Torpedo Run (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He saw Dundas on the swaying forecastle with Leading Seaman Priest and the AB named Bridges who had got a splinter in his foot. He was hobbling along with one foot heavily bandaged. He could have gone back to Tuapse with Lieutenant Kimber in the old gunboat, but he had asked to stay.

  The sea was unbroken but for an occasional patch of white. Great purple swells of water, with the sky streaked in dark clouds like tattered banners.

  He rubbed his stubbled chin and tried not to think of a hot bath and bed. A bed with Claudia to take him in her arms and soothe away the pain and the terrors.

  A fish jumped nearby and fell with a brief splash. Torpedoman Pollard waved a handful of empty mugs and yelled, ‘Just right for me tea, that kipper!’ There were a few tired grins, but not many.

  Petty Officer Ackland climbed stiffly into the bridge and waited for Devane to notice him. He looked paler than usual, and his face and hands were smeared with grease and dirt.

  ‘All right, Chief?’

  Ackland glanced around the bridge and beyond to the deeply heaving water. Perhaps he had not expected to see it again.

  ‘Not bad, sir. Pumps are playing up a bit, and I think the starboard outer screw has got a nick or two from splinters.’ He saw his friend Pellegrine squatting on an ammunition box and munching a massive sandwich. ‘Lazy sod.’

  Pellegrine chuckled. ‘We’ve been workin’, lad. Not like your cushy job in the bloody cellar!’

  Ackland yawned and spread his arms. ‘Did you want me, sir?’

  Devane nodded. ‘Just to say thanks. I don’t know how you keep this boat going, but I appreciate it.’

  Ackland grinned. ‘You keep us afloat, sir. I’ll do the rest.’

  Carroll called, ‘From Kestrel, sir. Losing fuel. Request permission to reduce speed.’

  The men on the open deck or crouched in the gun mountings peered across at their companion. It seemed so unfair, when the Canadian boat had managed to get this far.

  ‘Affirmative, Bunts. Revs for eight knots.’

  Ackland observed, ‘He’s got a good Chief, sir. They’ll cope when they’re needed.’

  Devane glanced at the clouds. The visibility was poor. Sunset or not, it would be darker earlier than they wanted. Then back to Tuapse, to Barker and his costly operations. He sighed. It was not Barker’s fault. It was the war. The whole bloody business.

  Ackland said, ‘I’ll get my head down, sir. My young winger can watch the motors. I’d like to talk about promotion for him later on.’

  Devane clapped his greasy overalled shoulder. ‘We’ll do that, Chief. I just wanted to tell you what I think about your whole bunch.’

  Chalmers watched him go. ‘Made his day, sir.’

  Devane moved restlessly about the bridge. With the speed cut to a mere crawl they were swaying about like toy boats. It must be worse for Mackay’s people as they fought to complete their repairs.

  ‘More tea, sir?’

  ‘Is that what it was?’

  Beresford appeared from somewhere, hatless, his hair blowing in the breeze.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No. Not even a recall from Barker. Not that I’d hear it.’

  They grinned, the tension held at bay by the old familiarity.

  Beresford said, ‘Barker will know by now. It’ll be him for the chop after this cock-up. Or a knighthood!’

  Devane put down the mug on the flag locker and walked to the chartroom. It was dark and cool in there, with the MTB’s own smells of oil and high-octane, of coiled rope and damp woodwork.

  He switched on the chart light and studied the calculations and the regular ‘fixes’, the straggling line of the Rumanian coast. There was not much time left. They might be spotted by an air patrol, or even a surface vessel of some kind. It was unlikely just yet, but all the same. . . . He jerked back as his head lolled over the chart and sleep threatened to drag him down.

  He stood up and groped for the door to the bridge. I’ve had it. Had it.

  On the bridge he found Chalmers and Beresford with their glasses trained on the other boat.

  Devane asked, ‘Trouble?’ It was amazing that he could keep his voice so level.

  Chalmers nodded. ‘They’ve stopped, sir. They just signalled. The leak is almost stopped.’ He forced a grin. ‘Be as good as new soon.’

  Devane looked at Pellegrine. ‘Take the wheel, Swain. Port fifteen. Close to loudhailer distance.’ Mackay was determined to stay with him. He might be too eager for his own good.

  ‘Post extra lookouts. Rig a bowline and hoist a man up the mast. It’ll give him an extra few feet.’ He glanced at Metcalf. ‘You’re the youngest. Up you go. Bunts, give him a hand.’

  Carroll grinned. ‘I might just leave him there!’

  Devane forgot them as the other boat came closer. He switched on the loudhailer and said, ‘I think the bird has flown, Red.’ He could even conceal the bitterness. ‘We’ll return to base as soon as it’s dark.’

  Above the bridge, his legs wrapped painfully around the stumpy mast, Ordinary Seaman Metcalf moved his borrowed binoculars in a complete circle before giving his arms a rest. It was cold, and his body ached from the hours of waiting and watching, remembering the swift horror of the battle, the corpses which had parted across their bows to let them through.

  He saw Mackay and his first lieutenant, Durston, on the other bridge, the seamen working by the engine-room hatch, some black bullet holes in the lower hull.

  He could look at all these things and even recall the terrible sights without fear. Somehow the ordeals had given him strength, and a new hope. Not just for getting a commission, a ‘bit of gold’ as Leading Seaman Scouse Hanlon called it with a sneer in his voice, it went much further. Somewhere along the way he had grown up. He was no longer a stranger amongst his messmates. He smiled in spite of his discomfort. Well, hardly a stranger.

  Metcalf peered down at the square bridge beneath his seaboots.

  Devane was right below him, talking with the regular two and a half, Beresford. The cloak and dagger expert. And Lieutenant Chalmers, the one with the burnt hands who had blown his top with the boatswain’s mate. Carroll too, he was a nice man. He could never picture the leading signalman as a baker’s roundsman.

  After this, what? Back to England and maybe another chance for a commission. His mother would like that. He grimaced. She always called him Edwin. He hated the name, and was secretly glad that even Scouse Hanlon called him ‘the Baron’.

  He watched Devane waving his hand to the other CO as the boats edged apart, the mast between his legs vibrating as if it were alive.

  Lieutenant-Commander John Devane. What a man. Just to be here with him was enough.

  Metcalf gave a great yawn and raised his glasses again. He felt sick and unsteady. It was impossible, but there was a ship. It had not been there before. Surely?

  He shouted, ‘Ship! Starboard quarter!’

  He knew the faces were all staring up at him but dared not take his eyes from the distant vessel. He was close to panic as he tried to identify it. An old, very old, tramp steamer of the three-island type, with a pair of derricks and a solitary funnel which at such a distance looked as thin as a matchstick.

  Metcalf heard the upsurge of voices and knew that men were climbing on to the guns, to the sides of the bridge, anywhere to get a glimpse of the newcomer.

  Then he heard Devane’s voice. ‘What course?’

  Metcalf struggled frantically with the bearing. ‘I – I think she’s heading south, sir!’ He could imagine the coxswain muttering to himself, ‘Gawd Almighty.’

  The lenses misted over momentarily, and when he looked again he saw a tiny patch of colour on the old freighter’s side, low down beneath her high, outdated superstructure. Red, with some sort of insignia in the centre.

  He shouted down the information and heard Carroll call crisply, ‘Turkish, sir.’

  Devane said, ‘That follows. She may not have seen us though. Heading for Istanbul probably.’

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nbsp; Pellegrine was peering up at Metcalf. ‘Lucky ’e saw the bugger, sir.’

  Mackay’s voice, frustrated and angry, echoed across the water. ‘I can’t move yet! It’s worse than my Chief thought!’

  Devane waved to him across the darkening water. It was too late anyway. Lincke had done it again. When he came looking for them in the future it would be another story.

  ‘Get that lad down. An MTB’s mast is hardly suited for lookout duty.’

  Metcalf heard the order with mixed feelings. Devane was pleased with his sighting report, but he was not so satisfied with himself. He had been dreaming and ought to have seen the old Turkish ship much earlier in spite of the visibility. How could he hope to be like Devane or Dundas? They never missed anything. Were always ready to act and to respond to each situation.

  Metcalf eased his leg from the yard and took a last glance at the Turkish ship. She was pouring out a long trail of black, greasy smoke which hung over her wake like a tail. He thought he could see streaks of rust on her side, the pathetically small bow wave to show her slow progress. A neutral. Safe from attack, and yet willing to help the enemy in other ways, or so his father had said.

  Carroll shouted, ‘Come on, boy! Jump about! I’m still holding the bloody line for you!’

  Metcalf did not speak. He could not. And for an instant longer he thought his eyes were playing tricks.

  Then in a remarkably steady voice he shouted, ‘Three vessels, sir! Same bearing as the ship! Closing fast!’ He was vaguely conscious of the sudden silence, the immensity of his discovery. ‘I – I believe they’re E-boats, sir!’

  He almost fell headlong as Carroll lowered him to the bridge and Devane beckoned him to the side.

  ‘Sure?’

  Metcalf nodded. If he was wrong now he would lose everything. His chin lifted. He was not wrong.

  ‘Three, sir. You’ll not be able to see them now. They’re beyond the freighter. Coming this way. Two very close together.’

  Beresford said, ‘Just as you thought, John. One of them’s towing the damaged boat.’ They looked at each other. ‘The third will be Lincke.’

  ‘Tell Kestrel. Make it quick.’ Devane stepped into the forepart of the bridge, all thought of sleep gone in a flash. ‘Bring her about, Swain.’ A quick, precious second to check the compass. ‘Steer north eighty east. Stand by all engines.’

  Beresford pounded his fist below the screen. ‘What the hell is holding Kestrel?’

  ‘Never mind him.’ Devane found he could ignore the other boat, the sudden bustle of men around him, the click of weapons being cocked. ‘I’m going to go all out for that bloody freighter. She’s our only chance. If she starts to signal the Jerries we’re in for real trouble.’ He bared his teeth. ‘What about the odds now?’

  Beresford was cocking a German Luger which he had brought aboard with him.

  ‘Three to one, if Red Mackay stays out of it. Not good. Not good at all.’

  ‘Steady on north eighty east, sir.’ Pellegine was completely absorbed. He paused to glance at Metcalf by his side. ‘All your fault, this is. On me bloody birthday too!’

  Carroll said dryly, ‘Happy Birthday, Swain!’

  Devane gripped the screen and stared directly ahead. He could see the old ship much more clearly now. Moving from port to starboard like an ungainly pier. There was so much smoke, the other boats might be anywhere.

  He made up his mind. ‘All ahead full!’

  As the hull lifted violently to the instant surge of power, Devane thought he heard Chalmers say, ‘Without Kestrel? No chance.’

  Devane gripped a safety rail and bent his knees as the MTB continued to gather speed. It was like riding her, a living thing, the bounce . . . bounce . . . bounce as the hull tore across the swell, hurling aside great banks of foam like a plough through snow.

  Beresford asked breathlessly, ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  Devane looked at him. ‘No passengers here, Ralph!’ He laughed. ‘Bridges has an injured foot. Give him a hand on the port m.g. mounting. You’ll be nice and handy if anything unpleasant happens in here!’

  He turned towards the freighter again, shutting out all of them except for Priest and his six-pounder. It was like charging headlong to ram the old Turkish tramp steamer. Like Twiss, a crash, a great fireball, then nothing.

  A seaman yelled, ‘Come on, old girl! Shift yerself!’ The man sounded excited, jubilant, as if it was the greatest thing in his life.

  Devane gripped the rail more tightly to suppress his sudden despair. Dear God, I don’t want to lose her now. Claudia.

  He heard Pellegrine say fiercely, ‘I’ll bet we’re makin’ those Turks sweat!’

  The MTB with the scarlet number I painted on her rearing bows was flashing towards the freighter at thirty-nine knots, and when Devane glanced astern he could not see Mackay’s boat at all.

  ‘Port ten. Steady!’

  He watched narrowly as the old ship appeared to slide towards the starboard bow. Faster, faster, the MTB had never bettered this speed, even on her trials.

  He tried to level his binoculars with one hand while he held on with the other. One hand for the King, but keep one for yourself. He smiled, remembering the old CPO instructor who had said that at their peacetime drills. A million years ago.

  Here comes the bloody ship. She was pitted with rust, and her lifeboats looked as if they had not been painted for years. Tiny faces peered down from the open flying bridge, a Turkish flag fluttered from somewhere like a talisman.

  Devane let the glasses fall to his chest and felt the spray sting his face like hail. If the rudders jammed now they would blow the neutral ship sky-high.

  ‘Across her stern!’

  He darted another glance at his men. Taut faces, slitted eyes, bodies stooped as if to withstand the shock as they hit the great pall of black smoke.

  The high stern loomed above them and there were more vague pictures. A man in a chef’s hat waving and yelling soundlessly. The Turkish flag, unnaturally clean against so much rust and filth, the smoke making Chalmers cough, the nearness of collision which Pellegrine had judged so finely that Devane could have sworn their keel left the sea as they bounded over the other ship’s wake.

  ‘E-boat! Port bow!’

  ‘Open fire!’

  Guns banged and rattled into life, the cone of tracer lashing across and settling on the leading E-boat like a web.

  The range was falling away so that Devane saw the other two Germans moving apart as the towline was slipped and the other commander hurried to support his leader.

  It took an age, or so it seemed, for the Germans to react. Devane could hear his men yelling and cursing as they fired and reloaded until the gun muzzles were shimmering with the heat.

  He imagined how he would have felt. So close to safety. Just a battered freighter, and then, like an avenger, the MTB had burst through the smoke, every gun firing. Casualties often occurred when a ship was homeward-bound. Lookouts tired, men relaxing, thankful to be spared from yet another op. Then, out of the sun, the unexpected aircraft, or the track of a torpedo cutting through the water towards you.

  Now it was happening to Lincke. They could not defeat three E-boats, but he would get Lincke.

  Tracer whipped overhead and cut past the old freighter which had made a frightened turn to avoid being hit.

  Devane pointed at the leading E-boat. ‘That one, Swain!’

  Everyone near him knew what he meant, and from aft he heard the sudden crack of the twin Oerlikons as the damaged E-boat, parted from her tow, began to drift across the sights.

  ‘Hard a-starboard! Steady. Hard a-port!’

  Zigzagging and rolling wildly, the MTB swung towards the second E-boat, and Devane saw the shells and tracer bursting along her bridge and then hurling equipment and buckled plating into the air like paper.

  Devane felt the hull jump, the whine and clatter of steel as the leading E-boat turned swiftly in an attempt to cut him off from the damaged one.


  But as they tore past Devane heard the clang of depth charges being lobbed over the quarter and tensed as they exploded together, one almost alongside the drifting boat.

  Two to one. The damaged boat was tilting steeply, and some rubber dinghies were already paddling away.

  Devane fell, knocked from his feet as cannon shells hammered into the chartroom and exploded against the bridge structure. The cracks and bangs were deafening, and Devane saw blood on his legs and thought he was already fatally wounded. But it had been the boatswain’s mate who had been hit, killed outright by a cannon shell. It had left a hole in his body big enough for a man’s fist, and his eyes were still wild and staring, fixed at the moment of impact.

  The hull jumped and quivered again as more shells ripped through the planking, some exploding in the PO’s mess where Pellegrine had painstakingly written letters to his flighty wife. Others had penetrated the small galley, and gone on to shatter the W/T cabin and kill the telegraphist even as he tried to reach a fire extinguisher.

  ‘Hard a-port!’ Devane clenched his jaw as bullets clattered around the bridge.

  Leading Seaman Priest was crawling away from the six-pounder, and Devane saw Beresford, his hair streaming in the wind, slide behind the controls to replace him.

  Priest rolled over and lay on his back, waiting to die as his blood pumped steadily into the scuppers.

  The second E-boat was streaming smoke and slowing down, her bow wave falling away as the Oerlikon guns cracked over her in twin lines of tracer, smashing down gun crews and wounded alike, and setting fire to some ready-use ammunition which turned the upper deck into a death trap.

  Devane dashed the spray and sweat from his eyes and stared wildly at the remaining E-boat. There she was turning again at full speed, her forward guns spewing balls of tracer towards him as she levelled off on a converging course. He saw the insignia on her bridge, the tiger stripes and the little Union Jacks and Red flags painted on the bridge to display Lincke’s ‘kills’.

  Now they were meeting at last. Only the survivors in the rubber dinghies and those still aboard the burning E-boat were here to see it.

  The gratings bounced under Devane’s seaboots, and he saw smoke spurt through the planks. He smelt burning, and knew that a fire had started between decks.