The Strait had been very busy with these coastal craft. Schooners and caiques, tiny steamers which looked as if they had been built at the time of Victoria’s jubilee, the sea abounded with their haphazard movements. It must be a nightmare for the enemy to keep track of them all. Marshall knew that some of them were used as supply vessels for Yugoslav partisans, others for the mysterious operations of the Navy’s Special Boat Squadron. Unlike his own mission, their task was to avoid open confrontation with the enemy. A war of stealth and cunning with little hope of quarter if they were caught.
Marshall stood by the conning-tower ladder, arms folded as he watched Devereaux working on his chart. The regular ping of the echo-sounder was a constant reminder of the sea-bed. The water was shallow here. Shelving to a mere twelve fathoms close abeam. But they must stay inshore as long as possible. He pushed the thought that the dock had already reached Bari from his mind. Or perhaps it had not even sailed yet? They had crept towards Bari the previous day. Quite a lot of activity, but no sign of the dock. Something that size, and it was the largest in the Mediterranean, should have been visible.
Devereaux twisted round to look at him. `The Tremiti Islands are about thirty miles ahead, sir. Do you want a course to seaward?’
‘No. We might miss the target if we go round them.’
Devereaux pursed his lips. `Not much depth in the main channel, sir. Twenty-one fathoms at the most.’
The echo-sounder pinged in the background as if to back up his warning.
`I’ll bear that in mind, Pilot.’
He saw the quick exchange of glances, the way Petty Officer Cain was watching him as he waited to relieve the helmsman.
He had to think. Empty his mind of everything else. If they did not meet with the floating dock in the next few hours, what would he do? Keep going all the way to Trieste where it was supposed to have started from? He seemed to hear those same words again. It’s your
pigeon.
Then there was what Frenzel had told him. The matter of fuel. The arrangements for taking more on board. Fresh water might become a problem, and then there was
A voice said sharply, ‘H.E. bearing three-one-zero.’ A pause.‘Slow reciprocating, sir. Still very faint.’
Marshall thrust himself from the ladder. ‘Periscope depth.’ He tried to relax his limbs. It did not sound like the target, but worse, the newcomer might mean they would have to alter course in order to avoid meeting her in Devereaux’s channel.
`Fourteen metres, sir.’
Marshall said, `Very slowly.’ He ducked down and waited for the periscope to hiss smoothly from its well. He could feel his palms sweating on the handles, the pain in his jaw as he clenched it to steady his nerves.
The sunlight was searing, and he had to blink to clear his vision. A quick look around and overhead and then on to the bearing. He licked his lip, tasting oil. There was a lot of mist about and the sunlight on the gently undulating water was almost blinding. Then he saw the other vessel.
He said, `A motor-yacht.’ He brought the lens to full power. `Painted grey.’ He watched the distant vessel twisting and extending in the haze. It was just possible to see the tiny flag on her mast. `Italian. Anti-submarine patrol.’
Behind him he heard somebody murmur, `Thought it was the old Lima coming to look for us!’ Someone laughed.
He snapped the handles inwards. `Down periscope.’ He looked at Gerrard without seeing him. `That’s a bloody nuisance.’
The Asdic operator called, `Getting more H.E. sir, same bearing. Heavier but very faint.’
Marshall watched the back of the man’s head. `Warship?’
‘No.’ The head shook. `Too slow.’
Gerrard said quietly, `One of the tugs maybe. How many would a dock like this one need?
The Asdic operator interrupted. `Getting jumbled H.B. now, sir. Could be back echoes from the shallows.’ It sounded like an accusation. `Might be another ship.’
`Up periscope.’
Marshall swung it round and then brought it back on the little yacht. The haze was making it very difficult. He edged round slightly and saw the far off strip of green coastline. The hump of hills further inland. It looked very peaceful.
Something picked up the sunlight and he steadied the lens, following the little shining dot until it had drifted out of sight.
`There’s a plane, Number One. Probably nothing, but it might be some sort of escort.’
He was just talking to delay the decision. It was too dangerous to attack anything here. The yacht would soon pick them up with her Asdic, and in these shallow waters would hold the contact until help arrived. What should he do? Wait for dark? That was too long. He might lose her while he manoeuvred out of their way and lost valuable time in taking up another position.
He felt his heart thumping against his ribs. It was like looking at a giant building which had somehow got swept out to sea. It loomed through the mist, half shrouded in haze and the smoke from a tug, although the latter was completely submerged in vapour. He couldn’t lose it now.
`Action stations, Number One.’ He straightened his back. `Down periscope.’ He looked at the clock, shutting his ears to the grating klaxon. Then he said, `Tell Warwick to get ready. We’re going in surfaced.’
They might just get away with it. They would have the sun behind them in those first precious seconds. He had told himself in the past, it was always the unexpected which caught you. Well, the same went for the enemy, too.
He snapped, `Stand by to surface. We will start the attack.’
9
A bad one
After the cool damp of the enclosed hull the heat was unexpectedly fierce. Even before the last of the receding water had surged clear of the casing and gurgled through the bridge scuppers the sun had raised a thin curtain of steam from the dripping plates.
Marshall trained his glasses on the distant yacht, his eyes almost level with the screen. He found he could ignore the figures who were still clambering through the open hatch or running towards the deck gun below the conningtower. But as he watched the other vessel he was vaguely conscious of other things, like the growing warmth across his shoulders, the strong fishy smell which greeted his starved lungs after being so long submerged.
`Escort bears Green one-five.’ He dropped his glance to the bridge sight again. `Range oh-one-five.’
He lifted the glasses and held them on the yacht’s low hull. She was zigzagging slowly, her raked stem making a show of spray in the bright sunlight, whether it was a normal practice, or some additional cover for her massive charge, it was impossible to tell. But it could make things more difficult.
He felt Buck beside him, heard him adjusting the sights, his breath coming fast and uneven.
From below the screen Warwick shouted, `All guns closed up, sir!’
`Good.’ Without lowering the glasses Marshall said, `The escort’s skipper’s not even seen us yet. When he does, be ready.’
Then he glanced at Buck with something like surprise. In his German cap and leather coat he was like a stranger. He shifted his gaze to the casing below. There too it seemed as if the boat had been returned to her original owners. Warwick in his cap and shorts, a Luger hanging prominently from one hip, and beside him the gun’s crew similarly attired, their lifejackets making bright patches against the grey steel and armour plate.
When he looked again at the yacht he saw the towering shape of the dock looming astern of her, its outline still halved in sea-mist. But there was heavy smoke mingling with the haze, and more beyond the slow-moving huddle to betray the presence of another tug. The latter would be needed to act as a sea-anchor if the dock was caught in a sudden squall or in some offshore current.
Buck had his chin almost on the voicepipe. `Dock bears Green three-oh. Range oh-five-oh.’ He glanced at Marshall. `What d’you think, sir? Shall we fire a full salvo right away?’
Marshall shook his head, wondering if the Italian lookouts were all asleep. `No. We’ll need minimum s
ettings on all torpedoes. Otherwise they might pass right under the dock. There’s no telling what it draws. If we fire now we might hit the yacht and waste the whole thing.’
Behind him he heard the yeoman snap, `They’ve seen as, sir!’
Seconds later a light blinked from the yacht’s bridge. It was almost invisible in the sunlight.
But Blythe seemed satisfied. `The same old challenge, sir.’ He lifted his hand-lamp. `Reply?’
‘Not yet. Let ‘em sweat for a bit.’
Marshall tried to regain a mental picture of his boat as she would look to the oncoming vessels. The U-boat’s number had long since been replaced by a large Iron Cross. It too had been badly scored by sea and slime, but should appear authentic enough. There were said to be three or four U-boats operating with the Italians in the Mediterranean. Not enough to be that familiar.
`There it is again, sir.’
`Very well. Make the reply.’
Through a voicepipe he heard one of Buck’s team intone, `All tubes standing by, sir.’
Marshall licked his lips, tasting the salt. `Depth setting of three metres. But we must close the range still further. We have to be sure.’
He ignored Buck’s quick instructions and concentrated on the yacht. She was still zigzagging back and forth, and her course was bringing her slowly towards the submarine’s starboard bow. He could see a few figures in white uniforms on her deck and more grouped around a businesslike looking gun just forward of the bridge.
He said, `Tell the control room I want a constant lookout for aircraft on the main periscope. Put a good man on it. One who won’t be tempted to watch what we’re doing.’
Blythe asked, `Shall I hoist the Colours, sir?’ He chuckled. `It seems the thing to do.’
Marshall nodded. `Yes. We’ll go the whole way.’
He heard the squeak of halliards and saw the flag’s dark shadow flap over the motionless gun’s crew as it rose to the periscope standards. When he took a quick glance at the big scarlet flag with its black cross and swastika he was again surprised, even though he knew what he was going to see.
The girl was right. He could no more do her sort of job then fly. You had to be ready for everything. Deception, guilt, suspicion.
Buck said, `Pilot says that we should alter course to starboard soon, sir.’
`Negative.’
He wiped the spray from his glasses and trained them on the dock. About two miles away now. Devereaux was right to warn him. There were shallows somewhere to port, but they had to keep between the land and their main target. Any change now and the enemy might realise what was happening. There was probably an airfield within ten miles of where he was standing.
Buck shrugged. It was not his concern. `Bridge to control room. Steady at two-seven-eight degrees. Both motors slow ahead.’
Marshall heard the slender attack periscope stir in its sleeve and knew Gerrard was watching the approaching vessels, too. Sizing them up, comparing his own calculations with those of the attack team.
The armed-yacht was less than a thousand yards away now, and he could see someone tipping gash over her side where some attendant gulls circled and dipped expectantly.
Blythe said, `Damn! They’ve got some lighters tied to the side of the dock, sir.’ He lowered his glasses and swore. ‘Bloody mist has come down again. Lost ‘em!’
Marshall looked at him gravely. The yeoman was not one to imagine things. It now seemed likely that the enemy had lashed the lighters to the dock’s side as some extra protection. It was a good idea for catching any longranged shot. A single torpedo, even a pair, might explode against the lighters without allowing the real damage to penetrate further.
‘Keep watching.’ He leaned over the bridge screen.
`Sub! Get ready to do your stuff if they draw closer! Answer them in German. But if it gets difficult come up here with me.’
He saw Warwick turn and wave, and wondered if the Italians would notice how pallid the submariners’ skins were, or that they were not wearing White uniforms like themselves. It was unlikely. Submariners were a law to themselves in most navies.
Beside him Buck kept up a steady stream of orders to his men below. Bearings and ranges, courses and estimated speeds. It was a pity they could not fire a fanned salvo. But if this was going to work they had to hit with most, if not all, of their torpedoes.
He looked up, shading his eyes against the fierce glare. There were no aircraft about, just two gulls gliding level with the periscopes, probably in hopes of better fare than that offered by the Italians.
‘Yacht’s signalling, sir.’ Blythe wiped his face. ‘lye-tie this time.’
`make, not understood.’ A German U-boat commander would doubtless be very correct, if not openly contemptuous towards his Latin ally.
The flag lifted and curled lazily in a freak breeze, and when he looked again Marshall saw the dock fully for the first time. In the powerful lenses it rode above its reflection like a pale cliff, its outline etched against the sky by a and spidery upper-works of derricks an~i gantrys. He saw the lighters, long low craft, four of them. So there were probably the same number on the other side. The towing tug was a great brute of a thing, no doubt an ocean-going salvage job in happier times. The second one was still hidden astern, her presence marked by a thin plume of smoke.
Buck muttered, `Big. That’s the sort of dock you’d use for heavy cruisers. Maybe even a battlewagon.’ He nodded. `Very useful.’
Marshall did not reply. The armed-yacht should soon pass clear of her charge to lead the slow procession across the submarine’s starboard quarter. The range of the target would be just right. With nothing but a clear, bright horizon behind it, it should be perfect.
`Get ready.’
He stepped on to Buck’s grating and lowered his eyes to the sights. He saw the yacht’s jaunty green and red ensign rippling across the wires, and then as he adjusted the bar he held his breath as first the tug and then the overlapping mass of dock moved ponderously into the sights.
`Stand by One to Six.’
He stood up slowly and removed his cap. It would be stupid to invite trouble by crouching over the bridge sights for the whole time.
He heard Buck exclaim angrily, `Christ! The bloody yacht’s going about!’
What the hell was it doing?’ She was turning in a sharp arc, and would cross the submarine’s bows if she maintained the same course. Curiosity, bloodymindeduess, it made little difference now.
He snapped, `Tell Warwick to get ready.’
He glanced aft to make sure that the other gun crews were also watching the yacht. The Vierling pointed stiffly at the sky, but he saw the gunlayer’s fingers on the grip like a claw, his small team lying hidden by his feet below the steel coaming.
Blythe said fiercely, `Sir, there’s a Jerry aboard the yacht!’
Marshall made himself turn casually towards the other vessel, the effort of appearing calm almost painful. As he moved his glasses over the yacht’s bridge he saw a solitary whiteclad figure framed in the wheelhouse door. He should have guessed. Expected it. Many Italian vessels carried German personnel. To inspire confidence, as insurance. Either way it was all too obvious that this particular German was showing great interest in the submarine.
`Control room to bridge.’ It was Gerrard. `Coming on now.’
Marshall tore his eyes from the motionless figure and lowered his forehead to the sights. Now or never.
`Get ready.’ He felt the sweat running from beneath his cap, stinging his eyes. `Easy now.’ He was thinking aloud but could feel the tension around him like part of himself In the wires the dock appeared quite motionless. Docile.
`Fire One!’
He felt the hull buck as the compressed air was vented back into the boat.
`Torpedo running, sir!’
Buck held his stop-watch as if he intended to crush it, his sharp features consorted against the glare.
`Fire Two!’
‘Blythe said hoarsely, `Yacht’s
calling us up again!’
`Fire Three!’
Marshall heard the sudden shriek of a siren and knew they had been discovered.
`Open fire!’
The Vierling swung its four muzzles downward and then settled on the careering yacht. One of the bridge machine-gunners was already taking aim, the trailing ammunition belt glittering in the sunlight as he took the first pressure on his trigger.
Marshall shut them all from his mind and vision as he concentrated on the patch of water beyond the bows. But nothing happened. No telltale froth to mark where the third torpedo had left the tube.
He groped towards the voicepipe and then felt himself hurled backwards as a deafening explosion shook the bridge, followed instantly by a blinding blue flash directly below the bows. Water cascaded all round them and he saw a machine-gunner falling and kicking, his weapon swinging impotently towards the sea.
Buck was yelling, `Bloody fish must have nose-dived an’ hit the bottom!’ He ducked wildly as a stream of red tracer ripped over the bridge and hammered against the steel.
Marshall dragged himself to the voicepipe. `Carry on with the attack!’
He waited, expecting to hear frantic cries, to know the boat was mortally damaged. He heard instead the sounds of breaking glass and someone yelling for emergency lighting.
Then, `Ready, sir!’
`Fire Four!’
When he looked for the yacht it was swinging across their line of advance, with two machine-guns firing from the bridge while the deck gun groped steadily towards him.
A dull boom echoed across the water, echoing and then expanding into a louder explosion. He swung his glasses on the dock and saw smoke drifting above the lighters, or where two of them had been. Another explosion slammed over the calm water, and more smoke, this time filled with darting orange flames, marked the arrival of their second torpedo.
Go in and Sink! Page 16