by Alan Evans
That acknowledging flicker again. A pause. Smith wondered how soon he could talk to Pickett and try to persuade him to reverse the orders he had given. The lamp was blinking again, the leading cruiser abeam now, her funnel smoke rolling down over the sea towards them. Smith could make out figures on her bridge. One of them would be Pickett. The reply came: ‘Patrols alerted by gunfire took evasive action. Two drifters sunk. Small damage one short section of barrage only.’ So Hercules’ action had saved the barrage and nearly all the craft patrolling it. Voss, knowing the alarm had been given and the cruisers would be coming out sooner than he’d expected, had not risked steaming the fifty miles’ length of the barrage. He had struck one swift blow and then run. But — two drifters and a score of men caught by Salzburg. The big shells bursting in their wooden hulls, blasting the life out of ships and men, leaving them as flotsam on the sea. Smith swore and saw Menzies’ startled glance. It might seem fortunate that only those few men had died when so many were at risk but men were men, like these about him now. And it might also seem a meagre reward for the employment of a powerful battlecruiser and six destroyers but he had to emphasise to Pickett the implications of leaving Voss to rampage at will.
The lamp was flickering again from the cruiser’s bridge and Buckley read slowly: ‘Signal from Admiralty. Begins. Rear Admiral Braddock appointed command Adriatic immediate. Ends. From C-in-C Adriatic to Commander D.C. Smith. Begins. Carry out orders as instructed seek out and destroy. Ends. Return Venice and comply.’
Smith had time to absorb the signal as Buckley spelled it word by word but still he was stunned for a moment at the end, staring out across the grey sea. Braddock! Taking command! Confirming Smith’s orders! No longer need he plead with Pickett. No longer did the threat of court-martial hang over him. He said stiffly, ‘Acknowledge.’ He still could not believe it. How had it come about? Then he remembered Braddock saying he was pushing for a sea appointment and was as well-qualified as Winter. Braddock had demanded and got his appointment — and his first action was to back Smith. He must have sent that signal from Alexandria.
Return Venice and comply. That last was added by Pickett who would be a bitter man now. Smith ordered, ‘Starboard ten.’
Hercules started the turn that would set her once more on a course for Venice, taking him back to Helen. And Salzburg.
Voss had served notice. Smith was certain this was no isolated hit-and-run raid but a demonstration of the damage that could be done by an Austrian Fleet raiding out of Cattaro. It was a demonstration for the benefit of the Austrians and a successful one at that because Voss would get clean away, could point to the damage done and claim quite rightly that he would have wrecked the entire barrage but for an unlucky encounter with a small drifter.
Winter had been right: Seek out and destroy.
15. ‘They’re shooting deserters and spies!’
Two days after the action north of Brindisi, Hercules steamed between the long arms of the Porto di Lido and into the Venetian lagoon. She had plugged north all the way at her best speed of eight or nine knots. She had burned all but a sackful of her coal and her stokers were tired men. Her carpenter had clapped timber patches on the shell-holes but the paint on them was raw and new like fresh scar tissue.
Smith stood in the wheelhouse, Fred Archbold at the wheel, and reflected that Pickett might have detached a destroyer to carry him back to Venice at high speed, but he had not. Pickett was obeying orders, no more and no less, right to the end. No matter: it seemed that Smith’s only hope of attacking Salzburg was Balestra’s machine, so until that was ready he could do nothing. He did not like it, but other thoughts filled his mind now.
*
The drifter berthed close to the house on the Ca’di Dio and Smith went there after giving orders to Menzies and Fred Archbold to see to coaling and re-provisioning without delay. He found only the old woman and had to return to Hercules to fetch Davies to interpret. The gunner had some difficulty because the woman was inclined to weep and talked rapidly. She was old and upset. Finally Davies wiped at a sweating brow and explained to Smith, ‘I savvy the Italian a bit, sir, but she natters away that quick. Anyway, it seems Miss Blair has gone up to a place called Zenson or thereabouts but she’s expected back tonight.’
Smith was glad of that but sorry for the old woman, the tears running down her face. ‘Why is she crying?’
‘Dunno, sir. She keeps on about the Germans. Probably frightened they’ll come an’ get her.’ He patted the old woman’s shoulder, said gently, ‘Don’t worry, Ma.’
Smith returned to Hercules, ordered her boat lowered and was rowed along the shore of the lagoon past the SVAN yard where they built the MAS boats and so to the dockyard, the Arsenal and Navy Headquarters. There he asked the Italian Naval Police at the gate for Devereux and was taken to his office but Devereux was not there, only the clerk he had seen before. ‘Cap’n Devereux left about a half-hour ago, sir. I remember it was not long after Hercules was reported as coming in.’
Smith glanced sharply at him. Was the man suggesting the two were directly related, that Devereux had walked out rather than face Smith, now returned with orders confirmed and Braddock soon to arrive to take command?
But the clerk’s face was innocent. He went on, ‘The cap’n usually finishes at noon these days. But he left this for you, sir.’
It was a not typed, signed with the Devereux flourish. It said that pursuant to his orders Devereux had approached the Italians. Lieutenant Balestra had been authorised to continue his work and the MAS boats were to report to Hercules on her arrival for orders from Smith. Intelligence reports would be available at his office.
So the rigid secrecy of Smith’s operation, his isolation from the Italian command, continued. He approved of the secrecy because if the Austrians got wind of a projected attack it would end in disaster. The failure at Trieste had demonstrated that, though bad luck was to blame there because only Smith’s own little force had known of the attack. The secrecy was fine. His isolation from the Italian command was not, because direct contact might have helped him. He was sure that if Winter had lived, and now when Braddock came, a different order would obtain. But at least he had his command again.
A second note was pinned beneath the first. It said that interrogation of Austrian deserters had produced a lot of information of minor interest. One item was that rumours were circulating in Pola that the entire Austrian Fleet planned to move its base. Tenders and supply ships were loading dockyard stores. Devereux said he agreed with the Italians that such a move might be to Trieste or Cattaro but pointed out the report was based only on rumour and there was no indication when, if ever, the move might be made. Meanwhile the Italians were maintaining their daily reconnaissance flights.
Smith folded the notes and put them away in his pocket. The Italians could do nothing more about it. The Austrians might sail by day or night, next day, next week or not for a month. The Italian Fleet could not maintain a day and night blockade of Pola any more than the Royal Navy in the North Sea because any prolonged blockade rendered the blockaders targets for submarine attack. There were no such problems for the Austrians. They would send out their minesweepers and destroyers first, the one to clear a channel and the other to keep submarines down. Then the fleet could come out at speed and leave any such waiting submarine behind.
The clerk was holding out a file. ‘Up-to-date intelligence of Pola and Trieste, sir.’
There were the photographs first and right on the top the latest of Pola. It was clear and the ships were marked in ink with their known or probable names, a question mark after each. There was no question mark after the name of Salzburg, no doubt that it was her. She lay alongside the line of battleships moored in the harbour, about halfway down its length and about three or four hundred yards from the line. No mistaking her and she was set apart from the others.
Smith gave silent thanks for the Italian Air Force who took these photographs. The date was at the foot of it, taken only
this day. He asked, ‘When do these photographs come in?’
‘Around now, sir, if the visibility is good enough for photographs. Sometimes they can’t see a thing. But now they’re flying a dawn reconnaissance every day. Those latest ones came just before the cap’n left.’
All the way north he had wondered where Salzburg might be because that was still the first step in his orders: Seek out... After attacking the Otranto barrage she might have run in to Cattaro, kept on north for Pola, or even come right up to Trieste at the head of the Adriatic. But she was at Pola as he had expected — or dreaded. Where the Austrian Fleet also lay. There were rumours it might sail. The days were slipping away, and so would his chance to attack Salzburg once the fleet moved all the way down to Cattaro as he was now certain it would. The Gulf of Cattaro twisted inland like a fjord, from a narrow mouth to a bay locked-in by the mountains. Pola was wide open by comparison. But what was his chance to attack her, even in Pola? Balestra?
He had unconsciously moved to stand at the window to examine the photographs and now he looked up. From where he stood he could see a corner of the dockyard and basin, and there on the quay stood the three MAS captains. Like Salzburg, as a group they were unmistakable: the squat Gallina, lean Pagani and Zacco towering over the other two. Smith had to go to Balestra’s workshop but first he would see them.
He tucked the file under his arm and went down and out of the building, thinking that he had to start with Balestra. He had little faith in the device the Italian was trying to create, but it was all he had.
He was walking quickly and the captains had their backs to him, staring out over the basin. So he was almost up to them when Pagani glanced casually around then gave a startled exclamation. They spun to face Smith, snapped to attention to salute him formally and he acknowledged the compliment. But then they were smiling and gathered round him.
He returned the grins. It was good to be among friends. They had come to know each other, had become close during the days and dangers they had shared. Smith asked, ‘How does it go?’
Zacco pointed a long finger at the basin. ‘I think it goes well.’
Smith looked where Zacco pointed. Out in the basin was a cutter, a dozen men aboard her and alongside — Seahorse. Smith stared, astounded. ‘It’s finished? It works?’
‘It works.’
He watched as the cutter was pulled into the dockyard wall by four of the men at the oars, Seahorse towed astern of her. Smith quickly recognised motoristi from the boats. Lombardo and Balestra sitting in the sternsheets of the cutter were harder to recognise because both were dressed in strange, tight-fitting, one-piece suits that looked to be made of rubber and covered them from head to foot save for an opening for the face. As the cutter ran into the steps Smith saw all of them aboard her looked red-eyed and weary. Balestra did not spare himself or anyone else. Smith could hear him singing softly but then he was climbing the steps to stand at attention before Smith, who saluted him. ‘Well done, Guido.’
He had to leave it at that for a time as the captains crowded around Balestra shaking his hand, slapping his back. Smith looked down at Seahorse lying almost awash below him.
It was the old torpedo, fourteen inches in diameter and fifteen feet long, that Smith had first seen in Balestra’s workshop. Balestra had ripped out the original charge and warhead, leaving only the compressed-air engine. He had fitted an eighteen-inch screw and converted the engine so that the craft, if you could call it that, now had a speed of four knots and a range of eight miles. It carried two mines forward, charges each of one hundred and seventy kilos of TNT. Smith could see magnetic ‘leeches’, eight inches long, recessed into the tops of them. Out of his sight and coiled under each leech was a thin line about twelve feet long. Balestra intended to steer the Seahorse alongside Salzburg where she lay moored, attach the charges by the magnetic ‘leeches’, set the time fuse of each charge and then make his escape with the Seahorse, leaving the charges dangling on the lines just under Salzburg’s hull.
Smith turned incredulously to Balestra. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done it, after losing two or three whole days.’
Balestra shook his head and tried to run his fingers through his hair but was thwarted by the black rubber cap. ‘We did not lose one day. Nelson was blind in one eye yes? So I think I will be deaf in one ear, the one that got my orders to finish. I went back to the workshop and we carried on. Late on the second day I got new orders — to carry on.’ He spread his hands. ‘So. Lombardo stayed with me all the time. He is very good. The motorists from the MAS boats help when they are not on patrol. Also, we have authority to carry out trials in the dockyard and we ask for anything we want. It is very good.’
‘And the suits?’ Smith had seen nothing like them before.
‘Because of the cold,’ Balestra explained and Smith could understand that point. ‘It is not hard to swim in these and we practise.’
Smith said, ‘We go tomorrow.’
‘An attack tomorrow night? But we have only had one good trial! It is too soon!’
‘We daren’t wait. You know Salzburg attacked the Otranto barrage two nights ago?’ When they nodded he went on, ‘Now she is in Pola with the Austrian Fleet. I believe the attack on the barrage was made from Cattaro to show the Austrians what could be done. Now Voss will lead them there, and soon. Once they are based at Cattaro and raiding out of there against the Italian coast...’
He did not finish, let them draw the conclusion. The Italian fleet could not be at sea all the time. The Austrians could sit in Cattaro and choose their time, steam out and hit their target and escape back to Cattaro before the Italians could catch them.
Zacco scowled and Pagani swore. Smith went on slowly: ‘Tonight is out of the question. You’re worn out. I want Seahorse armed with the charges and shipped aboard Hercules. Then I want you three’— he looked at the captains — ‘to take Guido out, feed him and put him to bed in the prison.’ That lightened the mood and they laughed. Smith said, ‘We will be ready to sail from noon tomorrow. By then the latest photographs will be available and we will know if Salzburg is still at Pola or has gone back to Trieste. If she is at neither then I think she will be on her way to Cattaro and we sail south at once.’ But on a wild goose chase, because they would never get to Salzburg in Cattaro.
He turned to Balestra. ‘You have a crew, another man to go with you?’
Balestra nodded. ‘I think so. You want his name? In five minutes. You will excuse me.’ He walked away and descended the steps to the cutter.
Smith watched him go. Balestra was right: an attack tomorrow was too soon. But it was forced on them. And the chances of Balestra’s success? Smith harked back to the idea that came to him outside of Pola. He still did not like it but he had to have a second string to his bow. He told Zacco, ‘Be ready to try to blast a way through the booms if he fails.’
Pietro Zacco glanced at him, startled. ‘Blast?’
It would take more than one charge and any chance of surprise would be blown away by the first but they might cut a way for one boat to get at Salzburg. Smith said, ‘Every boat to carry charges. Each charge to be in a canvas bag with a strap to secure it to the boom and a timing device to fire it with delays of five or ten minutes.’
Zacco hesitated, well able to see the near-suicidal nature of the plan, then nodded. ‘I will go to the Arsenal.’
*
Angelo Lombardo was a man who enjoyed life, good food, wine and women, proud of his skill as an engineer and liking his sleep. Now he was tired, hungry, thirsty, chilled in spite of the rubber suit, and uneasy. He had felt an enormous sense of triumph at the final success of Seahorse but that was gone.
He watched Balestra descend the steps and pick his way across the thwarts of the cutter to where he was sitting alone in the sternsheets, elbows on his knees.
Balestra sat down by him and said simply, ‘Thank you.’
Angelo shrugged. ‘OK, signore. Now I go back to the boat.’ He was a motorista on a MAS
boat. That’s what he did. This business with Seahorse was only an interlude.
‘Ah.’ Balestra tried to run his fingers through his hair and failed again because of the rubber suit. The gesture was familiar to Lombardo now; he had learned a lot about this young man they called the Mad Professor. Now Balestra said, ‘You remember, at the start, you asked if I had a crew and I said I had chosen a man.’
‘I remember.’ He also remembered the old hand’s dictum: never volunteer.
Balestra said, ‘I wanted a very good motorista and a very good swimmer. I chose the man that day.’
Lombardo shook his head. ‘No.’
Balestra said seriously, ‘It will be difficult, but there is a chance and it has to be tried.’ He explained why, Voss’s mission and the threat to Italy.
Lombardo was not impressed. ‘I don’t want to be a hero. I want to see out this war. Get somebody else.’
Balestra said, ‘Suppose you had to pick somebody to take my place. Somebody who knows as much about Seahorse and how to operate it. Who would it be?’
Lombardo did not answer. Suppose Balestra asked for a volunteer? Suppose he got some daredevil youngster who hadn’t spent the last week working with Seahorse, who was maybe only a passable swimmer? What chance would the pair of them have?
The sea was so bloody cold.
He swore and Balestra stood up. ‘Thank you. There was never anybody else, you know. No question of it. We go tomorrow. The suit fits all right?’
Lombardo answered, ‘Fine. Everything is fine.’
He thought he should write to his mother in America. He had not written for a long time. She believed he had a safe job in the dockyard and kept asking if he had met a nice girl. She said he should settle down.
He sat staring at the cold, steel length of Seahorse.
*
Balestra returned to the group and said, ‘It is arranged. Lombardo goes.’
‘Lombardo!’ The startled exclamation came from Zacco. He said, ‘Lombardo never volunteers.’