Marine J SBS

by Peter Corrigan

  A tiny wink of light, off and on at regular intervals. He let out a deep breath.

  ‘That’s them,’ he called back to Ukune. ‘Get the engine-room to make steam. We’ll be moving out in a few minutes.’ And not before time, he thought.

  Three canoes, one with a body draped across its bow. They had taken casualties then. The canoes had halted at the ship’s side, by the scramble net.

  ‘Throw down a line!’ someone said. ‘We’ve got a casualty here.’

  Prentiss called out for the deck crew. Three Ugandan exiles appeared and fed a rope down to the canoeists. There was a smell of burnt rubber which intensified as a body was hauled up on deck by the rope.

  Willan. He was almost unrecognizable, his face a mass of burns. The wetsuit looked as though it had melted to his skin in places. Prentiss almost gagged at the smell.

  ‘You waited then, you fucker,’ Willan whispered. ‘Just as well for you.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘Take him below,’ Prentiss ordered the deck-hands.

  The other SBS men were appearing over the ship’s side. They also smelt of burning, and petrol and cordite. Prentiss wondered what kind of hell they had been through. They looked ten years older.

  ‘Get the masthead light off,’ Geary said sharply. ‘There are patrol boats out on the lake. They passed by us less than half an hour ago.’

  ‘Right,’ Prentiss heard himself saying. For once, he felt a little out of his depth.

  The Kleppers were hauled up on deck and the SBS men peeled themselves out of their stinking wetsuits. The steamer got under way and began moving with all her lights off. There was the distant churn of her propellers, the rumble of her engines, but no other sound on the lake. It was getting brighter by the moment.

  Geary and the other survivors were taking up position on the bows of the steamer, setting out spare magazines and looking as though they were preparing to fight another battle.

  ‘What happened to the other two?’ Prentiss asked.

  ‘Dead,’ Geary said curtly.

  ‘But you accomplished the mission? You got the planes?’

  ‘Yes. The mission was a complete success except that Mick and Gordy didn’t make it. Any more questions?’

  ‘No. I . . .’

  ‘Set course for Bukoba. We’re not stopping in the Ssese Islands. Willan needs a hospital, and there are no planes worth speaking of left intact at Entebbe.’

  ‘But the patrol boats . . .’

  ‘You let us worry about those. Just get this tub of shit back to Tanzania. Do it.’

  Prentiss started to argue, but something in Geary’s eyes stopped him. He had a momentary feeling that the SBS corporal would have as soon shot him on the spot as talk any further.

  He went into the wheelhouse, adjusted their course and brought the Victoria up to full speed. If there were no interruptions, they would make Bukoba in about ten hours.

  * * *

  It became a beautifully clear day. The clouds had cleared and the rain of the previous night had died away. They could see for miles over the surface of the lake.

  Fishing boats dotted the water – even in time of war, people had to eat. The sunlight glittered off the lake so that Prentiss had to shade his eyes from the glare. He had not slept or sat down all night, and he felt exhausted. And he would have to pilot this thing all the way to Tanzania now. The thought made him feel even more tired.

  Geary entered the wheelhouse. He was stripped down to a grimy pair of shorts and wore a scorched set of webbing on his bare torso. The Ingrams dangled from one hand.

  ‘How is Willan?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ Prentiss told him. ‘I gave him a shot of morphine. He’ll be out for hours.’

  ‘Good. It’s going to get a little noisy soon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are two Ugandan patrol boats astern of us and closing fast.’

  ‘Shit!’ Prentiss hissed. He turned over the helm to a yawning Ukune and ran down the length of the steamer.

  Breckenridge and Hill had moved to the stern and were kneeling behind the steel of the ship’s rail and sighting down the barrels of their weapons. Prentiss could make out the dark shapes of the pursuers less than a mile astern, foam billowing up from their bows. They were gaining fast.

  Geary joined him.

  ‘We lost them last night, but they must have been quartering the lake ever since, and now it’s daylight they’ve picked us up again.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Prentiss asked.

  Geary smiled. ‘Fight. What do you think? Tell me about these boats, Mr Intelligence agent.’

  Prentiss collected his thoughts hurriedly.

  ‘They’re based on the hulls of old Second World War PT boats. They’re fast, and I think they’re armed with a couple of heavy-calibre machine-guns; that’s all.’

  ‘More sodding Brownings, I’ll bet,’ Breckenridge said disgustedly. He spat into the steamer’s wake.

  ‘You’re sure they have nothing heavier?’ Geary asked.

  ‘Positive. And they’re not too well run from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Good. Now you get back to driving the boat, and we’ll do our best to make them fuck off.’

  Prentiss returned to the wheelhouse. There was little else for him to do.

  Willan opened his eyes and groaned. Even that simple movement was painful. But he was alive, and the pain was not as bad as it had been.

  A steel bulkhead above him; he must be on the steamer. So they had made it. He seemed to remember being hoisted aboard, but it was all very vague, like a dream.

  He sat up, clenching his teeth against the pain. They must have given him a shot of something; he felt like he was a little drunk.

  His arms and hands were heavily bandaged, but he could still flex his fingers. His face felt like a raw piece of meat. He had a feeling he’d not be too handsome once this little escapade was over. But he was alive, and that was something. Something more than Parker or Jock or Mick or Gordy had at any rate. Poor bastards.

  He got up. He was dressed in shorts, nothing else, and smelt like a cross between a cesspool and a scrapyard.

  Small-arms fire from up on deck. A series of single shots, then a long rattle of automatic. He heard the roar of powerful engines out beyond the hull of the old steamer. That was what had woken him then.

  He left the cabin and made his way up on deck.

  Two long patrol boats were circling the steamer like Indians galloping round a wagon train. The backwash from their passage created a crazy series of foaming waves which made the Victoria dip and lurch as though she were in the midst of a heavy sea. Heavy-calibre fire was hitting the hull – a peculiar ringing sound.

  Willan limped over to where the three SBS were crouching and returning fire.

  ‘What’s the score, Willy?’ he asked his corporal.

  ‘Sarge, you’re supposed to be below.’

  ‘I know. Spare me – tell me what they’ve got.’

  ‘One fifty-cal, surprise surprise, and a shitload of small arms. Most of it’s going wild, though, and this boat is a tough old bird, good Tyneside steel, 1914 vintage.’

  ‘But it won’t stop a fifty-cal. They can stand off and riddle us like a colander if they’ve a mind to.’

  ‘I know. But there’s not a lot we can do with these,’ said Geary, patting the Ingrams. ‘And we’re low on ammo too.’

  ‘Think they’ll try to board?’

  ‘They had men all over their decks. I think they will, yes; they’re daft enough.’

  ‘Those are old PT boats, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s right, like something out of an old Pacific War film.’

  ‘Then their lower hulls should be of wood, so they don’t set off mines.’

  ‘I suppose so, Sarge.’

  Geary threw himself flat on the deck as a rattle of enemy fire strafed the vessel’s superstructure.

  ‘They’re moving in!’ Hill yelled, firing off short bursts of fire at the attack
ers.

  Breckenridge and Geary began firing too. One of the enemy boats had zoomed in close and now a veritable barrage of small-arms fire was storming the length of the steamer. The wheelhouse was riddled and Ukune was hurled back from the helm as a burst of rounds exploded through his torso. The gauges and instruments were shattered, and the Victoria slewed round, out of control. Prentiss crawled to the helm and tried to bring her back on course. There was a great crash as the steamer collided with the smaller enemy vessel on her port side. Some of the Ugandans leapt off their vessel and clung to the scramble net, which was still hanging down the ship’s side. They began pulling themselves upwards while fire from their comrades in the patrol boats kept the heads of the SBS down.

  The Ugandans were over the ship’s rail now, running along the deck and firing wildly, whooping like madmen.

  Prentiss dived out of the wheelhouse as a burst of fire erupted above his head. He fired his silenced pistol and one of the boarders was blasted off his feet. From the other end of the ship, Breckenridge and Hill raced along firing their Ingrams from the hip as they came. The boarders fired back, but fired high. They went down in a heap. At almost the same moment, Hill and Breckenridge heard the ‘dead man’s click’ from their weapons. Their magazines were empty.

  ‘Out of fucking ammo!’ Breckenridge yelled. ‘That was the last we had!’

  The PT boats were moving in again, a storm of gunfire preceding them.

  ‘Cut that bloody scramble net free!’ Willan yelled. ‘Take the weapons from those bodies. See how much ammo they’ve got on them.’

  Geary raced up and began sawing at the tough fibres of the scramble net with his knife while Breckenridge and Hill searched the broken bodies of the dead boarders for weapons and ammunition. Willan joined them. The pain was becoming worse now, making him gasp for breath. But he saw something among the bodies that made him reach through the blood and shattered flesh to pull it out.

  Prentiss had returned to the helm and was fighting to bring the ship back under control. He whistled down the ancient speaking tube that ran to the engine-room and demanded more steam from the stokers. The old steamer was already flat out, but she was losing speed because of the hundreds of bullet holes in her stack, which meant that it was less efficient at providing an up-draught.

  The port PT boat closed in again. There was another crash as she struck the Victoria’s hull, and a dozen men leapt from her decks on to the scramble net and began hauling themselves up.

  Bullets by the hundred smashed into the side of the steamer. The SBS men had no choice but to cower behind the steel bulkhead of the ship’s rail. Geary was still sawing at the scramble net as the faces of the first boarders came up over the ship’s side.

  A burst of AK47 fire threw them off again. Hill had taken one of the earlier boarders’ weapons and fired it now at every head which popped up over the ship’s side. The scramble net, with its load of attackers, slipped, frayed and finally came apart as Geary sawed away at it with his knife like a maniac. It fell free of the ship with its cargo of screaming men, and plunged into the lake.

  ‘Must get this fucker sharpened,’ Geary said, white-faced. Hill grinned at him.

  The attacking boats were closing in again on both sides now, fire from their crews raking the steamer from stem to stern. The one to port soon sheered off, however, turning back to pick up the crowd of men who had fallen into the lake along with the scramble net.

  The starboard attacker was the one with the Browning. The heavy gun punched holes clean through the steel sides of the steamer. Prentiss found himself flat on the deck again as the wheelhouse was blasted to wreckage around him. The Victoria began to slow down as the damage took its toll; some of the heavy-calibre rounds had gone through the hull and punctured her boilers.

  Willan propped himself up, an AK47 in his bandaged hands. He was breathing heavily but his head was clear. He called out to the other SBS men.

  ‘See if you can’t give me a little covering fire to distract those bastards, lads. I’ve got a surprise for them.’

  ‘Anything you say, Sarge. But this is our last throw,’ Geary answered.

  Geary and the others leapt up and began laying down a curtain of automatic fire on the starboard PT boat. They had gleaned weapons and a couple of magazines apiece from the enemy dead, but they would last only a few seconds.

  Willan stood up and took careful aim, ignoring the pain in his hands. He had only one shot, and he must not miss.

  Attached to the end of his AK47 was a rifle grenade. He aimed it at the wooden hull of the enemy PT boat, adjusted for the slight roll of the ship, then fired.

  His shoulder was shoved backwards by the heavy recoil. He staggered.

  The grenade went in on target, punching through the wooden hull of the enemy vessel as though it were cardboard. There was a muffled explosion, then a louder one, and a chunk of the PT boat’s hull detonated outwards.

  The vessel swerved round as the water began to fill her hull. It happened frighteningly quickly. She toppled over, men screaming and jumping clear of her deck. Seconds later she capsized entirely, and gurgled rapidly from sight, leaving only a bubbling disturbance to mark her passing, and the bobbing heads of a score of men who were treading water and clinging to fragments of wreckage.

  The Ugandans had had enough. The other boat, having picked up some of its own crew from the water, now stopped to pick up survivors from its sister ship. The pursuit was abandoned. A few volleys of shots were fired by way of a last defiance, but the Victoria limped away unmolested.

  Willan collapsed to the deck. The pain was eating through the comfortable numbness that the morphine had engendered.

  Geary bent over him.

  ‘Sarge? Sarge? That was a fucking marvellous shot, by the stupidest cunt I’ve ever had the privilege to meet.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ Willan groaned.

  ‘We’ll get you to a hospital soon. Bukoba’s only a few hours away. We made it, Sarge. We did it.’

  ‘Some of us did,’ Willan said.

  The world closed in on him and became dark. The bright sky and the chugging engines of the steamer disappeared. Even the pain died away.

  15

  Admiral Leighton sipped his coffee in silence. The ubiquitous Whitehall traffic thundered past outside, never ceasing. It was raining, a cold, dull day in December, the afternoon already turning winter-dark.

  Warm enough in here, though, with the fire burning brightly in the grate. How many civil servants had an open fire in their office? he wondered.

  The door to the room opened and a grey-haired man in a suit entered. Leighton stood up as he entered but the other man waved him back down again, placed a slim briefcase by the desk and helped himself to coffee from the silver pot. Then he took his seat, facing Leighton, and began flipping through the file which the admiral had placed there a few minutes ago.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Leighton. So this is the update on the Tanzanian situation, eh?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll find it’s quite thorough. Your man Prentiss has cooperated completely with Naval Intelligence. I have to thank you for loaning him to us.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ The civilian flipped shut the file after a cursory glance at its contents and leant back in his richly upholstered chair, sipping at his coffee.

  ‘Why don’t you give me a verbal summary before I delve into the thick of it? How have things gone? Your own opinion, of course.’

  Leighton bowed his head a moment, mustering his thoughts.

  ‘We brought our people – those who had survived – out of the country a month ago,’ he said slowly. ‘Four of them died . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Four of them died and one was so badly wounded – burns, mostly – that he will probably be invalided out of the service.’

  ‘I say, rotten luck. Rather high casualties, though. What exactly was their role in the whole affair? You have to remember that the briefings I get a
re not as detailed as all that, Leighton. I have to keep a grip of the bigger picture.’

  A muscle flickered in the admiral’s jaw.

  ‘Of course. Well, largely speaking, their mission was a success. They trained up a substantial force of Ugandan exiles and Tanzanians and used them to blunt the main thrust of Amin’s invasion – taking high casualties as they did so. Prior to this they had also crippled the lakeside raiders, who had been a thorn in Tanzania’s side for quite some time. In this previous operation they had captured some kind of antiquated steamer which, subsequent to the invasion, they took to Entebbe – on our orders. Operating out of this, they destroyed three-quarters of Amin’s air force on the ground, thus ending the bombing of Tanzanian towns . . .’

  ‘Good show,’ the man on the other side of the desk said approvingly.

  ‘Two of them died in this operation. The rest made it back to Tanzania, where we had them airlifted out within days, discreetly. Unfortunately, with the heat and the unhygienic conditions, the team leader’s condition deteriorated to the extent that he could not be fully rehabilitated.’

  ‘Damned shame.’

  ‘Quite. I was thinking of some kind of gong for the surviving men. Just something to mark what they have achieved.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘Afraid not, Leighton. That sort of thing would beg questions. What was the medal for? What have they done to get it? No, I’m sorry, but they’ll have to make do with the gratitude of their country. After all, they were doing what they were paid to do.’

  The muscle twitched again in Leighton’s jawline. ‘Quite,’ he said with icy politeness.

  ‘Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye on that one. Now, tell me about the current situation with regard to Tanzania and Uganda. I’m a little behind, you understand. Everything seems geared towards Northern Ireland these days.’

  ‘The Tanzanian Army has been on the offensive for nearly three weeks now,’ Leighton said coldly. ‘It has pushed the Ugandans away from the Kagera and they are in retreat back to their own borders.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Yes. Nyerere has sworn to see Amin topple. It is now generally recognized that the Tanzanians will not stop once they have reclaimed their territory. They are going to keep going until they take Kampala.’