Last Lift from Crete: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 2

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Three hundred revolutions. Steer five degrees to starboard.”

  Blackfoot’s shaded lamp was passing a message to Afghan and Masai: you saw only a faint blue leak of its radiance, from this angle. Telling them to rejoin, re-form, probably. One transport was still burning, so far inshore that it might be on the beach, he thought; the absence of other fires suggested that all the other targets had been sunk. It felt good, made a welcome change, to have dished out some punishment, after weeks of being on the receiving end, giving the Stukas and Ju88s target practice … Sheer exhaustion was a major problem for both men and ships: they’d spent March putting the army into Greece, and now April taking it out again: and at the same time there’d been this immensely long desert coast to look after, and Malta to be fed and the Italian fleet to be contained—plus a few lesser tasks.

  “Sub—tell the first lieutenant I’d like a word.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Ashcourt could pass the message aft over his torpedocontrol telephone. Tony Dalgleish, Tuareg’s second-in-command, had a roving commission at action stations but his base was the after-control position on the searchlight platform. In less than a minute he’d arrived in the bridge.

  “Nice party that, sir.”

  “Nothing came near us, did it?”

  “One scratch on the foc’sl where a dud bounced off. Nothing else. It’s put new heart into the lads, sir. Could you hear them cheering?”

  With extra sweaters under his duffel-coat as well as the regulation Mae West, Dalgleish looked about twice his normal size. He was a lieutenantcommander, young-seeming for the rank: dry-mannered, self-contained. Nick said, “We seem to be re-forming. I don’t know if we’ll be looking for survivors or not, but you’d better be ready for it anyway. Motorboat, scrambling nets, lines, and warn Gallwey. I shan’t use the boat unless we have to.”

  It might be necessary. Wounded men couldn’t be expected to climb nets or ladders.

  “Doc’s all set up for it, sir.” Surgeon-Lieutenant Gallwey, RNVR was the doctor. Dalgleish asked, “Will we be going back to Suda, d’you expect?”

  Nick called down, “One-eight-oh revolutions. Follow Blackfoot now, Cox’n.” Tuareg was sliding up into station on the flotilla leader. Straightening from the pipe, he said, “We might be sent to Alex. After all, tonight’s the last of the pick-ups, or supposed to be.” The last troop-lifts off Greek beaches, he meant: according to the signals, and reading between the lines of some of them, you could guess that any soldiers they didn’t get out tonight wouldn’t get out at all.

  Pratt called from the front of the bridge, “Masai and Afghan red one-oh, sir, rejoining.” And Blackfoot had begun to flash again, in this direction.

  Dalgleish muttered, “I’ll go down and—”

  “Wait. See what this is about.”

  If he was in Reggie Marsh’s shoes, Nick thought, he wouldn’t hang around looking for survivors. Not only because of the lack of boats—which really wasn’t much of an excuse—but more because they were on an enemy-held coast with enemy-occupied airfields, and the priority must be to get as far offshore as possible before daylight brought the bombers over. Not to mention the even closer danger of E-boats, which by now the enemy might have brought up to Benghazi.

  “From Captain (D): Nine blue, sir.”

  “Nine blue” meant “alter course in succession ninety degrees to port.” In other words Blackfoot would shortly turn left and wanted Tuareg to follow in her wake. The other two would then be roughly on the starboard beam and they’d steer across to tag on in line astern.

  “Executive signal, sir!”

  “Very good.” And he could see the leader turning: the sudden heel of that slim, black shape, the sharp elbow in the white wake. He bent to the pipe: “Steady as you go.”

  Cancelling his last order, which had been for the coxswain to follow the ship ahead … The new course would be 040. It could be either for a straight dash across the Mediterranean to the Antikithera Channel and into the Aegean, or a course to round the bulge of Cyrenaica and then head east for Alexandria. He heard a telephone buzz in the front of the bridge: Rocky Pratt began to back out of the chart alcove but PO Whiffen was there ahead of him, snatching the phone off its hook.

  “Repeat that last bit?”

  Whiffen had edged into his own hooded table’s light, with the phone at his ear, reaching inside the canvas flap to scribble on a signal pad.

  Nick, watching Blackfoot’s wake, called down, “Port fifteen.”

  “Port fifteen, sir!”

  Whiffen called, “Signal from D.37 to C-in-C, sir, reporting convoy and escorts destroyed, flotilla withdrawing north-eastward. Then reply, C-in-C to D.37: Well done. Proceed to rendezvous with First Battle Squadron noon May 1 in position 180 Cape Littino 25. Time of Origin—”

  “All right, Yeoman.”

  Cape Littino was on the south coast of Crete, about halfway along.

  “Fifteen of port wheel on, sir!”

  Watching the turn, Nick thought about that signal—which would have been received in cipher and translated into plain language in the plot, one level below this bridge and adjoining the signals office, by young Chalk, the RNVR sub-lieutenant … “Midships.” He straightened again: “How is a course of oh-four-oh for that rendezvous position, Pilot?” Ducking back to the pipe: “Meet her!”

  “Meet her, sir!”

  “Follow Blackfoot.”

  Pratt answered that last question: “Need to come round to about ohsix-four when we’re round the bulge, sir.”

  “Distance?”

  “Two-eighty miles, sir.”

  With about ten hours in hand, it would mean making a good 28 knots all the way. Hard on fuel consumption; but they’d be able to replenish from the big ships when they reached them—or from the oiler in Suda Bay, if it had got there, replacing the one that had been sunk a few days ago … First Battle Squadron consisted of the battleships Barham and Valiant with the aircraft carrier Formidable and a bunch of escorting destroyers, all under Rear-Admiral Rawlings. They were up there first to provide cover for a big convoy that was being run from Suda Bay to Alexandria, and then to support, in case of interference by Italian surface ships, the last three lifts of troops from Greece.

  “From Captain (D), sir: Speed three zero, executive.”

  He called down, “Three-one-zero revolutions.” Then he asked Pratt, “Remind me, Pilot, would you—there’s the Suda convoy going to Alex, but what are the three Greek pick-ups?”

  “Well, Hotspur and Havock are collecting a load from Milos, sir, and Hero with Isis and Kimberley are fetching some from Kalamata. The other’s—well, you know, Carnarvon and—”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He certainly did know about Carnarvon’s trip. She was a light AA cruiser and a new arrival on this station, up through Suez from the Red Sea, and his own young half-brother, Jack Everard, was serving in her. Being fresh, in good order compared to most of the Mediterranean ships, she and the destroyers Highflier and Halberdier had been given the trickiest of the final troop-lifting jobs to do: right up at Nauplia, where the last lift was supposed to have been the one two nights ago, to bring out a rearguard battalion of New Zealanders.

  Dalgleish murmured, “We aren’t looking for swimmers, I don’t think.”

  “No. Sorry, Number One.” He’d forgotten he’d told him to wait. And leaving men in the water wasn’t a happy necessity: it just did happen to be a necessity sometimes. At least one didn’t turn machine-guns on them, as the Luftwaffe did. He told his first lieutenant, “Soon as we’re off the coast a bit, one watch can get their heads down. Say in half an hour.” They’d sleep at their action stations, while the other half of the ship’s company stayed awake.

  Dalgleish said, “I’ll have the galley organize some hot soup meanwhile.”

  “Splendid. And don’t forget the bridge.”

  Dalgleish cleared his throat. “What they all need really, sir, is a night or two in harbour.”

  That throat-clearance was a ha
bit of his first lieutenant’s, Nick had noticed, before advancing an opinion. But what he’d said then was more a statement of fact than an opinion: in the last seven weeks they’d had—what, three nights in harbour? It wasn’t anything that anyone could help: the fleet had been at full stretch even before the Greek adventure started … He breathed cold air, taking deep breaths of it to freshen mind as well as body. The wind was almost on the beam, not enough of it to make the sea more than choppy, but at 30 knots it was bringing bursts of spray that swept across the foc’sl, slashed and drummed against the for’ard gunshields and the forefront of the bridge. Blackfoot was still easy enough to see, with the mound of wake bright under her counter, but the moon had hidden itself behind thickening cloud. A bit of cloud-cover for tomorrow, for those last trips out of the Aegean, might be worth praying for.

  He didn’t want to keep thinking about Carnarvon—or rather, about Jack. For a mixture of reasons, some of them old, private history, and some he couldn’t easily have explained even to himself, he’d have preferred to have had the boy anywhere but on this station.

  Jack Everard—lieutenant, Royal Navy—had just checked his anchorbearings on Carnarvon’s softly-lit gyro repeater. The cruiser’s captain, Howard Napier, lowered the binoculars through which he’d been staring at the Dutch ship, the Gelderland. Napier was a tall man, about Jack’s own height, and slim, wide-shouldered: normally rather quiet-spoken, easy-mannered, he was fidgety now with impatience.

  “Might send someone over there, sir?” Bell-Reid, Napier’s secondin-command, suggested it. Talking about the Gelderland, the transport, and exasperated at the unexplained, inexcusable delay …

  Napier put his glasses up again: “What the bloody hell’s the matter with him?”

  The Dutch ship hadn’t moved or even begun to prepare to move: one of her lifeboats was still in the water—you could see the falls dangling there, on her quarter—and there’d been no activity at all on her foc’sl, at the anchor gear. Napier had twice signalled to her captain to weigh anchor: the signals had been acknowledged but nothing had happened. Carnarvon’s own boats were hoisted, her messdecks were full of New Zealanders—most of whom had simply collapsed and fallen asleep, still in tin hats and boots and with the packs strapped on their backs—and the three destroyers had already weighed and moved out south-eastward to wait a mile or two down the gulf.

  It was vital to get out of the Stukas’ backyard before daylight, at least to get far enough south to have some hope of air cover from the RAF in Crete. Gelderland’s best speed was 16 knots, 17 if they sat on all the safety-valves and prayed: so there’d be seven hours’ steaming from here to the Kithera Channel. If they started now, this minute, they’d be there at about 1030. With Morning Civil Twilight coming at 0528 you could reckon on broad daylight well before 6:00, so even now it would be a miracle if they didn’t get some attention from the Luftwaffe.

  Jack Everard told himself, We might not. They might not find us … He checked the time: 3:25. At the same moment Napier swung round, lowering his binoculars.

  “Very well. Everard—go over to the Dutchman and give him my direct order to pull his anchor up and sail immediately.” He looked at the commander: “Which boat, John?”

  “Motorboat’s still turned out port side, sir.” Bell-Reid raised his voice: “Bosun’s Mate, call away the second motorboat!”

  “Take whatever action’s necessary, Everard. Just get him moving.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” He was already on his way, rattling down the steel ladder. Two more ladders after that one: skimming down them at a speed that came with long practice, hearing the shrill pipe and the wailing cry, “Aw-a-ay second motorboat’s crew! Aw-a-ay second motorboat’s crew!” It was abreast the foremost funnel, just abaft the bridge superstructure, and as he burst out of the screen door Jack saw the boat’s coxswain and three crewmen there ahead of him, already climbing up into the boat where it hung in its out-turned davits.

  Tom Overton, the cruiser’s first lieutenant, arrived at the same moment from the foc’sl where he’d have been standing by with his cable party, ready to weigh anchor; he was mustering the lowerers, one leading hand and two seamen to each fall. Climbing up into the boat, Jack heard Overton’s order, “Turns for lowering!” Bell-Reid was bawling down at him from the after end of the signal bridge, telling him to get a move on; Overton called back patiently, “Aye aye, sir!” and added in a quieter tone, “Start the falls.” In the boat’s stern-sheets Jack felt the jerky start, the boat dropping a few inches; then the next order, “Lower away,” sent them down fast towards the sea. The motorboat’s coxswain, a leading seaman, asked him where they were going; Jack told him, “To the Dutchman. Find out why he hasn’t pulled his hook up.”

  Then they were in the water and the engine puttered into life, with Overton’s shout of “Light-to!” up above their heads and down here the bowman and stern-sheetman hauling at the falls to get some slack so they could unhook the boat. He told the coxswain, “Near side of her, long as there’s a ladder. Fast as you like.”

  Several hours of Stukas, he thought. It would be his baptism of divebombing. Even to himself he was unwilling to admit that the prospect did, truly, chill him.

  There was a first time for everyone, of course, and it was the time you dreaded most. Brother Nick had told him, Not so bad once it starts … Well, he’d heard the same line from other people too: but Brother Nick acting big-brotherly, acting kind, for God’s sake!

  “There’s plenty of ladders there, sir. ‘Alf a dozen of ‘em!”

  Ladders the Dutch had put over for embarking New Zealanders, who’d been brought off from the open beach in lifeboats and naval whalers in tow of motorboats: the harbour was blocked by the wreck of the assault ship Ulster Prince, who’d grounded during a previous night’s lift and then, at daylight, become a sitting target for the Stukas. How would Nick handle this job? Jack wondered. He’d be sure of himself, he’d know instinctively how to take command …Jack told the coxswain, pointing, “That one.” It dangled below the Gelderland’s bridge, a long chain-sides ladder with flat wooden rungs, reaching to the water. He heard a voice raised, on deck above him somewhere, then a flicker of torchlight grew into a beam directed vertically down the ladder as the boat slid up to it.

  “Wait alongside, Cox’n.” The ladder was an awkward thing to climb. But it would have been worse for the soldiers, weighed down with packs and weapons and just about dropping from exhaustion. The Germans were only a few miles behind them, they’d said.

  “Is your captain on the bridge?”

  An elderly seaman in a blue jersey, the man with the torch, had tried to help him over the rail. As if he thought a twenty-two-year-old RN lieutenant might be some kind of cripple. He’d got into the habit, perhaps, dragging pongoes aboard earlier on.

  “Kapitein?”

  “Yes. On bridge?”

  The man didn’t look too bright. Jack went inside the superstructure, pushing through a double flap of blackout canvas: the sailor gabbled something, following him in, and one word stood out.

  “In his cabin?”

  “Ja. I show.” In his quarters, when his ship was supposed to be getting under way? The sailor had passed him and he was banging on a polished hardwood door: he’d opened it, and stepped aside.

  Now, Jack thought. Act like Nick might … “Captain?”

  A squat, pale-skinned man with a close-shorn grey head: Gelderland’s captain wore white flannels and a food-stained reefer jacket. Jack had a fleeting memory of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, the daily working rig: except that if a cadet had appeared in flannels even half that dirty he’d have been flogged.

  “I am Kapitein. Anton Beukenkamp. What you want?”

  “You’re to weigh anchor and sail, Captain. Now. We’ve signalled you twice. What’s—”

  “I wait.” Beukenkamp had tobacco-juice stains running from the corners of his mouth, a left eye that wandered, and he was so short and broad he made Jack feel like a flagpole
. “Little while, must wait. Peoples coming—from shore, peoples …”

  “My captain”—Jack pointed in the direction of Carnarvon’s berth—“the force commander, Captain Napier, orders you to weigh immediately. Otherwise—”

  “No, mister, please!”

  A woman in a red dress: long, greasy black hair and swarthy skin: she’d emerged from what must have been the sleeping-cabin. Beukenkamp muttered defensively, “This lady—her peoples—her brother and uncle and also—”

  “You’ve been waiting for—for this lady’s family?”

  “I have boat inshore, you see.” Incredibly, the man was trying to smile about it. “Coming very soon now, I think.”

  It was unbelievable. Thousands of lives, several ships, the whole operation … The gypsy woman was jabbering in what sounded like Greek. Jack cut across the babble to tell the captain, “Sail now, this minute. Otherwise we put the lady ashore, put you under arrest, and take over your ship. D’you want to be shot, Captain? Because if you don’t move now—”

  “My boat …”

  “You’ll have to leave it.”

  “But—I ask you …”

  “Give the order, Captain!”

  He made sure it was actually happening: that Beukenkamp was on his bridge, main engines rung-on, capstan turning on the foc’sl. Then he went down into the boat and waited, lying-off, until he saw the Dutchman’s anchor break clear of the surface streaming mud, and then a swirl of movement at the stern as his screws began to turn.

  “Back to the ship, Cox’n.”

  In Carnarvon’s bridge, he told his CO what had been going on. Napier said, “When we get back to Alex, I’ll see if I can’t have him shot.”

  “I did mention it as a possibility, sir.” He thought, If we get back to Alex … You could hear the cruiser’s cable clanking up, and smell the stench of the mud that it was shedding as it rose.