‘What’s wrong, Engländer? More speed, more speed!’
‘It’s the fuel line,’ said Leach. ‘Needs cleaning. We ought to stop.’
‘Stop? You’ll get a bullet through your head before we stop!’
Meanwhile Montague had taken advantage of the slowing 375E and was now alongside at a distance of four cables. He could clearly see a naval rating at the wheel, with a German soldier at his side. A German officer had just come up from below and was standing on the deck outside the wheelhouse, looking towards 178M. All he could conclude was that they were stealing the launch. If those were the only two men on board, they would be in no position to man the guns. His fear faded as he savoured the favourable battle conditions. He pressed the alarm. ‘Action stations!’
‘Take us in, Coxswain,’ Montague ordered. ‘Chief, slow-ahead-both.’
On hearing the approaching launch, Friedländer raced to the machine gun on 375E. But a glance at the nearby ammunition locker revealed its heavy padlock. With Montague’s boat closing fast, Friedländer instinctively raised his MG42 and fired a few rounds in the direction of the approaching launch. The shots went high over the boat. At this sign of such weak opposition, Montague felt his confidence increasing. He turned to Robert Cooper on the three-pounder.
‘Put a shot ahead of her bow, Cooper.’
The shell passed in front of the boat at about 50 yards. There was no reaction.
‘Cooper, a nice neat shot 30 yards off the bow.’ Away it went. Still no reaction.
‘Can you do 10 yards?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Sure? If you hit the boat we’ll be in almighty mess.’
‘It’s OK, sir.’
The shell rushed off, passing about 5 yards ahead of 375E. In response Elliston’s launch turned through 180 degrees and laid a course due east.
‘She’s not going to fight, sir.’
‘Indeed not, Cooper. But we are.’
‘Coxswain: follow!’
‘Chief: full ahead both!’
Within five minutes 375E was approaching the beach on Platos. Leach was slowing the engines ready to moor in a safe depth of water offshore.
‘Run her in, damn you! Onto the beach!’ screamed Friedländer.
‘She’ll be grounded, or holed – or both. I’m not allowed to do it,’ called Leach.
‘Not allowed! This will allow you.’ Friedländer let off a couple of rounds within a few inches of Leach’s head. ‘It will be closer next time.’
Leach felt he had protested enough. He turned the boat towards the beach and with an earth-shattering thud rammed her into the shingle. Every object in the boat that was not lashed down was thrown to the deck.
Montague was not going to risk his boat in the same way. He ordered dead-slow and brought her in to a safe mooring depth. As his men completed these manoeuvres, Friedländer and his men had forced Steadfast, Leach and Peabody out of the launch at gunpoint. All now had their hands tied behind their backs. As they were manhandled over the gunwale they fell into the shallow water.
‘You call yourselves sailors!’ mocked Friedländer.
The men did not respond. Instead they concentrated on the difficult act of getting to their feet without the aid of their hands.
‘It’s like bloody gym at school again,’ joked Leach.
‘Silence! Or I’ll silence you,’ responded Friedländer as he nodded to his soldiers to hurry along their prisoners.
Once more Steadfast and his men climbed the steep path up to the German camp. The thorny cliff-face plants tore at their clothes. The softer aromatic plants filled the air with their tempting smells. And, from above came the first whiffs of the wood smoke from the German camp fire. The party scrambled over the last few yards of cliff top to the impatient sounds of ‘Schnell! Schnell!’ in the rear. With reluctant feet Steadfast led his two men trudged into the camp. It had more home comforts than the launches, he thought. The tents were spacious (even if one was now in shreds from the earlier raid), a meal was simmering in a pot suspended from a tripod, and the men were lounging, drinking and smoking around the fire. But for Steadfast and his men the camp was no more than the antechamber to a prison camp.
‘So, Steadfast, your mission is at an end,’ mocked Friedländer. ‘It’s a pity your boats aren’t more reliable.’
‘My boats are perfectly reliable when the men haven’t got a gun stuffed into their ribs.’
‘If you say so. It makes no odds. We’ve radioed for a boat to take you and us off.’ As Friedländer said this he nodded towards a bit of high ground just behind the tents. On the grass was a Feld Fu backpack set with its whip aerial extended. It had not occurred to Steadfast that Friedländer’s assortment of left-overs might have had a means of calling up reinforcements. More to the point, Duckworth, Elliston and Montague were equally ignorant of this fact. What would they be doing now, he wondered. Would they get the boxes off the island this afternoon, he asked himself. Perhaps they would split their forces now: one party to Alexandria and one to free him.
*
What Steadfast did not know was that Duckworth had seen the return of the two launches and noted the capture of the commander and his two seamen. Without access to his whisky bottles the captain had remained sober and was alert to the danger that the mission was now in. Of course there was nothing to stop the rest of the party getting into one of the launches and racing back to Alexandria with the precious boxes. But he owed one to Steadfast and for all his weaknesses, failing to honour man-to-man obligations was not amongst them. In fact this particular obligation exceeded all the others that he could remember, for he knew it was to be his last. Beyond, the depot called, to be followed by the slow ignominious slide into retirement. And, of course, the transmitter was still standing.
Duckworth waited until Friedländer and his party were out of sight. He then called his sappers together and laid his plan. He, along with Len Goody and Reg Stokes formed one party. Sergeant Jenkinson took Bert Macconnel, Jim Chapman and Billy Kay. Duckworth had chosen Goody and Stokes because he thought neither was safe far from him. Goody, a bright lad when it came to wires, screws and batteries, was a young eighteen. He lacked the maturity to face a German with a Sten gun. As to Stokes, he was showing his age. True, he was only 45 but the war had taken its toll on him. Dunkirk had sapped the last of his courage. Now, the drone of an approaching plane engine was enough to set him on edge. In the other party, Jenkinson, not really a soldier, was the weak one, so Duckworth had given him three solid men. Macconnel would pick a fight at the least excuse, even when he was sober. Chapman was a sergeant major in the making, and a very nasty one he would be. Kay, whose family home was now a pile of rubble and his two year-old son without a mother, was desperate to kill any German that came near him. All-in-all, Jenkinson’s party was a fearful line-up.
Duckworth and his men camouflaged their helmets with ferns and shrub foliage and then set off for their attack. The two groups made their separate ways to the campsite without making use of the existing path. Duckworth’s party went to the east of the camp, while Jenkinson’s went to the west. Each party snaked its way through the scrub and over the rocks. Every few yards they stopped to listen for signs of the Germans. At the top of the cliff, the scrubby bushes were a bit denser and taller than those on the cliff face below. It was now easier to crawl unseen towards the very edge of the camp. At the first whiff of the simmering stew, Duckworth raised his hand to halt his men. He was now about twenty feet from the grassy circle of the camp but still well-hidden by the terrain. There was not a sign of a lookout. Duckworth was confident that they would take the Germans by surprise. He turned, keeping his head low, and indicated to Goody and Stokes to take up their positions to his left and right. Away on the west side of the camp Jenkinson had made similar dispositions with his men. Jenkinson signalled his readiness to attack with three cries of a Cretan woodlark.
In response, Duckworth let off one long shriek of the whistle that was hanging from his mou
th and leapt to his feet. Goody and Stokes rose with him. Duckworth let off a few rounds and rushed the last twenty feet to the edge of the camp. Goody and Stokes came hesitantly forward. But, to the surprise of the Germans, Duckworth made no move to close in from the edge of the camp site.
‘Hands up!’ he cried. The Germans, who seemed to have not a weapon to hand, meekly obeyed.
‘Now, do as your told unless you want a show of lead,’ ordered Duckworth. ‘You there,’ pointing his Sten gun at Schultz, ‘untie our commander and the two seamen. And we want Kouvakis.'
Schultz turned to look at Friedländer, who nodded a refusal.
‘Stop messing about. We want the commander and the men. Then we’ll go. We’ve had enough of your inhospitable island. We’ve got what we came for.’
‘Are you sure of that, captain?’ asked Friedländer.
‘Stop time wasting. Of course I’m sure. You don’t take me for a fool, I hope.’
‘Perhaps I do. You’ll find out one day.’
‘God you are the limit, Friedländer,’ said an exasperated Duckworth. Just stop fucking me around with your stupid riddles. Will you hand over our men? Yes or no?’
‘No.’
Duckworth gave a blast of his Sten gun at one of the tents, leaving it looking like the shredded remains of Victory’s sails after the Battle of Trafalgar.
‘Last time: yes or no?’
‘No.’
‘You asked for it,’ mocked Duckworth as he put his whistle to his mouth. He gave a long blast, then he, Goody and Stokes dropped to the ground. A second or two later Jenkinson’s grenade fell plop into the stew pot and exploded. The fire, the stew pot and the tripod disappeared in a searing cloud of flames, smoke, ash, shrapnel and stew. As the fragments of the pot and grenade tore through the camp, the tents were turned to flaming shreds which fell like shooting stars down onto the men below. Two soldiers, Günter Mayer and Heinrich Koch, were rolling on the ground as they tried to extinguish their burning uniforms. Friedländer had been knocked to the ground and now lay near the fire. A few scraps of tent were burning on the back of his tunic and a red patch was spreading on his side. The chaos that was so central to Duckworth’s plan to take the prisoners without killing the Germans was working.
Duckworth walked across the camp site to where Steadfast was sitting with his hands tied behind his back.
‘Good to see we’re working as a team, Duckworth,’ Steadfast remarked light-heartedly.
‘How’ve they been treating you?’ responded Duckworth.
‘No harm done yet, but I’ve had enough of their company.’
Duckworth released Steadfast and raced him over to Goody. ‘Escort the commander back to the boats,’ he ordered, ‘Fast! We’ll keep this lot off your backs.’
‘Steadfast, where are Leach and Peabody?’ asked Duckworth.
‘You won’t believe this, Duckworth,’ replied Steadfast, ‘but a German took them off to collect water and he came back without them. It was that tubby Jerry. They could have outrun him any day.’
‘Hell! How on earth are we going to find them?’
‘Don’t worry. They’ll make for beach and the boats – unless Jerry gets them again.’
*
While Duckworth and Steadfast had been talking, Friedländer had raised himself up on one elbow – he was not dead after all. The German pulled his pistol from its holster and fired at Steadfast. Duckworth turned to check that Steadfast was unharmed. In that moment, Friedländer – who was only slightly injured – leapt to his feet, grabbed Kouvakis and put his pistol to the Greek’s head. Duckworth needed a plan, but none came to mind. His so carefully executed surprise attack had ended in a stand-off.
‘Drop your guns or Kouvakis has had it,’ Friedländer yelled to Duckworth.
‘Ignore him, captain,’ cried Kouvakis. ‘I’ve nothing to live for. Just go!’
‘We don’t leave our friends to die, Kouvakis. You’re worth any number of these barbarians,’ replied Duckworth, who actually had no idea what he could do next.
But it was Kouvakis who ended the stalemate. He held himself very still so that he seemed as compliant as could be to Friedländer’s demands. Then he summoned up all his strength, all his anger and all his righteousness and rammed his elbow into Friedländer’s stomach. Friedländer doubled-up in pain and his gun went off. Kouvakis felt a blow like a down-hill road-roller hit him in his right leg. He fell to the ground as Friedländer loosened his grip on him.
Friedländer’s firing, his doubling up and Kouvakis falling to the ground all happened in seconds. Schultz and Koch seized the moment of distraction to grab their guns. Duckworth was alert enough to fire almost the moment that the two Germans were rearmed. Stokes, the survivor of Dunkirk was felled by Schultz. But it was the last thing Schultz ever did. Duckworth’s burst of fire ranged across his chest. Schultz fell towards the pile of hot ash that was all that remained of the camp fire. A stench of burning wool filled the air.
Everyone else had scattered in search of cover, leaving the injured Kouvakis on the ground outside one of the tents and the dead Schultz smouldering on the ashes.
Duckworth shouted ‘Cover me!’ and raced across the open ground between him and Kouvakis. Several guns burst into action as he zigzagged his way to the stricken peasant. It was his good fortune that the Germans had retreated to the area behind the tents, so they had a poor view of his dash. Jenkinson, Macconnel, Chapman and Kay had a better view of the scene. They fired indiscriminately into the scrub behind the tents. Then Wolfgang Schreiber stood up to aim at the retreating Duckworth. Lead from the Jenkinson party swept over tents and ripped into him.
Jenkinson’s men kept up sporadic firing at the hidden enemy until they saw that Duckworth and Kouvakis were well clear of the camp.
‘Men, back to the path! Keep up covering fire!’ he ordered.
The men retreated towards the beach, mourning the loss of Stokes, but rejoicing in the fact that Friedländer now had three fewer men.
9. Return to the transmitter
The camp raiding party returned to the beach, where two dinghies were waiting to take them back to the launches. Away to the west the sky was a glowing mass of red from the last rays of the setting sun. While Steadfast was descending the cliff he felt his satisfaction with the day’s work. All seemed right with his world.
‘Time for congratulations, I think,’ said Steadfast to Duckworth, ‘you’ve got your boxes and we’ve even got Kouvakis as well! Pity about Leach and Peabody. They’ve not made it to the beach. I guess we’ll have to give up on them. It’s Alex here we come!’
‘Not so fast, Steadfast! You’ve forgotten about the transmitter,’ said Duckworth.
‘What about it? You’ve got what you came for. That’s right, isn’t it Jenkinson?’
‘Yes, sir, but…’
‘I’ll say it, Sergeant,’ interrupted Duckworth. ‘We were very forcefully told that we had to blow the transmitter to smithereens so they’ll be no sign that we’ve taken the boxes.’
‘Does it really matter, Duckworth? You’ve seen that radio up at the camp. I’ll bet you a week’s whisky that every boat in the Aegean is on the lookout for us now. We’ve nearly twelve hours of darkness to get well clear. If we hang around…’
‘You don’t need to spell it out, Steadfast. I saw the radio. I know what it means.’
‘Good, so let’s get your men into the boats,’ replied a much relieved Steadfast.
‘I thought better of you, Commander. You seemed the type to always finish a job.’
‘And I damn well am the type. If the job needs doing. But this job is another matter. It’s done and you need to recognise that. If we don’t leave now… well, you can guess what might happen. Is your little explosion really worth that risk?’
‘You’re damned right it is. Orders are orders. Even more so when it’s my last op,’ Duckworth retorted angrily.
‘OK… the transmitter it is,’ agreed Steadfast, uncharacteristically allowing
his judgement to be influenced by sentiment. ‘But my men are staying here. Agreed?’
*
Duckworth ordered Jenkinson, Goody and Macconnel to fetch their equipment from the launches. Soon three heavy rucksacks lay open on the beach. Duckworth carefully took out the packets of explosives, detonators, tools and wire and examined each minutely. Steadfast stood impatiently to one side as the minutes passed. He fiddled with his watch and muttered under his breath, amazed at the quantity of explosive and other apparatus the men had. Finally he could restrain himself no longer.
‘Is this palaver really necessary, Duckworth?’ blurted Steadfast. ‘Can’t you just get up that damned cliff and have your fireworks? It’s only a rickety old transmitter after all.’
‘That it may be, but demolition jobs have been in short supply lately with the men all cooped up at Alex and Cairo. They fancy a big blow.’
‘And what about the plastic you left earlier?’ asked Steadfast.
‘I doubt Jerry’s been kind enough to leave it there,’ chuckled Duckworth.
As soon as the captain declared his party of sappers to be ready, Steadfast ordered the launches to moor out of sight around the headland. One dinghy with two seamen was to stay at the beach. Steadfast had planned to remain with the dinghy but his lust for action overcame him.
‘I think I might join you, Duckworth. Elliston and Montague can manage down here.’
‘You’re welcome, Commander. Then we’ll have a witness to our total destruction of the transmitter.’
‘Kouvakis, you stay here,’ ordered Steadfast.
In the gathering darkness Duckworth led his party up the cliff path. Jenkinson and Steadfast made up the rear.
Enemy In Sight (A Commander Steadfast Naval Thriller) Page 9