Night Action (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  He thought that they had been ambushed by the E-boats — for the second time. He was certain the same three E-boats had carried out both attacks because it was highly unlikely that two such flotillas would be operating in the same waters. When Suzanne had told him of the defences of St. Jean she had said that three boats operated out of the old port. It fitted.

  For the second time that night he wondered uneasily: Where are they now?

  *

  Rudi lowered his binoculars and looked round as Bruno climbed up to stand beside him on the bridge. Rudi asked, “Damage?”

  “We’ve got some holes, but they’re small ones and nothing’s broken that matters. We got the jump on them again.”

  Rudi nodded and glanced out to starboard where the other two boats ran in echelon, apparently none the worse for the fighting. He recalled how he had seen the firing near the fishing fleet, closed it and found the two Tommi boats running down the side of the fleet and on a landward course. They had turned to head out to sea, going back on their tracks, when he charged out of the night with his flotilla and hit them.

  They had fought back but he had them — or would have, but for the other two boats that came out of nowhere to cross his bow and pour in a terrible fire. Neither he nor the signalman on the bridge were hit, but that was a miracle because the bridge conning was chewed to splinters. He’d swerved away, fought on but then turned away again when he could not see the first two M.T.B.s and thought they might come in on his port side and take him in a cross-fire.

  Bruno said happily, “We ripped them up. Those first two, I mean. One or both of them could be stopped now, maybe sinking.”

  Rudi Halder agreed cautiously, “Maybe. We’ll see.” The signalman handed Rudi a flimsy passed up from the wireless office below. He read: “Report of enemy agent embarked enemy S-boat…” That was short for Schnellboot — fast boat. The time and position given accorded with the distant firing that Rudi had seen first that night. So the Tommis had been there to pick up an agent — and would be taking him home. But why had they attacked the fishing fleet? Maybe a jittery lookout aboard an M.T.B. had sighted one of the drifters and thought it was the escort boat? Or the escort had fired on the Tommis?

  The signal also asked for a report of his actions. He passed that on to Jacobi. “Tell them at base what we’ve been doing.”

  Another flimsy was pushed at him. This was from the escort reporting to H.Q. that three enemy S-boats had attacked the fishing fleet but had been driven off. It told him nothing. He decided his original plan was still sound. The Tommis would head for the other side with their agent and Rudi, with luck and foresight, would be listening and waiting for them.

  He led his flotilla out to sea again. Two actions, two successes. The third to finish the job.

  *

  Brent looked over his shoulder at the lights of the fishing fleet now far astern and just pin-pricks in the night once more. He was aware again of the girl’s white face, small above the voluminous oilskin. And of Tallon, shifting about the back of the bridge, peering at the luminous face of his watch and impatient or worried — or both? Tallon knew as well as Brent that whatever they attempted this night, the boats had to be on their way home before the morning light came and brought the air strikes down on them.

  The drifter should be close now, only two or three miles ahead and inshore, lying off that prominent feature, of the cape jutting out to sea, that marked the inlet. David Brent intended a landing at the inlet. He thought that his men would know, when they set out on the attempt, that the enemy could be at their backs. That was not a comfortable feeling and kept men looking over their shoulders. He had avoided action, obeying orders, but action had come to him. You could not go on being at the wrong end of the deal, always taking the blows. That was bad for morale —

  Bill Emmett shouted, “Vance is signalling, sir!” And as David’s head snapped around and he saw the tiny, dim blue light flickering its message, Emmett read it: “On fire!”

  They saw the flames then, short streaks of yellow jetting from Tommy Vance’s boat beneath the bridge, the thin tongues lying horizontal as the wind of the boat’s passage laid them on their sides. Fire was the great hazard, the great fear, in a petrol-driven boat and each of these carried more than two thousand gallons of hundred-octane.

  David gripped the throttle levers and hauled them back. The speed of the boat fell away and the bow slumped. As the last of the way came off her and the clutch was thrown out he saw that the other boats had followed suit. All were stopping in a loose group. He made a funnel of his hands to shout over to Vance, “Can you put it out?”

  For a moment the flames had subsided to a glow, but now there came a whump! from inside Tommy’s boat and the yellow tongue climbed higher. He bawled his answer, “Not a chance! We’ve been on fire since that last action and used all our extinguishers. We thought we’d beaten it once but then it flared up again in another place. And that was the forward fuel tank igniting!”

  David saw the engineer and his two stokers climb out of the engine-room hatch aft of Vance’s bridge and scurry forward. He called, “I’ll take you off!”

  He saw that Dent and Crozier had wisely drawn away to a safer distance. If the burning boat exploded then any other near it would go the same way. He worked telegraph and throttles, standing at Grundy’s side, and the young coxswain took the boat in to lie alongside that of Vance, bow to bow. Tommy’s crew were gathered there, waiting, and with them the eight commandos they had carried aboard. The soldiers carried rifles or sub-machine-guns and some had huge rucksacks slung on their shoulders. David called to the two seamen of his own crew who waited in the bow to help in the rescue, “Look out for those soldiers!” If they fell between the boats they would sink like stones.

  But one by one they all came across as the two boats rubbed together, Vance last of all. They brought with them the blanket-wrapped body of Garbutt. David and Grundy eased the boat away from the burning M.T.B. and Tommy Vance came to the bridge. He said, “You’ll sink her, sir?”

  “No.” The three surviving boats were lit targets in this circle of light under the spreading smoke. He did not know where the E-boats were but they knew where he was. “She’ll burn and she’ll sink but we’ve got to get out of here. I’m sorry.”

  Tommy rubbed glumly at his bearded chin and nodded reluctant agreement, knowing the reason for Brent’s decision but not wanting to leave his boat, possibly to be boarded and captured by the enemy.

  David led the other two boats away from the light and into the darkness, heading towards the distant, unseen shore. They turned when they had gone a half-mile and stopped, lay with engines silent and bows pointed out to sea and the distant glare of the fire. David told Vance, with Tallon standing by, “I want your crew and the soldiers you had aboard shared out between these three boats.” There was no sense in having too many eggs in one basket, particularly a small, overcrowded basket like this M.T.B. “And quickly, please.”

  Vance and Tallon climbed down from the bridge and the soldier went to the sergeant and the seven men waiting aft. Tallon sorted through them rapidly: “You... you, and Sergeant McNab — Mr. Dent’s boat…”

  When it was done the group split up but Sergeant McNab lingered. He was tall and heavy-shouldered, hard-faced and cold-eyed, a regular soldier with ten years’ service behind him, some of it as a bandboy in barracks but a large chunk of it spent on the north-west frontier of India. He asked Tallon, “Can you tell us what’s going on, sir? The men are getting curious.”

  Tallon thought: I’ll bet they are, and I don’t blame them. He said, “The beach where we intended to land was occupied by the enemy, but we have an agent aboard who knows a better place. I’ll brief you all as fully as I can, when I can. We may be going ashore soon. Be ready.”

  Up on his bridge, David Brent called over to little Dent, “What damage?”

  “More holes, but nothing serious.” Dent paused, then finished, “But my signalman is wounded, hit in the
leg. Nothing left in there, but it’s a nasty gash and he can’t stand. He’s below.”

  “Take Tommy’s signalman.” David asked Vance on the deck below, “Did you hear that?”

  Vance answered, “I’ll send him over.”

  David turned to Crozier, who reported, “Like Mickey, some new holes, but otherwise all right.”

  The three boats rubbed briefly together, manoeuvred on the auxiliary engines, as the detailed soldiers and members of Vance’s crew were transferred. Then they edged apart, though with still only yards between them, and lay silent once more.

  David Brent ran his fingers through his hair then pulled on his old cap. He stood in the starboard corner of the bridge with his hands dug deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, balancing to the slow roll of the boat as the swell rocked her. Grundy glanced at his captain’s scowling face and, looking away, said to himself: We’re in a right bloody temper.

  Brent was again considering morale and the danger of making a landing in the presence of the enemy, an enemy who knew where Brent and his little force were, or had been until a few minutes ago. The burning boat marked the spot. To attempt a landing when they might come under attack would be taking a huge risk — and he was committed to enough risks already. If he could remove this threat, this risk…

  He waited here for that purpose.

  Grundy’s head cocked on one side and he did not have to speak, the gesture was enough. David said, “Quiet!”

  All movement, and the whispered exchanges, ceased. Suzanne, tucked away at the back of the bridge, heard the slap-slapping of the halyards against the stumpy mast, in time with the beating of her heart. She watched David Brent, tall and strong, as his head turned, trying to penetrate the darkness, and listening. She heard the low rumble of engines.

  Chapter Seven - Ambush

  Tension froze them all on the three boats as they listened to the engine noise approaching. The captains, each on his bridge, stood like statues with their binoculars held to their eyes. The distant rumble steadily grew in volume, until Crozier said in a conversational tone, but with his voice lifted so the words carried clearly above that rumble, “Broad on the starboard bow.”

  Brent answered as evenly, “Seen.” There was the grey “ram’s horn”, like a V with its uprights turned out at the top. That was the phosphorescent bow-wave of a boat, its hull still invisible in the night, its stern cutting through the sea at the point of the V. There was another, and a third. He had last seen them nearly ten miles to the south. They were coming down from the north so must have made a wide circle out to sea.

  He had to fight one decisive action to clear these waters of the enemy before he attempted a landing. Without lowering the glasses from his eyes he ordered, “Get those soldiers and any spare hands below.” There was movement now, and growled commands as the decks were cleared but nobody noticed Suzanne in the dark corner of the bridge. Then the stillness held them again but she could no longer hear the halyards as they tapped against the mast, the sound drowned by the deep note of the diesels that seemed all around them now.

  David Brent lowered the glasses. The E-boats ran into the spread of firelight around Vance’s boat, blazing along its length now, their speed fell away and their bows dropped. They ran level and slowly as they closed on the burning boat, moving in a tight group. Brent thought: To talk to each other. Two of the boats stopped, but with their engines still idling, while the third edged in nearer Vance’s boat. With, possibly, some vague idea of salvage? That hope seemed to be abandoned as the third E-boat also stopped.

  The crews of the E-boats would not hear Brent’s engines above the rumbling of their own. Their eyes would be fixed on the burning boat or blinded by its glare. Now was the time.

  He worked the handle of the engine-room telegraph and the three big main engines crashed into life. As the boat moved ahead he shoved the throttle levers wide open and ordered, “Port!” Grundy turned the wheel, the bow swung and then Brent checked it with a shout to the coxswain: “Steady... steer that!” His boat was on a course to run to the left of Vance’s and the group of E-boats. He glanced to starboard and saw Crozier there, and that Dent had moved over to run to starboard and astern of Crozier, the three craft in echelon. Their bows were lifted, already they were planing, had shot from rest to nearly a full forty knots in little over ten seconds. The big plumes of spray curved up on either side of each bridge.

  Brent faced forward into the salt water that drove inboard, narrowed his eyes against it and blinked it away. He watched the E-boats rush towards him, their hulls standing in black outline against the orange and yellow blaze under its umbrella of dirty smoke. His own flotilla had now burst out of the darkness and was running in that shifting light. It was bright enough for him to see the droplets of spray running down Grundy’s face.

  The range was down below four hundred yards and now the twin Vickers machine-guns in the turret aft of the bridge opened fire. A second later Brent saw the red lines of tracer also sliding out from the other two boats — and all were hitting. The gap of black water between the two flotillas, one tearing in at forty knots and the other still at rest, narrowed swiftly. In seconds Brent was racing past the bow of the nearest E-boat and clearing it by less than fifty yards. In the wavering yellow light he saw men moving jerkily about the bridge, then the sea was churned into white foam at her stern. She was getting under way — but the men had disappeared from her bridge and it stood empty.

  “Hard apart!” He bellowed the command at Grundy and the wheel went over, the bow swung. The machine-guns in their turret were briefly silent as the gunner lost his target, then he worked the control column inside the power-operated turret, it spun around and he opened fire again.

  Brent glanced astern and saw Dent and Crozier follow him into the turn and the E-boats beginning to move, white water at their bows. He clung to the bridge coaming as he held the tight, skidding turn, then shouted, “Midships!” Grundy put the wheel over again, reversing the helm, met her, straightened her as Brent ordered, “Steady!”

  The flotilla tore down on the E-boats again, steering to cross their bows once more, guns hammering in short bursts. One of the E-boats was out of control, her coxswain or captain, or both, dead or blinded by the glare. Brent sucked in his breath as he saw her ram into one of her consorts forward of her bridge then swing away. Both boats swerved erratically before steadying on a consistent course with the third once more. Brent swept past them as close or closer than before, saw no man on either bridge and knew they were being conned from the armoured wheel-houses below. The red tracer sprayed along them but this time there were answering muzzle-flashes aboard the E-boats.

  The rounds were from 20mm. cannon. He felt the shuddering punch of them through the wooden fabric of the hull for perhaps three or four seconds then that stopped. And so did his engines. The ear-blasting roar was cut off as if a switch had been thrown. The bow sank into the sea again and the boat wallowed on the swell thrown up by the high-speed manoeuvring. Dent and Crozier charged past and the boat lay over on her side as their wakes slammed into her.

  Brent called into the voice-pipe, “Engine-room!”

  But then the engineer said from behind him, “I’m up here, sir.” And as Brent turned to question him, he added, shouting between the bursts of the machine-guns, voice shaky after his experience, “No good down there, sir. I think there were half-a-dozen rounds came in. Some of them banged about inside and made a right mess of the motors. Some went out the other side and we’ve got leaks all along below the waterline. She’s filling up fast.”

  Brent stared past him at the E-boats. All three were on the move now, but he thought they were only making ten or fifteen knots. Their after-cannons winked red and the boat shivered under him again. Something punched a hole in the bridge coaming between him and Grundy, splinters howled and clattered. Then Dent and Crozier powered past, still at full speed with bows high and spray like a diaphanous curtain hung about each bridge. They were between him
and the E-boats now and he was no longer under fire. He saw them engaging again, the red lines of tracer pointing the way to the E-boats that had run out of the circle of light and were now in the darkness.

  That circle was shrinking as the flames died on Vance’s boat. The sea was extinguishing them as she slowly sank. Vance himself showed now on the bridge behind the engineer and reported, “She’s like a colander, above and below water. You can see it reaching up inside her.”

  Brent nodded. He had lost another boat. There was no point in trying to save her because she would only be a burden in her crippled state. He had enough problems already. “All right. Abandon ship.”

  Tommy Vance said, low-voiced, “And Bill Emmett; he was just aft of the bridge. He’s dead. Cannon shell.”

  That shocked Brent. He heard himself say, “I’m sorry. Will you see to him, Tommy, please? And the charts and books.”

  The commandos and the wireless operator came up from below, then the two stokers climbed out of the engine-room hatch, wet to the knees and swearing as only stokers can. Tommy Vance brought up the charts and confidential books. The men gathered on the deck in the waning light cast by Vance’s boat.

  The firing had ceased out in the darkness and they heard the growl rise into a roar as the other two boats returned. They ran into the light with bows high out of the water; then the roar was cut back to a rumble, the bows sank and they ran in slowly to stop alongside. The two bridges flanked Brent, Dent to port, Crozier to starboard.

  He called across to them, “I’m abandoning ship; she’s sinking fast.”

  Dent, diminutive beside his coxswain, answered, “They looked to be in a bad way, sir. They were still firing but not making any better than ten or twelve knots, I think; crawling along. We overtook them as if they were standing still, shot them up as we passed then turned in a big circle to come back here.”