This next night she’d be embarking, as well as torpedoes, fuel, fresh water, lubricating oil and ammunition, while maintenance work was finished off. The same kind of operation was in progress in all the other submarines as well, and one boat had sailed at dawn.
Paul spent the day in the rock shelter, and at one point Shrimp Simpson called him over to the part of it that constituted his daytime office, to ask whether he’d had any news from his father.
“Not from him, sir. Only what was in that communiqué.”
Shrimp nodded. “I heard that one. Sounded to me as if he’d done it again. Only ship to come out of yet another frightful mess … When you do hear from him, Everard, I’d be glad to know.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He was leaving, when the telephone rang on Miss Gomer’s desk. She said, “For you, sir,” and handed it to Shrimp. His face changed as he listened: eyes hardening, lines deepening … He said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up, and told his secretary, “ P39’s been hit, so I don’t know how long I’ll be. Pass the word, would you?” Then he left the shelter at a run. He had an old motorbike for his personal transport; by road from Manoel Island to Dockyard Creek on the far side of Grand Harbour was a distance of nine miles. And prowling German fighters tended to attack anything they saw moving on the roads.
P39 had been in dockyard hands since being damaged in an air attack during Ultra’s previous patrol; she’d been near-missed in the same attack that had sunk the fuel lighter, and by now her repairs would have been just about complete. It transpired later that she and the Pole, Sokol, had been lying opposite each other in Dockyard Creek, P39 at Store Wharf and Sokol at Machinery Wharf, when a bomb had slanted into the water midway between them; but its trajectory had carried it right under P39, where it exploded, splitting her hull athwartships. There’d been no casualties: all her crew had been in the dockyard shelter, in accordance with Shrimp’s orders.
Paul was on the long gallery that evening at dusk, with the light fading across Lazaretto Creek and the submarines nosing back to their berths. It was going to be a busy night. Pete Chandler, third hand of one of the other boats, was among those waiting on the gallery: Paul had just accepted a cigarette from him, and they’d been talking about the loss of P39. In the dockyard, where boats under repair had to be, there simply was no cover: if the Luftwaffe saw them they were sitting ducks. P39 had been beached at the Marsa, but she’d be a total loss.
Chandler muttered, “Like the ten little nigger boys, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s the first loss for quite a while. And considering the amount of shit that’s being flung at us—”
“Unslaked?”
“What about her?” Then he did a double-take: “What?”
“Only a buzz.” Chandler shrugged. “It’s said she’s overdue.”
“Who’s saying so?”
“It’s likely to be a fact. There’s certainly been a signal sent saying Unslaked, report position. And no reply. You know what that means.”
Jack had intended going on a route march with Trolley’s keep-fit brigade that Tuesday, but a message came at breakfast-time from Lieutenant-Commander Hawkins that he was wanted at the naval HQ at 10 am. So the rest of the NTU team went along, in their new rubber-soled boots, leaving him behind.
He got to the seafront hotel building a few minutes before the hour, and was directed to the conservatory. The naval force commander was just leaving—for a conference with Colonel Newman, the military commander, Hawkins said. It was obvious there’d been some development during the night.
“Sit, if you want to.”
“Just as soon stand, sir.” Because Hawkins, with his gammy leg, was standing.
Hawkins said, “Please yourself. Smoke if you want to. Here—have one of mine.”
“Thank you.” Jack provided the light.”I gather something’s happened, news of some kind?”
“Bags of it.” The lieutenant-commander nodded, smoke trickling from his nostrils. “Three main headings, and the first bit’s good news. The mix-up with the RAF has been fixed, we’re told. They’re increasing the number of aircraft to sixty-two, almost as good as the number they first thought of. So Chariot will go ahead as planned, and that’s one thing settled.”
He nodded. “Good.”
It wasn’t his business anyway. They’d only told him about it because there’d been the possibility of the whole raid being cancelled. Hawkins sat down at right-angles to his desk, pushed his damaged leg straight out in front of him and began to massage it with both hands. He explained,”Aches, sometimes. Bloody thing … Well, listen. Item two is somewhat alarming. Particularly from your end of the business. Or at least, it may be … Here, take a look.” There was a large print of an aerial photograph lying on the desk: he pushed it across.”Taken yesterday afternoon. Notice anything new?”
If it concerned the NTU’s part in the action, it was likely to be something in the St Nazaire Basin. It took him a few seconds to spot it, because in all the previous reconnaissance pictures there’d been a few small ships, harbour patrol boats or minesweepers, lying alongside the quays. But these were something different …
He pointed. “Destroyers?”
Five of them, on the southeastern quayside. Identical shapes, obviously five ships of the same class, secured in two trots, one of three and one of two ships.
Hawkins nodded. “Small destroyers. Torpedo-boats. Möwe class. Built between the wars. Just under a thousand tons, with 4-inch guns and 21-inch torpedo tubes. Thirty knots or so, when in good nick … Of course, the fact they were berthed in there yesterday afternoon doesn’t mean they have to be there now, let alone at the end of the week. On the other hand it doesn’t guarantee they won’t be.”
He was thinking about it, and studying the photograph.
“Berthed just there, they wouldn’t be directly in our light. I mean, in a position to stop us doing our job. I’d be a couple of hundred yards from the nearest of them, and Roy’s troop would be between me and them. They’d blast the hell out of him, though.”
“They may not be there at all, by the time Chariot goes in. They could be a hundred miles away.”
“Or at sea to intercept us before we reach the target area.”
Hawkins agreed. “The possibilities are numerous. And that’s one the force commander will have in mind, obviously. What your thoughts should be directed to, Everard, is the chance of this bunch being there when you reach the quayside, and how you might vary your present intentions— what options you might have. For instance, if you found you had two E-boats to play with, you might use one of ‘em to inconvenience these characters.”
“Not unless I had to, in order to shut them up before I got on to the primary job of attacking the U-boat pens. That’s the number one consideration, isn’t it?”
Hawkins smiled. “Precisely.”
Trying him out?
“If they’re where they are in this picture, their main threat is to Captain Roy’s task, his No. 5 Troop holding the bridgehead here at the inner end of the Old Entrance. So they’re also a threat to everyone else— my lot included—who are supposed to withdraw over that bridge, through Roy’s position.”
He turned to the plan of the harbour layout: it was clearer than the rather murky photograph, some of which was obscured by cloud below the aircraft. And he realized that he’d understated the problem—and Hawkins was probably waiting for him to see it.
He turned back to him.
“If they’re there, the withdrawal as it’s planned would be a nonstarter. Two-thirds of the whole landing force would be cut off on the wrong side of that bridge.”
“If they’re on that bit of quay, you’re right.”
“If they were farther along, it’d be worse. For me, anyway. And for Roy as well, probably. In any case, there’d have to be an alternative plan for the withdrawal. All those commando groups might re-embark from— well, the outer end of the Old Entrance?”
&nb
sp; “I dare say that’s what the top brass will now be chewing over.”
“I suppose one might consider rushing the torpedo-boats, capturing them? If their torpedoes and guns were used against the U-boat pens—”
“Hang on.” Hawkins shook his head. “Complement of a Möwe is 120 men. Multiply that by five. Then even halve the total, to allow for one watch on all-night leave. And you’d be—how many?”
“Say my bunch plus Roy’s—”
“Forget it. You don’t know how many of you will be left on your feet by that time. And Roy’s commando troop has its own job to do. What’s more, if those ships are there, their guns will be manned long before you get to them. The alarm will have gone off loud and clear way before that.” Hawkins put the photograph away. “This is simply a contingency for you to bear in mind—with a view, as you very properly said, to completing your own task even if they are there. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.” He added, “Especially so far as the withdrawal is concerned.”
Jack understood him. He suggested, “Fifty to one against achieving it and withdrawing?”
Hawkins frowned. “Not being a bookmaker, Everard—”
“Right.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll—ponder on it, anyway. And hope to God they won’t be there on the day. It isn’t likely they’d be left there for such a length of time.”
“I agree entirely.”
“You said there were three items, sir?”
A nod …”The third is we’ve had a prognostication about the weather. It’s likely to deteriorate in a few days’ time. So the proposition of starting a day earlier than we’ve been intending is now being considered. A decision will be taken tomorrow, but it’s on the cards you’ll sail on the twenty-sixth instead of the twenty-seventh.”
The twenty-sixth would be Thursday. The day after tomorrow.
Paul hadn’t realized how busy a night it was going to be. The first inkling of it came when Ultra was in the process of securing alongside Lazaretto and Ruck appeared, materializing out of nowhere, to announce that they had to have her ready to sail at sunrise. Before sunrise … Instead of tomorrow night.
Shrimp Simpson hadn’t returned from the dockyard, but his Staff Officer (Operations) had telephoned to the house where Ruck had been a guest. All submarines that were anything like ready for patrol were to be pushed out as quickly as possible. So on top of the jobs already listed and prepared for they were going to have to store ship, finish all the minor tasks and top up the battery with a standing charge—because they’d be starting the patrol with a day’s dived passage instead of with a night on the surface. And storing would have taken place tomorrow evening, alongside, before shoving off.
So there was some quick thinking to be done—most of it by Wykeham, who had to translate requirements into practicalities.
McClure arrived back, with the other half of the ship’s company. Paul happened to meet him on Ultra’s casing: he was hurrying ashore on some errand just as the little Scot came strutting aboard. Paul told him, “Best get cracking, Bob. We’re sailing for patrol at 0500!”
He’d expected to give him a shock: but McClure looked pleased.
“Thank God. Sooner we get out of this bloody hole, the better.”
He was disappearing into the fore hatch. Paul called after him, “Why d’you say that?”
“Because it’s not fuckin’ safe here, that’s why!”
He got a more complete explanation later. The Ghain Tuffheia rest camp had been strafed that afternoon by German fighters. A naval pensioner who’d taken on the job of camp caretaker had made the mistake of hoisting a White Ensign on the flagstaff, and the Messerschmitt pilots had spotted it. Nobody had thought to warn the new caretaker, because nobody had expected him to do anything so daft. There’d been no casualties, because the camp had been almost deserted at that time, but Ghain Tuffheia would not henceforth be either restful or safe.
Still, there were other rest camps.
It was a marathon of a night. On top of everything else there was a recurring need to cast off and then reberth in accordance with their own and other boats’ requirements. Two others sailed for patrol during the night: there were movements to and from the torpedo depot, and a need to be on the outside of the trot for fuelling, for instance, and on the inside—preferably—for storing. It was enough to drive anyone mad. But then Shrimp came back—about midnight—cheerful and indefatigable despite the extraordinary problems of this and every other day, running a flotilla and a complex base under siege conditions: under his benign, no-nonsense influence, frayed tempers mended and morale soared.
As one might have guessed, the convoy from the east was about to sail. The naval supply ship Breconshire and three merchantmen, escorted by the AA cruiser Carlisle and six destroyers, would be overtaken at sea by Admiral Vian with his flag in Cleopatra, her sister cruisers Dido and Euryalus, and four more destroyers. Six Hunt-class destroyers would join the escort off Tobruk as the convoy steamed westward, running the gauntlet of the Cretan airfields before entering the central basin where—according to Intelligence reports, Ruck told them—interference by enemy surface forces was considered likely. The Germans and Italians knew that Malta was down to about its last crust—even if the Maltese did not know it— and they’d be going all-out to stop the convoy getting through.
Ruck had other items of Intelligence to pass on. The enemy were planning to invade Malta in May, by which time they reckoned to have the island on its knees through starvation and lack of ammunition and fuel. A combined sea/air assault had been planned a year ago, but their invasion of Crete had forced them to postpone it. Now, the invasion force was being trained.
Ruck told them this during a short break for coffee in Ultra’s wardroom at about 0300. He’d come on board again when she’d returned from her visit to the torpedo depot: he’d left Wykeham to handle that, while he’d been closeted with Shrimp Simpson. Oil fuel and fresh water were being embarked now, simultaneously; Fry, the stoker petty officer, was “up top doin’ his nut,” according to Able Seaman Shaw.
Wykeham asked Ruck, “Is it true about Unslaked, sir?”
Ruck stared into his coffee. March, Unslaked’s CO, was a close friend of his. He said quietly, “She’s overdue. That’s all anyone knows.”
There was a natural tendency to think, Could be a wireless defect, she might still pipe up … But it would have been silly to have said it out loud, because the same kind of long-shot hope would be in everyone else’s mind anyway. It was as if for the time being Unslaked was in limbo, and in a day or two it would be accepted that she’d gone. Or before that, if the enemy claimed a sinking in her patrol area or on her route back to base.
Wykeham said, “She was going up through the minefield, wasn’t she?”
Ruck nodded. There was a fixed route through that field, one long day’s dived passage from off Cape San Marco to a position off Marettimo Island. It was in frequent use by 10th Flotilla submarines, and nobody thought much about going through there now.
“Are we headed that way?”
“With a convoy coming from the east, why would we expect surface forces to come round from that direction, for Christ’s sake?”
Wykeham shrugged. “I thought we’d still have to cover that Cape Bon supply route.” Blinking at Ruck … “So we’ll be off Taranto, will we, sir?”
Ruck just stared at him. Paul reached for a cigarette: McClure tapped him on the arm and pointed at the “No Smoking” board that was hanging in the gangway. With the charging operation at an advanced stage the battery would be gassing, making it dangerous to strike lights. Wykeham asked Ruck, “Messina, again?”
CHAPTER NINE
“ Up periscope.”
ERA Quinn eased the lever up. A moment later Paul was circling to check sky first, sea second. A lively, tossing sea, white and heaving from the northwest, the direction of the Messina bottleneck, the direction an enemy was likely to appear from: the wind was taking the waves’ crests as they tumbled,
and driving spray at periscope-top level in an intermittent, lashing rain. It would call for sharp eyes to spot a periscope in that sea, even though you had to push it up a foot or so higher to see over the waves’ tops.
He settled on the land, already clear-cut in sharp early morning light, to take bearings of Cape Spartivento and Cape dell’Armi. Furness, messenger of the watch, wrote the bearings down, blinking and breathing hard: then the periscope was slithering back into its hole, Paul moving to the chart table to pencil the fix on, ready for handing over the watch to Wykeham.
It was now 0610, and the bearings put Ultra thirteen miles south of dell’Armi. She’d dived just before 0500, and her course of 350 degrees was aiming her directly into the straits. Ruck had drawn this Messina billet again because Taranto, 150 miles farther north, was being patrolled by boats which had sailed earlier: they’d be in their allotted areas by this time, in the Gulf of Taranto and across the southern exit from the Adriatic.
Wykeham, whom Furness had shaken at five minutes past the hour, shuffled to the chart table and stared gloomily at the new fix and the pencilled track leading into the straits’ funnel-shaped entrance.
“What’s it like up top now?”
“Choppy. Nor’wester, three to four.”
“Well, that’s something … Trim all right?”
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 21