaving tomorrow and you’re volunteering to be on it. Got it?’

  ‘Sir.’

  He had seen little enough of Tripoli, and had high hopes of Cairo. The Nile. Pyramids. Dusky girls behind veils. Except that ‘Cairo’ turned out to be metaphorical. That was where the orders came from. Mike was destined never to see the place. His Hercules – a rattling empty warehouse of a plane that made conversation with the five cargo handlers quite impossible – landed in Alexandria, after four roaring hours. Assigned a tent, in a city of tents that had become a suburb over the past five years, he was simultaneously told to report to his staff sergeant’s office as soon as he was ready.

  Still no explanations. A brief shuffling of papers, an abrupt order, and he was off in a jeep out of the camp, through a ramshackle suburb of mud-brick houses into town, to an ornate stone building created at the turn of the century, probably for some imperial administrator or thrusting businessman.

  The driver, silent as the Sphinx in face of Mike’s tentative questioning, led him up sweeping stone stairs to a first-floor office – where at last he found the answers he had been waiting for.

  Behind a huge oak desk sat Andy Cunningham.

  ‘Andy, I mean . . .’ he hesitated, suddenly disconcerted, first by Cunningham’s smiling confidence in this imposing office and then by the sight of the captain’s badge on the hat lying on the edge of the table.

  Cunningham grinned. ‘Good to see you, Cox.’

  Mike smiled back, and felt a burden lift from him. There was much to explain, but he knew some of the story without words. Cunningham was on his way up, and he had chosen Mike to go with him part of the way.

  ‘Quite a job I had prising you loose from those bureaucratic bastards in Tripoli,’ said Cunningham. ‘Now: at ease, sit and attend.’

  For an hour, Mike listened. Cunningham had achieved his immediate ambition, training in special services, undertaking a few cross-Channel operations, and had then been posted to Cairo to help create similar units. He knew Mike was trained as a diver, of course. That might come in useful. But it wasn’t just divers they wanted: it was tough young men willing to dive, swim and paddle into action.

  The intention was to nip at the weakening flanks of the Third Reich, which still garrisoned a ring of Aegean islands, the outer bulwarks of Germany’s Balkan defences. Rhodes, Karpathos, Leros, Kos and half a dozen others harboured several thousand Germans. Increasingly cut off from the collapsing heartland of the Reich by Allied advance in Italy and eastern Europe, the enemy were doing their best to arrange evacuation. It was the job of the SBS, transported by naval motor launches, submarines and locally built caiques, to cut their supply lines, sink their evacuation ships and force their surrender.

  ‘You game, Cox?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Need a bit of training, of course. Handling a Bren, unarmed combat, canoes, explosives. I think you’ll find it an interesting month.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But why me?’

  ‘Two things, really. I’ve been at this game a couple of years now, and I’ve seen the truth of what I was told at the start. The key to a successful team and a successful operation is character. Don’t ask me to tell you what it is. I just recognize it when I see it. I saw it in you when we first met. Second thing is expertise. You have some pretty unique experience, Cox. It’s not that – what do you call it? – “hard-hat” stuff we need. Too much gear. I want frogmen, chaps who can go underwater. I want someone who understands the problems, and someone who can train other chaps.’

  ‘But, sir, I’ve never . . .’

  Cunningham waved an arm impatiently. ‘I know, I know. But you know a lot more than most. If I get you the equipment, I want you to test it, use it and train others. Right?’

  So it came about that Mike found himself squatting below the open hatch of a sturdy wooden schooner, checking the intake valves on his scuba gear, or rather his Underwater Swimmer’s Set Mark 1, as it was officially known: little more than a two-hour oxygen tank, face mask and weights. The schooner, the Tewfik, was moored in a bay of Nisiros, an island just off the Turkish coast. As the result of a radio intercept it was known that two small German boats would be calling at the little town, Mandracchio, as part of their routine patrols of smaller ungarrisoned islands.

  There were seven men in Mike’s group, all but one holed up ashore in the houses of friendly Greeks. He had got to know them well over the past few weeks. Their leader, Major Ian Patterson, an ex-para. Andy Cunningham himself, the Number Two. The Cretan interpreter, Kankakis, who could tell you the story of the islands and their peoples with the fluency, if not refinement, of a Homer. The signaller, Bill Stephenson, who spoke Greek well – far too well to pass as a local. He had been left behind as anchorman, to look after the well-hidden radio and move the boat in case of trouble. And finally there were two marines, both corporals, Geoff King and James Rhodes.

  ‘I spy Jerries.’ It was Stephenson’s voice, from up above, on deck.

  Mike, dressed in lightweight brown trousers, shirt and desert boots, stowed his scuba gear in its canvas bag and stood up warily. Stephenson, sheltering from the midday sun under the shadow of an overarching sail, tilted his square jaw towards the horizon.

  There, beyond the point that guarded the parched little houses of Mandracchio, two patrol boats were approaching.

  ‘OK. I’m off,’ said Mike.

  He knew exactly what he had to do. He had been over the ground, literally and metaphorically, twice. Collect scuba gear, flippers and limpet mines. Down the gangplank, through the shallows and into the scrub. Important to be off the boat in case some officious Jerry came to check. (If he did, he would find only a fishing boat manned by Stephenson acting an innocent Greek from Piraeus.) Then, down between outlying houses, and into the water of the harbour. Swimming easily in order to minimize the trail of air bubbles, Mike would find the shadowy hulls, gently attach the limpet mines, timing them to explode half an hour later, then return the way he had come.

  That was his agenda. It was not, however, the main agenda. That was being dictated by Patterson and the others. Their task was to kill the Germans, the sooner the better, rendering Mike’s plan unnecessary. But there was no telling in advance how strong the German patrol would be or what they might do. Perhaps they would take over some well-constructed house and settle down for the afternoon and night in safety. Or perhaps they would take a cursory glance and leave at once. So: no chances. Mike had to mine the boats, and ensure no hasty departures.

  He learnt what happened in the village later. Even as he was slipping into the disconcertingly limpid water, Kankakis was informed by one of his many friends that the twelve Germans, six from each patrol boat, had arrived with a purpose. In the village was a small orphanage, run by half a dozen nuns. The Germans wanted ten of the children. No one knew why – as hostages, perhaps. On landing, they ordered the children to be ready by early afternoon with any possessions they had.

  Time enough for Patterson to act; he was issuing orders even as Mike flippered across the shallow harbour. Then, while his commander an
d the rest remained in the shed that had become their base camp, Kankakis made his way to the orphanage, reassured the weeping nuns and arranged for the children to be led quietly away into the hills, while their bags were placed outside in the road in apparent readiness for departure. By then, an hour later, Mike was back among the sheltering scrub, his canvas pack empty of limpet mines.

  Shortly afterwards the twelve Germans arrived to collect the children. They were met by a priest. This they had not expected; no one had seen a priest, nor had the nuns mentioned one. But it did not remain a puzzle to them long.

  The priest, with an expansive gesture, invited the Germans to follow him through the double doors of the orphanage into a courtyard. Forewarned, the nuns stayed clear. Inside, the priest – Patterson, in robes supplied by the nuns through Kankakis – whipped a pistol from beneath his vestments, with a warning shout of ‘Hände hoch!’

  The senior German signed his own death warrant by cocking his machine-pistol. A single shot from Patterson’s gun took him in the chest. But the action gave others time to raise their weapons, and also warned Patterson’s men outside that they should intervene. While Patterson threw himself backwards at the still-open door, King and Rhodes appeared, weapons raised. Then, for a few seconds, there was a pandemonium of firing. Three Germans dropped; several others threw themselves through windows. Most were finished off by other members of the SBS team outside.

  The mêlée ended as suddenly as it had started, with three Germans standing open-mouthed, their hands raised.

  A quick count: four dead inside, three prisoners, three dead outside. Two missing.

  Shouts came from down the hill. Villagers pointed. Then, on the quayside, two figures leapt into one of the patrol boats’ dinghies. They were too far for a shot. Patterson could only watch in frustration as they hauled the outboard into life. There seemed to be nothing to stop the men reaching their boats, escaping and summoning help.

  Over in the scrub Mike, who had heard the shooting and seen the little figures sprinting down to the quay, looked at his watch and smiled.