Читать книгу Storm Warning - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 7
ОглавлениеBarquentine Deutschland, 14 September 1944. Lat. 28°.16N., long. 30°.50W. Frau Prager died at three bells of the mid-watch. We delivered her body to the sea shortly after dawn, Sister Angela taking the service. Ship’s company much affected by this calamitous event. A light breeze sprang up during the afternoon watch, increasing to fresh in squalls. I estimate that we are 1170 miles from Cobh in Ireland this day.
Night was falling fast as Jago and Petty Officer Jansen went up the hill to St Mungo’s. They found the burial party in the cemetery at the back of the church. There were twenty or so islanders there, men and women, Jean Sinclair and Reeve standing together, the admiral in full uniform. Murdoch Macleod in his best blue serge suit, stood at the head of the open grave, a prayer book in his hands.
The two Americans paused some little distance away and removed their caps. It was very quiet except for the incessant calling of the birds, and Jago looked down across Mary’s Town to the horseshoe of the harbour where the MGB was tied up at the jetty.
The sun was setting in a sky the colour of brass, splashed with scarlet, thin mackerel clouds high above. Beyond Barra Head, the islands marched north to Barra, Mingulay, Pabbay, Sandray, rearing out of a perfectly calm sea, black against flame.
Reeve glanced over his shoulder, murmured something to Jean Sinclair, then moved towards them through the gravestones. ‘Thanks for coming so promptly, Lieutenant.’
‘No trouble, sir. We were on our way to Mallaig from Stornoway when they relayed your message.’ Jago nodded towards the grave into which half-a-dozen fishermen were lowering the coffin. ‘Another one from U-743?’
Reeve nodded. ‘That makes eight in the past three days.’ He hesitated. ‘When you were last here you said you were going to London on leave this week.’
‘That’s right, Admiral. If I can get to Mallaig on time I intend to catch the night train for Glasgow. Is there something I can do for you, sir?’
‘There certainly is.’ Reeve took a couple of envelopes from his pocket. ‘This first one is for my niece. Her apartment’s in Westminster, not far from the Houses of Parliament.’
‘And the other, sir?’
Reeve handed it over. ‘If you would see that gets to SHAEF Headquarters personally. It would save time.’
Jago looked at the address on the envelope and swallowed hard. ‘My God!’
Reeve smiled. ‘See that it’s handed to one of his aides personally. No one else.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’d better move out, then. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get back. As I told you, I have a radio at the cottage, one of the few courtesies the Navy still extends me. They’ll brief you at Mallaig on the times during the day I sit at the damned thing hoping someone will take notice.’
Jago saluted, nodded to Jansen and then moved away. As the admiral rejoined the funeral party, Murdoch Macleod started to read aloud in a firm, clear voice: ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower …’
Suddenly it was very dark, with only the burned-out fire of day on the horizon as they went out through the lych-gate.
Jansen said, ‘Who’s the letter for, Lieutenant?’
‘General Eisenhower,’ Jago said simply.
In Brest, they were shooting again across the river as Paul Gericke turned the corner, the rattle of small-arms fire drifting across the water. Somewhere on the far horizon rockets arched through the night and in spite of the heavy rain, considerable portions of the city appeared to be on fire. Most of the warehouses which had once lined the street had been demolished by bombing, the pavement was littered with rubble and broken glass, but the small hotel on the corner, which served as naval headquarters, still seemed to be intact. Gericke ran up the steps quickly, showed his pass to the sentry on the door and went inside.
He was a small man, no more than five feet five or six, with fair hair and a pale face that seemed untouched by wind and weather. His eyes were very dark, with no light in them at all, contrasting strangely with the good-humoured, rather lazy smile that seemed permanently to touch his mouth.
His white-topped naval cap had seen much service and he was hardly a prepossessing figure in his old leather jerkin, leather trousers and sea boots. But the young lieutenant sitting at his desk in the foyer saw only the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves at the throat and was on his feet in an instant.
‘I was asked to report to the commodore of submarines as soon as I arrived,’ Gericke told him. ‘Korvettenkapitän Gericke. U-235.’
‘He’s expecting you, sir,’ the lieutenant said. ‘If you’d follow me.’
They went up the curving staircase. A petty officer, a pistol at his belt, stood guard outside one of the hotel bedrooms. The handwritten notice on the door said Kapitän zur See Otto Friemel, Führer der Unterseeboote West.
The lieutenant knocked and went in. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Gericke, sir.’
The room was in half darkness, the only light the reading lamp on Friemel’s desk. He was in shirt-sleeves, working his way through a pile of correspondence, steel-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and an ivory cigarette-holder jutting from the left corner of his mouth.
He came round the desk smiling, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Paul. Good to see you. How was the West Indies?’
‘A long haul,’ Gericke said. ‘Especially when it was time to come home.’
Friemel produced a bottle of Schnapps and two glasses. ‘We’re out of champagne. Not like the old days.’
‘What, no flowers on the dock?’ Gericke said. ‘Don’t tell me we’re losing the war?’
‘My dear Paul, in Brest we don’t even have a dock any longer. If you’d arrived in daylight you’d have noticed the rather unhappy state of those impregnable U-boat pens of ours. Five metres of reinforced concrete pulverised by a little item the RAF call the Earthquake bomb.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, Paul. A successful trip, I hear?’
‘Not bad,’
‘Come now. A Canadian corvette, a tanker and three merchant ships? Thirty-one thousand tons, and you call that not bad? I’d term it a rather large miracle. These days two out of three U-boats that go out never return.’ He shook his head. ‘It isn’t nineteen-forty any longer. No more Happy Time. These days they send out half-trained boys. You’re one of the few oldtimers left.’
Gericke helped himself to a cigarette from a box on the table. It was French and of the cheapest variety, for when he lit it and inhaled, the smoke bit at the back of his throat, sending him into a paroxysm of coughing.
‘My God! Now I know things are bad.’
‘You’ve no idea how bad,’ Friemel told him. ‘Brest has been besieged by the American Eighth Army Corps since the ninth of August. The only reason we’re still here is because of the quite incredible defence put up by General Ramcke and the Second Airborne Division. Those paratroopers of his are without a doubt the finest fighting men I’ve ever seen in action, and that includes the Waffen SS.’ He reached for the Schnapps bottle again. ‘Of course they were pulled out of the Ukraine to come here. It could be they are still euphoric at such good fortune. An American prison camp, after all, is infinitely to be preferred to the Russian variety.’
‘And what’s the U-boat position?’
‘There isn’t one. The Ninth Flotilla is no more. U-256 was the last to leave. That was eleven days ago. Orders are to regroup in Bergen.’
‘Then what about me?’ Gericke asked. ‘I could have made for Norway by way of the Irish Sea and the North Channel.’
‘Your orders, Paul, are quite explicit. You will make for Bergen via the English Channel, as the rest of the flotilla has done, only in your case, someone at High Command has provided you with what one might term a slight detour.’
Gericke, who had long since passed being surprised at anything, smiled. ‘Where to, exactly?’
‘It’s really quite simple.’ Friemel turned to the table behind, rummaged amongst a pile of charts, found the one he was looking for and opened it across the desk.
Gericke leaned over. ‘Falmouth?’
‘That’s right. The Royal Navy’s Fifteenth MGB Flotilla operating out of Falmouth has been causing havoc on this entire coast recently. To be perfectly honest, it’s made any kind of naval activity impossible.’
‘And what am I supposed to do about it?’
‘According to your orders, go into Falmouth and lay mines.’
‘They’re joking, of course.’
Friemel held up a typed order. ‘Dönitz himself.’
Gericke laughed out loud. ‘But this is really beautiful, Otto. Quite superb in its idiocy, even for those chairbound bastards in Kiel. What on earth am I supposed to do, win the war in a single bold stroke?’ He shook his head. ‘They must believe in fairy stories. Someone should tell them that when the tailor boasted he could kill seven at one blow he meant flies on a slice of bread and jam.’
‘I don’t know,’ Friemel said. ‘It could be worse. There’s a protecting curtain of mines plus a blockship here between Pendennis Point and Black Rock and a temporary net boom from Black Rock to St Anthony’s Head. That’s supposed to be highly secret, by the way, but it seems the Abwehr still have an agent operational in the Falmouth area.’
‘He must feel lonely.’
‘Ships in and out all the time. Go in with a few when the net opens. Drop your eggs, up here in Carrick Roads and across the inner harbour and out again.’
Gericke shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why?’
‘We may get in, but we certainly won’t get out.’
Friemel sighed. ‘A pity, as I’ll be going with you. Not out of any sense of adventure, I assure you. I have orders to report to Kiel and as the land routes to Germany are cut, my only way would seem to be with you to Bergen.’
Gericke shrugged. ‘So, in the end, all roads lead to hell.’
Friemel helped himself to one of the French cigarettes and inserted it in his holder. ‘What shape are you in?’
‘We were strafed by a Liberator in Biscay. Superficial damage only, but my engines need a complete overhaul. New bearings for a start.’
‘Not possible. I can give you four or five days. We must leave on the nineteenth. Ramcke tells me he can hold out for another week at the most. No more.’
The door opened and the young lieutenant entered. ‘Signal from Kiel, sir. Marked most urgent.’
Friemel took the flimsy from him and adjusted his spectacles. A slight, ironic smile touched his mouth. ‘Would you believe it, Paul, but this confirms my promotion as Rear Admiral in command of all naval forces in the Brest area. One can only imagine it has been delayed in channels.’
The lieutenant passed across another flimsy. Friemel read it, his face grave, then handed it to Gericke. It said: CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION IN THE FULL AND CERTAIN KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU AND YOUR MEN WILL DIE RATHER THAN YIELD ONE INCH OF SOIL TO THE ENEMY. ADOLF HITLER.
Gericke passed it back. ‘Congratulations, Herr Konteradmiral,’ he said formally.
Without a flicker of emotion, Friemel said to the lieutenant, ‘Send this message to Berlin. Will fight to the last. Long live the Führer. That’s all. Dismiss!’
The young lieutenant withdrew. Friemel said, ‘You approve?’
‘Wasn’t that Lütjen’s last message before the Bismarck went down?’
‘Exactly,’ Rear Admiral Otto Friemel said. ‘Another drink, my friend?’ He reached for the bottle, then sighed. ‘What a pity. We appear to have finished the last of the Schnapps.’
It was still raining heavily in London at eight-thirty on the following evening when JU 88 pathfinders of Gruppe 1/KG 66, operating out of Chartres and Rennes in France, made their first strike. By nine-fifteen the casualty department of Guy’s Hospital was working at full stretch.
Janet Munro, in the end cubicle, curtain drawn, carefully inserted twenty-seven stitches into the right thigh of a young auxiliary fireman. He seemed dazed and lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Janet was being assisted by a male nurse named Callaghan, a white-haired man in his late fifties who had served on the Western Front as a Medical Corps sergeant in the First World War. He strongly approved of the young American doctor in every possible way and made it his business to look out for her welfare, something she seemed quite incapable of doing for herself. Just now he was particularly concerned about the fact that she had been on duty for twelve hours, and it was beginning to show.
‘You going off after this one, miss?’
‘How can I, Joey?’ she said. ‘They’ll be coming in all night.’
Bombs had been falling for some time on the other side of the Thames but now there was an explosion close at hand. The whole building shook and there was a crash of breaking glass. The lights dimmed for a moment and somewhere a child started to wail.
‘My God, Jerry certainly picks his time,’ Callaghan remarked.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, still concentrating on the task in hand.
He seemed surprised. ‘Don’t you know who’s here tonight, miss? Eisenhower himself. Turned up an hour ago just before the bombing started.’
She paused and looked at him blankly. ‘General Eisenhower? Here?’
‘Visiting those Yank paratroopers in ward seventy-three. The lads they brought over from Paris last week. Decorating some of them, that’s what I heard.’
She was unable to take it in, suddenly very tired. She turned back to her patient and inserted the last couple of stitches.
‘I’ll dress it for you,’ Callaghan said. ‘You get yourself a cup of tea.’
As she stripped the rubber gloves from her fingers, the young fireman turned his head and looked at her. ‘You a Yank then, Doctor?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Got any gum, chum?’
She smiled and took a cigarette-lighter from her pocket. ‘No, but I can manage a light.’
She took the cigarette from his mouth, lit it and gave it back to him. ‘You’ll be fine now.’
He grinned. ‘Can you cook as well, Doc?’
‘When I get the time.’
Suddenly, the effort of keeping her smile in place was too much and she turned and went into the corridor quickly. Callaghan was right. She needed that cup of tea very badly indeed. And about fifteen hours’ sleep to follow – but that, of course, was quite impossible.
As she started along the corridor, the curtain of a cubicle was snatched back and a young nurse emerged. She was obviously panic-stricken, blood on her hands. Turning wildly, she saw Janet and called out – soundlessly, because at that moment another heavy bomb fell close enough to shake the walls and bring plaster from the ceiling.
Janet caught her by the shoulders. ‘What is it?’
The girl tried to speak, pointing wildly at the cubicle as another bomb fell, and Janet pushed her to one side and entered. The woman who lay on the padded operating table, covered with a sheet, was obviously very much in labour. The young man who leaned over her was a corporal in the Commandos, his uniform torn and streaked with dust.
‘Who are you?’ The tiredness had left her now, as if it had never been.
‘Her husband, miss. She’s having a baby.’ He plucked at her sleeve. ‘For God’s sake do something.’
Janet pulled back the sheet. ‘When did she start?’
‘Half an hour, maybe longer. We was in the High Street when the siren went, so I took her into the underground. Borough Station. When she started feeling bad I thought I’d better get her to hospital, but it was hell out there. Bombs falling all over the place.’
Another landed very close to the hospital now, followed by a second. For a moment, the lights went out. The woman on the table cried out in fear and pain. Here eyes started from her head as the lights came on again and she tried to sit up.
Janet pushed her down and turned to the young nurse. ‘You know what’s wrong here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ the girl said. ‘I’m only a probationer.’ She looked at her hands. ‘There was a lot of blood.’
The young Commando pulled at Janet’s sleeve. ‘What’s going on? What’s up?’
‘A baby is usually delivered head first,’ Janet said calmly. ‘This is what’s known as a breech. That means it’s presenting its backside.’
‘Can you handle it?’
‘I should imagine so, but we haven’t got much time. I want you to stand over your wife, hold her hand and talk to her. Anything you like, only don’t stop.’
‘Shall I get Sister Johnson?’ the young nurse asked.
‘No time,’ Janet said. ‘I need you here.’
Bombs were falling steadily now and from the sound of it, panic had broken out amongst the crowd that waited in general casualty for treatment. She took a deep breath, tried to ignore that nightmare world outside and concentrated on the task in hand.
The first problem was to deliver the legs. She probed gently inside until she managed to get a finger up against the back of one of the child’s knees. The leg flexed instantly and so did the other when she repeated the performance.
