Marine B SBS Read online

  ‘So that’s a caique,’ said Tiller. ‘I didn’t know they’d be quite so small. They all look different, too.’

  ‘Each island that builds them has its own design,’ the leading seaman said. ‘They’re constructed to ride out the meltemi, so they must be seaworthy.’

  ‘Meltemi?’ said Barnesworth.

  The leading seaman looked at the two SBS men with amusement. ‘Well, if you two gents haven’t heard of the meltemi I won’t spoil your holiday cruise. Now, if I could have your names, I’ll tell you which of these luxury vessels you’re sailing in.’

  When they told him he looked down his list and then assigned them to LS8, the most outboard of the group which were tied up alongside each other. From the quay it also looked one of the smallest. They picked their way gingerly across the decks of the other caiques, stepping between piles of stores, ammunition boxes, and the usual clutter found aboard a sailing vessel. When they eventually arrived they found Larssen already aboard, smoking a pipe and gazing up at the hills behind the port, which were etched out by the last rays of the setting sun. He pointed to the ruins of an ancient fortress on one of the summits. ‘A Crusader castle,’ he said. ‘The Knights of St John held this island until 1440.’

  Tiller and Barnesworth glanced at each other. ‘Is that right, skipper?’ they replied in unison. They had quickly learnt during the course of the last few days that when their detachment commander was spouting history it was best to sound interested, but not to prolong the conversation by asking questions they didn’t want to know the answer to.

  LS8 still smelt of fish but her captain, wearing a bushy black beard which hid his schoolboy face, showed them over her with ill-concealed pride. He introduced himself as Andrew Maygan. The two interlinked wavy gold stripes on the epaulettes of his service shirt showed him to be a lieutenant in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, the ‘Wavy Navy’ as it was called.

  ‘Either of you know anything about sailing?’ he asked.

  They said they didn’t.

  ‘You’ll soon pick it up,’ Maygan said cheerfully. ‘Just keep your heads out of the way of the boom – this chunk of wood here that the mainsail’s attached to – because it will crack them open if you don’t.’

  Tiller knew that many RNVR officers were drawn from the ranks of knowledgeable amateur yachtsmen and this gave him some cause for comfort. LS8 might be flying the white ensign but she was more like a yacht than a warship. She certainly wasn’t like anything Tiller had come across in his days with the Royal Navy where quarterdecks were scrubbed white and brass glistened like gold. He reckoned no regular naval officer would be seen dead aboard this crate. Which was just as well. What was that jibe about the three most useless things to have aboard a sailing boat? Oh, yes: an umbrella, a cuckoo clock and a naval officer.

  ‘Bit cramped, I’m afraid,’ Maygan said, ‘but you’ll only be aboard overnight. We want to get to Simi before dawn.’

  The two SBS men peered into the caique’s small hold, which was filled with jerrycans, food cartons, ammunition boxes and assorted weaponry. Tiller checked that his crate of plastic explosive and limpet mines was among them and noted the wireless set screwed to the bulkhead. No doubt its aerial ran up inside the mast.

  ‘I haven’t seen a set like that before,’ he said to Maygan.

  ‘The Kittyhawk fighter-bombers they were fitted in have been re-equipped with the latest VHF sets, so we managed to scrounge them from the Yanks. Ideal for what we want.’

  The deck was equally cramped. The sail, rolled loosely around its boom, took up a good deal of room. There were two small anchors lashed astern of the small cockpit and two larger ones in the bows, their warps coiled neatly on the deck. ‘You’ve got enough anchors,’ Tiller remarked.

  ‘Our engine’s got no reverse,’ Maygan said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got to stop somehow.’

  In front of the mast, shrouded, was a gun set on a bipod. Maygan lifted its cover and Tiller noticed that, unlike any British weapon, its magazine was mounted on the left side. He had never seen anything quite like it.

  ‘A Solothurn,’ Maygan explained. ‘Swiss-made 20mm semi-automatic anti-tank rifle. The Eyeties used them against our tanks in the desert. Against any armour except sardine tins it’s pretty useless, but it would give most things afloat around here a fright.’

  The Matilda engine started with a roar that sent a belch of black smoke from the exhaust in the stern.

  ‘What are we likely to meet?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Nothing, I hope, now that the Eyeties have surrendered. But they have a number of MAS boats – small torpedo boats – which Jerry may well have purloined. The Germans have several armed schooners for supplying their outlying garrisons and a Siebel ferry or two. They’re nothing more than floating platforms really,’ he added when the SBS men looked blank. ‘But they’re heavily armed with AA weapons. Their main armaments are two 105mm guns which could blast us out of the water in thirty seconds flat. L-boats we call them and I don’t go anywhere near them. Anyway, we’re not here to sink the opposition. Our job’s to keep out of sight – or be sufficiently well disguised to pass as a local caique – so that we can land you blokes and take you off again, if necessary, without Jerry knowing what we’re up to until it’s too late.’

  The seaman deck-hand and the caique’s engineer, who had been introduced to them as Sandy Griffiths and Jock Bryson, started casting off from the caique LS8 was moored alongside. Then Maygan took the tiller to steer LS8 out of harbour.

  ‘We avoid open water if we can,’ he said, ‘so we’ll be going into Turkish waters and following the coast.’

  Once out of the harbour he held the tiller between his knees, opened a chart he had under his arm, and showed the SBS team where he proposed to go by tracing the Turkish coastline with his finger.

  ‘It’s here, where we have to leave the coastline to cross to Simi, that it could be a bit dodgy. Jerry may have air patrols out now that he has control of the Rhodes airfields. But hopefully we’ll be crossing while it’s still dark.’

  Griffiths appeared from the hold and the SBS men noticed that he and Bryson were now wearing civilian clothing: old caps, baggy trousers and threadbare jackets.

  ‘Hoist the Turkish ensign, sir?’ said Griffiths.

  Maygan nodded and they watched the white ensign being hauled down and be replaced by a red Turkish flag with its crescent and star.

  ‘We call ourselves filibusters,’ Maygan said. ‘Now you know why.’

  ‘Filibusters?’

  ‘Irregulars. Pirates, really. If their lordships at the Admiralty knew we were sailing in neutral waters under a foreign flag – especially a neutral one – we’d be hung, drawn and quartered.’

  Out of the shelter of the harbour the caique bucked and rolled and its hull and rigging creaked under the strain of being pushed through the waves at eight knots. The Matilda engine, Bryson explained, was far too powerful for the size of the caique, but at least it was quiet because it was running at quarter throttle.

  Maygan steered LS8 north-east towards the nearby Turkish mainland and then turned north-west to clear the headland that protected the harbour. Once past it they saw the sun dip into the sea on their port side. Ahead lay what, to them, seemed to be pitch-darkness, but as their eyes slowly adjusted to it they could see the first stars pricking the sky and could just make out the outline of a headland. Even at this distance it looked high and forbidding.

  The hump of Castelrosso dropped quickly astern and gradually merged with the sea. The caique jerked and plunged and a cascade of spray swept over them. The helmsman swore loudly as some of it hit him.

  ‘Quite a swell on,’ said Maygan.

  ‘What’s the meltemi?’ Barnesworth asked Griffiths.

  ‘No need to worry about that tonight,’ Griffiths replied. ‘I’d get your heads down while you can.’

  ‘Where?’ Tiller asked.

  Griffiths pointed to the rolled sail. ‘It’s as dry a place as anywhere.’
r />   The sail smelt of tar and canvas, and was, after they had managed to wedge themselves between the boom and the cockle that had been brought aboard, surprisingly comfortable. Tiller stretched out, his unloaded Sten gun cradled in his arm, his beret a thin pillow between his head and the fish-impregnated deck.

  LS8 rose and fell beneath them and the Matilda engine thumped away comfortingly in their ears.

  The nightmare was taking a slightly different form when Tiller was suddenly awake, instantly alert. He sat up and slid the magazine into the Sten. It was an automatic reaction to an unknown situation but he could not instantly discern what was the matter, only that something was. Then he realized it was the silence that had woken him. The caique’s movement had changed. With the engine stopped it was wallowing motionless in the sea.

  Tiller levered himself out of the sail and on to his feet, and walked aft. Maygan, now also dressed in civilian clothes, was handing an adjustable spanner to Bryson, who was crouched over the engine, which lay below the cockpit floor. Larssen was holding a shaded torch.

  ‘You know anything about engines?’ Maygan asked him. Tiller shook his head.

  Larssen chuckled. ‘Tiger doesn’t mend them. He blows them up, don’t you, Tiger?’

  ‘I wish someone had blown up the tank this fucking engine was in,’ Bryson grumbled into the engine space. ‘It’s always been dodgy. I told them so in Beirut.’

  Maygan glanced anxiously at his watch. Its luminous dial showed it was 0230. The cliffs of the Turkish coast looked close, very close. For a quarter of an hour Bryson laboured in silence except for the occasional expletive.

  Then Maygan said: ‘I think we’d better hoist the sail. At least we’ll be able to stand off from the shore and not get taken too far off our course by the current.’

  Tiller hadn’t been aware of any breeze but once the mainsail and foresail were hoisted they filled at once and the caique stopped wallowing. It surged forward and the motion, Tiller noticed, was quite different under sail than it had been under power. Instead of punching into the waves the caique moved over them with an easy, rhythmic motion.

  Maygan and Larssen spread the chart across their knees and studied it with the torch. ‘There’s a Turkish coastguard station on Cape Alupo,’ said Maygan. ‘I had hoped to get past there while it was still dark.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Larssen enquired.

  ‘You never know. Nine times out of ten they’d never look at you twice. Nothing we can do about it anyway, except keep you lot in the hold. Might make sense to lie up in the daytime somewhere in the Gulf of Doris and cross to Simi tonight. We’ve got camouflage nets. No one would spot us, not even from the air.’

  ‘My orders are Simi today, Andrew,’ Larssen said. ‘We’ve got to get to the Italian garrison before Jerry does.’

  ‘Well, I’m game if you are,’ said Maygan.

  An hour later the engine broke into a healthy roar and Cape Alupo was passed just as the sun had begun to burn the night mist off the sea. The ensign was dipped to the coastguard station but there was no reply and half an hour later they changed course for Simi and the island’s main port, where the Italian commandant had his headquarters.

  Tea had just been brewed and some bread and jam distributed when Griffiths, who had been acting as lookout, shouted: ‘Aircraft, port quarter, sir. Looks like a flying boat.’

  Maygan threw his tea into the sea and snapped: ‘I want all SBS below. Now.’

  ‘Shall I man the gun, sir?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘No, just make sure it’s covered with the foresail. And make sure that canoe’s out of sight under the mainsail.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Jock, can we increase speed without shaking the hull to bits?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir.’

  ‘Well, try.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The orders had been issued crisply and were being obeyed with an easy assurance. As he crouched in the tiny hold Tiller decided that perhaps the three men on deck did know about white-honed decks and shining brass, after all.

  ‘Put those binoculars away, Griffiths,’ he heard Maygan tell the deck-hand. ‘If the sun catches the lenses it’ll be an open invitation for him to blast us out of the water. The wages of Turkish fishermen don’t run to binoculars.’

  They could all hear the aircraft now. It seemed to be moving very slowly and quite high. Every now and again it dipped its wings as if the pilot wanted to have a better look at what was below him. It moved north of LS8, circled and came lazily back to them.

  ‘Wave!’ Maygan ordered his crew as the aircraft passed astern of them. The aircraft, its Luftwaffe crosses plainly visible on its wings and fuselage, wiggled its wings in acknowledgement.

  It flew south and then banked and headed back towards them. ‘Never seen one like that before,’ Maygan said. ‘Any of you know anything about German aircraft?’ he shouted down into the hold.

  ‘A bit,’ said Tiller.

  ‘Be careful, but poke your head out and see if you can recognize it.’

  Tiller stuck his head out and saw the aircraft approaching from astern. He shaded his eyes from the sun. ‘Your beret, man!’ Maygan shouted. ‘Take your beret off.’

  Larssen, standing behind Tiller, grabbed it from his head as the aircraft passed overhead. It was much lower this time. Then it swung round and came at them at masthead height. Its engines thundered and they could see the pilot leaning out to have a closer look. This time he didn’t wave back.

  Tiller poked his head up after it had passed and said: ‘A Blohm and Voss, would be my guess.’

  They waited for it to turn and come back again. If it did they knew the pilot would be making up his mind what to do. It was probably a forbidden area for Turkish fishermen or the pilot had divined the caique was not all that it appeared to be. He was probably radioing his base for instructions before returning to rake them with his machine-guns.

  ‘There’s a Bren down there somewhere,’ Maygan shouted into the hold. ‘Get it ready. We may need it.’

  The aircraft banked and flew off at a right angle. It was worse for those below because they could not see what was happening – just hear the dwindling sound of the engines.

  ‘Is it going?’ Larssen asked.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ said Maygan grimly. ‘He’s turning now.’

  This time, when he turned the pilot dived steeply and came straight at them towards their port side. Now he was flying below the height of the mast.

  ‘Bloody show-off,’ Maygan shouted.

  The noise of the engines increased as Barnesworth passed up the Bren light machine-gun to Larssen, who sat crouched in the entrance to the hold. He covered the weapon with the corner of a tarpaulin and brought its muzzle level with the approaching aircraft.

  ‘I reckon I could take him, Andrew,’ he yelled.

  ‘No! Hold your fire!’ Maygan shouted. ‘Wave, for Christ’s sake, wave.’

  He took off his ancient cloth cap, stood on the caique’s counter, and waved his cap above his head. When the German opened fire he knew he would be the first to be hit. But then he could have overruled Larssen. LS8 was his command and now he was going to lose her. At that moment he was more angry than afraid. The sound of the German’s engines filled the caique’s small hold.

  ‘What’s he going to do?’ Barnesworth snarled. ‘Sink us by ramming us?’

  But at the last split second the pilot drew back his joystick and missed the mast by a matter of feet. The whole hull of the caique shuddered.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Maygan. He was frightened now. The shock wave of the passing aircraft had nearly thrown him into the water. ‘Fucking silly bugger!’

  The aircraft was already half a mile away and was beginning to climb. They all knew that if he came back again it would be to sink them. The aircraft began to bank.

  ‘Here he comes again!’ Maygan shouted. ‘Flat on the deck this time, lads. And I want Lanchester up here too.’

  But then
the aircraft straightened out and headed off in the direction of Rhodes. It steadily dwindled into the distance and soon all that was left was a dot in the sky and the faint vibrations of its engines in the early-morning air.

  ‘Christ,’ said Maygan. ‘I have a feeling that was a bloody close call.’

  Larssen handed Tiller back his beret and pointed at the badge. ‘The sun must have caught this. Now you know why no spit and polish, Tiger. You can have my spare beret. And I have an SAS badge somewhere. All cloth, no brass. But you bloody sew it on yourself.’

  Tiller grinned and retrieved his headgear. He removed the gleaming badge of the globe and laurel and put it in his pocket. This simple action seemed to him an acceptance of this strange new life.

  Larssen slapped him on the back. ‘That’s a start, Tiger. But it’s up here,’ he said, pointing to his head with a forefinger. ‘That’s where it really counts. But it’s a start.’

  Maygan had his log open on his knees. He licked the end of his pencil. ‘How do you spell Blohm and Voss?’ he asked.

  Maygan would have liked to hug the eastern shore of Simi until they had reached the far end, where the port of Simi lay in the deep natural harbour of Yalo Bay. He knew the garrison was a small one, perhaps no more than fifty Italians, but Jarrett had told him there was no knowing how they would react. And somewhere – no one quite knew where – there was at least one gun battery. Having nearly lost his command already once that day Maygan explained that he wanted to keep out of the range of any guns for as long as possible, or at least not sail up their muzzles.

  He spread out the chart and showed Larssen his proposed course. ‘We could put into Marathonda or Nano Bay, but I wouldn’t like to approach the shore any further north as at least one of the batteries is bound to be sited close to Simi.’

  ‘What is the safest from your point of view?’ Larssen asked.

  ‘Put into Marathonda Bay.’

  ‘And how do we get to the port?’

  Maygan shrugged. ‘Hijack some donkeys, I suppose. It’s about five or six miles as the crow flies across the hills. Probably twice that if you find and follow the track which connects Panormiti Bay with the port.’