Marine L SBS Page 6

  ‘As you know, these fuses are made on the assumption that they will be activated at seventy degrees,’ said Ayton patiently. ‘Any colder and they take longer to work; any hotter and they take a shorter time. I reckon these could go off after eight hours, perhaps seven or even six and a half. I don’t know about you, but I want to be safe and sound aboard the sub before those charges go off, because they’ll wake the whole bloody island. By my reckoning it’s going to be a close-run thing.’

  Pountney put the dud fuse back where Ayton had placed it, and nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘I know I am,’ Ayton replied with a grin. He began carefully packing the charges back into the bergens, putting five in each, then divided up the clam mines so that they each had half a dozen. Ayton kept the empty Gammon grenades and what remained of the PE in his bergen, for if the Gammons were needed it would be he who made them up.

  Sitting in the last rays of the dying sun, they ate a quick meal of cold tinned stew and washed it down with rum. Then, working methodically and from force of habit, they erased all signs of their presence in the hut and collected together in one of the ponchos everything they didn’t need for the raid. They hid the bundle in a crevice between two rocks, and covered it with earth and stones. That done, they blackened each other’s faces with camouflage cream, carefully checked their Welrods, transferred two spare ammunition clips to the pockets of their parachute smocks, synchronized their watches and made sure, by jumping up and down, that no rattle or clink would betray their presence.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Pountney, and led the way down the slope towards the airfield. By now the sun had turned a golden red and was dipping below the horizon. Once they heard a donkey bray, but otherwise the countryside seemed uninhabited. The last of the mountainside petered out, giving way to sparse grass and scattered bushes and olive trees. As the men walked, grasshoppers bounced off the parched yellow stalks of the grass and the cicadas kept up their persistent noise.

  They came to a road, dusty and unmetalled, which they recced carefully. Tyre marks showed that it was used frequently by military-type transport as well as local mules and donkeys, and they guessed it must lead to the airfield. They crossed it quickly and to their relief the bushes and trees immediately became bigger and more luxuriant. This extra cover allowed them to move more quickly and to approach the airfield’s perimeter fence without difficulty. It looked no more formidable close to than it had at a distance.

  They followed the fence round to the left until they came to the main gate. Even here there did not seem to be much activity. The opening was protected by a barrier which could be lifted by pivoting it upwards. Beside it lounged two Italian soldiers, their rifles slung across their shoulders. One was twiddling his moustache, the other leant against the barrier cleaning his fingernails with a piece of stick. Beyond them the last rays of the sun glittered along the row of hangars.

  Pountney gripped Ayton’s elbow. ‘Do you see what I see?’ he whispered into the younger officer’s ear.

  Ayton nodded. He saw all right, and the prospect sent a shiver of excitement through him. For beyond the hangars, on a large concrete apron, stood row upon row of triple-engined bombers. ‘Savoia-Marchettis,’ Ayton murmured.

  ‘How many of them, do you reckon?’

  Ayton counted quickly. ‘Fifteen, perhaps twenty. I can’t see them all.’

  ‘We’ll need to use the clams then.’

  They moved on round until they were behind and then beyond the row of hangars. This gave them a clear view of how the airfield was laid out. In the middle, between the two parallel runways, stood the control tower, a squat, brick-built building with the Italian flag flying on top of it. On the far side were rows of small wooden accommodation huts and a long, low building which looked like a mess hall. Bordering the far side of the large apron on which the aircraft were parked were three large workshops, from one of which came the sound of engines being tested.

  ‘Have we got enough explosive to do those workshops a mischief?’ Pountney murmured to his companion.

  ‘I reckon,’ said Ayton quietly, ‘but the only pencils left are the dodgy ones.’

  ‘Do the best you can.’

  Pountney kept watch while Ayton shrugged off his bergen and in the dying light began working on one large charge. In case one of the pencil fuses failed, Ayton used two of them, linking each to a separate primer and detonator.

  So far there had been no sign of any guards apart from the two at the main gate, but as the sun disappeared behind the line of trees at the far end of the airfield, four figures appeared from one of the hangars and straggled off round the inside of the perimeter fence. Two of them, Pountney saw at once, had the antiquated 6.5mm Carcano rifle with which all second-grade Italian troops were armed. The other two carried sub-machine-guns, probably Berettas, though Pountney couldn’t be sure. He noted the time, then studied the patrol through his binoculars until it disappeared round a bend in the perimeter wire. Shaking his head in wonderment, he said softly to Ayton: ‘Looks as if they’ve eaten too much spaghetti. What a shower! I reckon we won’t have much trouble keeping out of their way.’

  Ayton grunted.

  It was pitch-dark by the time Ayton had assembled the larger charge. By then the workshops had closed down for the night and the men working in them had walked across the airfield to the wooden huts. The two SBS men agreed that they had to assume there was a guard of some sort on the aircraft, even though they had not seen one.

  ‘We’ll wait until the patrol comes round again,’ Pountney murmured, ‘and then we’ll go through the fence behind the hangars.’ Ayton nodded and they settled back to wait. It seemed to take the patrol an age to reappear. Once it was past them the two men slid towards the perimeter fence.

  The ground around this had been cleared for a width of about thirty feet, and they knew at once that it was almost certainly mined. Ayton drew his commando knife from its sheath, dropped to his hands and knees and with its point began prodding the earth in front and to either side of him very gently and very slowly.

  Almost immediately he hit something hard and unyielding. He put the knife down and began, with great care, scraping away the soil with his fingers until the top of a small steel canister appeared. Slowly he dug around this with the knife until he could lift it out of the ground, making sure as he did so that he did not touch the two whiskers of steel wire that protruded from its top. These were, he assumed, the trigger mechanism. He handed it to Pountney and they wriggled their way back to shelter.

  ‘An S-mine,’ whispered Pountney and Ayton felt his mouth go dry. He had heard about the Springenmine, which the Germans had just started using around Tobruk. If you trod on one of the whiskers the canister discharged a smaller, shrapnel-filled one which exploded at chest height, to fatal effect.

  Pountney carefully handed the device back and Ayton gently unscrewed it and rendered it harmless by removing the detonator. They found four more S-mines before they got close enough to the perimeter fence to cut a way through it with the wire-cutters and by the time they reached the back of one of the hangars both men were bathed in sweat.

  They drew their Welrods and carefully worked their way down the back of the hangars until they were opposite the parked aircraft. They crouched down, weapons at the ready, and scanned every inch of the concrete apron, particularly those parts in deep shadow.

  Satisfied that there was no guard on the aircraft, Pountney cupped his hand and whispered into Ayton’s ear: ‘We’ll let the patrol pass through.’

  They settled down to wait. Twenty minutes later they heard the murmur of conversation as the patrol straggled on to the apron. The Italians passed by the hangars and disappeared into the dark. Nothing else stirred. Five minutes later Pountney stood up, put his pistol back in its holster and indicated to Ayton that he should follow him. They slipped silently along the side of one hangar and across to the stationary aircraft. Pountney took the first row, Ayton the second.


  The best place to fix the charges was underneath the fuselage, where the wing joined it, but in case the magnets did not hold the charge they also used tape. Once the charge was fixed, the end of the pencil fuse was squeezed to release the acid, and the safety tag was removed to allow the pin to hit the percussion cap. They worked quickly and efficiently, both looking every now and again at their watches. When they had used all the charges they fixed the small clam mines to unobtrusive parts of the remaining aircraft. On its own the lighter clam might not destroy an aircraft but it could certainly damage its vital parts and, with any luck, set it on fire.

  When they had finished, they had just ten minutes to spare before the patrol was due to arrive back on the apron. They moved silently across the apron to the biggest workshop. Pountney eased back the door and they slipped through it. The place smelt of oil and petrol, and men’s sweat, and was in total darkness except for a dim bulb burning at the far end, which cast a pale circle of light. Moving among the lathes and work tables, they tried to find the best target on which to lay the big charge. They approached the light, but paused outside the area it illuminated.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Pountney quietly, pointing at a large, complicated piece of machinery which looked as if it was used to rebore aero engines. Ayton nodded and was moving forward, one hand in the bergen to extract the charge, when a man dressed in overalls came round the corner of the piece of machinery and stepped out in front of them. He looked as surprised as Ayton felt.

  ‘Cosa vuole?’ he asked. He was tall and dark, no longer young. He appeared perplexed at finding them there, not angry or frightened. The fear only came in the split second before he died, as he saw the glint of light on the barrel of Pountney’s Welrod. The pistol made a sound like a bottle being uncorked and the man sank to his knees soundlessly, then slowly rolled over on to his back. His eyes, wide open and blank, stared up at them reproachfully.

  ‘Fix that bloody charge, and let’s get out of here,’ Pountney hissed.

  He dragged the body to one side and covered it with a tarpaulin. Ayton moved round the machine. He remembered the sabotage instructor’s advice: find a cast-iron part, not steel. Steel could be mended by welding; cast iron shattered beyond repair. He ran his hand over one component of the machine. It was rough, a sure sign it was cast iron. He extracted the charge, squeezed the ends of both pencil fuses, then placed the charge on top of the casting. Minutes later they were out of the compound and making for the mountain ridge which towered in the distance.

  No longer carrying the heavy explosives, they made good time back to the ruined hut to retrieve the poncho and its contents.

  ‘I’ll make up some Gammons,’ Ayton said. ‘Just in case we run into trouble.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Pountney, still hoping to give the guests of the beach hotel an early-morning surprise. ‘I’ll look around to find something to fill them with. Anti-personnel shrapnel?’

  Ayton nodded. ‘We’re more likely to meet a patrol than an armoured vehicle.’

  That was the advantage of the Gammon grenade: it could be made up to suit the circumstances.

  While Pountney collected bits of metal, nail ends and small stones to use as ‘shrapnel’, Ayton quickly moulded three lumps of PE into the prescribed beehive shape and made holes in the top of each for the primer cups. Then he inserted the special No. 8 detonators into the cups and screwed them on to the percussion fuse attached to the cloth bags. Holding the bags clear, he inserted the primer cups into the holes in the lumps of explosive, drew the bags over them, filled what space remained with the shrapnel and tied the bags tight. Once assembled, the grenades could be quickly activated.

  They glanced behind them just once as they climbed up to the ridge. The airfield was shrouded in darkness. On the ridge they paused to eat some rations before clambering down the other side. They found the donkey track and an hour before dawn were back on the beach, where they retrieved the folbot. Pountney gave the darkened hotel a regretful backward glance as they moved quietly out on to the water, but he knew it would be foolhardy to attempt an attack on it.

  He paddled while Ayton took a series of bearings with his pocket compass on the two landmarks. They were weary now and the rendezvous seemed much further out than a thousand yards. The coastline receded behind them and in the half-light Ayton found it difficult to see either the hotel or the tower. He wondered if exhaustion was playing tricks with his eyesight, and shook his head and tried to focus his eyes, peering over the rim of the pocket compass. But try as he might, all signs of the land had gone. He swore under his breath when he realized what had happened. Pountney glanced back.

  ‘Mist,’ said Ayton. ‘Fucking mist. I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘We can’t be far away now,’ said Pountney. ‘We’ll stay on the same course. We’re bound to see the sub when it surfaces.’

  He bent to his paddles while Ayton took the torch from his bergen, made sure the blue filter was in place and began flashing ‘L’ in Morse code. Dot . . . dash . . . dot . . . The torch blinked into the darkness, but there was no reply, no movement, no light – nothing.

  Was there a current? Ayton had no idea. Pountney paddled slowly and methodically, then rested.

  ‘It must be about here,’ he said.

  The sea mist boiled and swirled gently all around them. The water was oily-still. Ayton glanced at his watch.

  ‘It should have surfaced by now.’

  ‘It’ll come. Try signalling again.’

  But it didn’t come. They circled to keep warm. The visibility was over two hundred yards, they reckoned, but they now had no idea how close they were to the rendezvous or how accurately the submarine would be able to navigate to it.

  ‘What now?’ said Ayton after another ten minutes.

  ‘The Gammons,’ said Pountney. ‘They’ll pick up the explosion on their asdic. They’ll know it’s us.’

  ‘Christ. I hope so,’ Ayton sighed. ‘They’ll certainly hear the explosions ashore.’

  He took out one of the grenades, unscrewed the black Bakelite cap which protected the percussion fuse, taking care that the white tape wound around the fuse did not unwind prematurely. With the grenade in his right hand and the bag filled with explosive resting in his palm, and his thumb and forefinger firmly grasping the end of the tape, he used an action similar to throwing a ball to hurl the device as far as he could. He saw the white tape unfurling. When it had completely unravelled it would pull out the safety pin and the grenade would explode on hitting the water.

  ‘You must be a cricketer,’ said Pountney as they both instinctively turned away. The Gammon went off with a terrible thump, making the folbot rock and skip.

  They waited several minutes in silence, then Pountney said calmly: ‘And the next.’

  Ayton could feel the sweat pricking the palms of his hands, but his fingers were steady as he worked quickly to unscrew the cap of a second grenade. This time he rose slightly from the craft and managed to throw the bomb farther than the first.

  ‘Good one,’ said Pountney. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  They watched the grenade arc through the mist. The tape unravelled, but when the device hit the water it sank without exploding.

  ‘Shit,’ Ayton growled.

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘It’s the last one.’

  ‘Third time lucky.’

  Ayton’s fingers were trembling as he removed the cap, but he steadied himself before hurling the grenade as high and as far as he could. The blast as it hit the water and exploded reverberated back to them.

  ‘That’ll bring them up,’ said Pountney.

  But once the water had settled again, nothing broke the glassy surface. Ashore a searchlight came on and began to sweep the night sky.

  ‘They must think they’re being bombed,’ said Pountney.

  A second searchlight sent up a finger of light, but after roving aimlessly above them it went out and the other died shortly afterwards. Ayton bega
n to suggest that they had better start paddling towards Cyprus, when Pountney cut him short.

  ‘There it is,’ he said, and dug his paddle into the water, swinging the canoe away from the shore. Ayton could not see the submarine at first, and thought Pountney might be hallucinating – a common enough occurrence among canoeists on such operations. But then he saw a conning tower surging out of the water and he plied his paddles with a strength he didn’t know he had. As they approached, the submarine rose higher, and when they reached its side they scrambled aboard with the help of willing hands.

  ‘No time to stow the folbot, sir,’ one of the seamen said. ‘The Captain said to sink it.’

  One slash of Pountney’s knife sent the folbot plunging to the bottom.

  The SBS men ran up the forecasing and more hands helped them over the bridge coaming.

  ‘Straight below, you two. Well done!’ said ‘Timber’ Woods.

  As they half slid, half clambered down the conning tower’s ladder the klaxon wailed its warning that the submarine was about to dive.

  ‘One clip on,’ Woods shouted down calmly as he closed the upper hatch. ‘Both clips on.’

  ‘Open main vents,’ the First Lieutenant snapped, after slapping the two SBS men on the back.

  Woods appeared in the control room, and a seaman moved forward to shut the lower hatch. ‘Take her to sixty feet, Number One, he ordered, and turned to Ayton and Pountney to shake their hands warmly. ‘Thought we’d lost you there for a moment,’ he said. ‘Luckily we’ve got a first-rate asdic operator who managed to get a distance and bearing on those grenades you used.’ His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, looked at them intently. ‘Everything go as planned?’

  ‘Like clockwork,’ Pountney answered. ‘But we’ve got to think of a better way of arranging a rendezvous. The present method isn’t half bad for my nerves.’

  5

  ‘Oh, Christ! Not you two again.’

  Woods was leaning over the edge of his bridge as Pountney and Ayton stepped from the gangplank on to the Sentinel’s forecasing.