The Burning Time (Timeline 10/27/62 Book 5)

by James Philip

  The hall light came on.

  “Peter!”

  Marija flew down the stairs into her husband’s arms with such alacrity and abandon that she literally fell into his embrace. For a moment he thought they were both going to tumble backwards. Fortunately, he had braced himself specifically against this mischance - Marija tended to fly into his arms more often than not when he came home after a day at the dockyard, let alone when she had not seen him for several days - and was, therefore just able to catch and safely arrest his wife’s headlong flight.

  “I did not want to wake you or Rosa,” he whispered before he realised that if Rosa had not been rudely awakened by Marija’s screech of delight she would have had to have been struck stone deaf in the days he had been away.

  The returning hero would have said more.

  Marija forestalled this by kissing him wetly and carrying on kissing him as he struggled to carry her up to the landing.

  “You missed me then?” He gasped when his wife came up for air.

  She giggled.

  The bedroom door shut with a soft click at his back.

  When some hours later the returning hero slowly awakened in the half-light of pre-dawn, he was unable, initially to move a muscle. He did not worry about it overly for some minutes as he unhurriedly collected his wits. It was warm and fragrant, and Marija’s hair was tickling his nose...

  Eventually, he worked out that his wife’s darkly nutmeg musky-scented hair was the key clue to why he could not move; he was lying face down on the bed and Marija was lying, blissfully supine on top of him.

  Peter Christopher would have groaned in complacent pleasure if he had had sufficient air in his lungs.

  Eventually, he began to consider exactly how he was going to dislodge Marija without waking her, or risking dropping her onto the floor. She stirred, sighed contentedly.

  “I don’t want to ever move again,” she murmured in his left ear.

  He could refuse her nothing so he remained where he was a while longer.

  Presently, with a moan his wife rolled off him and the lovers looked into each other’s eyes.

  “Do you really have to go straight back to the ship?” She inquired sleepily, her left hand tentatively exploring his naked lower torso, knowing exactly what was likely to happen next.

  In the night they had made love with a strange, consuming hunger; in the morning light they coupled slowly, lazily, belatedly, guiltily mindful to avoid the voluble excitement of before to save Rosa’s blushes in the bedroom below. Eventually, the man could hold back no longer and they clung together, swapping kisses and catching their breath.

  It was fully light when Peter Christopher rolled off his wife.

  Her finger tips touched his chest.

  “I must wash and shave before I go,” he apologised. A car would be coming for him in less than thirty minutes. Not usually a man moved to state the patently obvious he said to his wife: “You are completely beautiful...”

  By the time he had shaved, nicking his chin twice in his rush, spruced himself up somewhat and donned a fresh uniform Marija had prepared a mug of tea and carved doorsteps off a crusty loaf of brown bread. There was butter, cheese and a small bowl of green olives on the table.

  “Eat, drink, husband,” she directed, employing the tone she reserved for adults and children who foolishly refused to take their medicine as per prescribed. “You are far too thin!”

  It was thing Peter had noticed ever since he arrived on Malta, albeit a thing that had not immediately sunk in, that the Maltese had a particular love affair with their food. He had asked an old Malta hand about it once. ‘The people on the islands nearly starved during the siege in forty-one to forty-two – ever since then families drum it into their kids that they must eat when there is food, feed themselves up against the day when the famine returns...’

  “And you, wife,” he retorted, “are...”

  “Beautiful,” Marija pre-empted him. “You said. I don’t forget these things. Stop talking and eat, drink.”

  He slurped his tea and munched his bread.

  As she slipped past him Peter pulled his wife close, gently mauled her with greedy fondness, kissed her lingeringly and fled the house, tossing his travelling bag ahead of him into the waiting car.

  HMS Talavera was to be moved to the ammunition pier to take on her full war load: nearly a thousand 4.5-inch fixed rounds, half ‘common; and half ‘armour piecing’ fixed rounds; several thousand rounds of 20 and 40-millimetre shells; and four 21-inch torpedoes. Further, the ship was ordered to provision for fourteen days at sea and scheduled later that afternoon to take on over six hundred tons of heavy bunker oil. This latter would necessitate moving the ship round into Marsamxett where the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Brambleleaf was moored opposite the entrance to Lazaretto Creek. Thirteen additional Royal Marines were also to be accommodated, bringing the ship’s contingent up to thirty men. Once the thirteen extra troopers reported aboard, HMS Talavera’s complement would number twenty-one officers and two hundred and thirty-eight other rates. Once ammunitioning, provisioning and oiling was complete HMS Talavera was to anchor on Destroyer Buoy Number Two in Sliema Creek, maintaining one boiler ‘lit’, at two hours notice to leave harbour. It seemed that Talavera, and the Type-12 frigate HMS Yarmouth, were to stay at Malta as ‘guard ships’ while the rest of the Mediterranean Fleet ‘had all the fun’. The Yarmouth was currently at sea; when she returned to port Talavera would depart to patrol the waters around the Maltese Archipelago out to a distance of thirty miles. Much as the Battle class destroyer’s young commanding officer was upset not to be participating in Operation Grantham, he could not deny that the coming weeks would be a marvellous opportunity to work Talavera up to the highest possible pitch of efficiency.

  It seemed that Talavera’s increased compliment - according to ‘the book’ – was rather too many men for a mere Lieutenant-Commander to ‘command’. Thus, appended to HMS Talavera’s orders had been the notice of two ‘acting’ promotions: Miles Weiss was, with immediate effect, promoted ‘acting’ Lieutenant-Commander, and Peter was, with similar immediate effect, promoted ‘acting’ Commander.

  Peter was guilty he had not told Marija the good news; but what with one thing and he simply had not got around to it. The news would wait for another, better time although, on reflection, it was hard to imagine a ‘better time’ than he had enjoyed with his new wife last night.

  “How are we today, Lieutenant-Commander Weiss?” He inquired with a broad smile as he and his Executive Officer fell into step on the way to Peter’s day cabin to review the day’s program.

  “Top hole, sir. And you?”

  “Never better, Number One!”

  Peter Christopher had worried – not overly, but he had worried – how he and Miles Weiss would settle into their respectively ‘inherited’ roles on the destroyer. Miles was Peter’s best friend; likewise he was his new Executive Officer’s best friend; and it had never occurred to Peter to ask any other man than Miles Weiss to be his best man. They had always enjoyed each other’s company when they were relatively junior members of the wardroom in those grim days back in Fareham Creek after the October War, once or twice they had even got blind drunk together on runs ashore. Neither man had a plethora of close friends and valued their friendship, except friendship was tricky thing between a commander of one of Her Majesty’s ships and the man who was directly responsible to him for the condition and the combat readiness of his ship. Thus far the two friends had managed the situation by simply getting on with things. How though would their friendship fare in the coming months?

  “I think our Supply Officer is a little distracted,” Miles Weiss chuckled.

  “Um,” Peter rejoined in a similar tone, “I think the poor fellow is a little taken with a certain young lady of our mutual acquaintance.”

  The two men chortled sympathetically. Alan Hannay was smitten with Rosa Calleja, which was odd because he was not the sort of fellow most of those who knew hi
m would have guessed was very easily smitten.

  Marija had confidentially mentioned to her husband that her sister was also somewhat taken with Alan. When he had diplomatically tried to explain that he was HMS Talavera’s Captain, not a ‘marriage broker’, this had not gone down well and his wife had brushed his objections aside as if he was putty in her hands. Which, actually he was, of course...

  Tied up alongside the gun wharf beneath Corradino heights Peter Christopher spied a familiar face among the dockyard workers on the shore. He went straight down and greeted Joe Calleja.

  “What are you doing over here?” He asked his brother-in-law. Joe was a qualified electrician and there was little skilled work for a man like him in the arsenal bunkers beneath the heights.

  “I got sacked,” the other man shrugged. “But they’re so short of workers that they gave me a three-month contract down here. Somebody has to maintain the hoists and service the motors of the trucks.”

  Railway tracks were sunk into the concrete of the wharf and low cars and dollies rolled out of the open blast doors of the shell rooms heavily laden with munitions.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Peter had found himself instinctively liking Marija’s younger brother and it rankled that Joe had obviously been made an example of by the new regime in charge of the Admiralty Dockyards of Malta.

  Joe Calleja was studying HMS Talavera’s radically altered lines.

  “No missiles? No whip aerials? No fancy electronics?”

  “No,” Peter chuckled. “Maybe on my next command. Who knows?”

  A foreman bellowed across the dock at the younger man before he realised that Joe was in convivial conversation with HMS Talavera’s commanding officer. The man looked shamefaced, Peter cheerfully waved for him to carry on and when he looked around his brother-in-law had gone.

  The work went on at a steady pace all morning. By noon the destroyer had half-filled her magazines and trucks had started unloading fresh vegetables, sacks of potatoes, boxes containing tins of foods of all descriptions across the quay onto the warship’s deck via snaking lines of Maltese workers and crew members.

  “There’s an urgent call for you, sir!” A fresh-faced, heavily perspiring seaman, saluting raggedly. The boy was just seventeen, fresh off the Sylvania.

  Peter Christopher raised an eyebrow.

  “Er, on the bridge, sir.”

  “Very good.” A telephone line had been strung across the dock shortly after HMS Talavera had berthed that morning. It made for easier communication between the ship and the dockyard superintendent’s office.

  An urgent call.

  That was never good news, so he walked briskly forward to the bridge and trotted up the ladder.

  “Talavera,” he announced, taking the proffered handset. “Commander Christopher speaking.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  Peter Christopher waited patiently; keen to appear wholly relaxed and untroubled for the benefit of any man watching him.

  “Peter,” Admiral Sir Julian Christopher said brusquely to his son. “How far advanced are you with your ammunitioning?”

  “I’ve got about a hundred-and-fifty rounds, mixed common and AP per barrel onboard for the main battery. We’re loading the last torpedo as we speak. Most of the smaller calibre ammunition is pretty much onboard and stowed, sir.” He had not been asked but he automatically answered what he guessed would be his father’s next question. “I’ve got one boiler lit at the moment, sir.”

  “Good. That’s good. Flash up your Number Two boiler and get out to sea soonest.”

  “Soonest, sir?”

  “Yes.” There was a moment of silence. “Cut your lines and go, Peter!”

  “Sir...”

  “Get out to sea and await further orders!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  It was all Peter could do not to drop the handset and run to the bridge rail. Instead, he sighed, jammed the handset in place and turned to the bridge talker.

  “Sound Air Defence Stations Condition One!”

  Instantly the alarms blared throughout the ship.

  Peter Christopher slid down the ladder to the main deck, almost colliding with Peter Weiss running the other way.

  “There’s a flap on. I don’t know the details,” he explained. “Get our people back onboard. Clear the decks.” Leaving his Executive Officer bawling orders through a megaphone, Talavera’s commanding officer hurried back up to the bridge. The ship’s Master at Arms, Chief Petty officer Spider McCann materialised as if by magic at his shoulder. “Single up the lines, Mister McCann. We’re casting off in,” he glanced at his watch, “in thirty seconds regardless whether all our people are back onboard or if we’ve still got civilians on deck!”

  The diminutive little man scurried away.

  Petty Officer Jack Griffin appeared.

  “Find the Engineering Officer. I need him to flash up Number Two boiler like his life depends on it!”

  Because it probably does depend on it!

  Peter was already doing rough calculations. Talavera had the thin-end of seventy tons of oil in her bunkers. At full speed she would burn that off in two or three hours. There was nothing he could do about that; he would worry about that later. He glanced at the wharf, 4.5-inched fixed reloads were laying on the concrete everywhere, boxes of Spam and tinned fruit had been discarded in a line between the supply lorries and the ship, and men were sprinting to get back aboard from every direction.

  “Sound the horn three times!”

  The sound of the ship’s horn – strictly speaking an air horn – rumbled so deeply that the sound seemed to be reverberating inside Peter Christopher’s chest as he went to the port bridge rail.

  “Raise the gangways!”

  His father had told him to cut his lines and go!

  “Cast off! CAST OFF!”

  He did not wait to see if his orders were being obeyed.

  “Are the engine room telegraphs answering?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “FULL left rudder!” A moment to catch his breath. “SLOW ahead STARBOARD!” Then. “Slow ASTERN port!”

  This was one of those rare occasions, he decided, when he could probably risk swiping the dockside with Talavera’s transom and get away with it. The destroyer began to move forward and away from the quayside. Two men leapt across the gap as it widened. Others shuddered to a halt, knowing intuitively that the gap was too wide. Perhaps, a dozen men collected on the edge of the dock, staring wide-eyed as their crewmates moved across the decks and their ship left them stranded ashore. Civilians stared in astonishment.

  What was going on?

  “Stop PORT! Rudder AMIDSHIPS!”

  Peter Christopher heard the distant rending, shrieking sound high overhead but ignored it.

  “Full ahead BOTH!”

  There was a delay and then both Talavera’s propellers began to spin, faster and faster. Like a sprinter settling into her starting blocks she seemed to dig her stern into the azure blue water of the Grand Harbour, and her bow rise slightly before she began to drive, inexorably forward.

  Suddenly the air was filled with an unearthly tearing, roaring as if the heavens were being torn asunder. The noise was like an express train racing downhill at a thousand miles an hour with its brakes squealing in an agony of sparks. Ashore air raid sirens began to howl and the rumbling thunder of very large explosions rolled across the island from the east.

  And with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Peter Christopher understood exactly why his father had told him to cut his lines and get out to sea.

  Chapter 40

  12:08 Hours

  Friday 3rd April 1964

  TNF Yavuz, standing out to sea off Dragutt Point, Malta

  When the big guns fired the whole ship seemed to lurch sideways in the water with a gut churning kick. Dust exploded from seams between wood and steel, pain flaked and drizzled to the deck and the noise, well, the noise was like Lucifer striking the side of the ship with a giant
hammer.

  The old dreadnought from a bygone age had closed up at battle stations two hours ago. While the passageways became shouting, crowded bedlams the occupants of the sick bay had been carried and guided deep into the battlecruiser. Over their heads great armoured hatches had clanged shut, and suddenly the sound of the Yavuz’s engines had become louder, the vibration of massive machinery more exaggerated.

  ‘The sick bay is in a lightly protected part of the stern of the vessel,’ the elderly ship’s surgeon explained matter of factly. ‘Down here,’ he patted the cold steel of the nearest bulkhead, ‘we are safe behind several inches of Krupp cemented plate in every direction.’ He reconsidered for a moment. ‘Well, except under our feet, of course. But nobody is going to shoot at us from below.’

  Nicolae Ceaușescu, who with Eleni’s help had managed to hop down the relatively steep gangways, and to negotiated the passageways with the aid of his crutches, had been struggling to catch his breath as the surgeon had delivered his meaningless homily to the excellent work of a generation of long dead German naval architects and the shipbuilding prowess of the Blohm and Voss yards of pre-Great War Hamburg.

  ‘What is going on?’ He asked flatly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Turkish doctor had confessed.

  ‘Find somebody who does know!’

  Second-Captain Dmitry Kolokoltsev had presented himself a few minutes later. The man looked like he was convinced that somebody was jumping up and down on his grave.

  Nicolae Ceaușescu had expected to be exposed for whom, and for what he was at any time in the last three weeks. The worst days were while the Yavuz had sat off Rhodes for nearly a fortnight. Other ships had come and gone; the battlecruiser had sat inactive until one morning he had awakened to the sound of shovels, hundreds of feet stomping on the deck over his head, shouts, the sound of cranes, of old coughing steam motors and the occasional grinding of another ship’s hull against the dreadnought’s fenders. The Yavuz was ‘coaling’, a filthy, back-breaking task for her crew. During that day and the following night two thousand tons of coal had been muscled from the hold of the steamer alongside and evenly distributed among the great ship’s dusty bunkers.