Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  ‘No. I’d’ve been astonished if you had. D’you want to be off now, or—’

  ‘I’ll stick around, if you don’t mind. My chaps’ll want to know what’s happening.’

  ‘As you like. These birds aren’t going to tell us a damn thing, anyway.’ He ushered Currie back into the other room. ‘I’ll see that one first, Hughes.’ He’d pointed at Bianchi. To Currie again: ‘Place is somewhat congested. Think your Marines might wait outside?’

  ‘Sergeant—’

  ‘Aye, sir. Outside, lads…’ Then to Currie: ‘Reckon we’ll be wanted again, sir?’

  ‘Might be. I don’t know. Just hang on.’

  He was alone then with de la Penne and Henderson’s two armed sailors. In proper lighting for the first time, he saw he’d been right in thinking the Italians were wearing jackets and trousers and tennis shoes. He pulled out two chairs:

  “Here Tenente, I suppose you’re dressed as you are so that if you’d got away ashore you’d pass for civilians. That it?’

  ‘What is he doing to my petty officer?’

  ‘Asking him questions. And I just asked you one.’

  ‘Bianchi will tell him his name and rank, that’s all. It’s the same with me.’

  ‘All right. But let’s go back to the subject we were discussing in the boat just as we got here.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Well, that men shouldn’t be left to drown, is what it comes down to. So if you’ve set some explosive—’

  ‘It’s only you who keep insisting this is the case.’

  ‘Lieutenant – you’ve done something—’

  ‘You should conduct a search. Save your men’s lives yourselves. That is, if their lives are at risk, which I do not—’

  ‘Right!’ The inner door banged open. Henderson, one hand resting on his holstered pistol, looked fed up. Bianchi came out past him, and he pointed with his head at de la Penne. ‘You now.’

  Currie asked him, ‘Mind if I sit in on this one?’

  A shrug. And to de la Penne in Italian: ‘In here. Come on, come on!’ Currie had meanwhile intercepted Bianchi’s signal to his boss – a quick shake of the head telling him I’ve said nothing… Then he was following them into the other office, where the petty officer indicated to de la Penne that he was to stand in front of the desk while Henderson settled himself behind it. Currie could have sat down, in a chair which he’d used often enough on previous visits to this office, but he compromised by leaning against the wall. The petty officer gestured towards the chair, wordlessly offering it to him, but he shook his head.

  ‘Now, then.’ Henderson stared up at de la Penne. ‘You’re a lieutenant – right?’

  An inclination of the head. On his dignity… Currie could see he’d already taken a dislike to Henderson. ‘I am Lieutenant Luigi Durand de la Penne. Sir.’

  ‘And what’s your job?’

  A shrug. ‘I am a naval officer.’

  ‘Your function, Lieutenant – here, tonight—’

  ‘I have supplied you with my name and rank, sir.’

  ‘All right.’ He sighed. ‘Identification, then?’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ Delving in an inside pocket, he brought out a french letter with a knotted end. ‘In that – sir. There is also money, which is mine.’ He tossed it on to the desk. Henderson pulled a drawer open, produced scissors and snipped off the knotted end, pulled out a folded buff- coloured card and what looked like a roll of British banknotes. He studied the identity card first.

  ‘De la Penne, Luigi Durand. Tenente di Vascello.’ His thick fingers moved to what Currie could now see were five-pound notes. Fiddling them apart from each other: there were five. He glanced over at Currie. ‘Sterling fivers. That other specimen had the same.’ He asked de la Penne, ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that in Egypt we use Egyptian money?’

  That struck home: seemed to both surprise and worry him. But he shrugged it off. ‘It’s my money. I get to keep it, uh?’

  ‘I dare say you’ll get it back in due course. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘You speak very good Italian, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘How did you get into the harbour?’

  ‘Through the front door.’ A slight smile. ‘Sort of guy I am.’

  ‘How many others came in with you?’

  ‘How many? Well, you know – Petty Officer Bianchi did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you have our names and ranks.’

  ‘You came in on S.L.C. two-man torpedoes. Maiale, as you call them. Am I right?’

  A shake of the big head. ‘I’m not answering any questions, sir.’

  ‘It might make life easier for you if you did. However—’

  The telephone rang, on his desk. He took the receiver off its hook and leant down to the mouthpiece. ‘Henderson.’

  Listening…

  ‘No, sir. Didn’t really expect—’

  Listening again. Then a nod. ‘Aye aye, sir. They’ll be on their way immediately.’ He hung up, told de la Penne, ‘You’re to be taken back on board Valiant now, and you’ll be put down in the bottom of the ship. How does that appeal to you?’

  His stare contained both amusement and triumph: de la Penne’s, only disdain. But then in the outer office – Currie thought about it afterwards in the boat, on the way back to Valiant – he clearly saw Petty Officer Bianchi’s very sharp reaction when he was told. Henderson had murmured to Currie – alone, the Marines had been taking charge of their prisoners again before marching them down to the jetty – ‘C.-in-C.’s personal order, that was. Not him on the blower, obviously, some commander or other. Not a bad idea though, uh?’

  ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘Reckon they have planted some damn thing under her. See that monkey jump out of his skin, did you?’

  In the boat, de la Penne became talkative again.

  ‘What will be done with us after this, sir?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? They’re going to put you in the bottom of the ship.’

  ‘I heard that, yes. But afterwards—’

  ‘If you haven’t drowned – prison camp, I suppose.’

  ‘My reason for asking – you see, I was training in the south of Italy, and it was not permitted to inform one’s family when one was setting out on – operations. So my mother won’t know where I am. Whether I’m alive, even. I wonder therefore, will there be some way one might – communicate, by letter or—’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk to me?’

  ‘Not to answer questions, sir—’

  ‘But you expect yours to be answered, do you?’

  ‘Sir, this is a personal matter, not—’

  ‘Your choice of subject’s OK, is it?’

  Damn cheek the man had, he thought. He’d shrugged off responsibility for British seamen’s lives being at risk, but his mother’s anxieties about whether he’d drowned or not he assumed to be a matter of proper humanitarian concern. Then, as they were approaching Valiant – the entire harbour lit by searchlights by this time, Valiant herself more or less floodlit and an impressive sight – the Italian exclaimed, gazing at her: ‘What a shame we sailors should have to do harm to such noble ships.’

  Two clear impressions, out of this little act. First, that it was virtually certain they had attacked Valiant – and probably QE as well – in some way or other, and second, that de la Penne was trying to have his cake and eat it. One was supposed to accept him as a decent chap who was being forced by patriotic duty to act contrarily to his own personal inclinations.

  Whatever sympathy Currie had felt for the big Italian had worn thin, by this time.

  Captain Morgan was again on Valiant’s quarterdeck. Currie described to him exactly what had been said and done, and finished with his own opinion that (a) some kind of threat did exist, presumably explosives under the ship, and (b) there were or had been other Italians in the harbour besides these two.

  ‘I don’t necessarily disagree with you that – a
s you put it – a threat exists, but what makes you sure of it?’

  ‘De la Penne has a certain smugness about him, sir. As if he’s done whatever he set out to do. And the P.O.’s reaction when Henderson told him you were going to put them in the bottom of the ship – no doubt about that, at all.’

  ‘So it has to be an explosive charge under us.’

  ‘I suppose – yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you. You’ve done well.’

  Morgan walked over to where de la Penne and Bianchi were waiting, guarded by the Marines and their bayonets.

  The lieutenant-commander who’d spoken to Currie before murmured, ‘Chain bottom-line has been passed, met no obstruction. So – God knows, old boy ’

  Morgan had stopped in front of de la Penne. Hands linked behind his back, rocking slightly on his toes. ‘Currie. Here, a minute, translate for me. Ask these men to tell me where they put the charge.’

  Currie translated. De la Penne shook his head, looked away, and Bianchi stared at his feet. Currie glanced at Morgan, who nodded. ‘Very well. You’d better get back to your own ship. Master-at-Arms – these two are to be confined in the fore-peak. Now.’

  The motorboat had been waiting for him at the gangway. It was almost unbelievable, he thought, looking around at the glittering water – and at QE’s massive quarter-profile as the boat chugged towards the gap in her anti-torpedo nets, that there were — probably were – enemies, here, actually inside this harbour.

  And with the power to destroy a battlefleet?

  But how they’d have survived: when charges were still being dropped, for hours now had been banging away all over the damn place… Unless they were ashore perhaps, by this time. Stripping off rubber suits, strolling ashore in the guise of Italian residents…

  But they’d have to get through the dockyard gates, past Egyptian police and naval patrols: patrols would surely have been alerted, and probably strengthened, all over the docks area. Although if they did get past them, of course, the bastards’d have it made – in a town already crawling with Italians – Ettore Angeluccis, you might say – who’d be only too keen to shelter them.

  It was 0535 when he ran up QE’s gangway. She was at action stations now, and from the quarterdeck he was directed to the bridge where the captain awaited his report. He surrendered his revolver – for return to the Master-at-Arms – went for’ard and into the bridge superstructure, then up half a dozen brass-railed ladders, finally emerging into the bridge where he found Captain Claud Barry on his high seat in its forefront. Barry had binoculars focused on Valiant at that moment.

  ‘Captain, sir – Currie. Just got back from escorting Valiant’s Italians to Ras el-Tin.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, Currie.’ Lowering the glass. ‘Get anything useful?’

  He gave him the same story he’d told in Valiant, including his own conclusions and reasons for them.

  Barry muttered, looking over at Valiant again: ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘So do I, sir.’

  ‘Captain, sir—’

  He glanced round; from the high stool, over Currie’s head. ‘Well?’

  ‘Bottom-line’s fouled abreast the foremost four-fives starboard side, sir. Trying to clear it, but—’

  ‘Clear it…’A hard breath. ‘Should have divers of our own, shouldn’t we. Preferably with suicidal inclinations.’ He shook his head. ‘Might be the best answer, though… You may have guessed right, Currie. Better go down and tell Admiral Cunningham what you just told me.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir—’

  The explosion came as he turned away. From – starboard, somewhere… It wasn’t by any means deafening, and there was no blast-effect here, but after a few seconds he saw a mushroom of smoke and spray hanging over the afterpart of a tanker berthed on the inside of the coaling arm. Something like 500 yards away. Barry had his glasses up: ‘Tanker there. Jervis is alongside her. Get some boats over, see what help they need. Can’t see any damage…’

  (The time was 0547. It was to emerge shortly that the Norwegian tanker Sagona had been holed aft by an underwater explosion which also wrecked her propeller shafts and rudder and seriously damaged the bows of the destroyer Jervis who was alongside her, fuelling. Jervis was one of four destroyers who’d been at sea with the 15th Cruiser Squadron escorting Breconshire to Malta; they’d been the last of Admiral Vian’s force to enter harbour, the boom having been opened for them at 0040.)

  Currie went aft to the Admiral’s quarters, and found him sitting up in his bunk, in striped pyjamas. Captain Barry had already been on the telephone to him from the bridge, telling him about the explosion under the tanker and that Currie was on his way to report to him about Valiant’s prisoners. (Who, after hearing that explosion – as they certainly would have done, being about thirty feet below the waterline – had asked to be allowed to speak to Captain Morgan, and volunteered the information that there would be an explosion shortly. Valiant’s ship’s company were mustered on deck and all her watertight doors were shut.)

  Currie finished his report to Cunningham, left the cabin and went up on to the quarterdeck. It was just after six: a cold, clear morning, and the sky was lightening rapidly. He saw that there were boats alongside Jervis at the coaling arm. She was passing a long signal to QE by light. The boats would be QE’s, he supposed.

  ‘Commander Currie, sir—’

  The officer of the watch – a South African sub-lieutenant – asked him: ‘Any idea what’s cooking, sir?’

  He’d put his finger on the problem, with that question. No-one did have any very clear idea. Ignorance about two-man torpedoes and their methods of attack was such that on the bridge just now he’d heard an officer expressing the opinion that a torpedo must have been fired at QE and missed, run on past her to hit the tanker. Even he, Currie, knew better than that, now.

  He was telling the officer of the watch about Valiant’s prisoners – re-telling the story he’d told twice already, perhaps with slightly more emphasis on his own fluency in Italian – when Cunningham came up via the after hatch. They moved immediately – automatically, as convention dictated – over to the other side, leaving the starboard side clear for the admiral’s brisk pacing up and down. Currie resumed his narration – was describing Petty Officer Bianchi’s reaction to the decision to confine him below decks – but he was interrupted after only a few words by the muffled thunder of an explosion from the direction of Valiant.

  It was six minutes past six. The South African whipped his telescope up. Muttering. ‘Can’t see anything’s any different… Sounded like – hell, a shallow-set depthcharge, didn’t it?’

  (De la Penne’s warhead had exploded on the seabed on Valiant’s port side between her two for’ard turrets. He hadn’t been able to sling it under her bilges, mainly because his diver, Bianchi, had been affected by oxygen poisoning and had had to surface, taking refuge on the mooring-buoy where de la Penne found him later. Their pig had been immobilized by a wire wrapping itself around the propeller, and de la Penne, who with a leaking suit had been in bad shape himself from the effects of cold, had spent about three-quarters of an hour dragging it a few inches at a time along the bottom until it was directly below the target. Valiant’s draught at the time had been thirty-three feet and she’d been lying in eight fathoms of water; the warhead had therefore exploded fifteen feet under her keel.)

  ‘Hey now, wait a minute…’ The sub-lieutenant still had his telescope on her. ‘She’s down by the bows, man. She is. She’s down by the bloody bows, sir!’

  ‘Let me see.’ Currie took the telescope from him: trained it on Valiant’s forepart, adjusted the focus…

  ‘My God, you’re right.’

  Under his feet, much closer thunder. The deck heaved upward: the huge ship’s stern whipped up with such force that Cunningham, who’d been right aft – close to the ensign staff – was thrown into the air. As it happened, he landed on his feet. Currie had grabbed at a guardrail stanchion: onehanded, thrusting the telescope back at
its owner and seeing black smoke gush up from the funnel and somewhere just forward of it. Not only smoke – solid objects flying in it, and oil fuel: you knew it was oil when it came splattering down, stinking, some of it as far away as the stricken Valiant. More importantly Currie realized – anyone would have, who’d seen that eruption which could only have come from her boiler-rooms – that the explosion had punched a hole right through QE’s guts.

  15

  ‘The nightmare scenario’ was what he’d called it in his thoughts just a few hours earlier. Even then not believing in it – not as anything more than a hideous possibility, too hideous to be realized. He’d even been thinking of the Italians on Valiant’s mooring-buoy in a joking way – seeing a touch of the comic opera in it.

  Some joke… Except for an Italian. For an Italian, it would be hilarious.

  And there was more bad news to come. Really very bad. Not till the afternoon, though. The disaster had already occurred but news of it didn’t reach C.-in-C.’s staff until later in the day. By that time, any Italians who’d been apprised of both events would no doubt have been rolling in the aisles.

  But – to start from the beginning: from just before sunrise, in fact, on this day which before it was over would certainly have earned its sobriquet of ‘Black Friday’…

  Right after the explosion at 0610, Queen Elizabeth had begun listing heavily to starboard. Counter-flooding – quick reaction by her engineers, flooding compartments on her other side – had corrected this, returned her to an even keel so that from the outside she looked very much as she always had; but three of her four boiler rooms – A, B and X had been blown open to the sea, and the fourth was filling, would be lost if pumps couldn’t be brought into action very quickly. There was no electric power, though, and if that boiler room was lost there never would be – not of the ship’s own making. Fallon, Currie’s squash adversary, had called for a submarine to be brought alongside to provide power at least temporarily, but it couldn’t be there just at a snap of the fingers, and while they waited for it the water was rising steadily. The only lighting meanwhile in the ship’s cavernous depths was from battery-operated emergency lanterns. Fallon and an engineer had tried to start a diesel-driven dynamo, but the explosion had damaged its bedplate and they’d found the engine couldn’t be turned over: and that compartment had begun to fill.