Deed of Glory (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  She was already moving too fast to be caught and rammed but she had been hit twice at point-blank range and any second now the Oerlikons on the port side would bear, open fire and cut her to pieces. Ward ordered, “Meet her!” To straighten Boston on a course to chase after Dirty Bill but running off the E-boat’s starboard quarter so that she would lie under the hammer of the port side Oerlikons. The fire aboard her and the searchlight’s beam showed the cannon was manned again and—

  “She’s not answering, sir!” The coxswain’s voice was agonised as it came up the pipe: “She’s jammed and I can’t shift her!”

  Boston’s bow was still swinging to starboard, turning further and further away from Dirty Bill.

  Ward snapped, “Stop port!” That would straighten her but not soon enough and he couldn’t chase an E-boat using one engine. He had only seconds to grab his chance before it was gone.

  The gap between the old four-stacker and the E-boat was widening rapidly, had grown to more than a quarter mile already. The searchlight’s beam still held the boat but now she seemed tiny and Ward could not make out the figures on her bridge. The fire aboard her was snuffed out. Boston’s port side Oerlikons got off only a very brief burst before her bow swung back with the stopping of the port screw to follow the E-boat, now right ahead—and disappearing into the night. The 4-inch fired at her shadow, and missed.

  Ward conned Boston using main engines but his chance was gone: the E-boat fled and the searchlight lost it. For a few seconds more one of the lookouts thought he could see the white blaze of her wake but then he admitted it was gone. The guns were silent, the searchlight flicked out and darkness swept in.

  Phillips the Guns swore softly, steadily. Joe Krueger groaned, “We had him! Like that!” He stretched out his open hand then closed it into a fist and slammed it on the bridge screen. He shook his head, face sour with disappointment. “I always said the old cow never let you down when it really mattered. Looks like I was wrong this time.”

  Ward stared after the vanished E-boat, the one he and his crew wanted most of all. The others on the bridge could vent their anger but he would not. At least they had mauled the E-boat and put her into dock so that she would be out of the battle for a while, would sink no ship. Surely that was some consolation? Ward thought it was not enough. His men and his country were taking the blows and too many of them: the losses at sea, the fall of Singapore, the escape of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau…They needed a victory. Europe, under Nazi oppression, needed a victory.

  The importance of CHARIOT loomed larger every day.

  Ward could not talk of CHARIOT and this was no time for a speech, and he hated them, anyway. Best to put the incident behind them and get on with their job. So he said only, “She didn’t let us down; just bad luck. “ He took Boston limping home, steering by main engines and the screws because this time Bailey and his blaspheming engineers could not free the jammed steering.

  Ward sat in his bridge chair as the watch changed on a clear, bright morning, his orange duffel coat wrapped around him. He thought that at least the night’s action had robbed the E-boats of their waiting tactic—they would not care to try it again for several months, now that they’d been caught out. And meanwhile, the Warrant Engineer, after he’d finished swearing, had said they would be in the dockyard for a day or two while the steering was repaired. That was all right because Joe Krueger had some jobs he wanted done and so did Ward. And he wanted to see about Boston being painted; the battering of the winter seas had left her scruffy…And so he made his plans.

  Until he saw the bow lift and there came the roar of the explosion as Boston struck a mine.

  They tried to save her but fractured bulkheads gave way before they could be shored up against the inrush of the sea. She settled, listing only slightly to starboard and Ward listened stone-faced to the report of Joe Krueger, come filthy from below decks, then went to see for himself before he accepted the verdict. She sank in fifteen minutes. There was time to disarm the depth-charges and launch all the boats and rafts, to send off a wireless signal of distress and have it acknowledged, but Boston was awash for half her length when finally Ward stepped into the last boat to leave and was pulled away.

  The ship sank sedately and quietly, except at the last when there were internal rumblings. Then she slid under, leaving only a stain of oil and a litter of flotsam. By a miracle no one was in the fore-part of the ship when she struck the mine and they had not lost a man. Even the two cats and the mongrel, pets of the mess-deck, were saved. As Ward counted heads and learned this with relief a part of his mind told him more coldly that he had lost his ship. More than that; the efficient human machine that was Boston’s crew would be broken up and drafted piecemeal to other ships who needed them.

  A captain who lost his ship had to face a court martial. That should prove a formality and find him guiltless but its implications were hardly encouraging and still had to be endured. His career had not been spectacular and there were plenty of destroyer captains with solid reputations marked by decorations, first lieutenants with glowing reports who would be thought to deserve a command better than he. He was on the beach, without a ship of his own and God alone knew when, if ever, he would get another.

  12: Phoebe

  Catherine Guillard did not try to pump her chief about the coming visit of Admiral Dönitz, nor did she attempt to seduce a general, bribe an official or burgle the offices of the Kommandatur. Only the first of those methods occurred to her, and she still waited; there were other ways of finding out. Only two days after her return to St. Nazaire, sitting quietly in the big room where the clerks worked, she heard talk that the Todt workers who were building the U-boat pens had been set targets for the twenty-sixth of the month.

  Then the following evening, waiting in the café for Henri, she heard a group of German soldiers grumble because their furlough had been postponed. They were to have left on Friday the twenty-seventh but all leave had been cancelled for that weekend. Henri and Catherine had heard rumours of this but now it was confirmed—and with it the date of Dönitz’ visit. That night, at his scheduled time, Henri called London on the wireless. The message he sent was brief: 27-30-3.

  The next day Catherine asked her chief for leave of absence on the weekend of 27th to 30th March.

  And in England Ward received another telegram from Quartermain.

  *

  He strode with Joe Krueger rapidly along Richmond Terrace through drizzling rain at fifteen minutes to three on Thursday afternoon. The telegram in his pocket read REPORT TO ME LONDON 1500 MARCH 19 PREPARED ASSUME COMMAND. ACKNOWLEDGE. QUARTERMAIN.

  It came the previous day to Northumberland, the comfortably large, old stone house built on the side of the Cheviot hills and looking out to the sea. It was not of the size or splendour some might have expected for the home of the ruler of the Perseus Group but Ward’s mother liked it and had always refused to leave. She was delighted to see him and Krueger; when they were sent on survivor’s leave Ward took Joe home with him and he talked music, Bach to Tchaikowsky, for hours with Ward’s mother while Jack listened to Fats Waller. It was a leave briefly interrupted by Ward’s court martial—held on Friday the 13th of March—but the board of five officers senior to him and chaired by a frosty-eyed post captain acquitted him with expressions of sympathy.

  He showed the telegram to Joe: “Want a job?” And he warned, “It might be a bit unusual.”

  “So was Boston, sometimes.” Joe did not have to think about it, already knew what he wanted: “Think you can wangle it for me?”

  Ward said, “I’ll have a bloody good try!” He was in no hurry to go back to sea but it was the life he had chosen instead of taking on the task of running the Perseus Group and it was still the life he wanted. He remembered Boston and her crew with pride.

  Now Joe hunched wide shoulders and peered up through the rain at the barrage balloons floating over London. “I bet if they cut those wires this island would sink.”

  The se
ntry at the sandbagged entrance was as rigid and immaculate as before and Ward returned his cracking salute. Joe waited in the hall and a messenger took Ward up, handed his pass to the Wren and the girl smiled. “The admiral is expecting you, sir.” She went quickly to Quartermain’s door, tapped, and opened it: “Lieutenant Ward, sir.”

  The admiral sat behind his desk. There were two chairs facing him and Peter Madden rose from one of them as Ward entered. His khaki battledress was neatly pressed but his wiry hair, as always, looked as though he’d just run his fingers through it. “Jack!”

  “Hello, Peter!”

  They shook hands and Ward thought, So Madden is in on this; one point in its favour.

  Peter said sympathetically, “Sorry to hear about Boston. I think I can guess how you feel.”

  No, he bloody well couldn’t. But Ward, cap under arm, faced Quartermain: “Sir!”

  “Urn! Five minutes early. Shaved as well.” Quartermain pointed at the vacant chair and when Ward was seated he went on, “I suppose you want to know what ship you’ve got…Well, it’s not what you wanted. It’s a Fairmile ‘B’ motor-launch.”

  The admiral paused and watched Ward for the familiar black glower but saw no flicker of expression. For a man just kicked where it hurts, he thought, he hides it well.

  “But I think,” Quartermain finished, “I can promise you a destroyer when this operation is over and done with…which should be a little over a week from now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” For just a week Ward would captain a clockwork boat on the Round Pond, if necessary.

  “Um,” Quartermain said drily. “So long as you get your destroyer, you don’t give a monkey’s what the rest of this is about.”

  “Well—”

  “All right. Peter knows all this but I’ll put you in the picture. Last November we tried to capture Rommel. It was a gallant attempt and it failed only because of faulty intelligence. The raiding party did their job magnificently but Rommel wasn’t where they were told they’d find him.”

  Quartermain was silent for long seconds staring down at the desk. Then he looked up. “We hope to be going after Dönitz.”

  Ward took a deep breath. Dönitz! He was aware of Madden watching him, smiling at his surprise.

  Quartermain said, “Admiral Dönitz is commander of the U-boats, the expert in their deployment, a king-pin in the war against our convoys. His capture would be a nasty shock for Hitler and Germany. Peter and his men have been training for this for several months, though they did not know the objective. They are ready and proved that when you brought out Peyraud. We’ve only been waiting for the opportunity and now, perhaps, it has come. I am informed that Dönitz will be spending one night in St. Nazaire between the twenty-seventh and thirtieth of this month.”

  St. Nazaire? Had that information come from Catherine? Ward did not ask, did not know how much Peter Madden knew or was allowed to know. He saw Quartermain’s eye on him and the admiral nodded slowly. Then: “We also know exactly where he will be in St. Nazaire on that night, in a house close to the Normandie dock. You will command a Fairmile motor-launch, put Madden and his men ashore and bring them, and Dönitz, back. That’s stating it very simply.”

  By God, it was! Ward stared at Quartermain, mind racing as he recalled St. Nazaire and the dock, seeing the obstacles—and there were many. It was only a week away! But—“Which of those nights, sir? Because—”

  He stopped short. Did Madden know about CHARIOT?

  Quartermain shrugged irritably. “We don’t yet know exactly which night and that’s the big catch. CHARIOT goes in on the night of the twenty-eighth of March, so you sail with Commander Ryder or not at all. You can’t go for Dönitz before because you’d alert the defences and CHARIOT would be rendered impossible. You can’t go after because CHARIOT will put that entire coast on the alert and you’d never get near the dock, never mind Dönitz.” He foresaw Ward’s question and added, “Commander Ryder commands the naval force of CHARIOT while Colonel Newman leads the commandos who will be put ashore to carry out demolitions. The force is assembling at Falmouth and you go down today. You’ll be fully briefed there and trained for the operation. When, if, I receive information that the exact night Dönitz will be in St. Nazaire coincides with CHARIOT, I will give you your final orders. The odds are three to one against, but I’m hopeful.” He looked at his watch: “You’ve a train to catch. Any questions?”

  A lot, but they would be answered at Falmouth. Now—”My first lieutenant, sir, I want him.”

  Quartermain’s eyes narrowed. “Krueger? What have you told him?”

  “Only that it would probably be an unusual job.”

  “Um!”

  “He wants to go anyway, sir, whatever it is.”

  “Does he?” Quartermain frowned. “It says something for you, I suppose, that he’s prepared to take a leap in the dark just because you’re going.”

  “It says a lot for him that I want him, sir. He’s a good man.”

  Quartermain shook his head. “The Fairmile has a crew.”

  “Joe Krueger is an expert on engines like those.”

  “She has an engineer.”

  “He speaks fluent German.”

  “Colonel Newman has a German speaker in his party.”

  “We haven’t, sir.” That was Peter Madden. “I think he could be useful.”

  Quartermain glared at the interruption. “Do you, indeed!”

  Madden did not blink, “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, sir, but Ward—”

  “If he’s good enough for Ward then he’s good enough for you? I see! Well, Lieutenant Krueger is a good officer but he’s a veteran of the last war.”

  Ward said, straight-faced, “There are plenty of officers still serving who fought in the last war.”

  Quartermain swung on him, “I am behind a desk, I would remind you, not planning to go charging about in Occupied France! Krueger is forty-three and too old for that!”

  Peter Madden said thoughtfully, “Newman is thirty-eight and I believe Major Copland is over forty.” He glanced at Ward: “Bill Copland is second-in-command to Newman.” He looked back at Quartermain. “I wouldn’t like to tell Major Bill he was too old.”

  Quartermain glowered from one to the other, then gave a bark of laughter. “Neither would I! All right. Your American is in.”

  *

  The Fairmile ‘B’ Class motor-launch was 112 feet long by twenty in the beam with twin petrol engines giving her eighteen knots. There was an open bridge above the wheel-house, a 20mm Oerlikon forward and another aft. She had a pendant number but her crew called her Phoebe. Ward never found out why. Her crew comprised Sub-Lieutenant Jameson, R.N.V.R., Petty Officer Doyle, and ten ratings. Jameson was small, twenty and looked sixteen, while Doyle was twenty-six, bearded and fatherly. Ward thought they were a good bunch. Phoebe was one of sixteen Fairmiles being trained for CHARIOT but her crew, like those of the other fifteen, believed they were part of Commander Ryder’s ‘10th Anti-submarine Striking Force’. Ryder had devised this cover because it was suspected that there was a German agent in Falmouth.

  Ward assumed command of Phoebe on the morning of Friday, 20th March, and sailed within the hour to practise firing the Oerlikons at a target-sleeve towed by an aircraft. That was off the Eddystone light. On Saturday they embarked Peter Madden and fourteen commandos then sailed with the other launches, similarly loaded, to take part in Exercise ‘Vivid’. The commandos came from the Princess Josephine Charlotte, the ship that had brought them from Scotland some days before. It seemed they had no connection with the 10th A-S Force except for this exercise, supposedly designed to test the defences of Devonport, in fact to be a rehearsal for the attack on St. Nazaire. That Saturday night the British defences worked very well and the attempted landing of troops by the launches went very badly. Ward, like the rest, found the glare of land-based searchlights made navigation difficult, and identifying features ashore was almost impossible
. If the St. Nazaire attack were to go like that, by the end of next week they’d all be dead.

  He stood grim-faced and silent as they left Devonport behind to return to Falmouth. Joe Krueger was not so depressed since he still did not know their true task—even though privately he was sceptical of the ‘10th A-S Force’ story.

  Peter Madden came to the bridge and stood in silence for a minute or. two then told Ward, “Well, last time the rehearsal was fine and the operation went all to hell. Maybe tonight’s balls-up was a good sign.” He was talking of the raid to bring back Peyraud. Joe knowing nothing of it, was puzzled, and nobody saw fit to enlighten him.

  Ward only nodded. He was uneasy about using a motor-launch for this job, did not like the idea of a petrol engine and its explosive potential, but the Fairmiles were all they could get. He was worried too by the effect of the lights. But most of all the uncertainty gnawed at him: were they going or were they not? Quartermain had a room in a hotel in the town but Ward had not seen him since his arrival in Falmouth when the admiral had given him his orders and then left him to it.

  *

  The next day Ryder called the officers of the launches together at his HQ in a house on the cliffs above Falmouth, and briefed them for the attack. He had a model of the St. Nazaire docks so that every man would know his objective and where it lay.

  He explained that the overall objective was to destroy the great dock at St. Nazaire because it was the only one outside of Germany big enough to take Tirpitz. If it was closed to her she would not dare to venture into the Atlantic. It was one thing to sail knowing she would have to fight her way home but also knowing there was an alternative haven in St. Nazaire. It was another matter if that haven was closed; then Tirpitz would be bottled up in her home waters.

  H.M.S. Campbeltown, formerly U.S.S. Buchanan and twin to Boston, was the destroyer to be used in the attack. Campbeltown was to ram the dock-gate, then she and the launches would land commando demolition parties to blow up the machinery of the dock and other installations.