Action This Day (A Commander Steadfast Thriller) Page 3

  The lieutenant just flashed his pass at the sentry and the reception desk – he was clearly well known here – before he led Steadfast down corridors and up stairs until they reached the commander-in-chief’s suite. As in London there was no waiting as Steadfast was waived into the presence of the recently knighted man who they all said would be the next First Sea Lord: Admiral Sir Andrew Browne Cunningham, more popularly known as ‘ABC’. The two men had never met, but Cunningham’s reputation was known to Steadfast. Red-faced, blue-eyed and of modest height, the arrogant admiral was acknowledged to be a demanding superior, impatient and irascible. He was also known for the two curiously incompatible sides of his nature: an empathy for the men under him, and a bullying manner. But, of course, he was here in the Mediterranean (with an impossibly small number of warships) because he was the most outstanding admiral the navy had seen since the days of ‘Jacky’ Fisher. But, from what Steadfast had heard about Cunningham, he was grateful that this mission was to be a brief one.

  ‘Steadfast. Take a seat,’ said Cunningham brusquely. ‘So, you’re the one who volunteered for this wild scheme, eh?’

  ‘Not exactly volunteered, sir. More a matter of agreeing to do my duty.’

  ‘A bit beyond the call of duty, I’d say. Getting partisans out of tight corners is not exactly the Navy’s job. Still, it’s none of my business. It’s London’s orders. I’ve got to release the boats you need – boats I can ill afford. In fact boats I can’t afford at all to give up. And, if I’m not mistaken, they’ll ask me to standby to pick up the pieces if it all goes wrong. And by the sound of things, it will. Otherwise you’re on your own.’

  Steadfast was not put off by this diatribe. He had rather assumed that Cunningham would deprecate any operation in the Mediterranean that was not under his command and control, so he politely replied: ‘That’s rather how Goolden put it, sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s understood then.’

  Cunningham then gave Steadfast details of how he was to contact the Albanian partisans who were to assist him in the raid.

  ‘And what exactly are my forces from this end, sir?’

  ‘Three gunboats, detached from Lieutenant Commander Moresby’s flotilla. You’ll get their usual officers and crew. The boats are Camper and Nicholsons, so you’ve got 2000 mile range – you’ll need every bit of it. You’re getting the cream, you know. I hope you appreciate it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’m extremely grateful.’

  ‘No room for gratitude in war, Steadfast.’ Cunningham paused, then asked, ‘Any questions?’

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand, sir. If this boffin chap is the only man we want, why are we to bring all the partisans in the fort back here?’

  ‘Well, it’s not my show, but I guess London doesn’t want Jerry to know which is the key man. If you take the lot, that’ll leave Jerry guessing.’

  ‘And what do we do with the men when they reach Alex?’

  ‘Damned if I know. I reckon London hasn’t thought that bit out. But no doubt they’ll send a VIP escort for the boffin. The sooner they’re off my patch the better.’

  ‘Of course, sir. When do I start?’

  ‘Today. Report to Moresby. Lieutenant Richards will take you there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and Steadfast, remember, no one – not even Moresby – knows what you’re up to. I’m the only man at this end who has a clue about your escapade. Other, that is, than the two officers who turned down the operation, but they’ve been moved elsewhere until the job’s done. Security, you know. So, the utmost secrecy, the utmost, Steadfast.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more thing, Steadfast. Don’t forget: I want those boats back. No high jinks. No bravado. Just straight in and straight out.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Once outside Cunningham’s office Steadfast had a brief moment to reflect on the two officers who had turned down the mission. He smiled wryly as he thought how right he had been in his suspicions back home. ‘A job no one will touch,’ he muttered to himself. Before he could pursue this thought further, Richards, who was sitting waiting on a bench in the corridor, jumped up and asked: ‘Ready to go to see Lieutenant Commander Moresby, sir?

  ‘That’s right.’

  Steadfast noted that although Richards was tall and had the lithe, athletic build of a runner, he walked with a slight limp.

  ‘The war?’ asked Steadfast, nodding in the direction of Richards’ right foot.

  ‘Shrapnel. I coped it when we were taking a convoy into Malta. I was lucky, though, a good many went down with the ship.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know about destroyers … and convoys. It’s a terrible job. That’s my line normally but they’ve let me out for a bit.’

  ‘I’m sure you need the change, sir. Convoys push many men beyond what they can take – they get the shakes and the like, a bit like shell shock in the Great War.’

  ‘War’s never easy, lieutenant. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’

  A few minutes later the car drew up at one of the smaller quays, where Steadfast could see several motor gun boats. Lieutenant Richards led him to a boat bearing the number 428M and walked smartly up the gangway, to be saluted by an able seaman. Hardly had Steadfast acknowledged the salute when a tall fair-haired young officer came forward to greet him with a sour look on his face.

  ‘You’re Steadfast, I suppose?’

  Steadfast nodded his acknowledgement.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you I’m not overjoyed to see you,’ said Lieutenant Commander Vernon Moresby in his foghorn voice, which was audible throughout the boat. ‘This,’ he said, waving a flimsy signal paper, ‘is not my idea of how to run a flotilla.’ And he proceeded to read from the order. ‘You are commanded to put three of your gunboats at the disposal of Lieutenant Commander Steadfast, along with their officers and men. Lieutenant Commander Steadfast is not at liberty to discuss the operation that has been entrusted to him. So, what’s all this about, Steadfast?’

  ‘As you can see, I’m not able to tell you.’

  ‘Well, when will I get my boats back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know! What sort of an answer is that?’ boomed Moresby.

  ‘The only one I can give you, commander. I get my orders. You get yours. All I can tell you is that I have no intention of spending a day more than I have to on this operation.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘And the boats …?’

  ‘I’ve given you 371F, 453T and 349B. All our boats are in good working order. They’re moored astern of me. The officers are expecting you. I suggest you take the boats off to the Kars Al Tin jetty – it’s quieter there and you’ll have fewer people nosing around and asking what a supernumerary commander is doing around here.’

  Steadfast noted Moresby’s cold reception and his fervent desire to distance himself from the usurping newcomer. Still, he thought, I’d be the same if someone went off with boats under my command. He turned towards Moresby.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Moresby. It’s not my idea, you know.’

  ‘I’m bloody sorry too,’ was all the reply he got.

  It was clear from Moresby’s demeanour that he had no intention of accompanying Steadfast to the boats, so Steadfast took his leave. Moresby responded with an ambiguous grunt.

  As Steadfast walked away from the flotilla quay, the full extent of his isolation began to sink in. Cunningham didn’t want him, Moresby didn’t want him, and no one else in authority was supposed to know that he was here. If they were so unwelcoming it was unlikely that his presence would be appreciated by anyone else. He began to wonder how his boat commanders were going to take his arrival.

  ***

  Steadfast’s presence on the quay had not gone unnoticed on the three gunboats that were now under his command. Lieutenants Charles Fergusson, Arthur Truscott and Henry Baines had been huddled on the deck of 371F for some time. O
stensibly they were attending to flotilla business but in reality they were waiting to catch a glimpse of their new, temporary, commander. All three of them were RNVR men in their early thirties. Back in Civvy street Ferguson had been a city trader, Truscott a furniture designer, and Baines a travelling salesman in household electrical goods. But those lives were far behind them after nearly two years of war. A casual onlooker would have taken them for three seasoned and sunburnt naval officers who looked as if they had spent the whole of their lives at sea.

  But appearances were deceptive. Of the three of them, only Fergusson was truly at home on the oceans. He was the son of a retired rear-admiral and he longed to live up to his father’s reputation. Before the war, when not raking in the money in the city, he had spent much of his sizeable income on yacht racing in the Channel. Truscott, on the other hand, only ever saw a boat in peace-time when on training exercises and Baines’ sea-going experience was limited to a small dinghy on the South Devon coast. It was fortunate that Steadfast had not the time to delve too deeply into these details since he had a profound disdain for the RNVR. Many career officers said that RNVR stood for ‘Really Never Very Ready’ and, and to Steadfast they were simply ‘Sunday sailors’.

  It was Truscott who opened the discussion between the three commanders.

  ‘I don’t like this set up.’

  ‘What set up?’ asked Baines.

  ‘Us. Three boats taken out of the flotilla. A mystery commander flown out from London. And an even more mysterious operation.’

  ‘Rather exciting, I’d say,’ said Fergusson. ‘We’ve done our share of the routine harassing of the Ities along the littoral. I’d say we were due for a bit of a change.’

  ‘But why us?’ asked Baines. ‘If it was something important, why didn’t Moresby take the command? There’s only two possible explanations. Either it’s just another boring job that he can’t be bothered with, or it’s so damned dangerous he doesn’t care to join in.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong,’ responded Fergusson. ‘We’re all agreed that we’re fed up with the routine at present. I reckon Moresby has picked us out for a bit of fun – a sort of reward for that last couple of years of hard slog.’

  ‘Well,’ said Truscott, ‘now’s your chance to find out.’

  The newcomer whom they observed approaching was short with a powerful, square face and a wry snarling curl to his lips. He walked with his head tipped back that bit farther than was customary and eyed all those he met with a quizzical disdainful air. His short, dark hair and clean shaven chin gave him a business-like appearance. His haughty voice, they would soon find, matched his demeanour, especially when he barked out orders in a crisp ‘do it now’ manner. Many who met Steadfast saw in him a fearful mixture of the supercilious ‘Jacky’ Fisher and the arrogant David Beatty. He would not have demurred from either characterisation.

  ‘Looks like they’ve sent us a big gun,’ commented Baines.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Steadfast began, ‘Lieutenant Commander Moresby tells me you are my new command.’

  ‘We are, sir,’ replied Fergusson who, being a few years older than his two colleagues, was informally regarded as the senior of the three. ‘We’ve just been talking about the operation and wondering what excitement is on offer.’

  ‘More than enough, I can tell you. But I can’t go into details while the boats are here. I’ll brief you tomorrow once you’ve moved off to the Kars Al Tin jetty. For today I’d like to take a look at the boats and the men. Can I start with you Baines?’

  ‘Of course, sir, do come aboard.’

  3 - A Mission Too Far?

  The following day Steadfast was at Kars Al Tin jetty at 6.30 am, waiting to watch his commanders come in. He had already reached some preliminary conclusions as to their capacities so was not at all surprised to see Baines bump a moored ship quite sharply and overrun his mooring. It was not a good start.

  Once the three boats were securely moored, Steadfast called his commanders together on the quayside.

  ‘Right, this is a nice quiet spot,’ he said as they sat down on an array of abandoned fish crates. ‘It’s not just a matter of avoiding being overheard. We’ve got to watch out for snoopers as well. Three gun boats on a detached mission is enough to arouse suspicions in any port. And Alex is seething with spies, especially ones interested in where we are going.’

  ‘Where’s that, sir?’ asked Fergusson.

  ‘The Balkans.’

  ‘The Balkans?’ exclaimed Baines in a voice that betrayed his sense of alarm. ‘Three small gun boats are going to cross the Med under the eyes of both the Ities and Jerry?’

  ‘You’ve got it, lieutenant.’

  ‘But … we’ll never make it. There’ll be no air cover, no patrols … absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?’ agreed Steadfast, ‘But that’s our best hope. No one will expect three 72 ton gunboats to cross the Med, so no one will be on the look-out. And we’re going to cross well-spaced out. Any plane that sights us will report one tiny gunboat – hardly a reason to turn out a flight of Dorniers or Messerschmitts.’

  ‘Is this your plan, sir?’ asked Baines hesitantly.

  ‘No, not mine, lieutenant.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I can feel free to say that the plan is totally barmy. Whose idea was it?’

  ‘Mr Churchill’s.’

  ‘Is that some kind of a joke, sir?’

  ‘Not at all. I told you this mission was important. Now you’re beginning to see just how important it is. It’s right from the top.’

  ‘Oh, that sort of top.’

  ‘Absolute top priority. You could say it’s do or die, except that it’s so important that dying is out of the question.’

  ‘That’s a new type of warfare,’ joked Baines uneasily.

  Before he continued, Steadfast looked up and down the deserted quay. Behind him was a row of tumbledown fishing sheds, locked up now that the day’s catch was landed and sent off to the markets in the town. Barrels, floats and piles of fish crates were heaped up along the quay, while nets, slung between rough wooden poles, were drying in the hot afternoon sun. A dozen brightly painted small fishing boats lazily bobbed up and down in the gentle swell of the scum-covered harbour water. All along the quay and in the little boats, gulls squawked and squabbled as they pecked at the remnants of that morning’s catch.

  Once he had assured himself that there was no other living being on the quay, Steadfast was ready to unveil the mission.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, here’s what it’s all about. It’s something very special and a very nice change from your routine ops. You won’t know the name Janos Dobransky, but he’s suddenly become the most wanted man in Europe.’

  ‘Wanted for what?’ asked Truscott.

  ‘For his brains. Or, to be more precise, for his discovery. He’s found a secret compound that massively increases the efficiency of petrol engines. Now you can guess just how useful that would be to the Nazis. Oil supplies are their biggest headache, so to them Dobransky is a gift from the gods. We think they don’t even know about him and his discovery so we’ve got to make sure they never do. At the moment the Italians have him, but they don’t know it.’

  ‘How’s that possible?’ asked Fergusson.

  ‘A few weeks ago the Italians did a round-up of some first-rank partisans in Albania. Without realising it, their dragnet took in Dobransky as well – what he was doing in Albania no one knows. Hiding from Jerry, perhaps. So there he is, muddled up with a bunch of trigger-happy bandits and heading for a firing squad.’

  ‘Sounds OK for us,’ chipped in Baines, ‘exit Dobransky, exit the Nazi’s hope of an improved fuel supply.’

  ‘True. But just imagine – and it’s not impossible – that before that bunch of partisans is put up against a wall, they discover Dobransky is in the line-up. He’ll be whisked out in no time. And you can bet your last penny that if the Nazis hear about him, the Nazis will soon have him. The Italians may think
they are Germany’s ally, but when it comes to the crunch they have to do whatever the Nazis say, just like the rest of Europe. And, if the Nazis want the formula, they have to get hold of him since he’s burnt all his research papers. The magic compound exists only in his head.’

  ‘Now I see why Mr Churchill’s so keen on this mad plan,’ responded Baines. ‘But I still think it’s a waste of time even trying. The gunboats will be at the bottom of the Med before we’re half-way across.’

  Fergusson butted in: ‘It’s no use talking about the risks. Orders are orders. And Churchill’s orders, well …’

  ‘I’m glad you’re getting the point, Fergusson. This mission is not up for discussion. It’s damn difficult, which is why we are going to spend three weeks in intensive training.’

  ‘Training for what, sir?’ asked Truscott.

  ‘Training for an attack on a fort that is supposed to be unreachable.’

  ‘Unreachable?’ quizzed an ever more alarmed Baines.

  ‘So they say. Dobransky and the others are in a fort on a promontory that can’t be reached from overland. There are more or less steep cliffs all round it and the only way in from the landward side is through a tunnel – that’s guarded too well to consider an attack from that direction. So that leaves the sea.’

  ‘I thought you said it was all cliffs,’ interrupted Baines.

  ‘True, but the local partisans reckon they can find a way up – all they need is the gunboats to get them there. That’s where we come in,’ explained Steadfast. ‘We’re to call in down the Albanian coast at night and collect a dozen or so partisans. Then we off-load them from a dinghy at the foot of the cliff, hang around, and wait for them to bring back the liberated partisans.’

  ‘And that’s it? Just in and out and back home in one night?’ asked Truscott.

  ‘That’s it. And back we come with the partisans.’

  ‘All of them?’ queried Truscott.

  ‘Yes, all of the liberated. If we just take Dobransky, either the Ities or Jerry will soon guess we’ve taken somebody special, and they may even work out who it was. Much better to leave them in the dark. Then they can waste their time scouring the Balkans for a man who isn’t there. The partisans doing the raid will just disappear into the shadows where they came from.’