Go In and Sink! (30 page)

Smith’s head showed briefly against a lighted slit in some shutters. Then he whispered, ‘A good dozen in there. Swilling vino.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No Germans, and no Italian officer either.’ He reached up and gently tested the corner of the shutters. ‘Careless bastards.’ He drew two genades from his pouch and added, ‘Two each. Pull out the pins, release the levers, count two, and then pop them into the window.’ He slung his pistol over his arm. ‘Just pray to God there’s no unbreakable glass. If
there
is, we’ll have six grenades for company!’

Marshall pulled the pin from a grenade, and holding the lever flat with his fingers, jerked out the pin from another. He saw Cain following his example, and wondered if they could hear his heart pounding.

Smith had only withdrawn one pin. With his free hand he took hold of the shutter.

‘Ready? Right, release ’em!’ As the five levers clattered in the yard Smith dragged back the shutter with all his strength. ‘
Now!
’

The smash of breaking glass, the attendant shouts of surprise and then terror, were almost drowned by Cain yelling, ‘Jesus, I’ve dropped one of ’em!’

Smith bent down and scooped the live grenade off the ground, and hurled it after the others. He had barely time to pull the pin of his own grenade and throw himself beside Marshall and Cain before the front of the building erupted in one great burst of fire and noise. Glass, woodwork and stones flew across the yard and clattered against the wall and on to the road beyond, and from above came a deluge of broken tiles and huge lumps of plaster.

Smith yelled, ‘Inside!’

He kicked open the sagging door and dashed into the room. The light had been broken, but enough filtered from a passageway at the rear to show the devastation and death left by the grenades. In a dark corner someone was screaming and choking, the sounds inhuman. Smith aimed a short burst of automatic fire, the flashes lighting up staring eyes and gleaming wounds before hiding them once more. The screaming stopped.

Smith was already in the passageway, his pistol cutting down a terrified man in a cook’s apron who had come careering round a corner at the far end. He reached another
door
and threw his weight against it, falling almost flat as the catch collapsed, allowing the light to spill into the smoke-filled corridor, momentarily blinding them.

A single shot came from the room, cutting plaster from the wall by Marshall’s shoulder. He saw an Italian officer staring at him wildly, an automatic in his hand as he aimed for another shot.

Smith screamed, ‘
Get him!
’

Marshall did not feel any pressure, just the gun jumping in his grip, and saw the officer spin round like a puppet, the wall beyond him splashed with patches of bright scarlet.

Cain shouted, ‘’Ere’s the major, sir!’

He was still wearing his shabby businessman’s suit, but there was dirt all over it, and he had lost one of his shoes. He must have been shot several times an the moment of capture, and his face was barely recognisable.

Smith barked, ‘That door! Cover it!’

The door in question was at the other side of the room, narrow and heavily studded. It was opening very slowly, and after the horror of the grenades and the sight of Carter’s riddled body it was all the more unnerving. Marshall could feel himself gritting his teeth and panting like a wild animal, and his eyes watered with frantic concentration. Further and further, until a long slit of light played across the room, over the dead Italian and on to Cain’s boots. After a slight pause, a hand appeared. It was holding a white handkerchief.

Smith said tersely, ‘A truce, eh?’ He was grinning, but his face was a picture of cold determination.

He yelled, ‘Come out with your hands up!’ In a quieter tone he added, ‘If they so much as blink, let ’em have it!’

There were two of them. Both in black uniforms, and so much alike they could have been brothers.

Smith gestured to the floor. ‘Down! Hands behind your heads!’

The Germans understood well enough and laid down without a word beside the dead officer.

Smith said quietly, ‘Watch ’em, Cain.’ Then very gently he pushed the door wide open and danced nimbly around the frame.

Marshall followed, the gun almost slipping from his fingers as he saw the girl. She was lying on a heavy table, her arms and legs tied to its corners. She was naked, and in the overhead light looked like a small broken statue.

Smith snapped, ‘Don’t touch her!’

He moved swiftly to the table, while Marshall stood motionless by the door. There were wires connected to the girl’s breasts and thighs, they in turn were attached to a small metal box beside the table. The box was humming gently. Like something alive.

Smith dropped his pistol and ran his fingers over a line of controls. The humming stopped, and he said quietly, ‘Now give me a hand, for God’s sake.’

Marshall took her head in his hands, his eyes smarting as he saw the raw marks on her body, the blood on her mouth where someone had punched her.

Smith held his breath and unclipped the wires one by one. Only then did she open her eyes, her tongue touching her lips, her stomach contracting as if to resist some new torture.

Marshall whispered, ‘It’s all right.
Please, it’s all right
.’

Smith was struggling out of his long leather coat. ‘Here. Get her into this.’ He held Marshall’s eyes. ‘Fast as you like.’ He shouted to Cain, ‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘But I think I ’eard voices at the rear.’

‘More sentries.’

Smith watched as Marshall eased the girl from the table. Just one movement made her cry out, and then she fell limply against him.

‘Carry her.’ Smith jammed a fresh magazine into his pistol. ‘Let’s move.’

As Marshall carried the girl through the adjoining room, Smith called, ‘You two. In here.
Schnell!
’

The two Gestapo men scrambled to their feet, one darting a quick glance at Marshall as he passed. Smith backed out of the cell, pausing for just one moment to study the two Germans as they stood awkwardly beside their table with its electric box.

He took the last grenade from his pouch and threw it at their feet, before leaping outside and dragging the heavy door behind him. He heard them scream, felt their frantic fists against the door before the grenade exploded. He watched the dust and smoke spouting around the edges and said, ‘Sleep well, you bastards!’

Outside on the road it seemed very cool, even cold. Smith snapped, ‘Give your captain a hand.’ He watched their figures start to melt into the shadows and then said to Cain, ‘Just one last thing.’ He trained his machine-pistol on the left-hand corner of the wall. ‘Then we’ll follow along.’

Bent almost double, their silhouettes grotesque against the pale wall, the two sentries from the rear of the post edged cautiously towards the gates. They did not want to go inside. The explosions and gunfire, the stench of the shattered corpses told them clearly what had happened. But they had to go just the same. To know. To be sure.

Smith took aim and fired a full magazine, the rasping clatter of gunfire echoing back from the wall like some additional marksman.

He looked unwinkingly at the two inert humps below
the
wall and then said, ‘That’s it then.’ He jammed in another magazine. ‘It should give us an hour or so.’

Cain stumbled after him, his mind cringing, the pistol dangling at his side. It was not real. It could not happen to him. In a moment he would awake. Snap out of it.

Smith fell in step beside him. ‘Here. Have a cigarette.’ He lit his own calmly, then stooped to pick up a small round stone. Before putting it in Cain’s pocket he said, ‘There. You’ve got a piece of enemy territory all for yourself. More than some ever get.’

Cain sucked on his cigarette and coughed hoarsely. He thought of Major Carter, all bloody and broken. Not a man any more. Just a thing. A nothing. And that poor girl, what they were doing to her. He thought too of Marshall, the way he had carried her from the post. No sign of weariness. He had marched out as if he was carrying the most precious thing in the whole world.

Cain recalled his own wife in Harwich. What would he have thought if it had been her on that table?

Smith halted and waited while Cain vomited against the roadway. ‘All right now, P.O.?’

Cain wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Sure thing. Just takes a bit of gettin’ used to.’

Smith smiled and glanced at the sky. It looked lighter already. ‘You never do that, my friend. Not in a million bloody years.’

Lieutenant Victor Frenzel stood loosely by his control panel watching the chief electrical artificer checking gauges for the umpteenth time. Around him in the control room it seemed extra quiet as the submarine continued circling offshore at periscope depth. They were still closed up at
diving
stations, supposedly ready for anything, the dimmed deckhead lights throwing gaunt shadows from bowed heads, and arms reaching out to make the usual adjustments.

Buck was at the periscope, his left arm draped over one of the handles as he made a slow, unhurried inspection. Number One and Devereaux were in the wardroom for some reason.

Frenzel glanced impatiently at the bulkhead clock. It must be getting light up top. Soon time to get the hell out.

Warwick was whispering with his senior gunlayer below the conning-tower hatch, nodding every so often as the leading seaman explained some technical point or other. It helped pass the time. Deaden the anxiety.

Frenzel hated such moments. It had not always been so. Just since Captain Browning had sent for him to tell him the news. Poor old Buster. He had not known how to say it. He did not even seem to know there was no way of saying it. Not then. Not ever.

He clenched his fists as her picture came back again. And the kid. Such a little chap. Just like her.

They had been very lucky. He had married her early, when he had been a leading stoker. But for her he might never have got down to his books, never have discovered what she had seen in him. When he had been commissioned she had shared it. All the others had been on the outside. It had always been like that. He stared moodily round the control room. Fifteen years he had been in the
Andrew
. Since he was a boy. Apart from Starkie and a couple of others, he was the oldest one in the boat. But before, in other submarines, he had somehow managed to feel quite the opposite. He shivered. How long would it last?

Buck murmured, ‘Down ’scope.’ He walked to Frenzel’s side. ‘Nothing.’

‘Is it light yet?’

‘I can see the headland. Getting a bit dodgy.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘It’s not the same without the skipper, is it?’

‘No.’

‘D’you reckon he was right?’ Buck seemed to want to talk. That was unusual enough.

Frenzel looked away. ‘What’s
right
anyway?’ He sighed. ‘He’s full of surprises, that one.’

‘They’ll crucify him for what he’s doing.’

Frenzel thought of the men he had seen brought aboard. ‘The Jerries will do that if they catch him.’

Buck’s remark had brought it home to him. It
was
different without Marshall. The captain was always close, ready to deal with things, make decisions, right or wrong. It was like losing a limb, or some essential part of the boat.

Keville, the artificer, turned in his seat. ‘All gauges checked, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Build good boats, the Jerries do.’

Buck whispered, ‘Can’t wait much longer, Vic. What the hell will we do?’

Churchill padded across the deck. ‘Pardon, sir. Number One’d like you in the wardroom.’ He was speaking to Frenzel.

Buck grimaced. ‘Sounds like a decision.’

‘Maybe.’ Frenzel turned on his heel. ‘Indecision more likely.’

He found Gerrard and Devereaux sitting on opposite sides of the table below a solitary deckhead light. He heard someone moaning softly behind drawn curtains, and guessed it was Moss, the wounded agent. The place stank of disinfectant. The Italian was in another bunk, snoring fit to burst. He knew that the man Travis and the three agents were in Marshall’s cabin. Talking, threatening, he did not know or care.

Devereaux looked up, his sleek head shining under the light. ‘Ah, Chief, just the man.’

Gerrard said, ‘Pilot thinks it’s time to move out.’ He looked terrible. Gaunt and lined with worry. He seemed to have put on years in the last few hours.

Frenzel sat down but kept his eyes on Gerrard. He could not believe it. He replied flatly, ‘You’re in command. What do
you
think?’

Devereaux interrupted, ‘Fact is, Chief, I’m not sure we should stay here a second more. The C.O.’s decision was beyond the widest interpretation of his orders. It’s obvious.’

Frenzel said, ‘Not to me.’ He looked at Gerrard again. ‘Well?’

‘I can understand perfectly. The captain did what he thought was right, but …’

Frenzel groped for a cigarette and changed his mind. Those words again.
Right. But
.

Gerrard said sharply, ‘What about your department, Chief?’ He sounded as if he was forcing a decision. ‘Are you satisfied with fuel and so forth?’