‘No.’ Cameron was firm. ‘We head for my ship. I have to get Razakis’s message transmitted urgently to Alexandria — to Admiral Cunningham —’
‘There will be someone with a wireless in Sphakia, Englishman.’
‘Perhaps. We’ll see. In any case, it’ll have to be enciphered first. One more thing, Kopoulos: from now on this is my show. You’ve done your part and I’m more than grateful. Now it’s up to me to get us off the best way I find. If I can get a boat, you’re free to leave us as you said you intended.’
Kopoulos didn’t answer, but bent his back ready to take Razakis, and within a minute they were on the move again, heading west along the high ground for Sphakia. Behind them, the Stukas continued their relentless attack on the empty beach. Wharfedale was hardly likely to come in now; she would most probably turn back if she was making her approach, and get well to sea. Or — again he thought of the worst — she had already come under attack, as they would themselves just as soon as they entered the port. It was going to be a hazardous business to say the least.
Within an hour, after a hard slog along the heights, they were approaching Sphakia, or what was left of it. The entry was difficult and must have been sheer hell for weary troops; there was no road closer to Sphakia than a couple of miles and the journey ended in a 500-foot descent via goat-track down a cliff. As they scrambled down to the bottom and came into the shattered port in which not a building seemed to have been left, the racket was deafening, terrifying. Fires blazed everywhere as the bombs fell and the Stukas screamed in to blast the little shingle beach into oblivion and render it useless for an evacuation. There were troops everywhere, masses of them, all the various units mixed up in a great, unwieldy conglomeration of sweat-streaked, bloodied men. British, Australians, New Zealanders... gunners, infantry, armoured columns, signals, engineers, RASC bereft of their trucks. Officers and NCOS were bawling out orders but the dispirited troops seemed to be taking little notice as they huddled in such cover as they could find and waited for the Navy to come in and take them off to the ships. As Cameron’s party moved along in the light from the fires and the bomb bursts, their way was blocked by a sergeant of the Leicesters, brandishing a revolver.
‘What are you lot?’ he demanded, looking all set to shoot.
Cameron said, ‘Royal Navy, Sergeant. Special mission.’
‘Navy my arse.’
Leading-Seaman Wellington moved forward and said, ‘The officer’s right, Sergeant. And my name’s Wellington. I’ve a brother in your lot, don’t know if you know him, eh?’
‘Wellington?’ The sergeant stared back at him quizzically. ‘Duke Wellington... yes, I knew him. Come to think of it, you look like him an’ all. He’d just been made a lance-jack,’ he added.
Wellington asked, ‘Why the past tense, Sergeant?’ His face was suddenly set into harder lines, visible in the light of the fires.
‘Sorry, mate.’ The sergeant put a hand on Wellington’s shoulder. ‘He bought it, up north. Took four Jerries with him. Guts... he’ll likely get a gong.’
‘You can stuff the gong,’ Wellington said harshly. He turned away. Then he looked round again and said, ‘I’m glad to hear he got four of the bastards, though.’
The sergeant nodded and turned to Cameron. ‘Anything I can do, sir?’
‘I want a boat,’ Cameron said. ‘I have to rejoin my ship. I suppose you’ve no news of the Wharfedale, by any chance?’
‘Never heard of her. There’s a rumour four destroyers are coming in — Napier, Nizam, Kelvin and Kandahar, but I don’t know for sure. Anyway, they’ll only take off about a couple of thousand men at most.’ The sergeant pointed. ‘If you want a boat, the port’s down there, if you call it a port that is. Shingle beach, twenty yards by a hundred and fifty... that’s our assembly point when we get the orders to go.’
‘Thanks. I’ll get along there.’
‘Best o’ luck, sir.’ The sergeant gave a hurried, sketchy salute and dived for cover as a Stuka screamed down. The bomb hit little more than fifty yards off, and more debris rose to drop back in dust and broken rock. Cameron moved his party on towards the beach, expecting at every moment to be blown to shreds. Some good providence was protecting them, it seemed; all around troops were lying dead or shockingly wounded, and detached parts of bodies were in evidence everywhere. Sphakia was becoming little more than a charnel house and if this went on much longer the destroyers would have nothing left to pick up — but then, no doubt, more and more troops would be coming in, a never-ending stream of them in the terrible retreat from Suda and Canea.
*
Wharfedale had made her approach a little late. It was 2015 hours when Sawbridge stopped engines off shore and tried to pick up the coastline through his binoculars. So far he was keeping well out, but would close the moment he saw Cameron’s Aldis flashing for pick-up.
‘No sign,’ he said after a long look. ‘Number One?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ Drummond said.
‘He may be there or he may not. I’m not risking making a signal.’ Sawbridge waved a hand towards the clear signs of the attack on Sphakia. ‘Those buggers’d be on us like a ton of bricks. Cameron should be able to use his Aldis from the cliff crevices, though.’ He took another long look. ‘Still nothing. I’ll take her in closer, Number One. This rotten bloody visibility isn’t helping. It’s not helping us, it’s not helping Cameron.’
‘It’s not helping the Germans either, sir.’
Sawbridge grinned. ‘True. It’s an ill wind! We mustn’t complain, I suppose.’ He went to the gyro repeater. ‘Engines slow ahead,’ he ordered down the voice-pipe. ‘Starboard five.’
The destroyer moved in, ghosting along through the overcast, moving slow so as not to bring up a bow-wave that might give away her position. Sawbridge watched the shore, closely and carefully. Still no signal. He swore, his nerves on edge. Once again he stopped engines and lay off, drifting until the way came off the ship.
He said, ‘I don’t like it, Number One. Cameron’s had all day to get here.’
‘He should be all right assuming he made it to the strong-hold in the first place — his track south won’t have been anywhere near the line of retreat from Suda, and it’s there the German attack will have been concentrated.’
Sawbridge nodded, then said, ‘I’m beginning to wonder if he ever got to Razakis.’ He looked at the time: it was 2035 hours. At that moment, the bridge personnel heard the shift in the racket from the diving Stukas. It was coming their way now. As the sighting reports came in from the lookouts, Sawbridge passed the inevitable orders.
‘Engines to full ahead, port fifteen. Steady her on one-eight-oh, Pilot. We’re getting out.’ He had scarcely finished speaking when the first of the bomb bursts took the beach, and shingle and water erupted. One after the other, pounding and blasting... if Cameron was arriving after all, he certainly wouldn’t be lingering on that beach. Already Sawbridge was starting to frame the signal that would have to go to Admiral Cunningham in Alexandria: it would be brief enough in all conscience — mission unsuccessful. But Sawbridge had a feeling it wouldn’t end there. Razakis had sounded somewhat more than important, though God knew why. Frankly, however, Sawbridge was not too much concerned about Razakis.
His ship’s company was more important in his eyes. Inside the next few minutes, he had something else to worry about. He had evidently been spotted by the Stuka pilots, and in they came, vicious as ever, spitting out bombs.
Once again, Sawbridge turned and twisted his ship this way and that, unpredictably, as his close-range weapons did their best to send their bullets through the perspex windshields into the pilots’ brains.
10
THE search for a boat was a hopeless one: Cameron had never expected Sphakia to be as bad as he had found it, and neither had Razakis nor Kopoulos. There was nothing left that floated, and if there had been then the troops would have found it first and used it to get away from slaughter. But according to Kopoulos, there was a t
iny bay a little to the west of Sphakia, towards Cape Krio. It was unlikely that it had been found by the troops; there was no way of approaching it other than from seaward. Also, it would almost certainly be free of the Stukas.
‘How do we get there?’ Cameron asked.
‘We swim,’ Kopoulos said.
‘With Razakis?’
‘I shall take him. I am a good swimmer. It can be done.’
‘And there’ll be a boat?’
Kopoulos shrugged. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. But undoubtedly there is none here! It is very possible that some fishing boats will have fled from Sphakia, and taken refuge in the bay.’
‘Right,’ Cameron said. ‘We’ll give it a try. Anything’s better than this!’ He led the way down the shingle. Kopoulos passed his sub-machine-gun to Razakis to carry and, if possible, keep clear of the water. He was much attached to the weapon.
‘She is my good friend,’ he said. ‘Where I go, she also goes.’ Supporting Razakis, he waded in deep, then turned over on his back and, holding Razakis by the shoulders, thrust out strongly with his powerful legs. The naval party entered the water behind Kopoulos and followed him towards the west.
The swim was not in fact very far; as they came round a small headland and left the aerial attack behind them, they saw a small patch of shingle beach ahead and to their right, standing out white against the sea through the continuing overcast. Within a few minutes they were safe ashore, wading up the shingle. Already they had seen no less than three fishing boats hauled up on the beach, their Cretan crews standing by them and watching the fires of Sphakia lighting the skies eastward of the headland.
As the party came ashore, one of the fishermen approached with his rifle aimed. There was a shout from Kopoulos, and the man lowered his rifle but remained looking watchful and anxious. Lowering Razakis gently to the pebbles, Kopoulos spoke to the man in his own language and then turned to Cameron.
‘All is well,’ he said. ‘This man is a patriot. You may have his fishing boat. He would like it to be returned if possible, but if it is not possible, then I have told him that Winston Churchill will provide him with another as soon as the war is won.’
*
Kopoulos stood with a hand at the salute and his other hand clutching the sub-machine-gun as Cameron took the fishing boat out into the night. Once again Cameron had offered to take the Greek off with him, but it had been no more than a formality since he realized Kopoulos had made up his mind and would stay to be a thorn in the side of the Germans once they had occupied the war-torn island. Cameron was sorry to part; Kopoulos had been a good friend and without him nothing at all could have been achieved. Before they had left, Kopoulos had kissed Razakis on both cheeks, hugging him close. Then a firm handshake all round and that had been all. Cameron watched as the hand came down from the salute and Kopoulos strode back up the beach and vanished in the darkness. He wasn’t risking going back to Sphakia, evidently; although he had said there was no way of approaching the bay from landward, he obviously knew of some precarious goat-track that he would be able to negotiate but which would be unknown and inaccessible to British soldiers.
With the sail set, a light breeze carried them well offshore. Cameron made his course south-east, towards where he expected the Wharfedale might be cruising if she were still afloat. As he went, he thought about the fishing boat’s owner; Winston Churchill might never know, might never pick it up amidst all the details of a world war, but Cameron had signed a dirty piece of paper produced by the Cretan, who had scribbled on it in some sort of patois. Kopoulos had laughed heartily but passed it; Cameron had no idea of what he had committed the British Government to, but it had been a case of needs must.
They sailed all that night over a dead calm sea, moving at last away from the fearful battle over Sphakia, not coming under any attack themselves and finding no vessels of any kind. But as a splendid dawn came up to dapple the eastern sky with brilliant colours, the low silhouette of a warship came up ahead. Cameron maintained his course and somewhat precariously climbed the boat’s mast for a better look. As they closed, Leading-Seaman Wellington called from the stern, ‘It’s her all right, sir! It’s the old Wharfedale.’
*
It was like a first-class hotel by comparison with things past; after making his detailed report to the Captain, Cameron was sent down for a bath while Sawbridge questioned Razakis. When the questioning was finished, Razakis was taken to the sick bay and handed over to the Surgeon-Lieutenant. Cameron, clean and in uniform again, was sent for to join Sawbridge on the compass platform.
Sawbridge said, ‘I’ve sent a ciphered message asking for orders, Sub. About Razakis. Do we take him to Greece, or is he required in Alex? If the matter’s as vital as he says, I’ll get my orders pretty fast, I imagine.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cameron paused. ‘And his message, sir, about Russia... are you transmitting that?’
‘No,’ Sawbridge answered. ‘In my view it’s too lethal, as it were, to risk being broken if the Germans happen to have our current reciphering tables — I have to consider that as a possibility. What I intend to do is to close the main Fleet units off Scarpanto and pass the message by hand of officer to the Admiral in the Queen Elizabeth. I fancy he may detach a destroyer for home — a fast boat could reach Portsmouth in three days, and secrecy’s more important even than speed.’
‘A hand message for the War Cabinet, sir?’
Sawbridge nodded. ‘Right! It’s bloody cumbersome, but that message is dynamite. Just so long as the German High Command remains unaware that we have the information, it could give Russia time to prepare and give Hitler a nasty shock!’
‘Razakis made the point, sir —’
‘Yes, I know all about that — he has to get that German VIP into Russia, personally. Well, I’ll have my orders as to that shortly.’ Sawbridge scanned the sky and the horizons all round his ship, which was steaming eastwards at full power. There was no sign of any enemy; once again, it was like a peacetime cruise. But in the Eastern Mediterranean peace could go very suddenly and all hands knew it. There was no lack of vigilance as the seamen lookouts watched their arcs and the guns’ crews stood ready for instant action.
Below in the petty officers’ mess there was talk amongst those off watch — talk about Pike. Pike was badly missed; he’d been a cheery messmate, one of the best there was. And it was rotten bad luck to go and buy it ashore and to be left to rot in a dump like Crete. Soon, as in the case of all the others who had died, there would be a messdeck auction of his personal gear, an auction at which his mates would bid extravagant sums for things of no real worth; the proceeds would be handed in due course to his widow in Devonport... if ever they saw Guz again, that was. The Torpedo-Gunner’s Mate was already having a preliminary sort through Pike’s possessions and now he found the letter, addressed to Mrs Pike. The TGM tapped it thoughtfully against Pike’s locker, shaking his head sadly. Post it when they got back to base, or forget it? You never knew with letters, or with women either. Something could upset Mrs Pike. On the other hand, he’d written it meaning it to be read... well, it could wait anyway. Probably he would post it.
He spoke later to the Torpedo-Gunner, but not about the letter. He said, ‘It must have been a rotten job, sir. Bloody rotten.’
‘It’s a wonder,’ Vibart said, ‘that any of ‘em ever got back at all. I reckon young Cameron did a good job, eh?’
‘Pity he lost Pikey.’
The Torpedo-Gunner poked a finger forward. ‘Now look here, Charlie, he didn’t lose Pike and you know it. He was carrying out his orders, and Pike died as a result. And it looks like the mission was successful, right? We’ve got that Razakis to prove it.’
Something similar was said in the wardroom when Cameron went down to snatch some breakfast. Congratul-ations were offered; Cameron said it was all due to Orestis Kopoulos, and he meant it. Also, he said, it was far from finished yet; they might be ordered to put Razakis ashore in Greece. Probably would be, seeing that they h
ad him aboard and were handily placed to alter towards the mainland.
They were.
The orders came promptly, just as Cameron had finished eating, and were deciphered with all the speed demanded by the Most Immediate prefix: Sawbridge was ordered firstly to close the battleship Queen Elizabeth south of Scarpanto, and then to detach at full speed for the Aegean.
*
The big ships were around 150 sea miles to the east-north-east of Wharfedale’s current position; by 0900 hours the destroyer was off Kufonisi and altering a little northward. At a few minutes after 1000 hours she raised the great hulls of the heavy ships — the battleships Queen Elizabeth and Barham and the aircraft-carrier Formidable, all ready to bombard Scarpanto. Wharfedale identified herself by flashing her pennant numbers and was ordered to close. As she swept up towards the heavy squadron, the Queen Elizabeth, wearing the flag of Vice-Admiral Pridham-Wippell, began flashing from her signal bridge high above the water.
Wharfedale’s Yeoman of Signals reported: ‘Wharfedale from the Flag, sir. Do not propose stopping engines owing to likelihood of attack from Scarpanto. You are to encypher your message and pass groups to me by light.’
Sawbridge grinned; he had already prepared for that, and Razakis’s message was all ready to go, brief and to the point. In plain language it read: GREEK PARTISAN RAZAKIS KNOWN TO CHURCHILL REPORTS GERMANY TO INVADE SOVIET UNION 22 JUNE.
It would be something of a bombshell.
The message was passed by light and acknowledged. On its heels Sawbridge sent a signal of his own: FLAG FROM WHARFEDALE, PROPOSE TO PROCEED IN EXECUTION OF PREVIOUS ORDERS.
The moment this was acknowledged, Sawbridge began to draw away from the Fleet units, laying off a course north-westward to take his ship through the strait between Plaka and Kaso Island into the Aegean. The great battleships reared far above the destroyer’s decks, immense above their anti-torpedo bulges, the superstructure rising hugely over the fifteen-inch guns in their massive turrets already elevating to begin the bombardment from almost ten miles’ range. Cameron, standing on the compass platform as they moved past, looked back at the battleships with something approaching awe. They were magnificent if already dated; great leviathans fast becoming as extinct as the brontosaurus, slow and unwieldy in action, too vulnerable to that new concept of war, the dive-bombing attack in force. But they were still splendid and impressive, still the repository of ultra-smartness and discipline, brimming over with gunners’ mates, still carrying some of the old titles that were no longer relevant to the rest of the Navy: Captain of the Fleet, Master of the Fleet... titles redolent of Nelson and all the years between. Cameron wished them luck in their action against Scarpanto and its air bases, hoped fervently that good providence would protect them and their vast ships’ companies when the Stukas struck; and then turned away from them as they began to fade into the waters behind. He had a different war to fight as he headed with Razakis into the Aegean.
Dangerous Waters (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 10