Enemy In Sight (A Commander Steadfast Naval Thriller)

by Richard Freeman

  Enemy in Sight

  A Lieutenant Commander Steadfast Thriller

  Richard Freeman

  Copyright © Richard Freeman 2015

  The right of Richard Freeman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Author’s Note

  Lieutenant Commander Steadfast has acquired a fearsome reputation for his daring attacks on enemy craft. Alarmed by his return to the Mediterranean, the Germans are determined to put an end to this troublesome officer.

  The story is set in the eastern Mediterranean against the backdrop of Rommel’s second offensive in the Western Desert on 21 January 1942.

  The story of the betrayals in the Balkan’s networks is based on true events as recounted by Countess Ranfurly in To War with Whitaker.

  Kryptos and Platos are fictitious islands in the Dodecanese.

  All characters other than Churchill, Cunningham, McArthur, Ritchie, Rommel, Stirling, Tyrwhitt and Edelsten are fictitious. HMSs Queen Elizabeth, Valiant, Repulse and Prince of Wales were all serving ships during World War Two. HMS Nile was the Mediterranean Fleet’s base at Alexandria during the war.

  Royal Navy launches had numbers but not names, so the numbers used in this story correspond to real boats at that time. To make clear that the boats in this story are fictional, their numbers include the first letter of their commander’s name, e.g. ML 375E was commanded by the fictitious Lieutenant Elliston.

  Table of Contents

  1. Off an island beach

  2. Steadfast’s recall to duty

  3. A call to action

  4. In the shadow of the pyramids

  5. Platos calls

  6. A contested landing

  7. Attack on the transmitter

  8. In the hands of the enemy

  9. Return to the transmitter

  10. A rejuvenated enemy

  11. The lighthouse siege

  12. A fighting return

  13. Alexandria

  Naval terms

  1. Off an island beach

  ‘One mile off-shore, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, pilot. Take her to periscope depth. Take your time. We don’t want to advertise our presence.’

  HMS Oakham rose imperceptibly slowly through the calm warm Mediterranean Sea as the control room gently released compressed air into her ballast tanks. A couple of years of war had been time enough for her crew to come up from the deep with barely a bubble disturbing the surface above.

  ‘Periscope depth, sir.’

  ‘Up periscope,’ replied the commander.

  The periscope rose silently as HMS Oakham lay motionless off the coast of the small Dodecanese island of Kryptos. Lieutenant James Raikes peered into the lens. Slowly he turned the instrument through 360-degrees, stopping now and again as if he had found something of interest. It was exactly twenty-four hours since the submarine had dropped off the commando group for their reconnoitre.

  ‘All quiet,’ remarked Raikes. ‘These drops are getting a bit monotonous. Sometimes it’s hard to believe the war’s reached this corner of the Med. Take her up,’ he called.

  The control room took no chances, despite Raikes’s relaxed mood. It was a good five minutes before the deck of the submarine was throwing off the last of the swirling sea.

  ‘Surfaced, sir,’ reported the control officer.

  In the claustrophobic gloom of their boat, the crew could feel the awkward bobbing motion as the gentle waves rocked the now unstable craft from side to side.

  ‘Hatch open,’ called Raikes.

  A rush of cool night air entered the boat and those men nearest the conning tower breathed long and deep as they tried to rid their lungs of the foul air below. Raikes climbed up to the bridge, followed by Signalman Bill Kennedy, his lamp at the ready in his left-hand. Drops of refreshing cold salty water fell onto his face and dark jumper.

  ‘Signalman, flash the recognition signal.’

  Kennedy searched in the darkness for the direction of the shore. A low line of dark bumps from the island’s hills were the only hint of the commandos’ location. He flashed the three letters PZE. There was no response. He waited one minute and signalled again. He called to Raikes ‘They’re not answering, sir.’

  ‘Give them five more minutes, midshipman,’ replied the commander.

  Kennedy waited. He was not a particularly nervous type but out on the bridge in the dark and only one mile off an enemy shore he felt a moment of fear. Fear of what? It was fear of not knowing. Who might be lurking under the water tracking HMS Oakham? Who might be standing out to sea ready to block their path home? And who might be on that island? He flashed the recognition signal once more.

  ‘Five minutes, sir. Still no answer.’

  ‘OK, Kennedy. Let’s go back below,’ answered Raikes.

  As soon as Raikes was back inside he called for Midshipman Waterhouse. The enthusiastic young officer came quickly, his eager face showing his anticipation of a task of some importance.

  ‘Waterhouse, take Kennedy with you and go inshore. Find out what’s up.’

  ‘Just look or land as well, sir?’ asked the midshipman.

  ‘Land unless you see or hear anything threatening. Remember, just find out what’s happening on the beach. Don’t get into any scrapes.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Kennedy, aided by Seaman Jimmy Pearce, dragged a Folbot out of one of the hatches and quickly assembled the canvas boat. They lowered it gently into the sea and Pearce held it close to the submarine as Waterhouse and Kennedy stepped into the fragile craft.

  ‘Report your arrival from the shore when you get there,’ Raikes said as they pushed off.

  Although the sea was light, both Kennedy and Waterhouse shuddered at the thought of crossing the mile or so to the beach. Whoever invented the Folbot, thought Waterhouse, must have tested its flimsy frame on the duck pond in their local park. An average egg was more robust than the canvas and wood-strip contraption that kept them from the deep. They gently dipped their paddles into water, pulling back on them slowly and steadily, while making sure not to capsize the boat by leaning too much to one side. Neither man spoke as they made their hazardous way to the beach.

  It took the two men about half-an-hour to reach the shore. They could see a small sandy cove, surrounded by treacherous rocks. Waterhouse whispered ‘Make for the middle,’ hoping it was the place least likely to have hidden rocks which would rip their craft from under them.

  As soon as the boat had touched the sandy bottom, Waterhouse eased himself out.

  ‘Pull the boat up a bit, Kennedy. I’ll take a look around.’

  Waterhouse switched on his masked torch and began to sweep it across the beach. Everywhere he looked his weak beam caught glints of spent cartridge cases. His pulse quickened as he realised that he was walking over the scene of a battle.

  Then he saw the first body, about seven yards up the beach. He extinguished his torch, crouched as low as he could and walked up to the dark mass. The soldier was lying face down, his rifle still in his left hand. Waterhouse turned him over. There was no doubt that he was dead.

  Five minutes later Waterhouse had found the last of five dead soldiers lying on the beach. But where was the sixth man? He spent another few minutes checking the beach again, now walking more freely since there was no sign of his being under observation. ‘Well, he’s not here, wherever he is,’ Waterhouse muttered. He turned back towards Kennedy.

  Down at the water’s edge Waterhouse, unable to see
Kennedy, whispered ‘Kennedy.’

  ‘Here, sir,’ came the reply from a few yards away.

  Waterhouse turned and began to walk towards Kennedy, but he stumbled over an obstruction and fell into the sea.

  ‘Damn!’ he shouted.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Kennedy.

  ‘Don’t know – a rock I think – but I’m bloody soaked now,’ he replied as he angrily kicked the rock. But it wasn’t a rock. It was soft, and it moved.

  ‘It’s a body!’ he called out.

  Waterhouse leant over the body. The man was face up, with only his feet in the water. The midshipman felt the man’s pulse in his neck. He was alive. Waterhouse slapped the face and splashed it with a bit of cold water. There was no reaction.

  *

  From the moment when Waterhouse and Kennedy had left HMS Oakham Signalman Warren Saunders on the bridge had stared out into the darkness, ready for their report. Then came the first flash of light. ‘Signal from the beach, sir,’ Saunders whispered. ‘One unconscious man. Several dead bodies.’

  ‘Christ! They must have been killed on the beach when they landed.’ Raikes replied.

  ‘Make a signal to Waterhouse: “Await second boat.”’

  The signal flashed back and was acknowledged by Kennedy.

  It was a long job sending taking in a second Folbot with just one oarsman and then bringing back the unconscious soldier. Indeed, the unconscious man’s weight made the second Folbot so unstable that the seamen had to lash the two boats together for the perilous passage back to the submarine.

  Several hands on the submarine were at the ready to secure the Folbots as they arrived and heave the injured man onto the slippery algae-covered deck of the submarine. As he was manhandled down the hatch Raikes ordered ‘Put him in a berth and get the SBA to him.’

  ‘Close the hatch. Take her down,’ ordered Raikes.

  ‘Pilot: take us to Cyprus, straight as you can.’

  Raikes turned to his First Lieutenant, Gerald Underhill: ‘I was wrong about the routine of our drops. This lot have been massacred without even getting off the beach. How could the Italians have known they were coming? An isolated island with no known garrison. And we’ve never lost a man on a shore drop before.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ responded Underhill, ‘it looks like drops are now going to be a rather different from now on.’

  Before Raikes could say any more, Archie Walker, the SBA, interrupted him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but the man’s come round. Only says two words though: “bloody ambush”. Keeps repeating them, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Walker. Keep him comfortable. We’ll take him to Cyprus.’

  Raikes turned to Underhill: ‘And then we’ll proceed on to Alex. The Army’s not going to like this. Not at all.’

  2. Steadfast’s recall to duty

  Back in London, around the time of this incident, Prime Minister Winston Churchill was sitting at the Cabinet table in 10 Downing Street, fingering the two documents that a secretary had just brought in. The utterly contradictory advice in the report on the one hand and the minute on the other was perplexing. He took a puff on his half-extinguished cigar, followed by a swig of watered-down brandy, and stared out into the street.

  That morning he had been thinking about the only bit of good news that the war had brought him recently. In the Libyan desert the British 1st Armoured Division under Major-General Neil Ritchie was holding Field Marshal Erwin Rommel at bay at El Agheila under the fierce North African sun. From elsewhere around the Empire, the news was disaster after disaster. In Malaya, Kuala Lumpur had fallen to the Japanese. Now they were within sight of Singapore. In British-held Burma they were gaining territory every day. Beyond the Empire, in the Philippines, the United States General Douglas McArthur was falling back. Within little more than a month of joining the war Britain’s new ally was about to suffer a major defeat. At home in Europe, Churchill’s forces could do no more than make pin-prick raids on German-held coastlines, while at sea merchant ships were remorselessly sunk in ever increasing numbers. Embattled as Churchill was, he was confident that Rommel would soon be pushed back into the Mediterranean Sea. In the cold and gloom of a foggy London, North Africa and the Mediterranean shone as the sole beacon of hope.

  All this brought him back to the two documents. He glanced once more at the report from the Experimental Fuels Research Laboratory. Dr Christopher Bosanquet could not have been more fulsome in his praise of Lieutenant Commander George Steadfast for his having brought back the Albanian chemist Janos Dobransky (see Action This Day). Dobransky’s process for improving petrol consumption would be a war-winner. Bosanquet did not need to remind Churchill of the high cost of petrol in men and ships as tanker after tanker succumbed to German torpedoes. ‘We need more men like Steadfast, able to take the initiative and get the better of the enemy,’ wrote Bosanquet. Yes, thought Churchill, it was brains and bold initiative that were needed now. At his Bletchley Park code-breaking centre he had already amassed a group of the best intellects in Europe. But more men and women of this calibre were needed in every branch of warfare.

  The second document was from the brilliant but irascible Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet at Alexandria. In far from diplomatic language Cunningham more or less ordered Churchill to make sure that Steadfast never showed his face in the Mediterranean again. Steadfast’s Balkan raid, he reminded the Prime Minister, had lost him two gunboats. Two of his lieutenants were dead and a third was in a state of nervous collapse in a mental hospital. He concluded, ‘men like Steadfast are a hazard that our depleted fleet cannot afford’.

  Cunningham should have known better. It was only weeks since Steadfast, newly returned from his hazardous Balkan raid, had stood before Churchill at the Cabinet table. He had been there to receive the Prime Minister’s personal thanks and congratulations for rescuing Dobransky from the clutches of the Germans and the Italians. No one more appreciated a bold and dashing officer than did Churchill. He pressed a bell-button to summon a secretary. One of his garden room girls came in, pencil and shorthand pad in hand.

  ‘Take a minute to the Admiralty.’ Churchill began: ‘I have read Admiral Cunningham’s comments on Steadfast with care, but I must remind you that with the war in its current state…’

  *

  ‘Does London never listen to what I say!’ exploded Admiral Cunningham, as he crumpled up the Admiralty cable and flung it neatly into the wastepaper basket. His chief of staff, Rear Admiral John Edelsten paid no attention. He was used to Cunningham’s outbursts, which he now regarded as more for showy-effect than an expression of serious trouble. Moreover, they were both under strain as they sat at their desks in the Mediterranean flagship HMS Queen Elizabeth. She had been sitting on the mud of Alexandria harbour since the night of 19 December 1941, when two Italian frogmen had placed a limpet mine on her hull. HMS Valiant had suffered the same fate that night. With both battleships out of action Cunningham was, as near as made no difference, an admiral without a fleet. He had been in post since June 1939. During the phoney war, the Mediterranean had been quiet enough, but once Italy had joined the war in June 1940 Cunningham’s forces had been mercilessly vulnerable to Italian and German air attacks. Cunningham’s courage and endurance were being tested to the limit. He was in no mood for interference from London.

  Edelsten knew all this, but when he heard Cunningham mention the name ‘Steadfast’, he quickly recognised that this was no everyday outburst.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He’s coming back!’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Steadfast, that’s bloody who.’

  ‘Why? Has London got another hair-brained op for him?’

  ‘If only! No, the Admiralty say that they are sure we’ve got more need of an “independent operator” than they have in the North Sea.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘We damned well haven’t. And I’m not going to let this fleet end up like the Army with its SAS
running all over North Africa, doing what the hell it likes and no senior officer to tell them what to do.’

  ‘So shall you send him back, sir?’

  ‘It’s no good, Edelsten. This cable may be signed “Secretary of the Admiralty” but it’s Winston again. He’s besotted with Steadfast. We’ll have to take him – for now, at least.’

  ‘And where shall we put him?’

  ‘That’s easy. Let’s give him a bit of poetic justice. He lost two gunboats from Moresby’s flotilla – and two lieutenants. Moresby hates Steadfast’s guts and I’ve no doubt that Steadfast returns the compliment. So let Steadfast sweat under Moresby for a while. With luck, he’ll soon put in for a transfer.’

  ‘But we can’t just give him one boat under Moresby, sir. They’re the same rank, even if Moresby’s his senior. I think Steadfast even had a destroyer not long ago.’

  ‘And sunk it! You’re right. It will have to be a special attachment for yet-to-be prescribed duties.’

  ‘I don’t think Steadfast’s going to like that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And all those special ops that London want him to do?’

  ‘Special ops, my foot! You can hint to Moresby that we’ll be more than happy if Steadfast is limited to fetching and carrying. And do your best to keep London off our backs.

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

  *

  A few days later a taxi arrived on the quay where Lieutenant Commander Vernon Moresby’s gunboat flotilla was moored. A short, clean-shaven, square-faced man with a haughty air and with a wry snarling curl to his lips stepped out. As the taxi sped back down the quay to the centre of Alexandria, Lieutenant Commander George Steadfast surveyed the moored boats. There were six gunboats in two lines of three abreast. So, thought Steadfast, the two boats lost under his command in the Adriatic Sea just a few weeks ago had been replaced. Not, of course, by Camper and Nicholsons – they were unobtainable – but with Fairmile Bs. They’ll do, he thought, but for what? Perhaps Moresby would make things clearer.