Audacity (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Smith looked surprised. ‘Oh, come now! This ship had taken shelter in the Kalmarsund, as we had every right to do. We were under notice to leave inside twenty-four hours and did so. The fact that I went first in the motor-boat is neither here nor there.’

  That silenced Johanssen for a moment, then he snapped, ‘You mounted a warlike operation!’

  ‘Against an enemy ship which was outside neutral waters, remember. As we were when you came up with us.’

  Johanssen digested that then shrugged. ‘I must report to my superiors. They will decide what protests diplomatic should be made. You will return my crew and myself to Sweden, please.’

  Smith shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’

  Johanssen gaped, then burst out, ‘You cannot keep us prisoners! We are neutrals! You must understand my position!’

  ‘You must understand mine!’ Smith barked that, at last showing temper. ‘This ship is alone in the Baltic and hunted by God knows how many of the enemy! If I return you to Sweden or permit you to use my wireless then the position of this ship will be known to them. I have a duty to you, but first I have a duty to my ship and my men!’ He paused, glaring, then finished more quietly, ‘You are not prisoners but survivors, and will be treated accordingly. I will return you when that will not endanger the safety of this ship. I make no promises, but I think it may be soon.’

  Johanssen was silent, thoughtful, probably trying to imagine how he would feel if he commanded this ship and flinching at the prospect.

  Smith drained his glass and pushed away from the desk, signalling the end of the interview. ‘Mr. Ross, will you conduct Lieutenant Johanssen to his quarters then come back here.’ Ross stood and Johanssen slowly followed suit, turned to the door. Smith said, ‘One more thing. You mentioned reporting to your superiors. I must report to mine. It will be to the effect that in the zealous and gallant pursuit of your duty, in hazardous conditions, you were unfortunate to lose your patrol-boat but in my opinion no blame attaches to yourself.’

  Johanssen took that in and realised it meant the saving of his career. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good night, Lieutenant.’

  Left alone, Smith sat at his desk to scribble a rough first draft of his report while the details were fresh in his memory. A minute or two later there was a tap at the door and Ross entered. ‘Sir?’

  Smith looked up, paused in his writing. ‘I want your report of that conversation, because it may well be needed as evidence before a court. Immediately, please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Ross hesitated, then: ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As it’s turned out, sir, we’ve got clear away without anyone being the wiser. But we knew the Swede would follow us out. Suppose the patrol-boat hadn’t been wrecked and Johanssen could have gone back under his own steam and reported our position?’

  Smith broke in flatly, ‘He wouldn’t have gone back.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve had the answer to your question, Mr. Ross. Understood?’

  Ross stared, then comprehended and took a breath. ‘Yes, sir.’ But outside the cabin again he blew out the breath in a low whistle and muttered to himself, ‘If not a survivor, then a prisoner… The court-martial would have murdered him.’

  Smith knew that very well and it gave him pause as he bent over the desk again, pen poised. He had banked on Johanssen following Audacity to sea, had never intended allowing him to go back and report; one way or another he and his crew would have stayed aboard Audacity.

  While the Swedish patrol-boat lay in the neutral waters of the Kalmarsund Smith could not attack and capture her to ensure her silence. But here at sea it was another matter. Neutrals were frequently stopped and searched on the high seas by both sides in this war, and if their cargo was contraband it was seized. That was not the same thing as capturing a neutral naval vessel but it might be argued that information could be contraband and the Swedish boat was carrying it: Audacity’s position. It would have caused a major diplomatic row and Smith would have borne the whole blame. But to save Audacity and her crew he would have done it.

  He had not saved them yet. There was tomorrow—today; it would be light soon.

  He went back to his report.

  13—The Camel

  Gallagher lifted on one elbow to peer across at Danby. His watch told him it was morning but the deadlights were clamped over the scuttles, blacking out the day, so that it was by the dim glow from one small bulb that he made out Danby’s sleeping form in its cocoon of blankets. The glow also showed the stark interior of the cabin, an eight-foot-square box of steel that ran with condensation. Gallagher thought, Home, sweet bloody home! But Danby slept quietly, did not twitch or whimper, untroubled by conscience or thoughts of the day ahead. Or of last night; Gallagher had to admit Danby had done well in that desperate action. So maybe he had a good point or two. But…

  Gallagher slowly eased back on to his bunk, stared up at the deckhead and wondered what had woken him. A bad dream? There were plenty of those but he could not remember any tail-end of a nightmare at his waking. He would sleep again in a few minutes because he needed to be in perfect physical pitch later. Smith said the Zeppelin flew most days but had only started these patrols since the end of the winter. By that he simply meant the break-up of the ice in the Baltic; it would still be bloody cold in an airplane cockpit. Anyway, maybe the Zepp would not fly today after all and Gallagher could spend it reading or lazing about.

  He doubted that. The news of Audacity’s actions would have been wirelessed the length of the Baltic so the Zeppelin would surely be on station. Maybe not seriously expecting them, because of Smith’s false trail back to Russia, but it would be there just in case. And Smith would expect him, Gallagher, to deal with it. Smith was hard as nails. He saw his objective clearly, went after it and God help anybody who got in his way.

  Like Gallagher himself, the famous ace? He grimaced at that: conceited sod. He was a survivor, that’s all. Lucky. But still the man who flew the Triplanes, Pups and Camels, and steadily notched up the kills. And who knew about flying off from ships.

  He lay thinking, working out how to do it, remembering how it was with the Pups and calculating the changes he must make because this time it would be a Camel. The Pup was docile but the Camel was a dangerous beast and a pilot had to keep it under control every second. One careless move could kill. Well, he was a pilot. He would do the job. He had to because there was nobody else who could, no Johnny Vincent.

  He was satisfied he had the technique right in his head by the time he heard the thudding of boots overhead as the watch changed. When it was quiet again he drifted into sleep, his mind at peace now.

  *

  McLeod was on watch and he called Smith from his cabin in the forenoon when they came on the fog. ‘It’s banked right across ahead of us, sir.’

  Smith said, ‘Coming,’ and: ‘Send for some coffee.’ As McLeod returned to the wheelhouse he answered over his shoulder, ‘I’ve done that, sir.’

  Smith climbed stiffly from his bunk, hauled on his overcoat and went out to the bridge. The sight was only too familiar after these last days, a dark grey sea running into a lighter grey of mist, a wall that was insubstantial but deep. As they pushed into it, steadily the visibility fell and he ordered a reduction in speed, sucked at coffee as the mist enclosed them.

  McLeod murmured, ‘We’ve had worse, anyhow. We can still see a good half-mile, I reckon.’ He called to the lookouts, ‘Keep your eyes skinned!’

  Smith asked, ‘Position?’

  ‘I looked at the chart just before I called you, sir. We should sight Tat any time now.’ He added under his breath, Smith just hearing it, ‘Bloody easy to miss it in this, though.’ Tat was one island in a little group of four, none much more than a quarter-mile in length, mere pin-points on the chart.

  McLeod called the anchor-party and they gathered in the bow, the petty officer in charge with his face turned towards the bridge.
Bennett, the carpenter, was still working up there on the fo’c’sle with his mates amid stacks of sawn timber, but keeping well clear of the anchor-party. Below the bridge the lid on the box holding the Camel was pushed back, the fitters and riggers inside working on the aircraft. There was no sign of Gallagher or Danby. They would be in their bunks, Danby in particular catching up on his sleep after last night’s attack on the sweeper.

  McLeod sighted the island before the lookouts: ‘There it is.’ He used his glasses, then, more doubtfully: ‘Can’t be anything else.’

  Smith, through his own glasses, saw only a darker shape in the grey murk ahead but as Audacity closed it took on sharper definition.

  Now McLeod said firmly, ‘Tat.’ It was just a rock in the sea, almost featureless, two cables long and half as wide, but he added, ‘Seen it before, sir.’

  Audacity crept in towards the island, a man at the lead once more, and anchored barely a cable’s length away. McLeod, glasses at his eyes again, said, ‘I think I can see the loom of Graesholm’—that was the next island in the group—‘but Frederiksholm and Christianso are too far away in this fog.’

  Smith ordered, ‘Double the lookouts, close up the guns and call Mr. Ross.’

  That last was not necessary because the engine’s stopping and the rumble of the anchor cable running out brought Ross up from his bunk, rubbing his eyes. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He squinted at Tat and muttered, ‘What a bloody benighted place!’

  Smith agreed, but: ‘It will serve. Bring up the prisoners aft of the bridge and call away the boats’ crews. I’ll be down to talk to the masters, and that Swedish lieutenant, in ten minutes. Ask Mrs. Ramsay if she will join me there to interpret.’

  In his cabin he shaved carefully and dressed in his uniform. The mirror showed his thin face to be even thinner, his pale eyes staring out of dark sockets, but he did not notice. His mind was busy. He heard the men moving about in the housing of the four-inch gun just twenty feet aft. The guns were manned because while Audacity lay here there was always a chance one of her hunters might come suddenly out of the mist. Smith thought there were long odds against that but only a fool would fail to take the precaution.

  Ross waited with Elizabeth Ramsay at the foot of the ladder abaft the bridge. He had woken her by hammering on her door. She had slept for only a few hours but dragged herself from the bunk as the first lieutenant’s voice boomed outside: ‘…in nine minutes!’ That meant she was to be ready for Smith in eight minutes at most. She had learnt that aboard Audacity no one kept the captain waiting. So she dressed quickly with fumbling fingers, splashed icy water on her face and brushed her hair. Ross was checking the time by his watch as she picked her way carefully but rapidly down the ladder.

  Less than a minute later Smith ran down the ladder and looked about him. All the prisoners were crowded on the deck aft of the bridge, crammed around or sitting on top of the boxes. Armed sentries watched them from the poop and the after superstructure. The three German captains formed a muttering group and Johanssen stood aloof a yard away, his crew behind him. The muttering ceased as Smith appeared and they stared at him in his uniform, neat but shabby, the gold on the cuffs, the peak of the cap shadowing his eyes, the thin face smiling.

  He saluted. ‘Good morning, ma’am, gentlemen.’ They returned the salute and he went on, ‘I am about to set you free.’

  Elizabeth Ramsay translated into German and the officers exchanged glances. A murmur ran through the crowd and faces lightened. He continued, ‘This ship now returns to Russia and this lady to her home. I don’t wish to take you there. We haven’t the quarters aboard and we may yet be in action when you would be at risk.’ He looked at Johanssen. ‘Your neutrality would not shield you.’

  The Swede nodded stiffly. Smith waited until the girl finished translating, then he pointed: ‘There is the island of Tat. It is uninhabited, as is the next island of Graesholm. Christianso beyond has a small population. I’m putting you ashore on Tat with provisions and water, tarpaulins, paraffin and coal for fires. You will have to spend the night there but as sailormen you will be able to make yourselves comfortable. Tomorrow, when the fog lifts, they will see you from Christianso and take you off. My best wishes, gentlemen.’

  He waited again until Elizabeth Ramsay translated, then he saluted and left with the girl. He would not be involved in discussion or argument, would hear no complaint or protest. They had to leave this ship, for Audacity’s sake and for their own.

  The girl halted at the door to the lobby that led to the wardroom and thence her cabin. ‘I ought to congratulate you on last night’s work. It was a nightmare to me but I understand you performed a minor miracle in getting us safely out of the Kalmarsund.’

  Smith said uncomfortably, ‘I don’t know about that.’

  Elizabeth Ramsay nodded, a smile twitching the corners of her mouth. ‘I have also heard you don’t like backslapping.’

  That sounded like Ross and Smith wondered if she was laughing at him but she watched him seriously now. He answered, ‘We didn’t lose a man.’

  ‘That’s important, of course.’

  ‘I sleep easier.’

  ‘You think a lot of them.’

  ‘There are none better.’ Then he grinned. ‘But your own crew are always the best.’

  She laughed at that and went on to her cabin. Smith climbed the ladder to the bridge thinking that for once they had talked with some ease. Then the future crowded in again as he saw Gallagher standing on the bridge-wing, leaning on the rail and looking down at the work going on in the box right below him. Smith paused at his side. The riggers were bolting the wings on to the Camel and, as planned, there was just room for them to do it inside the twenty-eight-foot width of the box. Smith asked, ‘She’s nearly ready?’

  Gallagher nodded. ‘Another couple of hours or less. They’ve just got to true her up.’

  ‘What?’

  Gallagher grinned. ‘Make sure the wings are on dead-right and not cock-eyed, that there’s the right tension on all the wires. Otherwise…’ He drew a finger across his throat then pushed back from the rail. ‘Which reminds me, I slept through breakfast and my stomach thinks my throat’s cut. I’ll see if Wilberforce can fix me up with some lunch.’

  He sauntered easily aft to the ladder and dropped down it on his way to the wardroom. Smith went to his cabin and changed back into the ancient clothes of his disguise. He watched from the bridge as Audacity’s boats plied back and forth between ship and shore, the motor-boat packed with stores and towing the other boat filled with prisoners. It was an uneasy time for Audacity’s crew. She had steam up and a party on the fo’c’sle ready to knock off the clip and jettison the anchor if an enemy burst out of the mist, but they knew she would still take time to get under way, would lose her boats and the men in them. And if her attacker was a ship of any force, then Audacity would be battered to pieces.

  Smith was unperturbed. He had made his decision, taken his calculated risk. He had to be rid of the prisoners. Nevertheless, the net was closing around Audacity. The new destroyer seen yesterday off Oland would not be the only one to come out of Kiel after making the passage of the canal from the North Sea. There would be others. Also, before this day was over the Swedes would be wondering about their missing patrol-boat and the Germans about the minesweeper. They would search, and though both vessels had sunk there would be tell-tale flotsam. At another time the Germans might have assumed an accident, an explosion aboard the sweeper or that she’d hit a mine. Not now: they had lost too many ships in the last few days and their thoughts would inevitably turn to Audacity. Tomorrow the prisoners from Tat would reach Bornholm, ten miles away, where there was wireless. They would tell their story of the raider heading back to Russia, but that tale had to be wearing thin now. Smith reckoned that sinking the sweeper and stopping her broadcasting Audacity’s position had given him just twenty-four hours’ grace. Audacity could survive that long in this western end of the Baltic, possibly for a second day, but no l
onger.

  He thought of the German raider in the North Sea and wondered if she also was skulking in fog now. He had no cause for envy there because her captain had his own problems; British destroyers would be hunting him as the Germans sought Audacity.

  The last of the prisoners landed on the island, the boats returned to the ship and were hoisted inboard. On Tat tarpaulins mushroomed into shelters and fires burned, the coal doused with paraffin to start them. The coal put ashore, ample for the prisoners’ needs, would not have moved Audacity a mile.

  Bennett’s mates were sweeping up the litter of shavings and sawdust on the fo’c’sle as the carpenter came to the bridge. ‘We’ve finished, sir. It’s all ready now and we can set up that platform quick as you like when you give the word.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Smith sent him away. ‘Have something to eat and get your head down for an hour or so.’

  Ross reported with relief, ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Audacity weighed anchor and headed eastward away from Tat, on a course for Russia, but when the island was lost astern in the fog she came around to port on to a bearing of almost due west. Ross said, looking out at the fog then down at the Camel, ‘We may not need it if this lot holds right up to the Sound.’

  Smith answered, ‘I hope we don’t.’ If fog covered their approach to the Sound and the Camel did not need to fly then they would have wasted a lot of effort bringing it this far. But they could not have relied on fog covering them, might have waited days for it, and Audacity did not have that much time.

  An hour later, in fact, the mist shredded and soon they ran out of it, Audacity steaming over a quiet sea. There was cloud cover but it was high, white fluffy cumulus that picked up and reflected shafts of light from the pale sun sinking towards the west. Gallagher came up to stand on the wing of the bridge outside the wheelhouse. He had no flying clothes so instead was dressed in so many layers of sweaters and trousers that he walked with a wide-legged gait, all topped by a greatcoat that strained at its buttons. A scarf was coiled loosely around his neck and a balaclava pulled over his head. He carried a pair of goggles and gloves and stared out over the bow. Smith wondered where he had got the goggles.