Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  ‘I suppose they were worried I’d not carry out the task if I knew Apollo was Tanja.’

  ‘Then they don’t know you very well, do they? I gave my word, Alex, and until this evening, I’ve felt obliged to keep it. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to tell you now, but they’ve treated you badly, and as far as I’m concerned I’m not honour-bound to RJ any more. I live my life by my own code, and I believe a man should look out for his mates, stand by them. It pains me to think I’ve helped make life worse for you.’

  Vaughan sighed. ‘Thanks, Jack.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Anyway, we did what we were asked to do. We got her out.’

  ‘And killed Cobra.’

  ‘Cobra?’

  ‘Yes. That bloke Becker – the one who put the pistol to Tanja. He was the one running the Cairo circuit.’

  Vaughan was silent for a moment, then added, ‘A fuel dump blown up too. A good night’s work.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tanner. ‘I reckon we must have pissed off a fair few of them tonight.’

  ‘I still wonder, though, whether we shouldn’t have gone straight back to the MTB and got out of there sooner.’

  ‘We got away with it last time.’

  ‘But we weren’t very successful then. The hornets’ nest wasn’t quite so thoroughly stirred up.’

  It was six a.m. They heard the Macchis long before they spotted them, Barclay calling up to the bridge from his W/T station.

  ‘I’m getting lots of Eyetie chatter, Cap’n sir,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty certain they’re pilots.’

  Tanner had again offered to man the port side Brownings so had been at action stations, facing west, and had begun to sweep the sky with his binoculars, when the Lewis gunner up front yelled a warning, followed almost immediately by a further shout of recognition from the bridge.

  ‘Bandits, one o’clock!’ yelled Allenby.

  Tanner turned, swinging his Brownings as he did so, and spotted them, as they closed rapidly towards them out of the sun. Fighters, single engine, four of them and, yes, Macchi 202s.

  Allenby gave instructions for the helmsman to zigzag the boat, the vessel lurching to port as the Macchis opened fire. Way off. Tanner held his fire, then aimed at the flight leader, lower and further ahead of the other three. At the front, the Lewis guns were opening up and tracer was pumping out, the sky torn apart by bullets and cannon shells. Allowing plenty of aim-off, he opened fire at around two hundred yards as a stream of bullets scythed across the sea to their starboard. A couple of seconds later, the lead Macchi was past, its pale belly streaking low overhead no more than two hundred feet above them, followed by the others in turn.

  Tanner swung the Brownings around. The MTB was now speeding straight ahead again as he watched the Macchis climb and bank, preparing for another run. They turned in line astern, one following the other, unthreatening dark insects until they were rapidly growing again and bearing down upon them. Machine-guns and cannon opened up as the Macchis swooped down, their guns spitting bullets and cannon shells. Tanner fired again, the twin machine-guns juddering. One of the Macchis was flying straight towards them, orange stabs from the gun ports, bullets spitting a line of little fountains across the sea that seemed to be heading straight for them. Tanner grimaced, tensing, but then the MTB lurched to starboard, Tanner almost losing his balance as the deck tilted, and the Macchi was hurtling past, Tanner swinging his Browning. Bullets raked across the fighter’s fuselage – mine? It hardly mattered. As another flew over, bullets clattered across the stern of the boat and the gunner on the cannon staggered backwards and fell.

  Tanner fired again as the final pair swept over them, swinging his twin MGs round in a high arc. Wiggans, the coxswain, was hurrying to the stern and Allenby had taken over the helm as the Macchis flew on and began to climb. But now there was a catch in one of the Italians’ engines, and Tanner saw a belch of smoke. The other three were still climbing in a wide arc, as the stricken aircraft stuttered again. The Italian pilot was trying to gain crucial height, but there was a loud bang from the engine, another puff of smoke and then the Macchi plunged towards the sea a few hundred feet below. A wing sheared as it hit the water, and then it was gone.

  The other Macchis were turning south, back towards the thin strip of land several miles away.

  Thank God they’ve gone, thought Tanner.

  Wiggans looked back towards the bridge, Smithson, the gunner, at his feet. ‘He’s gone, Cap’n sir,’ he called back.

  ‘Damn it!’ cursed Allenby. He shouted below, ‘Get some men aft and help Wiggans.’

  Tanner watched two men emerge through the hatch, then saw Wiggans hurrying back to the bridge. ‘We’ve got a problem, sir,’ he said to Allenby. ‘Fuel tanks have been hit, both of ’em. It’s gushing out the back.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Allenby, banging his hand on the instrument panel in front of him. ‘And Smithson gone too. All right, Coxswain, you take over the helm.’ He called below, ‘Number One!’

  Charteris hurried forward. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I need our position. Where are we?’

  ‘Ten miles off the coast and about forty miles east of Mersa.’

  ‘Call Major Vaughan, will you? Then both of you come up to the bridge.’ He turned to Tanner. ‘Could do with your opinion too.’

  Climbing down from the gun turret, Tanner asked Sykes to take over, then went forward up to the bridge.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ said Allenby, ‘but we’ve got a big problem. That attack ruptured the fuel tanks. God knows how long we’ve got left, but it won’t get us back to Alexandria.’

  ‘Bugger it!’ said Vaughan. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. It’s my fault. I should have ordered everyone to return to the MTB as soon as we’d picked up Apollo.’

  Allenby raised a hand. ‘Blaming anyone isn’t going to help. The point is, what are we going to do? We can try to keep going and we might make it past the Alamein Line. On the other hand, it’s a quiet stretch of shore, forty miles east of Mersa where the coast road is some ten miles further south. We could pull in there, hole up for the day and radio for help tonight.’

  Vaughan rubbed his chin. ‘But the enemy are likely to intercept any radio signal, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but they’d have to send troops down to find us. It wouldn’t be easy. There’s still no moon.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest enemy landing ground?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘That would have to be Fuka,’ said Vaughan.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ said Allenby, ‘I’d say heading for the coast now is our best bet.’

  ‘There is one other alternative,’ said Tanner. Allenby and Vaughan looked at him. Yes? ‘We radio now and ask to be picked up by air.’

  ‘By air?’ said Allenby, incredulous.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tanner. ‘In the battle a few weeks back, we rescued the CO of 649 Squadron, a Kiwi called Archie Flynn. He said if we were ever in trouble to call him and he’d help. He and his men are based near Burg El Arab now. That’s less than two hundred miles away. They could be at the coast in an hour. I can’t see the enemy getting troops there from Mersa in that time.’

  ‘But they could send aircraft.’

  ‘They’re going to send aircraft whatever we decide.’

  Allenby cleared his throat.

  ‘If we signal now,’ said Tanner, ‘Naval HQ could tell Air HQ and Flynn or someone else can be airborne in under ten minutes. Does Naval HQ know about this mission?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Allenby.

  ‘Then they know the importance of getting Apollo back safely.’

  Allenby looked at Vaughan. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s one of those decisions where we’ll only know which is the right one later. I think we should send the signal now. It’s the option that gives us the quickest chance of getting back to Alexandria.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Helmsman, head for the coast,’ said Allenby.

  ‘Yes, Cap’n sir,’ replied Wiggans, rolling the wheel so that a gre
at arc of white foam followed them as they turned south.

  ‘I’m going down to talk to Sparker,’ said Allenby.

  The others followed, standing anxiously between Barclay’s radio and Charteris looking at the chart.

  ‘All right, Sparker,’ said Allenby, ‘send this. “From MTB 270, urgent air rescue needed from coast forty miles east of Mersa Matruh. Apollo on board. Ask for Squadron Leader Archie Flynn, 649 Squadron. Precise co-ordinates to follow. Repeat urgent.”’

  Barclay tapped out the message, paused, sent it a second time, then glanced up at Allenby, who was biting one of his nails. ‘It’s gone, sir.’

  Allenby looked at the roof of the galley, breathed out heavily, then said, ‘Start praying, chaps.’

  A minute passed, then a signal came through, Barclay hastily scribbling in pencil. ‘“Received and understood”, Cap’n sir,’ he said. Another minute passed, then five more. The MTB was still surging towards the coast, as Wiggans shouted from the bridge, ‘Enemy aircraft ahead!’

  No sooner had he said this than Barclay was scribbling again. ‘Flynn on way with fighter escort,’ he read out. ‘Send co-ordinates. Urgent.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Vaughan.

  Allenby had already hurried back up to the bridge. Tanner made his way aft to the stern hatch, and climbed out, scanning the sky. He heard the chatter of machine-guns and the pom-pom-pom of the cannons almost immediately. Then their own guns opened up, the sound deafening. A moment later two Messerschmitt 109s roared overhead, just a hundred feet above the sea. Tanner watched them fly on, climb and bank, then turn back for another run. More furious gunfire. The MTB lurched to port and Tanner slid across the deck, but again the Messerschmitts’ fire was wide. A third run was just as unsuccessful; Allenby, Tanner realized, was skilled at manoeuvring the vessel out of the line of fire at just the right moment. The Messerschmitts flew off, presumably low on fuel, and ammunition spent. Two attacks already, thought Tanner, and still not half past six.

  The engines were coughing and spluttering as, shortly after, they reached the coastline. Directly ahead lay a long beach of white sand, but to the west the coast dropped south, and Tanner saw they were tucking the MTB in there. Moving along the deck towards the bridge, he watched Wiggans manoeuvre the vessel. The end of the beach was squared off, almost at right angles, and the MTB was able to run alongside and moor right at the water’s edge.

  ‘Bloody good spot, this,’ he said to Allenby. Beyond, there was nothing, just flat, featureless desert. He couldn’t see so much as a single shack anywhere.

  ‘They’ve got a low draught, these Elcos,’ Allenby replied, ‘but actually, the water’s quite deep here – look.’ Tanner leaned over the rail and peered into the clear water, which twinkled a deep blue in the early-morning sun.

  ‘What are our co-ordinates, Number One?’ Allenby yelled down to the galley. Charteris called them out. ‘Got those, Sparker?’

  ‘Yes, Cap’n sir – just sending them now.’

  ‘With a description.’ He peered through his binoculars. ‘And say that the ground will make an ideal landing strip.’

  ‘Yes, Cap’n sir,’ Barclay replied.

  ‘Keep at action stations!’ Allenby shouted, as several of the crew jumped ashore with ropes and began tethering the vessel. At the same time, camouflage nets were laid over the boat, two poles hammered into the ground to keep the netting clear.

  ‘Right,’ said Allenby. ‘We watch and wait.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Forty minutes or so.’

  Tanner went below and found Tanja lying on a bunk in the officers’ cabin. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She smiled weakly. ‘My God,’ she said, ‘what a mess. Do you think we will ever get out of here?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d like to think so. The netting will make us hard to spot from the air to anyone more than a few hundred feet up, and in any case, we’ve quite a lot of firepower.’

  ‘And what will happen to me if we do get back?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Tanja.’

  ‘Damned either way.’

  Tanner was about to say something, then changed his mind. What was there to say? Damned either way. He reckoned she was about right.

  It was forty minutes since the first signal had been sent when they spotted the next enemy aircraft, four fighters buzzing over at two thousand feet. Tanner stood on the steps of the pilothouse leading up to the bridge as Barclay picked up pilot radio chatter.

  ‘What are they saying?’ asked Vaughan, standing behind him.

  ‘I can’t understand, sir,’ Barclay replied.

  ‘Here,’ said Vaughan. ‘Let me have a listen.’ He put the headset on and looked at Tanner. ‘Two of them are going to dive lower,’ he said. ‘They’ve been told where we are but they’re complaining they can’t see a damn thing.’

  Tanner saw them now, two Messerschmitt 109s peeling off and diving.

  ‘Don’t fire until fired upon!’ called Allenby.

  The aircraft thundered past at just a thousand feet.

  ‘They still can’t see anything,’ relayed Vaughan. ‘They’re trying further along the coast.’

  Five minutes later they hurtled past again.

  ‘He’s spotted us,’ said Vaughan. ‘They’re coming down for one pass each, then heading for home.’

  ‘Get ready, everyone!’ called Allenby. Machine-guns and cannons rattled loudly as the first 109 hurtled towards them, but it was met by a volley of return fire, which forced it to bank and, in so doing, lose its aim.

  Tanner climbed up beside Allenby, feeling impotent. ‘Our boys need to open fire a fraction earlier,’ he said. ‘We need to put them off their aim.’

  Allenby nodded, as the second 109 swooped in low towards them, but on this occasion overshot. Now the third approached.

  ‘Plenty of aim-off!’ shouted Tanner, then yelled, ‘Fire!’ A hail of bullets and cannon shells met the enemy fighter as it flew straight into their line of fire. As it screamed over, Tanner saw that the wings and underside were peppered with holes. A moment later there was a small explosion, flames fled backwards from the cowling and the 109 careered on to the beach and exploded. The men cheered, but already the fourth Messerschmitt was upon them and this time a line of bullets scythed across the prow.

  ‘Tanja!’ muttered Tanner to himself, hurrying down below. Bullets had torn through the cabin, hitting two of the men. One of the crew lay crumpled on the floor, a rapidly expanding pool of blood beneath him. Ferguson, too, lay slumped, groaning, as blood spread from his stomach. Tanja was bent over him, calling for bandages, but Tanner could see that water was beginning to pour in. Grabbing his pack, he pulled out a handful of field dressings, ripping open the thin cotton packaging and passing one bandage after another to Tanja and Farrer.

  ‘This man needs morphine,’ said Tanja. ‘Quickly.’

  Ferguson groaned, as one of the crew hurried forward with the first-aid kit, ripping open the box and producing a phial and syringe. ‘Here,’ he said, pushing forward and thrusting the needle into Ferguson’s arm. But it was no use. Ferguson had been hit three times, once in the leg, and twice across his stomach and chest. He spluttered, blood spilling from his mouth, looked at Tanja with frightened eyes, gripped her arm, and then, with a spasm, died. Tanja released his hand gently, and turned away.

  Tanner looked down. Already an inch of water was swilling at their feet. He went halfway up the steps. ‘Water’s coming in fast,’ he said to Allenby. ‘I’d say there are too many holes to try and fill them.’

  Allenby came down and was confronted by the wreck of his cabin. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Carter now too – and Ferguson.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Get all essential kit on to the shore. Sparker – stay at your station for the moment. Everyone else, get out of there.’

  ‘Yes, Cap’n sir,’ called back Barclay, then shouted, ‘It’s them! It’s bloody well them!’

  Tanner stood on the shore, listening, as Allenby jumped down beside h
im with a Very pistol in his hand. ‘Come on, you buggers!’ he said. Then one of the men pointed and Tanner brought his binoculars to his eyes. He saw the plane, a Mitchell bomber, low over the water, just below the sun.

  Allenby fired the flare, but as it soared into the air, they heard distant machine-gun chatter and saw the glint of the sun on Perspex as a fighter rolled high in the sky above. The dogfight rapidly moved forward, Macchis and Messerschmitts battling with a squadron of Kittyhawks, bursts of fire flashing across the sky.

  A Macchi broke away and dived down towards them, but the gunners on the MTB opened fire again, the Italian pilot banking as a Kittyhawk raced after it, hugging its tail. The Mitchell was now almost over them, its engines a deep roar as it turned over the shore, banked in a wide arc to the south, then slowly came into land. Tanner watched, scarcely daring to breathe, as the wheels touched down and the great beast lumbered towards them, jolting over the rough sandy surface.

  ‘It’s going to overrun,’ muttered Farrer beside him, as the Mitchell continued to run forward.

  ‘No,’ said Tanner. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  The bomber pulled up yards before the edge of the beach, then turned and halted, its propellers still whirring. A hatch opened, and they were all running towards it, the gunners jumping down from the MTB and sprinting over the desert scrub.

  A roar of engines overhead and the tell-tale chatter of machine-guns made Tanner turn. A 109 was bearing down on them but two Kittyhawks were on its tail and as the Messerschmitt opened fire with a one-second burst that clattered over the Mitchell’s fuselage, the British pilots hammered it so that it hurtled over the Mitchell and ploughed straight into the desert beyond.

  Come on, come on. A bottleneck at the hatch as they frantically jumped aboard. Overhead, the Kittyhawks managed to steer the enemy fighters clear of the Mitchell. Another explosion, this time a grenade thrown into the sinking MTB, the coup de grâce to prevent the enemy getting their hands on it, and Allenby was running towards them.

  ‘Go on, Jack,’ said Vaughan. Tanner leaped up, felt arms grab him and pull him clear, then Vaughan and finally Allenby tumbled on board. The hatch was closed and now the Mitchell was rolling forward, gathering speed. More machine-gun fire, so close that Tanner ducked instinctively, but still the Mitchell was surging forward until, miraculously, the terrible jolting eased and the bomber was airborne.