A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4

by Alexander Fullerton

  That was where the raid was to be launched from, then.

  “There’ll be a minesweeper laid on to escort Sauerkraut round, and you and your team will embark in her—the sweeper. When you get there, you’ll be accommodated ashore. You’ll have long enough cramped up in the E-boat later on.”

  “D’you mean it’s a long haul from Falmouth to the target port, sir?”

  Smith frowned. He said, “I can’t tell you how long you’ll be in Falmouth. But you’ll be joining up with the larger force which you asked me about a few days ago. You’ll train with some of them while you’re there.”

  More bloody training …

  “Your part of the show’s got to be fitted in with the rest of it, you see. And we don’t want you and your lads going to pot in the last week or two. Trolley is absolutely right, you know—physical fitness is half the battle; it’s vital—in your own interests, apart from everyone else’s … Now, the programme for this week. First, there’ll be the usual PT, runs and route-marches, as laid on by Trolley. Also, we’ll have stores arriving, for embarking in Sauerkraut. Sharp will take charge of that, of course, but it’ll include your own equipment, ammo and so on, so you’d better take an interest in where and how it’s stowed. And there’s one new angle for you—concerning your torpedoes. An emergency drill we want you to practise.”

  “What would the emergency be?”

  “Well … Obviously you’ve realized that we’re attacking an enemy-held port, and that your part in the raid is to get right through to a certain inner basin and make use of an E-boat—as you’ve been practising … Right?”

  Jack nodded.

  “The background to the plan is that there is always—or has always been—an off-duty or stand-by E-boat, and sometimes two of them, berthed on that quay at night. Aerial photographs taken just before dusk have invariably shown one lying there, and with its torpedoes in the tubes. But it’s been suggested now—this cropped up during the weekend—that when the boat’s brought inside the docks the pistols may quite likely be removed from the torpedoes. And not only removed, but landed.”

  “If that’s the case, we’re scuppered.”

  There were various safety devices on German torpedoes, just as there were on British ones, but nobody had suggested the Germans would go so far as to take the pistols out. Pistols were cylindrical primers inserted in the front ends of the warheads.

  Smith told him, “This has cropped up because someone in Naval Intelligence has discovered it’s laid down in their torpedo manual, under the heading ‘Safety Precautions in Harbour.’ Whether or not they’ve found they can observe it, in practice and wartime conditions, we don’t of course know.”

  “But we can’t chance it.”

  “Quite. So we’re proposing to issue you with a quantity of plastic explosive with detonators and time-fuses. This is the emergency drill. If the pistols are not in the fish, you pack the apertures with plastic, fit detonators and fire the fuses.”

  “But—”

  “Wait, wait … You use the E-boat itself to get the torpedoes there. You set the boat on course for the target with its wheel lashed, and abandon ship.”

  “Christ …”

  Smith’s eyebrows twitched. “A bit startling at first glance, I admit. But on reflection, I don’t believe it really increases the—er—hazards. You’ll get wet, that’s all. The big snag, I suppose, is that the boat becomes an obvious target for enemy guns on the other side of the basin, and they might well blow it up before it gets across. On the other hand, it is a German boat, and they may think its own crew’s still manning it.”

  Its own crew would be dead by then. But it was news to Jack that there’d be guns on the far side of the basin. Nobody had mentioned this before. It seemed strange to him that there’d be defences along an inland waterway—dock, whatever it was … Then he thought, A ship—or ships, berthed on the other side … He asked Smith, “Could I make a guess that the target is some large ship berthed on the quay facing us? A pocket battleship or something?”

  “You could guess it, but you’d be wrong.” Smith sighed. They were all trying to squeeze information out of him, all the time. He said, “They’ll tell you the whole story in Falmouth, Everard. There’s really no need for you to know it any sooner.”

  Jack nodded. It seemed the interview was over, and he began to move. Smith stopped him. “Hang on. Haven’t finished, quite.”

  Subsiding, he saw that the commander was going through the process of “choosing his words carefully.” It was a look he tended to get, at such times: a frowning pause, lips shaping themselves for speech.

  “One aspect of all this—which I can tell you, without giving away anything that matters …You may find, when you get to Falmouth, that not everyone there is overjoyed by your arrival. I don’t mean in a personal way, of course—I mean the fact of you and your crowd being tagged on to the operation. You’ll be known as the Naval Task Unit, by the way— NTU … The point is, you’ve been put in as an extra, and not everyone concerned approves of it entirely. The operation itself has one essential and very important target; but in the same immediate area there happens to be another. Both, I may say, of considerable strategic importance. Now, when the Prime Minister was having the plan explained to him—chiefs of staff having already approved it—he put his finger on the secondary target—yours—and demanded “What about this?” Well, the planners already have enormous problems, and see very high risks in achieving the first objective. On your end of it, there are some people who consider the risks too high in relation to the chances of success. Others appreciate that the value of doing substantial damage to it would be significant enough to justify those risks. And, the Prime Minister was very strongly opposed to our passing up the chance of killing two birds with one stone.”

  Jack Everard being one of the two birds, no doubt. He wondered who the other one might be … He said, “So we’re just a sideshow, while a raiding force happens to be there.”

  “I’d rather say you were an addition.”

  “And mine’s a tougher proposition than the primary object of the operation.”

  “Well—yes … If you remember, Everard, I did try to impress on you—”

  “Oh, you did, certainly. I’ve no grouse about that, sir.”

  Surprisingly, the commander smiled: it was a warm, friendly smile. He murmured, “I’ll be glad to see you back, I must say.”

  Half an hour later Jack was outside on the roadway, in thin, cold drizzle that felt it might easily turn to sleet. He mustered his party, called them to attention, and reported them to Trolley as present and correct— except for the two artificers, Pettifer and Wood, who were working on the modifications to Sauerkraut.

  The army man’s pale eyes held his. Trolley had a smooth, pink-and-white complexion. Jack thought that perhaps he shaved the sides and back of his head to make up for not needing to shave his face. That was how he looked, anyway.

  “In good shape, are you, Everard?”

  “Good enough.”

  “We’ll see.” He gave his orders. A rapid march—a lot of it would be at the double—to a group of disused slagheaps about eight miles away. When they got there they’d be running up and down them for a couple of hours, carrying weighted packs; then there’d be an equally fast return to base. Slagheaps were bastards for running on. But it would sweat the whisky out, all right. He was tough, and confident of his own strength and staying power: he could wallow in the fleshpots and then come back and cope with this without making heavy weather of it. He was twice the man Trolley was, he thought, and he enjoyed the sort of weekends Trolley probably yearned for: also, he’d soon be leading this team into action, and the fresh-faced commando would be staying behind, instructing … Jack saluted him, thinking, I could take you, boy, whatever shape I might be in. And what a pleasure!

  Violence was a relief, sometimes. A thing you needed—like a stiff drink, or a woman. He’d have liked to have flattened Trolley: here, now. It wasn’t anything
he could analyze, understand in himself; it was simply how he felt. And a thing Fiona hated—had called, when he’d described it to her, “sick-making.” But Trolley’s cold eyes, slightly contemptuous disapproval …

  It occurred to him, as he marched back to his platoon to move them off, that before he left Cardiff he might even do it.

  Late that afternoon, aching in a lot of muscles but being careful not to let anyone know it, he went along to visit Sauerkraut. Lying near her in the same dock was Sharp’s ML, once again immobilized by engine trouble. A crew was coming down from Scotland to remove her next week, but they were going to have to mend her first.

  Tubby Sharp joined him on the jetty. Sharp was round-faced, curly-haired and slightly mad; he’d been at Oxford when the war had started. Now that he’d become an E-boat commander he was working up a Nazi act to go with the job—strutting, shouting, Heil-Hitlering. He said, “Just as well we don’t have to go on this jaunt in my old wreck. Highly unlikely the old bitch would have got us there. Wherever there is … Smithy tell you this morning, did he?”

  “No such luck.”

  “Just a natter, was it?”

  “More or less.” Jack pointed at the auxiliary petrol tanks fitted on the ML’s upper deck. There were two tanks, each holding 500 gallons, to give the Fairmile the extra range she’d have needed for the expedition on which she would not now be going. He said, “That little lot’s worried me all along. I told Smith, but he brushed me off. For God’s sake— timber boat, and all that gas on deck, and half the German Army blazing away at it as we go in?”

  Sharp nodded. “True … Mind you, our Sauerkraut’s also timber-built.”

  “Doesn’t have exposed fuel tanks, though. Whoever thought that up, for an opposed landing?”

  “For want of anything more suitable?”

  “Obviously. But it’s high time we had something more suitable. Your MLs are useful craft for lots of jobs, but not for this kind.” He added, “By the way, we won’t be crowding you out when we leave here. There’ll be a sweeper escorting you, and we’ll go in that. That’s what Smithy told me, this morning.”

  Sharp asked him, “Going where?”

  Jack shrugged. “Smithy’ll tell us when he’s ready. The thing is, you’ll have plenty of room in Sauerkraut. Let’s decide where the spare ammo boxes are going, when it arrives.”

  They boarded Sauerkraut. He told the ERAs, “You two missed a jolly little run this forenoon.”

  Pettifer looked at Wood. “Dash it all, Humphrey, some fellows get all the fun!”

  That night they went over the assault course several times, starting “dry” because they had no boat to start from, and doing it repeatedly because Trolley said the first attempts weren’t fast enough. He might have been right, but it was very easy to resent Trolley’s decisions. Next day, Tuesday, the stores arrived, and had to be checked and stowed, and that afternoon Jack and his torpedomen conducted some preliminary experiments with plastic explosive, detonators and time-fuses.

  “Stand by to surface …”

  Tuesday, 10:50 am.

  Ruck, at the periscope, wasn’t dressed for the bridge. Wykeham, at the trim as usual, would be going up in his place and conning Ultra into harbour. He told Quinn, “Check main vents.”

  Faces around the control room were clean-shaven—except Quinn’s— and the ship’s company smartly uniformed. Except for Ruck himself, who was still collarless and tieless.

  This surfacing routine had been ordered by Shrimp Simpson recently, after the Luftwaffe’s blitz on the flotilla had extended to machine-gun attacks on submarines returning from patrol. Fighters and fighter-bombers had taken to ambushing the boats as they surfaced at the end of the swept channel; it was a smart idea from their point of view because the submarine was helpless in those few moments and because the first man into the bridge was always the captain, who was the most valuable human target for them. Two COs had been wounded in this way since the beginning of the year. Shrimp had decreed that submarines were in future to surface only one mile from the St Elmo lighthouse, and they weren’t to come up at all if the red air-raid alert flag was flying from the battlements of the Castille. Also, commanding officers were not to show themselves in the bridge until their boats were right inside the harbour entrance.

  “Main vents checked shut, sir!”

  “Ready to surface, sir.”

  Ruck muttering to himself, daylight from the surface flickering in his eyes … “No red flag. Getting a quiet forenoon, ashore.” He swept round again, using the air search. Then another inspection of the Castille flagstaff. He pushed the handles up.

  “Surface.”

  “Blow one and six main ballast!”

  Wykeham had given that order, while the signalman, Janaway, was opening the lower hatch. Now Janaway was off the ladder and Wykeham was climbing up into the tower, while Ruck took over the surfacing process and air roared into the tanks. Janaway scooping up two rolled flags, tucking them under his arm before he started up behind Wykeham … One was a White Ensign, the other this submarine’s own Jolly Roger, a black flag with a white skull and crossbones in its centre, and symbols marking successes sewn around it. During the dived passage southward yesterday Janaway had spent some time squatting in a corner of the control room with the black flag across his knees and needle and thread in hand, adding this patrol’s score to what was already there. Two more white bars for the tanker and the troopship; there were two there from the first two patrols out here, and a red bar above that for the U-boat they’d sunk during their work-up patrol in the North Sea.

  If Ruck had had his way, there’d have been crossed gunbarrels now in the top right corner, and a star below them for Ultra’s first gun action. There wasn’t, because Shrimp Simpson had ordered them back to Malta instead of allowing another visit to Cape Spartivento for a bombardment of the railway sidings. Ultra had surfaced on Sunday evening as soon as it was dark enough, and immediately wirelessed an enemy report giving the position of the day’s sinking and the course and speed of the surviving troopship and its two escorts. He’d also reported the destruction of the tanker and stated his intention of returning to the Messina Straits for some trainwrecking. Within an hour S10’s reply had come in: their recall to Malta. Shrimp had added “Well done.”

  Paul called up to Wykeham in the tower, “Fifteen feet. Twelve. Ten. Eight. Six—”

  Clang of the hatch opening: looking up as drops of water spattered down, he saw daylight and the two men clambering out into the bridge. Behind him Ruck ordered, “Stop blowing.” The voicepipe was opened, and a moment later the diesels were in action. In the bridge, Janaway would be flashing Ultra’s pendant numbers by Aldis lamp to the Castille signal station.

  Paul went into the wardroom to put on a battledress jacket over his white submarine sweater. Before long the order “Harbour stations” would be passed, and his job was on the fore casing with the berthing party. McClure said, as Paul passed the chart table, “Neat landfall, eh?”

  Meaning he’d done well to find the way back to Malta: a joke against himself, an admission that he still saw himself as a learner-navigator, delighted with every good result he got.

  With this patrol’s results, everyone was delighted. There could be no question that Ultra had now qualified as a full member of the fraternity.

  Ruck came in, fished a stiff collar and black tie from the drawer under his bunk, and began fastening it to his shirt. Paul asked him “What’ll the form be now, sir? Alongside Lazaretto?”

  “Expect so.” Fixing the tie, Ruck leaned back against the table for support. Ultra was jolting around a bit, as the diesels drove her through a choppy sea towards the harbour entrance. “Or they’ll put us between buoys.”

  Shouting, from the control room …

  Ruck shot out, sending McClure staggering. The diving klaxon roared twice, diesels cut out, main vents opening: Q tank was flooded, the submarine lurching downwards. There was a fast, loud hammering from somewhere up top, and a
s she dipped under a jarring explosive thump in the sea to port. McClure had sprung to the chart table and leaped back again with the chart, getting out of the rush of men hurrying to their diving stations. He shouted towards the control room, “Less than fifty feet of water, sir!”

  Ruck’s voice: “Forty feet. Blow Q.”

  “Blowing Q, sir.” Quinn, at the panel.

  Then Wykeham, out of breath: “Forty feet, sir … You all right, signalman?”

  The lower hatch thumped. Paul had been keeping out of the way, out of the gangway. He heard Janaway mumble, “Reckon so, sir. Except— well, seems—”

  “Q blown, sir.”

  “He’s all blood, sir!”

  Lovesay’s voice, from the fore planes …

  “Forty feet, sir.”

  “Group down, slow ahead together.” Ruck ordered, “CPO Gaffney in the control room … Cox’n, he can take over after planes. You see to Janaway.” Paul was in there, crouching beside the signalman, who was sitting on the deck at the base of the ladder with his legs stuck straight out in front of him and his submarine sweater turning pink, reddening, beginning to glisten at the shoulder as blood thickened and seeped through. McClure was there too.

  “Here—”

  “Let the cox’n see to him, Sub.” Gaffney, torpedo gunner’s mate, arrived. Ruck told him, “After planes, TI.”

  Logan was already off the stool: Paul made way for him. Submarine coxswains were put through a short medical course to equip them for emergency doctoring. Logan muttered, “We’ll get ‘im aft, sir. POs’ mess, if you’d give an ‘and.” He growled at the signalman as they helped him up, “What you fussin’ about, Bunts?”