Action This Day (A Commander Steadfast Thriller) Read online

  Action This Day

  A Lieutenant Commander Steadfast Thriller

  Richard Freeman

  Richard Freeman 2015

  Richard Freeman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1 - A Dangerous Mission

  2 - A Motley Collection

  3 - A Mission Too Far?

  4 - On The Trail Of A Spy

  5 - A Poor Display

  6 - The Return Of The Spy

  7 - Surprise At The Target Bay

  8 - Reconnoitre at Bay T

  9 - First attack at Bay C

  10 - Second attack at Bay C

  11 - MGBs under attack

  12 - Stranded

  13 - A Fighting Return

  14 - Aftermath

  Naval Terms

  Extract from Audacity by Alan Evans

  Gunboat numbers: Gunboats had numbers but not names during World War II, so the numbers used in this story correspond to real boats at that time. To make clear that the boats in this story are fictional, their numbers include the first letter of their commander’s name, e.g. MGB 371F was commanded by the fictitious Lieutenant Commander Fergusson.

  Characters: All the main characters who take part in the action in this story are fictitious. Some minor characters, such as Admirals Beatty, Cunningham, Fisher and Goolden, were real people and held the posts referred to in this story.

  1 - A Dangerous Mission

  Lieutenant Commander George Steadfast RNR woke with a jolt to the sound of screaming seamen and rushing water ringing in his ears. For a few moments he thought that he was still on the listing deck of the sinking HMS Defiant. But he soon realised that the sounds were those of screeching seagulls in the harbour and the gurgling of the hotel’s antiquated plumbing.

  Yesterday, Defiant, his first command, had struck a mine and gone down beneath his feet when escorting an east coast convoy. Now, in the grey light of a late November dawn of 1941, he could see his crumpled, water and oil stained uniform hanging on a bedroom chair. He had been brought here last night after he and the other survivors had been landed by the patrol vessel HMS Arundel.

  As Steadfast threw off the heavy blankets and eiderdown from his lumpy bed and faced the icy air of the unheated Harwich hotel bedroom, the events of that last night fell into place: chasing the damaged E-boat, forcing Defiant forward across the lines of the convoy, rushing ahead into the empty north-bound lane, and then the shattering explosion. He recoiled as he saw in his mind’s eye the faces of the injured men floating in the sea, of the dying men on the rafts and of his proud destroyer slipping below the waves. Then came the rescue, a safe landing, a bath, some dinner and bed.

  Yet despite all the horrors of the so recent sinking and his night on a raft in the freezing sea, something much more pressing was demanding his attention.

  ***

  When Steadfast had staggered down the gangway from the Arundel onto Harwich quay late yesterday morning, he had looked more like a tramp than a commander of one of His Majesty’s destroyers. His body was slumped from physical and mental exhaustion after three days and four nights of hell as the convoy had fought the sea and the Nazis from Rosyth to the Thames. His uniform looked as if it had been dragged out from the bottom of a dustbin, his face still showed the deep stain of a night of soaking in an oil-drenched sea, and his lacerated hands testified to his dramatic attempt to rescue the last man on Defiant. Around one-hundred other men had poured off Arundel alongside Steadfast, most draped in rough blankets, some bandaged, some limping. On the quay were several WRVS women handing out well-buttered currant buns and mugs of steaming hot tea. Grimy hands stretched to reach the welcome succour. Not far away stood a line of ambulances waiting for the stretcher cases. But no sooner had Steadfast put his feet onto the stone quay than an eager-faced, smartly dressed young lieutenant with a self-important air had approached him.

  ‘The admiral would like a word with you, sir.’

  ‘Already? What about?’ Steadfast had asked in a tired, even exasperated voice.

  ‘I can’t say any more, sir. Looks like it’s something important, though. The admiral was most insistent that you come without delay.’

  Steadfast’s first thought was the inevitable Court of Enquiry into the sinking of Defiant, but that would not be so urgent. A Court Martial? Surely not.

  ‘All I can tell you, sir, is that it’s urgent. The car’s just over there.’

  He pointed to a battered old Austin seven with blacked-out headlights and a general air of wartime neglect. At the wheel was a smartly dressed Wren with a mass of blond curls provocatively bursting out from beneath her cap. Steadfast’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the Wren, who reminded him of his longing for Virginia.

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’

  ‘Yes … I’m coming, lieutenant.’

  The lieutenant held the car door open for Steadfast while he squeezed his bruised and aching body into the match-box on wheels. The lieutenant, in sprightlier form and impatient to demonstrate his zeal in the admiral’s service, dashed round to the other side, leapt into his seat beside the driver, and before he had even closed the door, called out ‘Hamilton House, Mary.’

  ‘That was bad luck for Defiant, wasn’t it, sir,’ chirped the lieutenant, seeking to engage Steadfast in conversation. ‘But you’re not the first destroyer to land its men here. We’re used to it.’

  Steadfast was in no mood to encourage the lieutenant in this early morning banter, but despite his exhaustion, he was still alert enough to remember not to offend one of the admiral’s staff.

  ‘No, I’m sure we’re not. It’s my second sinking. The other was in the Atlantic.’

  ‘Better to go down here, sir, than a thousand miles from the nearest land.’

  ‘Indeed, lieutenant.’

  Steadfast had no desire to continue this conversation so he was relieved when the car pulled up outside the main door of the imposing Georgian Customs House, commandeered by the Admiralty for the war. Paper tape on the windows obscured its pre-war grandeur, as did the sandbags piled up around the doorways and armed sentries wearily patrolling outside. The lieutenant leaped from the car, ran round the back and opened Steadfast’s door before he had barely taken in their arrival. Flashing his pass, the lieutenant led the way in, past the saluting sentries, the doorman and the reception desk. Steadfast was getting the message. This piece of business was important, whatever it was, and too important to stop for the usual security checks or the courtesy of passing the time of day. Both his curiosity and his anxiety were rising by the minute.

  Up on the first floor landing a Wren was typing a document at a furious speed, the end-of-line bell dinging away, her deft right hand quickly returning the carriage to start the next line. Her work was illuminated by a low desk lamp, which cast a mysterious glow up onto her pale face. She slowed and frowned now and again – no doubt having trouble with the admiral’s handwriting. On one side of her desk was an overflowing in-tray. To her left was a bank of various coloured telephones, some with red and green lights on top of their cradles. Rear Admiral Francis Goolden was clearly a busy man.

  The Wren, who Steadfast thought looked ridiculously young for her important position, stood up as he and his escort approached and addressed him in an authoritative voice – ‘The admiral’s expecting you, sir,’ – and nodded in the direction of the large oak door. Steadfast knocked. A loud ‘Enter’ carried the tone of command and the urgency of that morning’s business. By the time he had tu
rned the doorknob, the Wren’s typewriter was hammering away once more.

  The admiral’s grand office looked out over the harbour, but his large desk faced inwards. He clearly had no time to contemplate the comings and goings of the ships in his port. The room was sparsely furnished as befitted the workspace of a wartime admiral. There were two chairs in front of his desk, a table with seating for half-a-dozen colleagues, two battered old leather armchairs either side of the unlit fireplace and a large table piled high with files. On the walls were various charts and tables.

  The admiral got up from his desk and came forward to meet Steadfast. His right hand grabbed Steadfast’s with a long and warm greeting, full of concern and sympathy for the so recently shipwrecked commander. Steadfast immediately sensed that welcome rather than reprimand was the order of the day.

  ‘Good to see you back, Steadfast,’ said the admiral, even though they had never previously met.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Lieutenant Commander Railton’s told me a bit about how he found you all. Sounds like you’ve had a rough time.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for, sir. But we sank two E-boats.’

  ‘So you did – no mean feat. No doubt it’s that sort of dash that explains this envelope.’

  ‘Envelope, sir?’

  ‘Yes, your orders.’

  ‘I … thought there might be a spot of leave first.’

  ‘Damn right there would be – in normal circumstances. But what’s in here is not normal. Not by any means.’

  ‘Oh, something a bit different then?’

  ‘Indeed. Now, before I fill you in, remember two things, Steadfast. First, I’m just the office boy. These are Admiralty House orders. In fact, they come from even higher – Mr Churchill himself. It’s nothing to do with me and you’re not to tell anyone that I’ve spoken to you about them. And second, you’re not to tell anyone at home where you’re going or why you’re going. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you we’re sending you straight off on another mission. I hear they even cut short your last leave when they sent you to Defiant.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s so, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s the war, and that’s all I can say.’

  The Admiral paused for breath – or perhaps he was hesitating before telling Steadfast what was in store for him. Then he continued: ‘It’s all to do with an Albanian called Janos Dobransky. He’s some very important boffin, something to do with new fuels. He’s invented a compound that massively increases the miles or whatever that you can get out of a gallon of petrol. Anyway, the key thing is the Italians have captured him – they think he’s any old partisan and they’ve never heard of his invention. Well, we want him out of there and over here before the Germans get wind of him and his chemical marvel. We’ve got to get him out. Or rather, you’ve got to get him out.’

  ‘Isn’t that a job for the RAF, sir?’

  ‘By rights, yes. But the Italians have got him in a small fortress on the Albanian coast. There’s a massive gun on the cliff covering the building from the sea and access by land is through a closely guarded tunnel. There’s nowhere to drop a plane in. And, anyway, the partisans are only just getting going there. They’re a rough and ill-experienced lot so they’ve not yet got round to regular drops and that sort of thing. So, it’s a Navy job. You’re to go in, link up with some partisans and bring out Dobransky and his fellow prisoners.’

  ‘Why can’t the partisans just liberate him and take him off somewhere?’

  ‘We’re not going to allow that if we can help it. It’s got to be straight out of the fortress and over to Alex. And before the Germans get a whiff of what we’re up to.’

  ‘And what about my forces?’

  ‘You’ll be flown out tomorrow to Alex and are to report to the commander-in-chief there. He’ll sort you out. Ever met Cunningham?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Huh! Should be an interesting experience. Don’t be too put off by his bark. He’s the best man we’ve got.’

  Admiral Goolden paused and turned to the window to look out over the quay. He had not seen a lot of action in his service life, even though he had been on HMS Iron Duke throughout the Great War and had served under admirals Jellicoe and Beatty. He had even been present at the Battle of Jutland. But despite his quiet Great War, and his backroom job in this war, he had heard enough wardroom gossip to recognise a mission which went beyond the call of duty.

  ‘What do you say, Steadfast?’

  ‘Say, sir? It’s a privilege to be trusted with such a vital operation.’

  ‘That’s the stuff. I knew you would take it. Any questions?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. It’s all a bit of a rush.’

  ‘Indeed it is. And we all know you’re the man for rush. No sitting around when Steadfast’s on the job, eh?’

  ‘Not if I can help it – at least while the war’s on.’

  ‘Good man. Well, good luck Steadfast. Report to Admiralty House tomorrow at 9.00 a.m. And remember, not a word.’

  Steadfast took his leave of the old admiral. The Wren was still bashing away on her typewriter and, without lifting her fingers from the keys, she turned towards Steadfast and gave a smile of complicit admiration as the recently shipwrecked hero left the building. The commander returned the smile and held out his left arm, as if he were reaching out to make contact or were longing for her to make him stay. But if he hesitated, it did not show. He more or less skipped down the wide stone stairs, strode past the reception desk and walked jauntily out of the Harwich building, almost singing to himself. He made for the nearest telephone kiosk. Like all kiosks in the sodden winter, it stank of stale tobacco smoke and the glass panels ran with condensation from the breath of the users. He picked up the foetid handset and dialled the operator.

  ‘A line to London, sir? That will take an hour or two.’

  ‘Really? It’s rather urgent – Admiralty business. This is Commander Steadfast here.’

  ‘Oh, you should have said, sir. In that case I can give you a priority line. Hold while I connect you.’

  Back in his office, Admiral Goolden turned to the Wren, who had just come in with her completed typing, and remarked, ‘He’s got guts. Two men turned down that mission yesterday. He took it without hesitating.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just plain foolhardy,’ suggested the Wren. ‘He has a wild air about him.’

  ‘Has he? He’ll certainly need it.’

  ***

  ‘Virginia?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘Virginia, I’ve got to see you … to talk … it’s all a bit complicated.’

  ‘Complicated? Isn’t the convoy back now?’

  ‘The convoy? Oh, yes. But Defiant’s sunk.’

  ‘Sunk? Are you all right?’

  ‘A bruise or two and a good soaking. And I’m rather oily. But OK otherwise.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Harwich. But I’ll be in London tonight and then off tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now. In fact I may never be able to tell you – or not for a long time.’

  ‘You’re not going away for ages and ages are you?’

  ‘No, not for long, but it’s … you know … hush hush.’

  ‘Golly!’

  ‘Anyway, can I see you tonight?’

  ‘You know you don’t have to ask. Shall we meet at Nino’s?’

  ‘Let’s. 7.30?’

  ‘7.30 … George … you know I love you. Do take care.’

  ‘I will.’

  Steadfast rang off and the last of his coins dropped down into the coin box with a loud clattering. He walked over to the dockyard reception building where his men were being provided with clean clothes and breakfasts. He collected the minimum that he needed, including some emergency cash, and went off to the railway station. Despite his still aching limbs he felt as if he was walking on
air. He could hardly tell which excited him the most: the prospect of seeing Virginia again, or his secret mission.

  ***

  The Blitz may have been largely over by late 1941 but Steadfast still cursed the blackout as he came out of Leicester Square underground station and into the darkened Theatre Land shortly before half-past-seven that evening. He knew this area so well in peacetime yet now he was as lost as a rat on its first time in a maze. He bumped and staggered his way down the side streets, bruising his forehead on a lamppost and knocking at least one passer-by into the gutter. He took wrong turnings, went into alleys when he wanted streets and streets when he wanted alleys. When he finally reached the restaurant he swiftly dived behind the blackout curtain across the doorway and went down the steep stairs into the smoke-filled and dimly lit basement. The room was packed, largely with couples in uniform – the war was never far away for these diners. An elderly pianist was laconically playing Vera Lynn’s hit ‘We’ll Meet Again’ in one corner. In another corner he saw Virginia, who waved to him from an alcove. Good, he thought, we shall need some privacy tonight.

  Virginia was the sort of woman who stood out even when trying to conceal herself in a dimly lit alcove. A little above average height, she had a slim figure, a straight back that spoke of self-confidence, and a gleaming head of flaming chestnut hair which she flicked from side to side. She had only to cross a room to turn heads. As Steadfast walked towards her table, men followed his progress, jealously admiring him.

  Virginia tilted her face upwards, inviting a friendly but not over-intimate kiss. Steadfast obliged and then sat down opposite her, reached out for her hand, and said, ‘Darling, you can’t know what this moment means to me. Two nights ago I thought I would never see you again.’

  ‘Oh, how awful, you poor darling. What happened? You look such a mess. Do tell.’

  They ordered drinks and Steadfast gave Virginia a discrete account of his four days on Defiant.

  Steadfast was also dying to tell her of the top secret mission, of its provenance in Number 10 and his chance to play a lead role under the gaze of the commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean. But, leaving aside the issue of secrecy, he knew it would only upset her. She liked her heroes to be virtual ones, who always came home in one piece. Real heroes, who suffered and died, were for fiction. But Virginia tactfully made no mention of their telephone conversation. Both of them knew that she was avoiding the subject and each happily connived in ignoring the fact. Instead, she chattered away about her new flat – she had been bombed out of her old one – and kept off the ever-present sadness of her war.