Jenkinson then crept over to the lighthouse entrance and laid a charge with a two minute fuse. He retreated to the darkness.
Duckworth, Kouvakis, Chapman and Jenkinson waited for the seemingly innocent lighthouse to turn into their battleground. Jenkinson looked at his watch and held up five fingers. Duckworth braced himself as the last few seconds ticked away. Then came the blast. The heavy metal door was torn from its hinges and shot into the air. It fell with a thundering rattle on the cobbles. At the sound of the explosion Kouvakis, still on the gallery, stepped forward and shone a torch down into the watch room. He threw in a grenade in the hope that it would terrify any men on the next level down.
Kouvakis waited just long enough for the dust to settle a little in the watch room and then struggled down the twisted wreck of the steel ladder. The floor was covered in broken glass, plaster and shattered furniture. Under the debris lay the mangled corpse of a dead German. He cleared the debris off the trapdoor down to the second level and pulled on the ring. There was not the least sign of movement. He dared not risk a grenade to smash it. Steadfast might be underneath.
*
Outside, Duckworth, Chapman and Jenkinson had seen three Germans rush out of the doorway. One staggered forward a few yards and then fell to the ground motionless. The other two were darting here and there. They clearly had no idea of where their enemy was. Jenkinson took aim at the man who seemed to be running to the beach. He fired. The man fell in a heap and lay sprawled on the cobbles. The third soldier disappeared.
‘Where the hell is he?’ asked Jenkinson.
‘Gone inland, I reckon,’ replied Duckworth. ‘It’s pointless to follow. Too dark.’
‘So?’
‘I’ll rush the ground floor with Chapman. You cover us.’
Chapman and Duckworth moved sideways to keep well clear of the beam of light coming out of the doorway. When they were level with the tower, they crept towards the doorway, one on either side. With their backs to the tower wall they paused to ready themselves. Duckworth gave a nod. They both fired a couple of rounds in the air, turned, and rushed through the door. Their boots crunched on the broken window glass that covered the floor.
‘Freeze!’ cried Duckworth.
They found themselves facing Friedländer, calmly sitting behind a desk with a guard standing either side of him. Duckworth quickly read the psychology of the desk. Friedländer, whom he already knew was unflappable, wanted to show just how much he was in charge of the situation, however many Sten guns were pointing at him.
‘Ah, Captain. Have you called for your commander?’ Friedländer asked with a touch of irony.
‘We damn well have! And for Leach. And you and your men won’t leave this island until we have them.’
‘Come now, Captain, let’s take this one step at a time, then we can each get what we want. I confess that my masters were rather set on taking your commander back to Germany. What a trophy he would make! But, if they have to choose, I think they want those boxes even more. How about it, Captain?’
‘No deal. I’m not the sort of man to choose between the boxes and Steadfast. One’s duty; the other’s loyalty. Both sacred to me.’
‘What old fashioned language for such a dirty war, Captain. I prefer just to be practical. So, let’s start.’
As far as Duckworth could see they were at an impasse. All he could do was stall and hope that something would turn up.
‘Well, suppose – and this is no more than a supposition,’ said Duckworth, ‘suppose that our men brought the boxes to the jetty. How could we be sure you’d hand over Steadfast?’
*
While Friedländer and Duckworth were making tentative attempts at negotiations, the two soldiers guarding Steadfast had become increasingly concerned about the explosion and the shooting below them. They decided to join the defence of the tower. After all, they argued, Steadfast would be secure enough on the floor above. One of them shoved a gun into Steadfast’s ribs while the other climbed the ladder to the trapdoor to the watch room and withdrew the hefty bolt. He pushed back the heavy wooden door, which fell with a crash onto the floor above. Before he could look up he was felled by a few rounds from Kouvakis’ Sten gun. The soldier who was guarding Steadfast turned his gun towards the trapdoor hole and began to fire. Steadfast grabbed a piece of timber leaning against the wall and smashed the German in the back. He fell, holding tight to his gun and rolled over onto his back, firing at random. The bullets were ricocheting off the walls. Steadfast felt that he was under attack from every side. A bullet grazed his cheek. Then another buried itself in his left thigh. He could neither hide nor get near enough the German to attempt to disarm him. It was at this moment that Kouvakis slid down the ladder, bounced off the corpse of the first dead German and despatched the second.
‘Sorry it took so long, Commander. I was up there all the time but couldn’t break the lock.’
‘Sorry? You’re a wonder Kouvakis. A real wonder.’
*
The noise from the second level room rapidly brought a halt to the incipient negotiations on the ground floor. Friedländer looked up towards the trapdoor. It opened. Kouvakis’ Sten gun opened fire in the direction of the Germans. Friedländer extinguished the one oil lamp on the desk and he and his two men rushed out into the darkness.
‘Captain, I’ve got the commander here,’ called Kouvakis. ‘He’s injured.’
Duckworth helped Kouvakis carry Steadfast down the ladder.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Duckworth.
‘Only a flesh wound. Nothing broken,’ replied Steadfast. ‘Leach is dead though. It really is time to go now.’
‘That’s welcome news,’ replied Duckworth, ‘but there’s a clutch of Germans between us and the dinghy. And I don’t think they’re keen on our leaving.’
‘Well, let’s not let that stop us,’ joked Steadfast.
‘Jenkinson, Chapman!’ shouted Duckworth, ‘Cover me while I get Steadfast down to the dinghy.’
*
Duckworth set off with the limping Steadfast on his left-arm. In his right-hand he held his old Indian Army revolver. Useless as it was in the dark, he found some comfort in this old friend. The two men had not gone more than three or four yards before they were spotted by snipers. Bullets and tracer began to hit the ground near them. Duckworth felt chips of flinty stone stinging his face as the fire neared them. He quickly lowered Steadfast to the ground and the two men lay prone about thirty feet from the dinghy – thirty long feet exposed to what looked like two snipers.
‘Captain, freeze there. We’ll fix the bastards,’ called out Chapman.
Chapman and Jenkinson had seen the sniper fire. It came from the rocks above the jetty. The snipers were about twenty feet above sea-level and had a clear line of fire over the jetty and the German launch, and towards the British dinghy. Robinson, who had rowed the dinghy in, was now hiding in the water on its far side. Chapman and Jenkinson whispered in the dark. They formed their plan.
When Friedländer extinguished the oil lamp he had not realised what a gift this was to the British outside. The cobbles, which had been illuminated by the light flooding out of the empty doorway, were now in darkness. The two men ran, bent double, passed the doorway to get behind the lighthouse complex. From there they crept over the bare rocks to place themselves above and behind the two snipers. But it was too dark to see them. A diversion was needed to force them to show themselves.
‘The boat, Chapman,’ whispered Jenkinson.
Chapman understood. He clambered down the rocks. The jetty was below him with the unguarded German boat. He was low in the rocks, moving very slowly. When the light of the moon occasionally caught him, only the whites of his eyes betrayed his presence. Now he was near enough. He reached into his satchel and took out a grenade. He stood up. He pulled the pin. He threw. A burst of automatic fire and tracer came from behind him. It had been almost point-blank range. The courageous “sergeant major in the making” was never to be promoted. Within
a second or two of Chapman hitting the ground the grenade, which had fallen down below in the German boat, exploded with a ferocity which tore the top off the wheelhouse. A small fire broke out. Then a ruptured fuel pipe fed the growing flames. Soon the rocks, the beach, the dinghy and the lighthouse were lit up like a floodlit football match.
Jenkinson had watched Chapman’s last moments with horror. When they had agreed the sniping plan, he had assumed that Chapman would have thrown the grenade from a near prone position. But Chapman’s determination to land the grenade where it could do the most harm had needed a well-aimed standing throw. His devotion to duty had cost him his life. Jenkinson felt a shudder of shame, knowing that he could never rise to such brazen courage. Yet he could give Chapman the revenge that was his due. The sniper who had taken him was now in full view under the light of the fire. Jenkinson aimed his Sten gun: ‘From my pal Jim,’ he shouted as he pulled the trigger. The first bullet only caught the sniper on the shoulder. He squirmed. Then got up as if to run. Jenkinson fired again. The sniper fell, rolled forwards and tumbled down the rock face to fall on the boards of the jetty. The jetty, now alight, would soon consume him.
*
Jenkinson was up on the rocks with a bird’s-eye view of the scene. He could see Duckworth and Steadfast still lying on the beach and the dinghy dipping up and down in the swell. There was no sign of any more Germans. The air was thick with the smoke from the burning boat and the nauseous fumes of its fuel. Only the roar of the flames broke the silence of the night.
As he lay there Duckworth thought once more of the depot. His last operation was almost over. Just down to the dinghy and back to Alex. How hard it was to let go, he thought. A wave of temptation came over him. Just one last fling. Just one last show of bravado.
‘Jenkinson, come and take charge of Steadfast!’
Duckworth dashed back up the beach and disappeared into the lighthouse. He relit the oil lamp and soon found what he was looking for. He opened the can of lamp oil and sprinkled it over the furniture and odds and ends in the room. He retreated to the doorway, lit a match and threw it in. The whoosh of the instant conflagration singed his hair and the fibres of his jacket. But Duckworth now had not a care in the world. This, he told himself, was his last and spectacular act of war. The lighthouse had been dark for so many years. Now once more it was lighting up the night sea.
*
By the time Duckworth was on his way back to the beach, Jenkinson and Steadfast had reached the shoreline.
‘Dinghy ahoy!’ cried Jenkinson.
A head appeared from behind the dinghy.
‘We’re all done here, Robinson. Help me get the commander in.’
Doug Robinson heaved himself out of the water, into the dinghy and onto a thwart. He looked like a man rescued from a torpedoed warship as the water poured off his clothes into the well of the boat. He took the oars and rowed to the beach. With the bow well run into the sand, he stepped out and began to help lift Steadfast into the dinghy. Duckworth reached the water at just about the same moment.
The scene – a dinghy, an oarsman, Steadfast and two sappers – was brilliantly lit by the burning German boat and the jetty. The light cast long menacing-looking shadows on the side away from the German boat. And that was how Friedländer and the last German soldier saw it as they emerged from the lighthouse outbuilding where they had been hiding.
*
The soldier raised his weapon and began to fire at the boat party.
‘Hold your fire! Soldier,’ cried Friedländer. ‘I want their commander alive.’
Friedländer watched as Duckworth lifted his heavy mass into the dinghy, nearly dipping its gunwale into the sea in his attempt. As he slumped down onto a thwart Duckworth cried out ‘Now, Jenkinson! Now!’
But Jenkinson was the only one of the party with a gun at the ready. He knelt down in the shallow sea and began firing at Friedländer and the soldier. The soldier returned the fire while Friedländer ran down the beach, zigzagging towards the dinghy, waving a pistol. Jenkinson scored the first hit. He saw the soldier fall. Then the soldier righted himself enough to fire one last time. The bullet passed through Jenkinson’s neck. He collapsed into the shallow water, which quickly darkened as the life flowed out of him.
Friedländer reached the water’s edge as the dinghy was moving off. Robinson was pulling on the oars. His years of sparing at the Repton Boxing Club had honed his muscles to perfection and the club’s motto – ‘No guts, no glory’ – had honed his mind too. Nothing would stop him from saving Steadfast and Duckworth. Now the water was deeper and Friedländer was wading up to his thighs. It was now or never. He began firing at the clinker planking. His first shot was too high, making a hole above the water-line. He fired again. The first spurts of water began to come into the boat. Another bullet. More water coming in. But the boat was receding faster than he could push his body through the ever deeper sea. Then the waves caught him. His feet came off the bottom. He dropped his gun, cursed and swam back to the shore.
12. A fighting return
It was 4.00am by the time the two launches were ready to depart. The firing from the beach has ceased. Steadfast ordered a south-westerly course for the first half-hour to give the impression that they were making for the Kasos Strait. Then the launches turned east to take the passage south to Alexandria between Karpathos and Rhodes. Elliston and Montague ordered ‘half-ahead-both’ and the launches set off into the darkness. Steadfast reckoned that the two and a half hours to dawn were enough to escape detection from the land. He ordered the launches to action stations until they were south of Rhodes and in the open sea.
Duckworth, not yet reunited with his whisky bottles, had joined Steadfast in Elliston’s launch. It was three days since he had left Alexandria – three days that had changed his life. On the day of departure he had been a broken man who could no longer face the burden of active service. For months he had kept going on his whisky while he lived in fear of his next action. Steadfast had given him the support and courage to survive one last operation, but his knowledge that it was his last gave him a new zest for life. In two days’ time he would apply for a home posting. All the terrors of battle would be ended. But, content as he was as he contemplated his future, he felt a deep sadness for the losses his detachment had sustained. Len Goody, the technical wizard, gone. He was only a lad – probably still a virgin. And poor Reg Stokes, survivor of Dunkirk, burnt out at 45, had finally met his end. At least Macconnel had gone the way he would have wished, picking off Germans to the last. Chapman and Jenkinson had gone too. Thank God that Billy Kay had survived to return some day to his two year-old son. It was a terrible toll, thought Duckworth, but this last mission had been a technical triumph and the boxes were safely in Montague’s launch.
Steadfast, too, was in reflective mood. The operation had been a great success for him as well and he had no doubt that there would be praise from the right quarters. Yet he was puzzled at the direction his career was taking. Only two months ago he was on land backing up a gang of near-thugs in the Balkan raid. Now he had had to prop up an alcoholic Army captain in his attack on a transmitter. Pats on the back from Churchill were all well-enough, but his proper place was on the bridge of a warship. At times, he feared that the war would not last long enough to take him to flag rank. But, on sober reflection, he thought it might last more or less for ever, given the near stalemate in the Mediterranean.
*
On Montague’s launch Seaman Len Bailey was preoccupied by something more mundane than his officers’ philosophical reflections: untidiness. He was staring at a pile of stores heaped up outside one of the aft storage areas.
‘Which bugger put all this clobber here?’ he asked. ‘He’ll cop it if the commander sees it.’
‘Whoever it was, they can bloody well put it all back. It’s none of my business said Asdic Operator Henry Saunders, who was too busy fetching some coffee for the bridge to stop. ‘I reckon we’ll all be put onto making the place shipsh
ape once we’re on the open sea. It’ll be light by then.’
But when the first orangey-yellow glow on the horizon to the east began to light up the two launches, the fatal significance of the heap of cables, drums and other paraphernalia became apparent. It was Nathan Reynolds on 375E who first noticed that something was seriously amiss. He was on look-out duty, dreaming of a sausage breakfast and basking in the gentle heat of the first rays of the sun. Then he heard the roar of accelerating engines away off on the starboard bow. He looked in disbelief and then shouted:
‘Commander, Montague’s going off course… racing off course!’
Elliston looked up to see 178M speeding away from him on a westerly course.
*
A few minutes earlier Collins had been bending over a troublesome oil pressure gauge and wondering whether to warn Montague that they might have to reduce speed a little. Before he could decide, he was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrown open and the crash as it banged against a bulkhead. Then came the sound of nailed boots clattering along the passageway. He turned towards the doorway and found himself facing two German soldiers, MG42s at the ready. One of them cried ‘Hände hoch!’ Collins dropped his greasy rag and his dripping oil can as his hands shot up into the air. ‘Up!’ shouted one of the Germans, indicating that Collins was to climb up onto the deck. As he reached the steps Collins felt the barrel of the first German’s gun in his back. The second one fired some shots up the ladder as a warning to the crew above.
Still firing the occasional shot the two Germans came up on deck. One herded all the men he could see towards the stern of the launch. The other went to the bridge and indicated to Montague and his men to join the crew aft. The men at the three-pounder and the machine gun hesitated to move. The first German sprayed a few rounds at them. Gunner Robert Cooper took several bullets in his back and fell forward to lie motionless on his gun. Gunner Jimmy Price seemed to be moving the machine gun round towards the Germans. He was hit in an instant. Caught by a glancing shot on his side. He gripped the wound and slid to the deck to land with his back against a railing.
Enemy In Sight (A Commander Steadfast Naval Thriller) Page 13