by Alan Evans
Pagani shouted across, ‘Signore! If you please — what is this experimental mission?’
Zacco’s boat was sidling astern out into the lagoon and Smith shouted back over the widening gap, ‘My orders are to sink Salzburg... at her moorings... in harbour!’ He saw Pagani’s incredulous stare, Gallina’s jaw drop, was aware of Zacco’s sharp turn of the head. He summoned one of his few words of Italian: ‘Avanti!’
At that Zacco’s startled look became a grin. He acted on the order and the boat moved ahead, the other two falling in astern. In line ahead the three boats cruised at half-speed across the lagoon, following the buoyed channel towards the sea. They turned to port past the ammunition stores on the islands of La Certosa and then Le Vignole where lay the seaplane base of San Andrea. A turn to starboard then and they entered the Porto di Lido, passed through its long arms, and began to pitch to the open sea.
It. was a cold-steel-blue winter’s sea made grey by, banks of mist that limited visibility sometimes to a mile, often to only a few hundred yards. They exercised for an hour, every manoeuvre that Smith could think of. The boats tore through the sea at their full speed of twenty-five knots, their straight stems lifted and sterns tucked down in their boiling wakes. They turned as one from line ahead into line abreast, then back into line ahead, scattered to play hide-and-seek through the coiling grey banks of fog, reformed.
For a time the petrol engines were stopped and they slipped along at four knots under the electric motors. Smith found that eerie at first, the boats’ slow, almost silent. forward motion, as if they were drawn across the surface of the sea by an unseen. hand. There was only the low hum of the motors and mostly the lapping of sea hid that. He realised that this slow but silent cruising might well prove useful in the future.
They practised signalling and night signalling, the lamps blinking and flickering, and they demonstrated the operation of the torpedoes. A man hauled on each of the two tackles attached to a torpedo, swinging it up and outboard until it hung in the clamps, like pincers, above the sea. They did not fire the torpedo, too expensive to waste on a practice. Zacco explained how the torpedoman would yank back the lever on the system of rods linking the clamps, opening them so that the torpedo dropped into the sea, where its engine would start automatically.
So Smith put the captains and their crews through the hoop, testing them, and soon saw more than enough to convince him of their seamanship and efficiency. He was testing himself too, for their benefit, demonstrating that he knew what he was about, had experience of small craft and their handling. A lot of the time he was also learning from Zacco the Italian helm orders and a host of others. And at the end he stripped off his oilskins and burrowed into the engine-room, saw the motoristo and the meccanico, the engineer and the stoker, clambered with them around their throbbing oily charges and collected a deal of the oil on himself.
Zacco’s engineer was a young man, broad and deep-chested, a mat of black hair showing on his chest above the oil-smeared singlet he wore. He spoke English with an American drawl. ‘These are the main engines — those babies are the electric motors. Know anythin’ about engines?’
‘Not much,’ Smith answered frankly. ‘Just basics. These are good?’
‘Sure they are. I make ‘em that way.’ That was not boasting, just huge self-confidence. There was no deference in this man, to Smith or his rank. He went on, ‘They ain’t powerful enough. Top speed is only around twenty-five knots. But what the hell — if you put in bigger engines, you have to take out somethin’ else, like the electric motors, an’ they’re a useful trick.’
Smith nodded. Every ship was a compromise and he had already decided on the worth of the electric motors. He asked, ‘Are you an American?’
‘Hell, no! I’m Italian. My folks went to the States when I was two, three years old, but they kept their nationality and when I finished school I came back here to learn engineering.’ He rubbed his big hands on a lump of cotton waste and said thoughtfully, ‘Kind of like it over here, though. I might stick around.’
‘So you didn’t come back to fight?’
He stared at Smith. ‘Are you kidding? This is a job. I only joined the reserve because I have to eat.’ He jerked his head at the cockpit. ‘Lieutenant Zacco runs a taut ship up there. I run a taut ship down here.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Angelo Lombardo.’
‘Angelo?’ He was unruly, aggressive, a long way from angelic, but Zacco had said he was an excellent engineer. Smith stored that knowledge away along with everything else he had learned in the last few hours.
He returned to the cockpit and told Zacco, ‘Heave to and signal the other boats to come alongside. I want to talk to them.’
And when the three boats lay rocking together on the sea he said clearly so all aboard them could hear, ‘Good. I am pleased with the exercise.’
Zacco smiled, Gallina still showed no emotion at all. Winning him over would not be easy. Pagani called, ‘Signore, if you please, why are you chosen for this command?’
Smith answered seriously, ‘They put the names in a bag. I lost.’
There was a moment of silence then Zacco and Pagani roared with laughter. Gallina stared at Smith’s solemn face, then his lips twitched and he was laughing with the others.
Smith relaxed slightly. He had made a start.
But only a start. He said, ‘We return to Venice. Refuel and be lying off San Elena, ready to sail by nightfall.’
There was silence for a moment, then Zacco said, ‘We know the orders are secret. We will not talk. Can we know where we go?’
‘Trieste,’ Smith answered. ‘That’s where Salzburg was headed when I saw her last night.’
‘You saw her!’ The captains edged close as Smith briefly recounted the action.
At the end Pagani said fiercely, ‘You had much bad luck! A great attack! That is the way — straight in and fire the fish at close range!’
Smith thought, ‘If only we get the chance…’
The boats returned to Venice in line ahead, Zacco leading. Smith stood lost in thought. The fog had turned to rain now, pattering on the engine-room housing and mixing with the salt spray on his face. He needed up-to-date intelligence of Trieste and for that, unfortunately, he had to go to Devereux. As they passed through the arms of the Porto di Lido and entered the lagoon he broke his silence: ‘Put me ashore by the dockyard — Naval Headquarters.’
‘Signore.’ Then Zacco asked, ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Of course.’
‘The booms at Trieste are affairs of hawsers and buoys, I think. Perhaps we could mount hydraulic shears in the bows of the boats, big cutters, and cut our way in.’
It sounded simple, easy. Smith knew, as must Zacco, that it would not be easy. But simple ideas were often the best, and he thought this one might work. ‘That’s fine! We’ll look into it.’
Zacco smiled. ‘I will ask at the dockyard.’
They ran in past San Elena, then the long green stretch of parkland and the SVAN yard. The other two boats turned towards the Giudecca but Zacco held on for the canal leading to Naval Headquarters. He pointed again. ‘That is the house of La Contessa.’ Smith nodded, his eyes already on the narrow house with the tall windows and the little balconies. But the girl was nowhere to be seen. Zacco asked. ‘You are friends?’
‘We only met this morning. She is very reserved, I think.’
‘Reserved? You mean — not friendly?’ Zacco shook his head in disbelief. ‘Always she smiles, talks, laughs. Always very friendly, very’— he groped for the word — ‘hospitable? Many officers go to her house for dinner. I go there two times. Very happy times.’
Then her reserve only extended to Smith. He could do nothing about that, knew he was no great charmer. He told himself he didn’t care, but he did. Anyway, he was on his way to see Devereux. Also he must somehow get in touch with Winter. He had a hell of a job to do and still no idea how to start except with Zacco’s cutters.
He was steering the boat towards Naval Headquarters. Smith could see Harrier lying two hundred yards further on and beyond her there now lay another destroyer. But closer was Buckley, standing on the quay cap in hand, waving furiously.
Smith told Zacco, ‘Put me ashore here!’
Zacco swung the boat away from the entrance to the canal and ran her in alongside the quay while Smith pulled off his oilskins and grabbed his cap from the engine-room. The two seamen at bow and stern held the MAS by the steps and Smith climbed quickly up to the quay. Buckley came running towards him, his urgency and the set look on his face telling Smith that something had gone badly wrong.
Buckley halted in front of him, panting, and came straight to the point. ‘Admiral Winter is dead, sir!’
4. Hercules
Smith halted, trying to take it in, staring at the two ships lying under the rain, the damaged Harrier and the newly-arrived destroyer beyond her. She had also been in a fight: the muzzles of her guns were smoke-blackened. ‘Dead? How?’
‘There was an action. The Admiral’s cruiser was hit. They came up with Salzburg but she got away.’
Salzburg. Voss again. And Winter was dead. Smith started to walk towards the ships, mechanically. It was bad news, the worst. This had been Winter’s scheme and he the prime mover. Without his leadership and support…
Buckley, striding alongside said, ‘The squadron’s patrolling outside to the north but that destroyer’s come in to bring the Admiral’s body ashore. His Flag Captain, Pickett, he’s aboard an’ he had the Admiral’s corpse off on the quay and away as soon as they secured.’ Buckley was scowling at the indecent haste of it. He added warningly, ‘He’s waiting to see you, sir.’
Smith quickened his stride. ‘How long?’
‘Near an hour, sir.’
A Flag Captain left kicking his heels for an hour. Smith knew he would need Pickett’s help now, and this was a hard start. A boat carried Buckley and himself out to the destroyer and he boarded her as he was, wet and grimy from the exercises with the MAS boats. He was immediately conducted below to the captain’s cabin, but not before he had sensed an edginess in the officer on watch and the side-party. If that was because of Pickett’s presence aboard then the prospects weren’t encouraging.
It was indeed a considerable presence. The destroyer’s cabin was small and Pickett seemed to fill it. He was bluff and bearded, sat broad at the little desk and greeted Smith in a bellow. ‘Ah! Smith!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Devereux sat on the bunk, a hand smoothing his hair, cap and walking-stick beside him, a folder of papers and signals open on his knee.
Pickett had been reading a signal, now handed it back to Devereux and said to Smith, ‘I’ve heard a few tales about you!’ He did not seem favourably impressed. His lips moved in a smile but his eyes stayed fixed coldly on Smith. ‘You soon wangled yourself a run ashore, I gather.’
‘I was at sea with the MAS boats, sir.’
‘You were seen going off with a young woman!’
‘The lady offered to take me to the boats.’
Devereux put in, ‘My boat and interpreter came to Harrier and you were already gone. They also went to the Giudecca to look for you and the boats had gone from there. If you want my assistance then I will expect some co-operation!’
‘Of course.’ Smith made a neutral answer. ‘I saw the chance to join my command a little earlier and I took it.’
‘And the young woman.’ Pickett scowled under heavy brows. ‘Officers under my command find life more real and earnest. And they appear before me as an officer should.’ He looked Smith up and down where he stood in his grimy suit.
Smith felt the first real stirring of anger, but he replied evenly, ‘As I said, sir, I was at sea. When I learned you wanted to see me I came at once.’
‘Um.’ Pickett did not seem impressed by that, either. He changed the subject. ‘Harrier’s in a mess...’
‘Bennett did all any man could, sir. He was unlucky not to get a shot at Salzburg and very lucky to be alive to tell the tale.’
Pickett waved a hand dismissively. ‘I had him aboard while I was waiting for you and he told me the whole story. Sounds as though you got a bloody nose for nothing.’
‘There was a chance we might disable Salzburg and give the Admiral a chance to come up.’ But Pickett was waving the hand again. ‘Anyway, she’s not one of my ships.’ So he had finished with Harrier, her wounded and her dead. He said pointedly, ‘You realise Admiral Winter is no longer with us?’
‘What happened, sir?’
Pickett looked up at Smith, frowning. ‘What? Oh, — we came up with Salzburg twenty miles south of Trieste but she ran for it. There was a short action at extreme range. I doubt if we hit her and she only landed one on us. Not much damage but a splinter killed the Admiral. Damn bad luck.’ The words sounded hardly more than a formality. Pickett was impatient to get on.
‘Then Salzburg tucked her tail between her legs and ran into Trieste. We did what we could, patrolled out of sight of land and kept wireless silence through the night and into the forenoon in case they worked up enough courage to come out but, of course, they didn’t.’
Smith asked, ‘What force did the Admiral have, sir? The whole squadron?’ That was four cruisers and ten destroyers.
‘Certainly.’ The Flag Captain drummed his fingers restlessly.
‘And Salzburg only had a screen of six destroyers.’ Smith was silent a moment. No single one of the cruisers would have a hope against Salzburg, but four was another matter. Winter had seen his chance and tried to take it but Voss had seen it, too. Smith said, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Yes. Pity.’ But Pickett ran on without pause, ‘Now I command and I tell you frankly, because I always speak frankly, I should have had the squadron long ago and I did not always see eye-to-eye with Winter. Nor did Captain Devereux. We did not question Winter’s orders or his ideas because he was the Admiral. But there’ll be some changes made now.’ He exchanged glances with Devereux and both were smiling broadly. Smith saw that Pickett was enjoying his new command and expected to keep it. And that Devereux was clearly in favour, delighted at Pickett assuming command. He understood now the edginess of the men he had seen on the quarter-deck.
Pickett turned back to Smith. ‘Those orders of yours, for instance. Winter’s business of gatecrashing the booms to sink Salzburg. A hare-brained idea if ever I heard one.’
Smith put in quickly, ‘That’s why I was with the MAS. I like what I’ve seen of the boats and the men and one of the officers, Lieutenant Zacco, has suggested a way we might cut through the booms. Now we know Salzburg is in Trieste I propose to carry out reconnaissance —’
Pickett’s hand slapped the desk impatiently. His beard jutted and he boomed, ‘There’s only one way to settle Salzburg and that’s bring her to action at sea and sink her!’
Anger had been building in Smith since he met Pickett and now it broke. ‘Admiral Winter thought of this “seek out and destroy” mission because he saw the difficulty in bringing Salzburg to action. First we have to catch her. Voss didn’t run from this squadron because he’s afraid: he’s proved his courage before now and he won’t throw away his ship and his men in pointless heroics. He refused action because he has his own ideas of where, when and how he fights. He means to win — and whenever he sees his chance you’ll—’
A rap came at the door. Pickett bellowed, ‘What is it?’
‘Signal from Italian HQ, sir. The Admiral would like to see you and Captain Devereux if convenient, sir.’
‘I’ll leave in five minutes!’ The messenger retired abruptly. Pickett’s eyes, narrow with rage, had never left Smith. Now he said menacingly, ‘Admiral Winter is dead. Officers in my command do not argue with me!’
Smith knew he should keep his mouth shut but anger still drove him. ‘I was merely offering my opinion, sir. And as I understand it, I am not in
your command.’
Pickett leaned forward over the desk, hands splayed on it, glaring at Smith. ‘True. You are not in my command. Frankly I’m glad. You’re under the orders from Admiralty and I suppose you must make some show of obeying them, though I think —’ But he stopped short of criticising those orders and instead went on: ‘Mine are to render all assistance possible — in my judgment. And the war is going badly here. The German Fourteenth Army has broken through the line at Caporetto. The Italians have been defeated. In four days they’ve lost all they gained in more than two years and they’re retreating still. There’s talk of a stand on the line of the Tagliamento river but I’ll believe that when I see it.’
Smith stared at him, shocked. The Tagliamento was deep inside Italy, far behind the frontier at the start of the war.
Pickett nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘So at this time I can’t spare a ship or anything else.’ He waited but Smith said nothing. Pickett shifted in the chair, sighed. ‘I suppose you could have Hercules. I understand she’s just come in with her captain wounded and they’ve taken him to hospital. I’ll write you orders for her. And there’s a midshipman — name of Menzies...’
Pickett scowled. ‘He already has orders to join you and should be on the quay by now. You’re welcome to him. Anything else?’ His bushy brows lifted.
‘No, sir.’ Smith would go to hell before he asked Pickett for anything.
‘I’ll prepare your orders for Hercules before I leave.’ Pickett pointed a thick finger at Smith. ‘But just remember this! You may have an independent command, but anything you command in these waters comes from myself or the Italians. So before you attempt any action you will clear it with the Italians through Captain Devereux. Over the time he has been here he has worked very hard to achieve excellent working relations with the Italians and we can’t afford to have them destroyed. Is that understood?’