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

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Midships.”

  It left him free to concentrate on handling the ship … “What?”

  Drisdale repeated, “Eighty-eights coming up astern, sir!”

  He nodded, concentrating on this Stuka. In any case you couldn’t dodge the high-level attackers as you could the point-blank rushes: luckily they weren’t as accurate in their aim, either. The 88s were getting round astern of the northward-moving force and attacking on their homeward course towards Crete—or Greece, wherever their base was … The sun was inching down: and the Scarpanto Stuka base was now less than forty miles away. Wouldn’t it be shaming for the arrogant, murderous bastards to have so many ducks waddling through their backyard and not be able to hit a single one of them?

  Don’t count on it, he thought. Still fifteen or twenty minutes of light, or partial light, left.

  “Port twenty-five.”

  “Port twenty-five, sir … Twenty-five of port wheel on, sir!”

  Bomb on its way down. One single Stuka, about an hour ago, had let go five small bombs from one dive. An experiment, presumably, that hadn’t come to anything. Several times he’d seen two bombs, though, two splashes, probably two five-hundred-pounders instead of the more usual one-thousand-pounder. Splash going up now, nicely clear to starboard; he called down for the rudder to be centred, then shot a glance at the compass to see how far round he’d come: then, looking up, he saw one of Drisdale’s 88s trailing black smoke like a scar across the sun.

  Within a few minutes the lower rim of that sun would touch the mountain peaks. Stukas were still coming up from the Scarpanto direction, perhaps desperate for last-minute success. At this moment three were diving on the cruisers: on Orion. Gunfire increasing, shell-bursts thickening over the centre: he took his eyes off it, aware of the danger of looking at one sector for too long, and glanced round for nearer threats. The sky was colouring as the sun sank and the blackness of the mountains made them seem to lean out across the sea: there was violet growing, and deep blue, a whole spread of colours deepening and blending, flooding outwards; over the other horizon, the Scarpanto side, first stars were pinpricks in a darkening sky. The colours growing out from behind the mountains were mixed rose-pink, gold, and violet. Gunfire was at a peak again, the Stukas’ sirens screaming through it, and the action was all concentrated in the centre, against the garish backdrop. Nick swung around with his glasses trained to starboard, swept to the right into dimmer, opalescent light that was fading and at the same time reflecting—from the sea’s surface probably, the image refracted in layers of warm air—a distillation of the colour in the west: through it, in it, he saw the Savoias, five or six of them, sneaking in towards the ships like big wave-hopping moths.

  “Alarm starboard—torpedo bombers, green nine-oh!”

  He added, for Houston’s benefit, “Flying right to left, Harry, angle of sight zero—”

  “Director target! Red barrage—”

  “Starboard twenty-five.” The guns were swinging around and depressing at the same time as layers and trainers followed the pointers in their dials. Clang of the fire-gongs: the four-sevens flamed and crashed, the amount of flash showing how dark it was getting suddenly. This turn towards the bombers would shut “X” and “Y” guns out of the action but it would also help to avoid any torpedoes which the Italians might already have dropped. He saw one Savoia pulling upwards and banking, sheering away to the left and its torpedo dropping very much askew: to the right a flare-up, one plane hit: Afghan, astern, had joined in, and that burning plane had flopped into the sea … “Midships.”

  “Midships, sir …Wheel’s amidships, sir.” Gun-flashes and shell-bursts were bright now as night closed in. A fire burning on the sea was the wreckage of that Savoia: the attack had been broken up and the others had disappeared, but they might be circling for another attempt in some other sector and Nick had a signalman flashing to the flagship: Savoia bombers attacked with torpedoes and some may still be with us. Over the rapid click-clacking of the signal lamp he heard Houston’s order to the guns, “Check, check, check!” A sudden silence had allowed him to hear it—the Aldis lamp, and Houston’s voice from the tower carrying down the voicepipe. No targets, then: it was bewildering, after so long. He said into the voicepipe, “Port twenty,” and the yeoman reported, “Message passed to Orion, sir.”

  The wind was right ahead, on this course. Spray swept over constantly, whipping like hail over the glass wind-deflector on the leading edge of Tuareg’s bridge; binoculars needed frequent wiping.

  Ajax had been near-missed and damaged in that last Stuka effort against the cruisers. She’d reported damage that included a fire and twenty men wounded, and Admiral Rawlings had detached her with orders to return to Alexandria.

  Now it was 2200, 10 pm. Half an hour ago Orion and Dido and the other six destroyers had increased to 29 knots without zigzag and headed west for Heraklion; Carnarvon had turned off on to a course of 281 degrees, maintaining revolutions for 23 knots, and Tuareg and Afghan had taken station 30 degrees on her starboard and port bows respectively.

  Nick asked Drisdale, “What time should we raise Ovo Island?”

  “About 2300, sir. It’ll be abeam at a quarter past.”

  “And the turning spot?”

  “Near as dammit 1 am, sir.”

  Pretty well what his own mental arithmetic had already suggested. If it hadn’t been, he’d have checked Drisdale’s figures. There was to be a small adjustment of course when they passed Ovo Island, in order to reach the ordered position of 35 degrees 45 north, 24 degrees 50 east; then they were to turn and patrol a line due eastward, which would cover the approaches to Heraklion from the Milos direction. Then at 2 am they’d turn south-east, eventually rejoining the rest of the force at about 4:30 just north of the Kaso Strait.

  Presumably some Intelligence source had suggested that interference by light surface forces was to be expected. The Italians certainly had had some destroyers at Milos—which was where they’d mustered those caïque-borne invasion forces—and MAS-boats in the Dodecanese, Scarpanto, and elsewhere. With the evacuation starting, they might decide this was the time for some offensive action—such as catching Orion and company speeding eastward, loaded with battle-weary troops.

  Tuareg and Afghan were primarily the patrolling force. Carnarvon would have been added to the party in case they failed to link up with the main force before daylight; then they’d have the AA cruiser’s guns to protect them, and some chance of getting through. And Carnarvon’s limited speed would also have earmarked her for this job: she couldn’t have kept up with the others on their fast passage from Kaso to Heraklion and back.

  Ajax’s departure wouldn’t affect the operation much, Nick thought. Forty-five hundred men, which was the maximum number of troops expected to be there for lifting, could easily be fitted into two cruisers and six destroyers. Rawlings would miss Ajax’s firepower when the air attacks began again in the morning, but that was about all; the admiral had been right to disembarrass himself of a lame duck at this early stage, because the one thing the evacuation force could not afford was to be slowed down.

  Twenty-three-forty-five: the main force would have reached Heraklion and the first ships ought to be inside the little port by now. Twentythree-thirty had been the estimated time of arrival, based on departure from Cape Sidaro after the passage through the Kaso Strait. Jack Everard came up from the chart, and answered a question Napier had put to him half a minute ago: “Exactly thirty miles to go, sir.”

  Thirty miles to the western end of their patrol line, to the point where they’d change course to east. At this moment, Heraklion was twenty miles to the south: and those thirty miles, at 23 knots, would be covered in one hour and a little over twenty minutes. They’d been intended to reach the turning point at 0100, so in fact they were about twelve minutes astern of station.

  It didn’t much matter, Jack supposed. And just as well it didn’t, because there’d have been no question of speeding up. According to Tom
Overton there’d been a decidedly frosty exchange between Napier and his engineer commander on the subject of maintaining these revs all through the night—all through tomorrow as well, come to that. In Alexandria, Buchanan had agreed that there was no reason to expect problems now; he’d been proud of the way his staff had coped with the earlier difficulties, and confident the repairs would hold out. Napier had reported accordingly, and Carnarvon had therefore been included in the operation. But a short while ago Buchanan had started worrying again and brought his worries to the captain, who had—according to Overton—blown his top. Buchanan had been sent off with a flea in his ear and instructions to look after his own problems.

  Jack had been down in the plot, clearing up Midshipman Brighouse’s inept attempt at working out some earlier star-sights; Overton had been on the bridge when he’d come back to it.

  He hadn’t reopened the subject of Gabrielle: and Overton had seemed relieved that he hadn’t. It was in his mind all the time, though … Morally, there was no doubt what he ought to do: and the urge to cut adrift wasn’t just a moral thing either, it was the fact of having been deceived, tricked into this. And that telephone call: the husband unsuspecting in the background and the women laughing—worst of all, making him a party to that laughter. Unless he cut loose, he would be a party to it.

  But—not see her? Ashore in Alex in a week’s time would he be capable of not calling her?

  Carnarvon ploughed on, deeper into the black Aegean.

  “Captain, sir …”

  He was awake at once, hearing Dalgleish telling him that it was ten minutes past two and that they were coming up for the next alteration of course.

  “Right. Thank you.”

  “Kye, sir. Just common or garden, I’m afraid.”

  “Can’t always be lucky, can we?”

  He’d dreamt he’d had a letter from Fiona; it was disappointing now to know it had been a dream. He sipped his cocoa and thought about their position now, the distances and the timing of the rendezvous with Rawlings’s ships down near Kaso before daylight.

  They’d reached the north-western limit of the sweep at thirteen minutes past one, and altered course to 090 degrees, in accordance with operation orders. At 2:15, by which time they’d have been steaming due east for an hour, they’d be coming round two points to starboard for the two-hour leg down to Kaso. According to the orders there was supposed to be some fighter cover over the Kaso area at 0530, but Nick thought he’d believe that when he saw it. Long-range fighters from the desert, they’d have to be—or imaginary ones from never-never land.

  Coming to the end of the west-east patrol line didn’t mean the screening job was finished. All the way down to Kaso they’d still be to the north of the evacuation force, covering it against surface raiders.

  Dalgleish called suddenly, “Signalman!”

  “Aye, sir …”

  Dalgleish told Nick, who still had his nose in the cocoa mug, “Carnarvon’s flashing, sir.”

  That blue lamp would be winking out the order for the change of course. When they’d turned, Nick thought, he’d go back to sleep.

  A thump in the port side of Carnarvon’s bridge was a signal arriving up the tube. Petty Officer Tomkins, yeoman of the watch, retrieved it and took it to the hooded signal table.

  He read it out to Napier. Flag Officer Force B was announcing that the Kaso rendezvous was to be delayed by one hour, from 0430 to 0530.

  Napier gave it a moment’s thought. Then he asked, “To what speed can we reduce now, Pilot, and keep that rendezvous?”

  About 17 or 18, Jack guessed, as he went to the chart to check on it. He also guessed that the question of rpm and Buchanan’s fears must have been worrying Napier all this time. At the chart table, he found they could come down to 16 knots, and he reported this to Napier.

  “Yeoman. Make to the destroyers: Speed 16.”

  Probably it was taking longer than the admiral had expected to embark the troops. The ones ready for embarkation when the force had arrived would be taken aboard fast enough, but the soldiers actually holding the perimeter against the surrounding Germans would only be able to slip away in small groups, a few at a time. And it was possible, Jack guessed, that with the wind as strong as it was the cruisers might not have been able to get inside that very small harbour; then they’d have to lie off while the destroyers ferried soldiers out to them.

  Napier cut into his thoughts: “You’d better get some sleep, Pilot.”

  At 4:11, Jack woke with the bridge messenger bawling at him from the chartroom door, “Captain wants you on the bridge, sir!” Flinging himself off the settee, he realized that the ship was rolling—which she hadn’t been when he’d turned in—and also, judging by the vibration, that she was again doing something more than 20 knots. His first thought was that perhaps they’d run into some Italians and turned to engage or chase them: but there’d have been an action alarm, in that case … He was on the bridge within seconds: Napier told him, “We’re on twofour-five, Pilot, 23 knots. Altered three minutes ago. You’ll see some signals on the log. Get an up-to-date DR on, will you?”

  PO Hillier gave him the signal log, and he took it with him to the chart table. The first thing was to establish the dead-reckoning position and mark on the new course, extending it south-westward. Then, to find out what it was all about.

  The signals told the story clearly enough. One: Imperial’s steering had failed: she’d run amuck, just before 4 am. A total breakdown. Imperial was the destroyer who’d been near-missed last evening and seemed none the worse for it, he remembered. When her rudder had jammed, Rawlings’s ships with the troops from Heraklion on board had been steering east at 29 knots. Two: Hotspur had been ordered to take off Imperial’s crew and sink her. Admiral Rawlings was continuing eastward: with his ships full of troops he’d have no option. But he’d reduced speed, so that Hotspur should catch him up later—with any luck, before daylight. Three: Carnarvon and the Tribals were steering south-westward now to provide cover to Hotspur as she withdrew alone, with two ships’ companies and an unspecified number of troops on board.

  Following that misfortune, it made good sense. But at about 4:30, when he was fiddling around with courses and distances at the chart, Jack saw that Carnarvon and her destroyers had no hope at all now of getting through the Kaso narrows before dawn. The same, of course, applied to Hotspur. There’d been that earlier delay of one hour, and now another ninety minutes had been lost.

  At 0446 the order came to alter course and withdraw towards Kaso. Hotspur had torpedoed Imperial, and was on her way. There was to be a rendezvous two and a half miles north of the Yanisades lighthouse at 0545.

  “Course, Pilot?”

  He was at the chart, getting it … “One-oh-two, sir.”

  Napier gave Hillier, the yeoman, a course-alteration signal for the destroyers.

  At 23 knots, by 0545 they’d be several miles short of the rendezvous position. The run to it was 25 miles, and it was now 0450. They’d be three or four miles short. Jack reported this to Napier; the captain nodded, but did nothing about calling for more speed. He had accepted, right from the beginning, Buchanan’s prognostication that if he exceeded revs for 23 knots she’d almost certainly bust a gut.

  Now, they’d be entering the Kaso Strait at dawn. It wasn’t good, but it was less bad than it had looked a short while ago—being caught well this side of the bolt-hole. And if the promised air-cover should by chance materialize, all might yet be well. In fact it would be absolutely marvellous … Jack put the time of the alteration, and a reading of the Chernikeeff log, in his notebook. The time, as Carnarvon’s wheel went over, was 0452.

  At 0503, the port engine stopped.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Light grew like a cancer in the east. Guns were cocked up, trained towards that brightness: from the destroyers’ bridges binoculars swept horizon and sky: on the gun platforms men in tin hats, lifebelts, and anti-flash gear had their eyes fixed on the coming of a day that no one want
ed. Carnarvon was struggling eastward at less than 7 knots, on one engine and carrying enough rudder to counter the single-screw operation. She was a cripple, painfully dragging herself across the sea: you could think of a mouse being played with by a cat, with no chance of escape but still trying to get away, following blind instinct but aware of the imminence of a savage clawing. Waiting for the cat …

  There was a faint chance of escape, perhaps, if they got that engine going. At any minute her engineers might work the miracle: after threequarters of an hour of “any minute now …” The Tribals zigzagged, using their Asdics and watching the sky, that streaky silver leaking up from behind a mauve horizon. Twenty-eight miles eastward, according to Drisdale’s calculations, the rest of Force B would be just about entering the Kaso Strait, and Hotspur would be rejoining, panting up from astern into the shelter of the cruisers’ guns.

  Drisdale murmured, with his glasses on Carnarvon, “Glad I’m not a plumber.” By “plumber” he meant engineer; Nick had glanced at him and away again, not understanding what else he meant. Drisdale added, “Thinking of her blokes. Slaving away at that engine, with everyone else cursing at ‘em to get a bloody wriggle on—”

  “Red flag on Carnarvon!”

  Ashcourt had reported it. Instinctively you looked for a threat in the east, where both the sunrise and Scarpanto were. All Nick could see in that sector was an irritatingly pretty sky.

  “Alarm port, red seven-oh, 88s!”

  “Starboard fifteen.” To get closer to the cruiser. “One-four-two revolutions.” Fifteen knots, that would give him. He put his glasses up and found the bombers: there were two flights each of four aircraft, flying on a course of about 130 degrees at something like five thousand feet. He told Houston, up the voicepipe to the tower, “Open fire when you’re ready.”

  When they’re in range, he’d meant; but if they held on as they were going they’d pass about a mile astern. Going somewhere else, perhaps. Could be: that course would bring them over the Kaso Strait, if they held to it … But one flight of four was veering off, swinging away to port. Nick told CPO Habgood, “Midships. Steer one-double-oh.” Then, glancing round at Ashcourt, “Keep your eyes peeled on the sun while I watch this lot.”