Marine B SBS Read online

  ‘And the quickest way?’ asked Larssen.

  ‘Sail into Simi flying the white ensign and our best uniforms, and hope for the best.’

  ‘I prefer the quickest,’ Larssen said immediately. ‘Are you game?’

  Maygan hesitated. ‘I’ll keep offshore until we reach the port and then sail straight in. That way we won’t suddenly appear, which might make them shoot first and ask questions afterwards.’

  ‘They’ll be trigger-happy, that’s certain,’ said Larssen.

  The caique worked its way steadily up the island’s coast, but no one aboard saw any sign of life on the rocky shore. Behind the arid littoral the mountainous interior looked bare of vegetation. The heat shimmered on the water and contorted the rugged coastline. They passed Pethi Bay and turned north-westwards towards the tiny island of Nimos, which lay just beyond Simi. Gradually the large expanse of Yalo Bay opened up before them.

  ‘I can see the port, sir,’ Griffiths, who had the binoculars, shouted from the bows.

  ‘We’ll stand on for another ten minutes,’ Maygan called out, ‘and then head inshore. Hoist the white ensign.’

  Maygan tossed his cloth cap into the cockpit and donned his service one. Off came the baggy trousers and on went the regulation navy shorts. Off came the seaman’s vest and on went the regulation white naval shirt with the lieutenant’s ranks in gold braid on the epaulettes. Both officers also buckled on their holsters. Pistols would be of little use in the situation they now found themselves in, but they were a kind of symbol of authority.

  After ten minutes Maygan turned the caique into the bay and headed for the port. He cut the engine right back, and then put it in neutral so that LS8 was just moving gently through the calm water.

  ‘Any shipping?’ Maygan called out to Griffiths.

  ‘Nothing that I can see, sir.’

  ‘Keep a sharp lookout.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  They left behind the headlands that protected the bay and could soon discern with the naked eye the buildings clustered around the port. Rows of multicoloured houses were built on the steep hillsides that surrounded the port, which was dominated by an old castle. Atop this flew a very large but indistinguishable flag which flapped lazily in the light breeze.

  They strained their eyes and ears, looking for movement or for the sound of the alarm being raised. But all they could hear was the chuckle of water under the caique’s bows.

  ‘Do you know, I think we’ve made it, gentlemen,’ Maygan said. ‘They’re going to welcome us with open arms.’

  As he spoke there was a large splash a long way astern of them and then they all heard the dull crack of a distant gun.

  Maygan swore loudly.

  The second shot was close enough for them to hear the curious whirr the shell made as it passed over them.

  ‘Where is it, Griffiths?’ Maygan shouted.

  The deck-hand pointed and said: ‘On that point there, sir.’

  Sure enough, with the third shot they saw the flash.

  ‘That’s incredibly bad shooting,’ said Larssen coolly.

  ‘Perhaps they don’t want to hit us?’ Maygan suggested. ‘Perhaps they’re just firing warning shots across our bows to make us stop.’

  ‘Then why are the shells all falling astern?’ Larssen replied scornfully.

  ‘Well, they’re wasting valuable ammunition we might want,’ Maygan argued. ‘We might as well stop and see what happens.’

  He put the engine in neutral and the caique slowly lost way and came to a halt. It bobbed up and down in the flat calm water. There was hardly any wind now and Maygan had the ensign hauled down and draped over the side where those manning the battery could see it. The battery fell silent, and they waited for the Italians’ next move.

  This came quite quickly, for they saw a motor launch leave the port and make its way towards them. It circled them warily and then came to a halt about 300 yards from them. In the bows a naval rating manned a machine-gun, which he pointed straight at them, and flying from the stern was a disproportionately large Italian flag with the emblem of the Italian royal house at its centre.

  But what drew the immediate attention of the men aboard the caique was the figure seated in the centre of the launch. He was dressed from top to toe in pure white. A cascade of gold-braided tassles flowed from one shoulder and a parasol of delicate hue protected him from the sun.

  ‘Cor,’ said Barnesworth in mock awe. ‘King Kong himself.’

  A more modestly dressed officer stood up and bellowed through a loud-hailer: ‘You spik English?’

  ‘We are English,’ Maygan shouted back. He pointed at the white ensign. ‘Royal Navy. Special Operations.’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘We have come to talk with your commandant. We come as allies.’

  The two figures conversed, then the man with the loud-hailer called out: ‘Please. Follow us.’

  Those in the launch obviously weren’t completely convinced of the caique’s identity for the machine-gunner was ordered to move with his weapon to the stern, where, to the amusement of those aboard the caique, the large flag kept winding itself around his head.

  ‘Should I man the Solothurn, sir?’ Griffiths asked. ‘I can load it, but keep it under the foresail.’

  Maygan nodded, and said: ‘And let’s have the Bren where we can get at it quickly.’

  Larssen also slid up a Lanchester carbine he had found in the hold. He pushed it into a position where the folded mainsail prevented it being seen from the launch. He sighted down the barrel carefully.

  ‘If you keep them slightly on your starboard bow as you’re doing now I can take the machine-gunner,’ he said to Maygan quietly. ‘Then I’ll puncture the elegant bastard under the umbrella.’

  ‘Good. If it’s a trap we can always turn and make a run for it. That battery couldn’t hit a battleship at a hundred yards.’

  ‘Oh, no, Andrew,’ Larssen said softly. ‘I think we run nowhere. Look at that.’

  From behind the stone pier of the inner harbour a low, grey silhouette slid into view. It turned towards them and they could hear the powerful grumble of its engines as it picked up speed.

  ‘Shit, eh,’ Larssen whistled admiringly. ‘That’s some boat. What is it?’

  ‘A Motoscafo Anti-sommergibile or MAS boat,’ said Maygan, who had been chosen for the mission because of his smattering of Italian. ‘A smaller equivalent of our MTBs.’

  ‘We captured one earlier this summer,’ Bryson said. ‘They’ve got three Isotta-Fraschini engines and go like greased lightning, but are hopeless in any sort of a sea.’

  They watched the MAS boat approach. It had a very low freeboard and seemed excessively narrow for its length, but it looked fast. Very fast. It had two torpedo tubes which were positioned either side of its bows and between them was mounted a dual-purpose machine-gun. Two members of the crew stood by it.

  ‘Boy,’ Larssen breathed, watching the white feather of water growing under the MAS boat’s curved bows. That’s a forty-knot boat, I reckon.’

  ‘Nearer fifty actually,’ Maygan corrected him. ‘At least that’s their design speed.’

  The MAS boat surged forward effortlessly and circled astern of them. Maygan saw with some relief that the two-man crew of its main armament, twin 20mm Bredas positioned aft of its bridge, kept their weapon trained fore and aft. But the trap, if it was a trap, was now closed.

  But, having shown its turn of speed, the MAS boat turned back and came alongside the caique. Abruptly, its engines were cut and the sleek grey hull stalled in the water. It had an open, streamlined, aluminium bridge on which a naval officer was sitting on a stool. He wore not a cap but a leather helmet rather like those worn by racing drivers of the day.

  He stepped down from the stool, took off his helmet, and came down on to the deck. He leant on the rails of his elegant craft and called across to the caique. ‘British navy?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Maygan shouted back.
r />   ‘Your ship’s name?’

  ‘LS8 of Levant Schooner Flotilla. Special Operations. Buon giorno.’

  ‘Buon giorno, Capitano.’ The officer smiled broadly as he snapped to attention and saluted. ‘Welcome to Simi.’

  Maygan returned the salute. ‘Thank you. Grazie.’

  ‘When you get into harbour you come aboard, sì? I want to welcome you.’ The officer made the gesture of lifting a glass to his lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Maygan with more feeling.

  ‘Pink gin. It’s good?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Maygan.

  ‘Arrivederci.’

  The officer saluted again, returned to his bridge and his stool, and the MAS boat surged forward.

  ‘He seems friendly enough,’ said Maygan. ‘I wonder how he knows about pink gin.’

  Larssen grunted. Jarrett had told him how complicated the situation was, how nothing would be what it seemed, and he remained sceptical. Put in its simplest terms, Jarrett had explained, the Italian Fascisti still supported the Germans, whereas the non-fascist Italians certainly didn’t. The non-fascists loathed the Germans and Mussolini’s jackbooted supporters in equal measure, but were scared of both. Most Greeks loathed all Italians and all Germans and were scared of neither, but only the Andartes had arms. And then there were the fascist Greeks, the collaborators. Who were on which islands and in what strength remained a mystery, as did the allegiance of the various groups to the Allied cause. It was, Jarrett had told Larssen, a bit of a hornets’ nest.

  He could say that again.

  A group of civilians had gathered at the end of the breakwater as they passed into the inner harbour.

  ‘Yasus!’ Larssen called out, using the only word of Greek he knew.

  The civilians waved frantically. ‘Yasus! Anglika! Yasus!’

  They waved and called, thin, ragged figures alive with delight. They ran along the breakwater, ignoring the MAS boat, which was returning to its berth there. They waved and shouted as they went, and then the crew of the caique saw that small groups of other locals were beginning to gather on the quay that ran the length of the tiny port.

  ‘Unload the Solothurn, Griffiths,’ Maygan ordered. ‘Make sure it’s covered up.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘All other arms in the hold. If it’s a trap, there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m not going to risk hurting the locals in a running gun battle.’

  They watched the launch go alongside the quay and tie up. The elegant figure in white stepped out from under the parasol and on to the quay. They could see him flicking dust off his uniform and pulling his skin-tight jacket straight.

  ‘What the hell’s he got on his head, sir?’ Bryson asked.

  ‘Looks like ostrich plumes to me,’ said Maygan.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bryson said quietly.

  The other officer aboard the launch jumped ashore and indicated to those aboard the caique that they should berth alongside the quay next to the launch.

  ‘Here we go, lads. Mooring warps ready fore and aft.’

  Tiller watched with admiration as Maygan manoeuvred the clumsy vessel. It came alongside with hardly a bump.

  ‘Cut the engine, Bryson.’

  The crowd surged forward and began to clap and call out their welcome.

  Many eager hands grabbed the mooring warps and stretched out to greet the caique’s crew. Thin, lined faces, nut-brown from the sun and wreathed in smiles, clustered round. A bunch of green grapes and a bottle was handed through the crowd and passed to those on deck.

  ‘Drink, drink, drink,’ the crowd demanded.

  Maygan raised the bottle and drank deeply. It was retsina, very harsh and dry but welcome nonetheless. Everyone in turn on the caique took a swig and each time the crowd cheered its approval. The babble was tremendous but then half a dozen soldiers wearing the curious cocked hats of the Italian carabinieri pushed their way through the crowd to make a path for the two officers in their white uniforms. The crowd muttered among themselves and stepped back reluctantly. One or two even resisted the soldiers’ advance but were shoved aside by their rifle butts.

  The soldiers looked nervous, the Italian officers even more so. They approached the caique and halted, then both gave the fascist salute, the right arm outstretched at forty-five degrees, the open palm of the hand held outwards.

  No one on the caique moved. The muttering in the crowd stopped. The silence was broken when one old man at the front hawked noisily and then spat into the water. Another copied him but he spat on the ground. Maygan could see that some of the saliva had splashed on to the shiny black knee-boots of one of the officers, who pretended not to notice. The tension between the two groups was unmistakable.

  ‘There’s going to be trouble,’ Maygan said to Larssen quietly. ‘I think we’ve got to do something. Quickly.’

  Larssen swung himself up on to the bulwarks and grabbed the rigging to steady himself.

  ‘Does anyone here speak English?’ he addressed the crowd. A tough-looking man with greying hair and a lined face burnt almost black with the sun pushed forward. He wore a large knife on his belt and his right hand lay loosely on its hilt as he spoke. ‘My name is Christophou, Angelios Christophou. My family are fishermen. We have lived here many generations. The British navy is welcome.’

  They shook hands and the crowd murmured appreciatively. It had not gone unnoticed that the British visitors had refused to acknowledge the Italians’ salute.

  Larssen quickly explained that they were the advance guard of a larger British force, that the British were old friends and allies of the Greeks, that he understood how the local people felt, but that there must be no trouble, and that they must all disperse to their homes.

  ‘Tonight we celebrate,’ he ended. ‘But now we have business to discuss.’

  He gestured towards the Italian officers. The fisherman nodded and turned and addressed the crowd. When he had finished someone shouted something from the back. The crowd tittered and the fisherman grinned. ‘He wants to know if you have come to hang all the Italians. He will help you. He has some good strong rope.’

  Larssen thought of telling them that the Italians had to be their allies if the islands were to be kept free of Germans. But he looked at their faces and thought better of it. That would have to wait.

  ‘No hanging, no shooting, no fighting,’ Larssen announced firmly and loudly. ‘Any of you making trouble will be answerable to me.’

  Larssen pointed his finger at random into the crowd and then at his chest. He saw that they knew what he meant before Christophou had even translated his words, and that they didn’t like it. They had scores to settle and the sooner they started settling them the happier they would be.

  It looked like being an impasse. But then in one of those gestures that only a natural diplomat can plan Larssen took a small Greek flag out of his pocket, knotted it to a halyard, and hoisted it to the masthead. They went wild with delight, shouting at Christophou to translate their demands. Christophou grabbed his arm.

  ‘They do what you say. But tonight you come to the taverna. Tonight at nine o’clock. We celebrate. They want your promise.’

  Larssen pointed to his watch and then to the taverna, and then lifted an imaginary glass to his lips. They cheered.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ he shouted, and they cheered some more when they knew they had his promise. But it was not quite over yet, for each of the male inhabitants insisted on hugging each of the crew and pumping his hand before they would leave. Even so, within twenty minutes the quay was deserted except for the carabinieri leaning on their rifles and the two dejected officers wilting in the heat.

  ‘And who,’ said Larssen pointing at them, ‘exactly are you two comedians?’

  5

  ‘Prego? Comedians?’ The more plainly dressed of the two Italian army officers looked perplexed; his elegant companion impatient.

  An hour previously the SBS patrol had received a hostile reception from t
he Italian garrison. Now the SBS men realized that their erstwhile enemies were in more imminent danger than they were. If the nearby Germans didn’t get them the local Greeks certainly would. And if the two standing before them were typical examples of those defending the Dodecanese, there didn’t seem much hope of keeping the Germans at bay if they chose to come.

  ‘Prego? the Italian officer said again.

  ‘Who are you?’ Larssen repeated.

  The officer drew himself up and his chest swelled beneath his exquisitely cut uniform. He was a young man with an oversized moustache the ends of which he tended to bite when he was nervous. ‘I am Giuseppe Antonio Giuliano Perquesta, lieutenant in the army of His Majesty King Victor Emmanuel, and until recently a troop commander in the Cavour armoured division. Now I am the interpreter on the staff of His Excellency Colonel Ardetti, the island’s commandant. At your service, signore."

  ‘And him?’

  ‘The colonel’s aide-de-camp, signore. Captain Salvini.’

  At the sound of his name the captain bowed stiffly. His ostrich feathers made his head look top-heavy. He was dark and swarthy, with narrow eyes and twitchy hands. Larssen didn’t like the look of him at all.

  ‘Look Giuseppe,’ Larssen said firmly. ‘Firstly, no more of this.’ Larssen waved his arm above his head in a parody of a fascist salute. ‘Understood?’

  The lieutenant nodded and grinned his agreement, but Salvini looked glum.

  ‘Secondly, we come as friends and liberators, not as conquerors. That applies to you as much as to the islanders. We come as advisers. You understand me?’

  ‘Sì, capisco, signore. I quite understand.’

  ‘My first piece of advice is don’t annoy the locals. Your men should keep out of their way.’

  ‘I understand, signore. But of course that is a matter for the commandant. He sends you his friendly greetings.’

  ‘He has a damned funny way of doing it,’ Maygan interrupted crossly. ‘It’s bloody lucky your gunners can’t shoot straight.’

  Perquesta smoothed his moustache in embarrassment. ‘Scusi, signore. It was a mistake. Everyone is – how do you say? – very nervous. At any moment we expect the Germans. They demand we still fight on their side. The commandant has already had a radio message from General Klemann on Rhodes. The general is a hard man.’