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

by Alexander Fullerton

  It wouldn’t do.

  “Yeoman.” Whiffen appeared quickly out of the darkness behind him. Nick told him, “Take this down.” Whiffen was moving to his hooded signal table on the starboard side. “To Afghan and Highflier: Join me now. Enter at slow speed with caution for tide-rip off Stavros point and stop near me one cable south of landing beach. Commence landing troops immediately on arrival. Got that?” Whiffen, scribbling rapidly, said he had. Nick added, “Blue shaded lamp. You’ll raise them somewhere astern.”

  It was going to crowd the place, but it would save an hour. He called down, “Stop both engines.”

  “Stop both, sir!”

  “How much water, Sub?”

  “Six fathoms, sir.”

  “Good.” At the voicepipe again: “Slow astern together.” Just to get the way off her. He told Chalk, “White houses off to starboard—see them?” Chalk said yes, he did. “That’s a village, marked on the chart as Plakias. Use that and the edges of the headlands for shore bearings.” Into the pipe: “Stop both engines.” He added to Chalk, “When we drift I want to know which way and how fast.”

  Engine and ventilator noise died away. From the back of the bridge he could hear the rapid clack-clacking of the shaded Aldis lamp, and from down near the boats orders, voices shouting to each other. It was 0246 now: it would be at least an hour before he could hope to be getting under way again.

  “We’re drifting astern, sir. South-east—quite fast, sir.”

  “Slow ahead starboard. Port ten, and steer three-one-five, Cox’n.”

  One engine slow ahead, and her nose straight into it, might hold her. He told Chalk, “Watch the bearings constantly, now.” He could have been anchored, but time and his instincts were against it. He sent the messenger, Crawford, down to Dalgleish to tell him that he was stemming the tide on 315 degrees—for Ashcourt’s information.

  The other two destroyers were in position with their boats in the water by 0301. Tuareg’s own boats had returned by that time, crabbing awkwardly across the current, for their second load. Nick had his glasses on Afghan, and felt considerable relief when he saw her motorboat and two whalers draw away and head for the shore—in a slightly circular route, as they found out about the crosscurrent. From down on the iron deck he heard Dalgleish yell, “Carry on, Sub!” That was the second lot of soldiers going in. Should complete by 0400, with luck: but it was the performance of the slowest ship that would count. Highflier’s motorcutter was away now, thick with men and towing a whaler that looked dangerously low in the water. Now there was nothing to do except hold the ship in her position and wait for the boats to reappear.

  He’d increased the revs slightly on the starboard screw, and he thought he’d got it about right now. The other two ships were to starboard and slightly on his quarter: they were coming back to where they’d started from, having both drifted astern to start with and then woken up to what was happening.

  “Are you watching that bearing, Sub?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re all right, still.”

  Nick put his glasses up, searching for the boats, wanting to see them coming now … But it was deep shadow in there under the loom of the mountains. You could see where the water was broken and where it wasn’t, but that was about all, except for the mountains themselves against the sky and those white cottages.

  Chalk had taken a closer look, thinking better of what he’d said a moment ago … “We’re—about one degree inshore of it, sir!”

  Nick bent to the voicepipe. “Down four revolutions.”

  Boats were approaching … And a second lot to the right: one of the others catching up a bit … The time was 0319. Tuareg was moving quite a lot to the ground-swell but it was also getting noisier and he thought the wind was freshening, humming and whining in the shrouds. He thought he’d probably been lucky to get in here now and not any later, when slightly worsened weather could have changed the situation quite dramatically. So long, he thought, as it doesn’t happen before we finish. When the boats came alongside this time it would be the halfway mark, so far as Tuareg’s soldiers were concerned. And that was at—0323 … About forty minutes since they’d started, so adding the same time-lapse again you could still reckon on completion by 0400. Allow another twenty or thirty minutes for the others, and it would be 0430. Not much better than the original estimate, the one he’d thought to improve on by bringing them all in here at once. One hour of darkness was all they’d get, for putting distance between themselves and the Cretan coast.

  Then, at 0348, four minutes after the boats had left with the fourth and last party of soldiers, Tuareg’s motorboat broke down.

  Going by the timings of the first three runs, the boats should have returned one or two minutes before 4 am. They arrived at fourteen minutes past, in tow of Highflier’s motor-cutter. It had been coming off from shore, seen Tuareg’s contraption being carried away rapidly south-eastward on the current, chased after it and caught it, towed it inshore to off-load, and then brought it back out to the ship. It was now a quarter past four, and Highflier’s cutter still had two more parties of men to land.

  At least an extra half-hour … Nick forced himself to stay calm, control jumping nerves. Afghan’s boats, meanwhile, completed their landings and embarked Highflier’s final load, so that the last two lots of soldiery in fact reached shore practically simultaneously.

  Nick had turned Tuareg around while her boats were being hoisted and secured, and he was in position to lead the others out of the bay.

  “Boats are coming from shore, sir!”

  “How many?”

  “Both lots, sir, I think …”

  His fingers were drumming on the binnacle: he caught them at it and stopped them. It felt as if he had wires inside his brain, all strung tight. Too tight: and it wouldn’t do, a man who was too tense and too tired was a man who made mistakes.

  “Cox’n, is Leading Seaman Duggan there with you?”

  “Aye, sir, he’s here.”

  “Put him on the voicepipe, please … Duggan?”

  “Yessir?”

  “I meant to ask you earlier—who won that darts match?” “We did, sir.”

  “Well done!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Nick straightened, checked the time. Four thirty-one …

  “Three-one-oh revolutions.”

  “Three-one-oh revolutions, sir!”

  That was Leading Seaman Sherratt on the wheel now; one watch had been stood down and CPO Habgood would be getting some welldeserved rest.

  “Three-one-oh revs passed and repeated, sir.”

  Afghan and Highflier were in station astern of Tuareg, on course 143 degrees. Thirty knots, those revs should provide: he’d have liked to have made it 360 and squeezed an extra 2 or 3 knots out of her, but 30 was Highflier’s best speed.

  It was a quarter to five. The two hours inside Plaka Bay had felt like two weeks. Now Plaka was astern, Alexandria three hundred miles ahead. One hour of darkness, therefore, then dawn and a whole day within easy distance of the Scarpanto airfield.

  There was satisfaction in having got the troops ashore, particularly as the wind was rising astern of them now, nearer Force 5 than 4. He’d thought it had been past its peak, but he’d been wrong; and he doubted whether the three destroyers who’d been taking a similar batch of commandos to Selinos Kastelli would have got them in. It was right on the island’s south-west corner, with no kind of shelter at all; the full strength of wind and sea would be sweeping along that curve of coastline.

  The Paximadias were twelve miles ahead. Ten miles beyond them Cape Littino would be abeam, and course would be altered to 130 degrees—adjusted for the one-knot easterly set—the straight heading for Alexandria. There’d be an eight-hour gap, roughly, before he’d catch up with Glenshiel and Huntress: eight hours during which each small force would be on its own. Just about all the losses so far had been from small, detached forces …

  He was tired, suddenly: or suddenly conscious of being tire
d. It came from this temporary relaxation of the tension, probably; for about fifty minutes one could afford to feel tired. Better make the most of fifty minutes, he thought. There was a day of Stukas coming now; then a quick turn-round in Alexandria and another job to be done, troops to be taken in or brought out. Before much longer it would be all one way—out.

  He got into his chair. He’d expected to do no more than doze, but he slept at once, and dreamt. Fiona was there somewhere, and he was reaching to her: touching emptiness: but then it switched, and he was at Mullbergh with a high wind in the trees outside the window where they were dining—Paul and Jack on his left, Sarah stiff and old-maidish on his right, staring disapprovingly at Paul. Jack was talking on and on, sounding pompous and condescending, making sneering remarks about submarines, and Paul was watching him across the table with an air of guarded reserve, silently critical. Nick urged Paul, “He isn’t like this really, you know. He’s like you and me. It’s only the effect this old bitch has on him, don’t you see that? Damn it, he’s your brother—”

  “Five-thirty, sir … Captain, sir?”

  The dream had changed. That wasn’t Paul’s voice.

  “Sir, it’s half past five!”

  He didn’t believe it. It was obviously part of the same stupid dream. He’d only just slumped down and shut his eyes.

  “Captain, sir. About time for dawn action stations.”

  It was Tony Dalgleish beside the chair. Tuareg’s dark bridge and the noise of sea and wind, the roar of the ventilator fans. Wind and sea were still astern, he knew it immediately from the motion.

  “Right. Thank you, Number One.”

  “Here’s some kye, sir. I think the cox’n got at it.”

  Nick took the mug of cocoa that Dalgleish was offering him, and sniffed at it. Rum. Illegal, of course. He straightened in the chair. “My compliments to the chef.”

  Daylight growing: with the coast of Crete thirty miles to the north, Scarpanto sixty north-eastward. All three ships were rolling and pitching as the eastern sky turned rose-red and its glow spread across the lively, wind-whipped seascape. Stars were fading rapidly in a clear dome of sky, and the destroyers astern were plunging end-on shapes wedged in high-curving, flying sea.

  “Signal to us, sir, from C-in-C!”

  PO Whiffen was beside the chair, his jovial face redder than usual from the wind. Ashcourt was beyond him at the binnacle, where Pratt should have been. Nick missed Pratt’s stolid, pragmatic personality. He told Whiffen, “Read it to me, would you.” He was watching the sky, the eastern and north-eastern sectors in particular, the direction of Scarpanto and of the rising sun. It was already three-quarters daylight and he doubted if they’d be kept waiting long.

  “To Tuareg, from C-in-C, repeated—”

  “Just the message, Yeoman.”

  “Aye, sir … Report position course speed and whether troops still on board. Time of origin—”

  “All right. Here.” He slid off the seat, beckoning Whiffen to join him at the chart, so that he could give him their position. He hadn’t intended to break W/T silence at least until the enemy had found him, by which time it wouldn’t have made any difference, but now he’d have to. He could understand ABC wanting to know where his ships were, anyway, and presumably the army command would want to know what had been done with their commandos, too … The position was 237 Kupho Nisi 50: course 130, speed 30. He added, for Whiffen to scrawl on his pad: Landing operation was completed at 0430. “Send that, Yeoman. To C-in-C and the same repeateds.” The “repeated” addresses were authorities to whom the signal was sent for information; in this case they included Glenshiel and the force that had been sweeping Crete’s north coast during the night—Dido and Ajax and two destroyers.

  It was fully daylight now. Leaning against his chair he studied the horizon and the sky. Nothing: except for the sun coming up red and angry, rather like a hot tomato. He got through to Dalgleish at his station aft, and told him to have one watch piped to breakfast. “While you’re at it, tell McEvoy I’ll have mine up here, would you.”

  “Think our friends may be busy elsewhere, sir?”

  It was possible. Dido and company would be somewhere in the Kaso area.

  At 0640, by which time he’d had his breakfast and there were still no bombers, another signal arrived from C-in-C. Nick was ordered to turn his three ships north-eastward and join up with the cruiser force—Dido and Ajax—which was now steering south-west out of the Kaso Strait. The force was also to be joined by three other destroyers, Napier, Kelvin, and Jackal, who were on their way north from Alexandria.

  He went to the chart and marked the rendezvous position on it. The new course would be 050 degrees, which required an eighty-degree turn to port. He told Whiffen, “Hoist eight blue, Yeoman.” Back in his chair, he thought about this change of plan: that—probably—it meant reprieve. He’d have his destroyers in close company with the cruisers and their batteries of high-angle AA guns in about one hour flat. And today’s chances had been slim: now, he could admit it. When one thought about what had happened to Mountbatten’s ships …

  “Answering pendants are close up, sir!”

  “Haul down.” He told Ashcourt, “Come round to oh-five-oh.”

  Jack Everard had got all the information he’d come down to the plot for. He shoved the notebook into his pocket, yawned for about the tenth time in the last half-hour, and went back to the bridge. He told Napier, “We were right, sir. Should sight them any minute now, probably fine on the port bow.”

  He’d had no sleep at all last night. He felt all washed out: and for the best of reasons. Inside the condition of physical exhaustion, he’d never felt so good in his life. Or so—dumbfounded …

  Carnarvon had sailed from Alexandria at 0800: the sailing orders had come late at night, when Jack had been ashore on night leave expiring at 0600 … Ahead of the cruiser a destroyer, Halberdier, was zigzagging and pinging for submarines. There was a long swell running and she was making heavy weather of it: each time she plunged her bow down into the sea you expected to see her screws come right up out of it, but each time they just stayed hidden. She and Carnarvon were making 18 knots; one full day in harbour, plus last night with the engineers working until about midnight, had got her back into running order.

  “We need a good long spell in dockyard hands, sir.” Buchanan, the engineer commander, had warned his captain this morning when they’d been coming up the swept channel out of Alex. “In anything like normal circumstances I’d have to tell you she wasn’t fit for operations. So if you can keep the revs down, sir, treat her gently—”

  “Depends on the enemy, Chief.” Napier had shrugged: Buchanan hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t known already. “We shan’t dash about when we don’t have to … But look here, Chief, you’ve done extremely well, you and all your people. The C-in-C’s pleased as punch, I can tell you. D’you realize that in just three days he’s had two cruisers and four destroyers sunk, and one battleship, two cruisers, and four destroyers badly damaged? Every ship he can get, he needs.”

  “Argument rather on my side, sir, if I may say so. I mean for treating her like an old lady with a weak heart.”

  She certainly wasn’t a young lady. But you wouldn’t have thought there was anything weak about her, looking down on her forepart as she smashed powerfully through the long, blue-white swells, heading out north-westward to meet the crippled assault ship Glenshiel and bring her back to Alexandria. Glenshiel had caught a packet yesterday, when she’d had brother Nick’s destroyers with her, and this morning she’d already fought off three separate attacks by Junkers 88s. She was down to 8 knots, now.

  Fullbrook, an RNVR lieutenant, was just handing over the watch to Tom Overton. Old Tom, for God’s sake, who did have interests other than golf—as Jack had witnessed, last night …Overton met Jack’s eyes, and winked: Jack nodded, still astonished by everything that had happened, and thinking of a girl with blue-black hair who was the cousin of another rather lik
e her but more beautiful and a few years older, this older one being Tom Overton’s girlfriend and the wife of a very rich French-Egyptian. Overton beamed at Fullbrook: “All right, dear boy, I have the weight.” The weight of the watch, the ship, he meant. But Alexandria was an extraordinary town: and it had taken on entirely new fascinations now for Jack Everard, Lieutenant, Royal Navy.

  Napier was looking at him, seeing him lost in daydream. And he could, just about, have fallen asleep on his feet, gone on dreaming … He went down to the chart table instead, pulled the log towards him and leafed through the signals on it.

  The ones directly affecting Carnarvon—the changed rendezvous position when Glenshiel had reported her latest speed reduction, and the assault ship’s signals about air attacks and requests for fighter cover—fat chance she had of that—were familiar, things he’d worked with during the forenoon. But there was also one from C-in-C to brother Nick in Tuareg, ordering him to join the cruiser squadron up near Kaso: the cruisers were being sent back up through the straits for a second night’s sweep of the north coast, a repeat of last night’s operation. It would be a day or two before Tuareg could be back in Alex, then. All the talk was of evacuation: in the Union Club last night, for instance, in the crowded downstairs bar where Jack had started his evening with Overton … It was no secret that the fighting was going badly: troops were holding out strongly at Heraklion and at Retimo—although at Retimo they were said to be cut off—but at Suda and in the Maleme-Canea area, which was where it really mattered, the situation was reported to be hopeless. The Germans were pouring supplies into Maleme airfield in Ju52 transports, so that hour by hour the balance was tipping further in their favour.