Night Action (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Ostmann nodded, understanding, and strode along the hall past the stairs that led to the upper floors, then turned back to the door set under them. This stood open and the cellar steps ran down from it. Ostmann’s boots clattered on the steps then his voice rumbled below.

  The S.S. troopers in the second car dragged Michel out of it. His legs were cramped from his journey curled up on the floor and they folded under him. A trooper grabbed each arm and they hauled him, stumbling, up the steps and inside. They followed Schleger as he led the way, without speaking, along the hall and down the stone steps to the cellars. The rough masonry of the walls glistened with moisture and the paved floor ran with it. There were strong lights in the ceiling.

  They marched Michel, shambling on drunken legs now, past the open door of a cell and halted him before another that was closed. Schleger said, “The key.”

  One of the troopers released Michel, kicked him and said, “Stand still, you bastard.” He walked back along the passage to a small cupboard set on the wall at the foot of the steps. Another door opened at the end of the passage and two more troopers came out. They had discarded their tunics and their shirts were open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up. They carried a man between them whose legs trailed uselessly and his head lolled. As they passed Michel he saw the man’s face was lumpy and discoloured, bruised and bloody, the eyes puffy and closed. Blood trickled from his gaping mouth. But Michel recognised him, and now knew who had betrayed Suzanne and himself.

  He watched as Paul was thrown through the open door into the cell, then his eyes shifted to Schleger, who was smiling, thumbs hooked in his belt. The trooper unlocked the door and shoved him inside. The door slammed shut behind him and the key turned.

  Michel now knew what to expect.

  Schleger did not speak as Ostmann sauntered along the passage from the room where Paul had been “interrogated”, but he raised his eyebrows in enquiry. His lieutenant shook his head; Paul had told nothing. Ostmann followed his chief up the stairs. But when they were in the hall again Schleger said, “Let him think about it while we eat and then sleep for an hour or two.”

  Ostmann nodded, seeing the wisdom of that: “And we’ll take him in the dead of night. He’ll be ready then.”

  The telephone rang and the corporal on duty in the hall snatched up the instrument from his desk, listened, then handed it to Schleger. That was the first of two calls, the second succeeding the first as soon as the receiver was replaced. When both were done he swore, pushed open the side door and saw Louis waiting.

  Schleger said, “That was the Scharführer commanding the men hunting the girl. He says she was picked up by a British Schnellboot. We’ve lost her.”

  Stupid incompetence, Louis thought, but he said he was sorry.

  “And the old Frenchman,” Schleger went on, “was not at the café. The squad sent to fetch him found it empty. They questioned the people in the houses nearby but none of them had seen him. You’re sure he went back there?”

  Louis frowned, “I put him on the cart.” Christ! He’ll blame me for this!

  “Maybe he got off again.” Then Schleger shrugged, “Anyway, he’s small stuff. All the men are on their way back. We’ll start a search of St. Jean tomorrow.” He was silent a moment, lips a thin line as he thought, then: “I think the boat came for the man we have downstairs. The girl only used it.” He smiled again and Louis felt relief. Schleger said, “We have the main prize.” And he added expansively, “Make yourself comfortable in there.” He jerked his thumb at the corporal. “Ask the UnterScharführer, out here in the hall, if you want anything. We’ll send in some food for you.”

  Louis said, “Thank you, Herr Sturmbannführer. I could use a drink.”

  Louis had already decided how to make himself comfortable. The curtained window of Schleger’s office faced the harbour and a wide desk was set against the opposite wall. The floor was thickly carpeted and two leather armchairs stood before a crackling fire, a coffee table between them. As soon as Schleger and Ostmann had left for their hotel Louis stretched out in an armchair and lit a cigarette. A bottle, a meal, and tomorrow he would be paid and on his way back to Paris. He smiled contentedly.

  *

  Ilse had seen the three shadowy figures get out of the first car and guessed at the identity of two of them, saw that guess confirmed when light from the opened door flooded over the group: Schleger and Ostmann. The third man came as more of a shock. She knew him, the swaggering carriage and turn of the head. She had noticed him about the town on several occasions and caught the look on his face as he watched her. He had frightened her then and now his connection with the S.S. seemed to fall into place. He was turned towards the house now, as if seeking her, and automatically she stepped back a pace from the window, though she knew he could not see her in the night.

  Then the three entered the S.S. headquarters, the door closed and the light was cut off. She relaxed and realised how nervous they had made her. A second car rolled over the bridge and stopped behind the first. Two men climbed out at each side and then dragged out another. There was no light this time when the door opened but she could see that the last man was unable to walk, was pulled up the steps with his legs trailing and so into the house. The door closed again.

  Ilse shuddered, remembering what Rudi Halder had told her about the S.S. and their methods. Her mind shied away from what might now be taking place behind the closed door. She pulled the curtains across to hide it but that was not enough. She left her room and crossed the upper hall to another at the back of the house. She leaned her hands on the window-sill and tried to pierce the darkness clothing the cold sea. Rudi was out there.

  *

  The cluster of lights on the sea steadily widened as Brent approached the fishing fleet. Crozier still kept station to starboard, both boats slipping along quietly at a bare six knots as their auxiliary motors eased them forward, the main engines shut down and silent. Brent lounged comfortably in the starboard corner of the bridge while Suzanne and Tallon stood unspeaking at the back. All of them watched the lights creeping nearer, and waited — until Chris Tallon said sharply, “Some of those lights have gone out.”

  David Brent answered quietly, “And then they come on again. It’s mist, drifting in patches, that comes between us and a light, then moves on.”

  Jimmy Nash climbed up from the wheel-house, a rolled chart under his arm, and stood at Brent’s shoulder. He asked, “Any sign of them yet?” Brent had sent Dent and Tommy Vance circling around the drifters to create a diversion on the other side.

  Brent shook his head, “Give them time. We’ll know when they go into their act.”

  “Suppose the patrol-boat is one of those —” Jimmy nodded at the lights, “— right ahead of us? At six or seven knots it’ll take her ten minutes to waddle around to the other side of the fleet.”

  “She can take a week so long as she’s out of our way. But I think she’s cruising, or lying, to seaward. That way she’s stopping any of them trying to slip away. She isn’t carrying a light, remember, and they won’t see her, just know she’s out there somewhere. And her skipper will be nicely placed to run down either side of the fleet if need be, or to herd them all back to port come the morning.”

  Jimmy nodded agreement and stared out to sea. He jerked, startled, as the machine-guns opened fire two miles away on the other side of the spread lights. The tracers arched like tiny red shooting stars and Jimmy said, “Well, you did tell them to aim high.”

  “We don’t want to kill any fishermen by accident,” David Brent commented. But he was not watching the tracer; his eyes were searching ahead of his boat, seeing the drifter taking shape slowly beneath her masthead lamp as the gap of glinting black water between the two craft narrowed. This drifter was out on her own, no other within a quarter-mile and those others were on the far side of her. Brent’s boat would be hidden from their sight by the drifter. Crozier had stopped, to wait in the outer darkness.

  The drifter was close and
on the port bow; Brent could see a man on her deck now, but his back was turned to the M.T.B. as he peered at the distant, winking tracer. Brent told Grundy shortly, “Alongside.”

  “Alongside, sir.” The cox’n spun the spokes of the “coffee-grinder” and the bow swung. The boat curved into the pool of yellow light cast by the drifter’s masthead lamp. Brent worked the telegraph and the engineer below obeyed its order and threw out the clutch. The M.T.B. slid gently to rest and lay beside the fisherman, rubbing against the rope fenders hung along the drifter’s side.

  The man on the deck under the light gaped across at the boat and David Brent ordered, “Hail him, please!”

  Suzanne called, in clear, ringing French, “This is a British ship. Her captain wishes to speak to yours.”

  The man on the drifter’s deck looked to be young, though he had a blue stubble of beard. He glanced towards the wheel-house set aft and another man shoved out of its door and dropped down the short wooden ladder to the deck. This one was in his fifties, short and thick-set, heavily moustached and with an old beret snug on his head. He glowered across at Suzanne and charged her, “You’re French.”

  Suzanne was not, but she was supposed to be so she agreed, “Yes. You are the captain?”

  “What are you doing aboard an English boat?”

  “Fighting Germans.” That short answer silenced him for a moment and Suzanne pressed, “You are the captain?”

  He nodded, then gestured at the young man. “This is my son. My cousin is the engineer. He is below.”

  Suzanne took a breath and told him, “We want to take your boat and use her against the Germans.”

  She waited for this to sink in. The machine-guns still clattered in short intermittent bursts, the tracer looping. The young man looked at his father, who asked, “Will we get her back?”

  Suzanne translated quickly for David Brent and he answered, face expressionless, “That’s unlikely. I will try to see they are compensated but I can promise nothing. This is wartime.”

  The captain, nodding slowly as he listened to Suzanne’s reply, seemed to have expected nothing better. His son asked, “Will you take us to England?”

  Suzanne gave David’s reply: “If I can. Or I can put you ashore. If you stay on the ship it will be dangerous. I’ve told you I want to use her against the Germans.”

  Now there was a third man on the drifter’s deck, of the captain’s age but smaller and thinner. He wore a boilersuit and wiped his hands on a lump of oily waste. He listened as the young man rapidly explained. Meanwhile the captain said, with a jerk of the head towards his son, “That one wants to join de Gaulle and the Free French.” Then he was silent, looking up at David Brent on the bridge and rubbing at his stubbled jaw as he thought. Finally, he said, “Life is not too bad under the Boche. They let us live, so long as it suits them. In the town today we saw some of their S.S. catch a man they wanted. They kicked and handled him worse than any animal.”

  Tallon grumbled savagely, softly, “We haven’t got all bloody night!”

  David Brent murmured, “Shut up!” He listened to Suzanne’s translation as the captain went on, “That could happen to any one of us, in our own town, our own country.” He glanced at his son and his cousin. “We are all men without close family, now. My wife, the boy’s mother, is dead. My cousin never married. So you can take the ship and we will stay aboard and crew her.”

  Brent drew a breath of relief. He had been prepared to take the drifter by force if need be, but this was better. “Give him my thanks. Tell him he must act as this officer orders.” He slapped Nash’s shoulder: “Over you go, Jimmy. Good luck.”

  The spare skipper dropped down from the bridge and climbed over the drifter’s bulwark, held out a hand to be gripped by that of the captain.

  Suzanne asked, “Does he speak French? Do you want me to go with him?”

  David shook his head, “Jimmy has a few words and the chart. He’ll manage.”

  Then he straightened as the distant machine-gun bursts were overlaid by the cracking of cannon fire. The looping tracer became not just red but also laced with green. Jimmy Nash spun to stare at it then looked over his shoulder to shout back at Brent, “The patrol-boat has found them!”

  But not just the patrol-boat. Brent could see six or more curving green chains on the other side of the fishing fleet. He swore savagely under his breath then answered Jimmy, “That looks like those E-boats as well. Get under way and we’ll see you later.” His hands worked the telegraph and the main engines roared into life; the boat surged ahead as he shoved the throttle levers forward. He caught a glimpse of Jimmy Nash waving a hand then, unrolling his chart, spreading it out for the French captain to see. Then Brent’s boat was swinging around the bow of the drifter, turning towards the distant firing. Little Dent and Tommy Vance were outnumbered. They needed him.

  Crozier swung around the drifter’s stern and tucked himself neatly into place off Brent’s starboard quarter. David took the short route, the two boats jinking and swerving through the scatter of drifters of the fleet. Soon they were running at forty knots with bows riding high out of the sea to show a third of their hulls above the water. They all felt the exhilaration of tearing into action as if riding a runaway train.

  Then they encountered mist again, a bank of fog rolling ahead, and they ran into it as if into a tunnel. It wrapped around them and made the engines bellow in their ears. They ripped out of it and a lamp loomed, the drifter beneath it leaping at them. David yelled, “Port!” The helm went over and they skidded past the drifter’s bow, a man gaping at them from her deck only yards away. Then she was left astern, rocking wildly in their wake.

  David squinted his eyes against the flying spray. For a moment saw only yellow lights ahead, swinging suspended against the sky, then he ordered, “Starboard! Steady!... Port! Hard over! Midships!”

  On the bridge they clung to any handhold as the boat tilted madly one way, swung back the other. They flashed past the last of the yellow globes marking drifters and before them was darkness laced with the streaks of tracer. David could not make out any of the boats in the night and had to work by deduction and guess-work. He thought the patrol-boat was ahead and to starboard, Dent and Tommy Vance ahead and to port and the E-boats beyond them. “Starboard! Steady!” Watching the flickering tracer. Was the nearer green lacing coming from the patrol-boat...?

  She lifted out of the darkness close on the starboard bow and they were up with her, passing her within a hundred yards or less while the gunner in the turret aft sprayed her deck with one long burst. Then they were past her. David cast one quick glance astern, saw her fading black shadow and more red tracer streaming into it at short range. That would be from Crozier, forced to swing around the other side of her but so able to engage her with that cross-fire. The shadow merged into the night astern and David faced forward again.

  He stared into blackness through a silver mist of spray, seeing the curving, shifting necklaces of red and green off the port bow and closing rapidly. He thought, but could not be sure, that he saw the boats of Vance and little Dent to port showing as twin grey Vs of up-thrown spray as he raced across their bows, a quarter-mile ahead of them. Then he saw the E-boats.

  They were three or four hundred yards beyond the two M.T.B.s, their black shapes running flatter in the sea, bows not lifted so high out of it. There were three of them in a narrow echelon that was almost straight ahead and they were engaging the two M.T.B.s with cannon-fire. He would pass across the leader’s bow at less than a couple of hundred yards’ range. He just had time to draw breath then the twin Vickers in the turret aft of the bridge opened fire. A second later Crozier’s guns joined in and both streams of tracer converged on the leading E-boat.

  It held on its course for a bare second then twisted away from that fire, turning to port. David ordered, “Port ten!” and he copied its turn. The other two E-boats followed their leader, as Crozier trailed Brent, so for seconds the two opposing forces ran parallel and less
than two hundred yards apart, exchanging fire in a spider’s web of threads of tracer. Brent’s boat was being hit; he could feel the tremor of those shells striking near the bridge and knew there must be others. Crozier would be suffering too. Vance and Dent had been left somewhere astern.

  The leading E-boat turned away again and Brent’s mouth opened to give the order to follow, then closed. For a moment, in the heat and terror of battle, he had forgotten his orders, but now he remembered: “Bring that man back!” He said instead, “Starboard ten!”

  The boat’s bow slid around as Grundy turned the wheel. She heeled under the helm then ran level as David ordered, “Midships... steady.” The E-boats were already vague silhouettes mounted on white wakes, rapidly receding... gone. He shouted, “Look out for the other two!” Then glanced astern and saw Crozier was still off the starboard quarter. He saw that, but little else, his night vision destroyed by the recent action. Beyond the loom of Crozier’s boat was only darkness and the lights of the fishing fleet. His eyes changed focus, registered the girl in the corner of the bridge but only feet away so he could see the pale blur of her face turned to him.

  He swung away to search the sea around him with his eyes. There was the fishing fleet — on this course he would pass the drifters well to seaward of them, and of the patrol-boat if she kept on station, as she should. His own, or borrowed, drifter, would be miles away on the far side of the fleet now and heading steadily northward, following the line of the coast. His hands closed on the throttle levers, bringing down the speed of the boat but still running at better than thirty knots. If Vance and little Dent obeyed their orders, if they could obey them, they should —

  He saw them as the hail came up from the deck below him: “Boats... Port!” They came surging up on the port quarter, still charging along at a full forty knots, then fractionally slowed and fell into station in the arrowhead again. Brent drew a sighing breath of relief. They might have been disabled, sunk. But they were here and keeping up, though they must have been hurt.