Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘And thank God for it,’ he said. ‘Nervous, Sub?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s always worse before it starts. If all goes well, we should make our contact soon.’

  ‘How’s it to be made, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sawbridge said. ‘I wasn’t entrusted with that knowledge! Actually, I don’t believe the staff in Malta knew. I’m simply to be contacted, that’s all, as I told the ship’s company earlier.’

  No more was said; they all waited, not knowing what they were waiting for. They waited for a whole nail-biting hour; and then, as Sawbridge paced the compass platform interminably, backwards and forwards, beneath the low-hanging stars, growing more and more impatient and anxious, a guarded voice from the starboard bridge lookout said: ‘Something moving, sir, bearing green one-six-five... distant about six cables, sir.’

  Immediately Sawbridge swung his glasses on to the bearing and found his target: it looked like a small craft, possibly an inflatable dinghy, though he couldn’t be certain. He swore beneath his breath; that dinghy could carry his contact, or it could carry an enemy with, for instance, limpet mines for fixing to his hull... yet that would be unlikely, since the craft’s occupants must know they would be seen. Limpet mines would be fixed by frogmen: he cursed himself for unhelpful thoughts. It had to be their contact.

  It was.

  Within the next thirty seconds a torch flashed briefly from the approaching craft; Sawbridge authorized no acknowledgement. He wouldn’t take chances, preferred the occupant or occupants to make self-identification. As the craft came nearer he saw that it was indeed an inflatable dinghy, RAF pattern. In it were two men, ragged and dirty in the starlight, one of them carrying a large sack. Sawbridge leaned over the guardrail. ‘Who are you?’ he called down, his voice sounding unnatural and strained.

  ‘Friends. You’re expecting us, I think.’ The voice was British, that of an officer unmistakably. ‘My name’s Gore-Lumley, Major, 3rd Hussars.’

  ‘Right,’ Sawbridge said, letting out a long breath of relief. ‘Come aboard and for Christ’s sake make it fast! Starboard side aft.’ He turned, ‘Number One, hands aft, pronto.’

  Five minutes later the Hussar Major was on the compass platform with his sack-bearing companion, who turned out to be a Greek from the mainland, by name Orestis Kopoulos. He was bull-necked and barrel-chested, immensely tough and strong, with much hair covering a face like granite. Along with the sack he carried a sub-machine-gun, held across his body like a baby. He looked like a bandit and indeed, according to Gore-Lumley, was one.

  ‘But a patriotic bugger,’ the soldier said, grinning from a cork-blackened face. His clothing, which was highly unmilitary, was in tatters and he wore a bandage round his forehead. ‘He detests all things German... as a matter of fact he’s a communist. Aren’t you, Orestis, old chap?’

  The bandit gave a big grin and said, ‘Communist, yes.’

  ‘But look here,’ Sawbridge said, sounding puzzled, ‘Russia’s on the other side... even if the signs are that she won’t be for much longer. So how come a communist is assisting us, which I take it this man is?’

  ‘He is,’ Gore-Lumley answered. ‘His Greek nationality comes before Russia, that’s all. Greek first, communist second. As I said, he loathes Germans —’

  ‘Nazis,’ Kopoulos broke in, ‘are swine.’ He drew a hand across his throat, grinned again, and said. ‘I kill them when I find them. Always.’

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ Gore-Lumley said. ‘Now, Captain. You’ll want to know what your job is, I expect —’

  ‘Right, I do. Fast, please, Major.’

  ‘First a little of the background. You’ll need that.’ Gore-Lumley rubbed at his eyes; he was obviously almost out on his feet, and was swaying as he spoke. ‘So far most of the fighting’s in the north, but it’s due to move south — a number of our troops are moving down to Sphakia soon, I don’t know quite when, ready to evacuate —’

  ‘Has evacuation been ordered, Major?’

  ‘No, not yet, but we all expect it. We just can’t hold Crete, but the fact has yet to penetrate at home. Anyway, when the troops move down from Suda Bay, they’re going to bring the bloody Hun with them, obviously. I repeat, I don’t know when that’ll happen but when it does, I’ve no doubt you’ll be involved in the evacuation and you’ll come under very intense attack —’

  ‘In the meantime —’

  ‘In the meantime there’s this pick-up. I gather you don’t know who it is?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  Gore-Lumley grinned. ‘It’s a communist. A big one. Orestis Kopoulos’ big white chief, actually. He’s been given a guarantee of safety in return for services rendered. He wants to get back to Greece to carry on the fight there. I don’t know if you’ll be ordered to transport him, or whether he’ll be transferred via Alexandria or Malta — that’s largely up to you Naval johnnies, of course.’ He added, ‘There’s a woman, too — his daughter. His name’s Razakis, by the way, Stephanos Razakis, and he’s something of a handful. Self-opinionated bastard, frankly — sorry, Orestis, but that’s fact and you know it.

  Kopoulos grinned. ‘I know it, yes.’

  Sawbridge asked, ‘Are you going to guide my party, Major?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I have to report elsewhere without delay — you won’t be seeing me again. Orestis Kopoulos will guide your chaps, Captain. It’s a longish trek... and there’s something else, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Gore-Lumley said, ‘Razakis — and this is why he wasn’t able to come with me — Razakis is being held by a platoon of Hun paratroops —’

  Sawbridge caught the eye of his First Lieutenant and swore. ‘I wasn’t told this, Major!’

  ‘No. Well, Razakis is a prisoner in his own stronghold, in a valley between the Idhi Oros and Levka Ori ranges. Your chaps’ll have to fight through to him, then fight out again. They’ll have to watch out for the Germans on the way — there’s a force under a Colonel Heidrich in the south-west of the island — he’s taken Cemetery Hill and Pink Hill already, and he’s dug in south of the Canea-Maleme road. That’s well west of Razakis, certainly, but you never know.’

  ‘I’m going to need to land more men than I’d planned,’ Sawbridge said. ‘I’ve detailed twelve plus an officer, a PO and a leading-seaman —’

  ‘Should be enough,’ Gore-Lumley interrupted. ‘I was going to recommend a small, fast, very uncluttered force, nothing that’ll stand out.’ Gore-Lumley paused, and twirled at his flamboyant moustache. ‘We couldn’t spare any troops and still can’t. Every man’s desperately needed to hold the coast till someone in Whitehall makes up his mind to evacuate. So I’m afraid it’s all yours.’

  4

  MAJOR Gore-Lumley stressed that the landing-party must not look like the Royal Navy or any other disciplined fighting force but must be dressed in Cretan clothing to enable them to pass as indigenous banditry: hence the sack that had been brought aboard. In it would be found enough gear to give the necessary local colour, and it would help if faces were blackened like his own. This said, he re-embarked aboard his inflatable dinghy and vanished easterly across the water, heading obliquely for the shore. Orestis Kopoulos watched him until he was out of sight; the Greek was looking sombre. The two men seemed to be good friends. No time was lost in sorting out the dirty, smelly gear and in blackening faces, then the order was passed, quietly, from the compass platform: ‘Away whaler!’

  Cameron saw his men aboard quickly. As they slid down the falls he was thinking about his orders. According to Kopoulos, he faced something like a two-hour journey: four hours minimum before he could be back, and God knew how long it would take him to penetrate the German line, even though the enemy was present in no more than platoon strength according to Gore-Lumley. But dawn would be up within that four-hour minimum and Sawbridge had said that he could not risk his ship by being a sitting duck after dawn; this, Cameron fully understood. Sawbridge’s
intention was to take the destroyer to sea after the party had left and head south out of the area. He would come back in as soon as the light went again, but in addition would return during the day if the overall situation permitted. He would try to make it at noon; otherwise it would be 2000 hours. When Cameron made the shore on his return trip, he was to use the boat’s Aldis to call the ship as soon as he had seen her — a portable, battery signalling lamp as provided for use in ships’ boats was part of the landing-party’s equipment. And the moment he made contact the whaler would go in to pick them all up...

  Sawbridge leaned down as the whaler was reported ready to slip. ‘Good luck, Sub. It’s a tough assignment. Just do your best.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cameron nodded to Petty Officer Pike and the order was given for the whaler to be slipped; down she went with a smack on to the still water. The bowman and stern-sheetsman bore off with boathooks and once the whaler, jammed to the gunwales with the men of the landing-party, was clear of the ship’s side the crew pulled for the shore. They swept up to a shingle beach, already selected by reference to the chart and the Admiralty Sailing Directions for the area. There they lay off in a foot or so of water and Cameron ordered his party out. They waded ashore looking as brigand-ish as Kopoulos, and the whaler was despatched back to the destroyer.

  It was a lonely, naked feeling.

  Cameron didn’t spend long dwelling on loneliness and the total cut-off from the comparative security of a warship. Time was valuable, and if he could make the earlier rendezvous, then so much the better. Every moment spent ashore would increase the danger. He spoke to Orestis Kopoulos. ‘We’re in your hands,’ he said. ‘That is, as regards the route.’

  ‘Yes. And the rest, my British friend?’

  Cameron met the Greek’s eye squarely. Tor the rest, I’m in charge. If there’s fighting, you must take your orders from me.’

  Kopoulos laughed gently. ‘I think I know more of fighting than you, my friend! I am a partisan, a guerrilla... such fighting is not the fighting of the British Navy with its big guns and its, what you call, bull, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cameron answered, smiling but determined. ‘All the same —’

  ‘All the same — yes. I understand.’ Kopoulos reached out a hand, and Cameron took it. The Greek gripped him like a vice. He went on, ‘You give the orders, my friend, I give the advice. Only a fool would refuse that. I do not think you look like a fool.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cameron said, grinning. ‘That seems a pretty good arrangement to me.’

  ‘Then it is agreed.’ Kopoulos looked up the shore, silvery beneath the moon and stars, those splendid but unfriendly lanterns that shone on massive rock behind the beach. Gesturing the seamen to follow, he moved away from the water, taking long, loping strides. Cameron moved up to walk alongside him. Petty Officer Pike fell in behind, while Leading-Seaman Wellington brought up the rear behind the junior ratings, two of whom were carrying the box of grenades. Once clear of the beach they began climbing. It was a tough climb; but the Greek seemed to know every inch of the way, every jut of the rock, every crevice. They moved in silence apart from occasional brief directions from Kopoulos. Cameron wondered if he had been too officious, too pompous perhaps, in his insistence on command; Kopoulos, that man of obvious experience, was a good deal older than himself and knew his own country. Cameron had no doubt sounded brash; on the other hand, the responsibility was his, and Pike and the seamen would expect their own officer to be in charge: already Cameron had heard mutterings from some of the hands, men who didn’t go much on being entrusted to the care of a Greek communist who could for all they knew be in the pay of Russia, Adolf Hitler’s curious bedfellow. Russia was the enemy, and communists couldn’t be trusted. That, Cameron believed, was the feeling as the climb finished on more level ground. After a while Kopoulos became more talkative and asked about the progress of the war at sea. Cameron was non-committal, not knowing how far he should go in imparting such information as he possessed, which in fact was little enough. Neither the Admiralty nor the various Commanders-in-Chief were accustomed to confide in sub-lieutenants... Countering the questions, he asked Kopoulos if he knew the originator of the guarantee apparently given to Stephanos Razakis.

  ‘Yes,’ Kopoulos said. ‘Yes, I know this.’

  ‘Can you tell me who?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kopoulos said again. ‘Churchill.’

  *

  The journey was made without any interference along the way. They were now in well wooded country. No Germans appeared to be in the vicinity, and they didn’t meet any Cretans either; no doubt they were all lying low while the war swept over their island — all except the partisans from Greece, anyway. Cameron pondered on Churchill’s involvement; Churchill’s motto should have been, like the Royal Artillery, ubique. Not that he was here in person, of course, but his great looming personality seemed to have arrived for the succour of a partisan of importance; and now the very name of Winston Churchill had the effect of making this whole mission into one of much greater significance. Success had more than ever to be achieved; but Cameron was under no illusions as to the odds against him. Not only had he to penetrate the German line twice, but he had to get Razakis to the coast and then hide him away until Sawbridge brought the destroyer back in. That would be difficult once the escape was known. And the fact that Sawbridge had been doubtful about the noon rendezvous could point to at least a couple of imponderables weighing on his mind: the whole south coast might be aflame by then as the British, Australian and New Zealand Armies moved south for Sphakia; or Sawbridge might have received new orders. Wharfedale’s next duty was to reinforce Lord Louis Mount-batten’s flotilla off Canea in the Aegean and then, according to Gore-Lumley, probably to assist in the massive evacuation operation. If events should suddenly start to move faster, even Winston Churchill’s wishes might be considered expendable; sub-lieutenants and landing-parties certainly were.

  It was some ten minutes short of the estimated two hours since leaving the beach behind them that Orestis Kopoulos laid a hand on Cameron’s arm and said, ‘Now we take special care.’

  ‘We’re there?’

  ‘Almost, yes.’

  Cameron looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. ‘We’ve made good time.’

  ‘Yes... H. Samuel time!’

  ‘What?’

  Kopoulos grinned. ‘A joke. The commercials broadcast by Radio Normandy in the days of the peace, you remember?’

  ‘I remember.’ The sudden remembrance brought back scenes of home, of Aberdeen before he had joined up. It brought back that Sunday morning, so long ago it seemed now, when at 1100 hours the voice of Neville Chamberlain had announced, almost with tears in it, that this country was now at war with Germany... Cameron jerked himself back to the present. ‘How far to go now, Kopoulos?’

  ‘Half a mile, perhaps a little less. The night is very still. Listen and you will hear something.’

  They all kept very silent. At first Cameron could hear nothing beyond his own breathing, the thump of his own heart. Then he began to pick up sounds: distant, but distinct in the still air of the night. Footsteps, measured ones, steel-shod heels banging into hard ground.

  ‘You hear, my friend?’

  Cameron nodded. ‘Yes. German sentries?’

  ‘Yes. The perimeter... listen more.’

  Cameron did so, with Petty Officer Pike beside him now, fingering his revolver. New sounds came, metallic sounds, sounds like the snick of rifle bolts and the small noises from the equipment of men on the move. Pike said in a hoarse whisper, ‘The bastards are closing in on us, sir.’

  Kopoulos caught the remark. He said, ‘Yes, that is right. But we are in good cover, so —’

  ‘They must have heard us,’ Cameron interrupted.

  ‘Not so. It is a routine patrol, a probe to satisfy the German Commander, that is all. I say again, we are in good cover, my friend. It is my advice that we remain in it, very still, very quiet, down on our stomachs beneath the br
ushwood until we see what is happening. You will give the order, please?’

  ‘Good advice,’ Cameron said. He passed the word back to all hands to get down flat, conceal themselves, and make no sound or movement. They waited; the sounds came closer to the hidden men, apparently coming towards them from their right. Cameron’s own breathing was like a dead give-away in his ears, something that surely cried out to be heard. The minutes ticked past; crunching footsteps came closer and voices could soon be heard plainly, and some laughter. Cameron almost jumped a mile when once again Kopoulos laid a hand on his arm. The Greek spoke with his mouth hard up against Cameron’s ear. ‘They will pass across our front, I think. And I think we must attack.’

  ‘Why? Why show ourselves, Kopoulos?’

  ‘Because to kill them reduces their strength, for one thing. For another, their uniforms and weapons may be helpful to us, my friend.’

  ‘But they’ll give the alarm!’