‘One thing,’ he said finally, raising his right forefinger, as if in warning. ‘You must avoid capture by the Greeks at all costs. That would create an international incident. In case of capture you must take the L-Pill. You understand? It will mean suicide. That is all. Thank you.’ The handsome young aide turned to look at the unit’s commanding officer, who took up the cue. ‘Men, comrades,’ he repeated. ‘I ask again for volunteers for the first combat mission of the Prototype X.’

  ‘Volunteers will step forward one pace,’ the old petty officer barked harshly so that the birds in the trees around the barrack, square rose alarmed, squawking in protest.

  There was no hesitation. As one, every man stepped forward one pace and stood stiffly to attention, bronzed, tough faces filled with pride in themselves and their special unit.

  Tears filled the aide’s eyes.

  Next to him, the unit’s commander said, his voice thick with emotion, ‘Ah, our brave new Romans! They fear nothing.’ Like the aide, he, too, had tears running down his cheeks. ‘With men like you our beloved Leader will once again create an Empire that will rival that of Ancient Rome.’ He turned and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before saying to the aide, ‘Lieutenant, the choice is yours. You have every man of my unit to select from. Rely on each and every one of them. They will not let you down, you can rest assured.’

  By now even the old petty officer was openly weeping.

  Slowly the aide started to walk the rigid ranks, selecting his men.

  Behind him, the unit commander had buried his face in a large white handkerchief, his shoulders shaking with emotion like a broken-hearted child.

  Eight

  Smith breathed a sigh of relief. Even his wound didn’t seem to bother him any more. He watched the water ahead without any fear now. They were well within Greek territorial waters and here the Italians wouldn’t dare attempt anything. As soon as they had spotted the Italian reconnaissance seaplane they had realised that something was wrong.

  A quarter of an hour later they had known they were right when a lookout had spotted the two warships on the horizon and had identified them as Italian. It was then that Smith had made his snap decision to enter the Kolpos and head for the Corinth Canal.

  As Dickie Bird had said afterwards, ‘That was a bit nip-and-tuck, Smithie. We were walking right into a trap. The Italians were waiting for us to come out of the Adriatic and into the Med.’

  ‘Ay,’ Ferguson, who had been listening, had chimed in, ‘yon Italians dinna forget quick. They’d stab a knife in ye back as soon as they’d look at yer, that’s for certain.’

  Dickie and Smith had both laughed. They knew Ferguson’s attitude to all foreigners; he disliked the lot of them. Sometimes they thought he didn’t take too kindly to the ‘sassenachs’ either!

  But now that was all behind them, and as the ship ploughed steadily through the calm waters of the inland sea, with the village lights twinkling on both sides, the sense of danger and urgency which had plagued them ever since they had spotted the seaplane had vanished, leaving in its place a kind of lazy torpor.

  Indeed, as he and Dickie Bird lounged at the rail smoking quietly, Smith didn’t even feel the need to talk. All he felt like doing was relaxing and watching the evening view, as if he were some fat civilian tourist on a Mediterranean cruise.

  The men were experiencing the same feelings. Those not on watch, and Smith had told Ferguson to post only a half-watch so that the men got as much rest as possible, lounged in the mess-deck, snoring in their hammocks, playing cards or just simply telling tall tales of their years in the navy – ‘the Royal’, as they called it. Even Bully, Billy Bennett’s little dog, was sleeping at his master’s feet, far away in some doggie dream world.

  They sailed at a steady ten knots an hour, sticking to the central channel to avoid the little fishing boats which were now setting off from the villages for the night’s fishing. It was a fine night with a half moon which cast a warm, silver glow on the calm waters of the inland sea.

  Smith, who had the conn, reckoned that they would reach the entrance to the Corinth Canal just before daybreak, which was ideal. They wouldn’t be held up by bigger ships navigating the Canal. They’d be through by dawn and then they would race all out for Malta, knowing that they could re-fuel there. And once off Malta, the Italians wouldn’t dare to do anything. If they did, they’d be facing the might of the British Mediterranean Fleet.

  About midnight, an hour before he was due to hand the conn to Dickie Bird, the cook, a cigarette end stuck behind his right ear, came in view bearing a steaming hot cup of cocoa. ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, opening the door of the bridgehouse. ‘Thought you might like something wet and warm before I turned in. And,’ he announced proudly, ‘there’s gonna be bangers and the last of the fried eggs for brekko.’

  ‘Thanks, Cookie,’ Smith said and accepted the cup with a grin. Cooks were notoriously temperamental and jealous of their resources. Now this one was using the last of his supplies. It was a sign that even he was happy. ‘Get your head down now!’

  ‘Will do so, sir. Ta.’ The cook went.

  For a while Smith sipped his cocoa, watching the green-glowing dials of his instruments and occasionally staring out into the silver gloom. They were now sailing with their riding lights on and could be seen from quite a long way off, so he felt that there was little danger of a collision. Still he thought it wiser to keep checking. After all some fishermen trailed their nets behind their little boats, their eyes closed and fast asleep.

  He had just finished the hot drink when he heard the drone of the plane. He wasn’t alarmed in any way, just a little surprised. Most planes didn’t fly at night; they didn’t have the instruments which allowed them to do so. So he supposed that what he heard was a Greek military patrol plane. The situation between Turkey and Greece was tense once again; ever since the war it had always seemed to have been, and he presumed that the Greeks kept a tight security check on their coastal waters just in case of a surprise attack. He craned his neck and stared upwards, but he could see nothing. Then the noise of the plane’s motors died away and he forgot it.

  At 0100 hours, Dickie Bird came to take over. He was yawning and muttering something about ‘Heaven help a sailor on a night like this!’

  ‘What an ungodly hour, Smithie!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who’d have this kind of unsocial hours for five guineas a week!’

  Smith grinned wearily. ‘You, for one,’ he answered. ‘You wouldn’t give this life up and the old Swordfish for all the tea in China, Dickie, and you know it.’

  ‘Suppose you’re right. Anything to report?’

  ‘Not a sausage. Just a plane passing over. It was probably a Greek military patrol plane. That’s all.’

  ‘I see,’ Dickie said without interest.

  Now it was Smith’s turn to yawn and say, ‘Must toddle off now and get my beauty sleep, Dickie!’ Then he was on his way.

  * * *

  The pilot switched off the spotlight and began feathering the twin engines as the seaplane came to rest on the water. Behind them the black, stark mass of the entrance to the Corinth Canal loomed up in the still, silver light of the waning moon. A bottle of grappa in his right hand, a sergeant wobbled down the fuselage to where the four volunteers crouched in the primitive leather seats.

  ‘Compliments of the skipper. He says you’ll need a good slug of this before you go.’

  The four men grinned, their teeth a brilliant white against their bronzed, tough faces. The bottle of fiery liquid passed from hand to hand. Each man took a hefty swig, coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  The sergeant waited, telling himself that he didn’t fancy being in their shoes. When they were finished, he said, ‘All right, follow me, and don’t forget your gear.’

  One of the four volunteers said, ‘We won’t forget. We’re in the navy, remember, not the air force. That says everything, doesn’t it!’

  The others laughed and picked up their gauntlets, goggles and leather helmets. Obediently they followed the sergeant down the interior as the big seaplane came to rest.

  A little wearily, the pilot pushed back his flying helmet and smiled at the volunteers. ‘Well, men, this is it. You know the drill, but I’ll go over it again briefly. I’ll wait here till you’ve got the two Prototypes freed from the side of the floats. Once you get them started, I shall ferry the plane to port, over there just to the side of the canal. Once you’ve done your job you’ll swim back to me. Is that clear?’

  They nodded wordlessly, obviously all four of them too busy planning what they had to do to speak.

  ‘Remember, the whole operation has to be over by dawn. There’d be hell to pay if we got caught in Greek air space. All right now, release your craft and start up the engines. I salute you!’ He touched his hand to his forehead. ‘Avanti!’

  The four volunteers wasted no further time. They opened the cabin door and one by one lowered themselves on to the floats. Two swung themselves under the seaplane to the other float. Then the two of them on each float started to work with their wrenches to free their secret experimental craft, while the pilot waited in his cabin.

  He, too, allowed himself a swig of the grappa. If everything went well, he told himself, there’d be a medal for him in it and perhaps a promotion. If things went wrong, well at least he could do a bunk and save his skin. Either way he was going to be all right. It was a comforting thought.

  There was a soft splash outside as the first of the craft was lowered into the water. A moment later the other followed. The pilot leaned over and opened the flap. The strange-looking craft were floating on the surface of the inland sea. Now, the volunteers were putting on their gear: gauntlets, goggles and helmets. To the pilot they looked like ghouls in the fading silver light of the moon.

  The two pairs clambered aboard, one seated behind the other. The ones to the rear pulled the starting cord. Instantly the engines fired into light activity, their new electric motors making little sound. Slowly, as the pilot waved his hand in farewell, they started to move off to take up their positions at the entrance to the canal. As they disappeared slowly into the darkness the pilot waited no longer, the only sign of their passing being the white wake they created. He opened the throttle. Using only one engine in order to reduce the sound, which echoed and re-echoed from the steep, concrete sides of the Corinth Canal, he began to taxi slowly closer to the shore, the rendezvous position.

  The operation was underway.

  * * *

  Ferguson was old, but his hearing was still very acute, indeed the equal of a man half his age; and at sea at this time of the night, just before dawn, sound carried a long way. He cocked his head to one side to hear better. Yes, there it was. There was no mistaking it. It was the sound of an aircraft engine, but it wasn’t coming from the air. It was definitely coming from the water.

  Ferguson frowned in bewilderment. What was a seaplane – for it had to be one – doing taxiing over the water at this time of the night?

  ‘Very fishy,’ he said, talking to himself in the manner of most lonely men. ‘Ay, yon plane spells trouble, Sandy, me lad.’ He made up his mind. He reached for the speaking tube which connected him with the skipper’s tiny cabin. He pulled out the plug and whistled down it.

  Then he was telling a drowsy Smith what he had just heard.

  Nine

  The sky was beginning to flush with the ugly white of the false dawn. Up ahead, the men on deck could just make out the stark outline of the Corinth Canal. Now the double lookouts were sweeping the water with their binoculars, all of them aware, since Smith and Ferguson had alerted them, that they’d have to move quick at the slightest sign of trouble.

  They knew, too, that their weapons were limited to small arms, for the previous day as they had entered Greek waters Smith had ordered the quick-firer boarded up once more. Even if they hadn’t done so, the use of the deck gun might well have brought awkward questions from the Greek authorities and Smith didn’t want to compromise the top-secret papers at this late stage of the game.

  As the Swordfish plodded on, each man on duty tense at his post, Smith’s brain raced. What did a seaplane, taxiing for some time on the surface of the inland sea, signify? Did it mean the plane had simply been in trouble and couldn’t get airborne?

  After a few minutes a worried Smith discounted that possibility. If the seaplane had been forced to land due to some fault, surely it wouldn’t have moved? Besides they would have heard the sound of hammering as the crew worked to repair the fault. But there wasn’t a sound to be heard. So where had the plane gone and why had it landed in the first place?

  ‘Penny for them?’ Dickie Bird asked as he came up, Tommy-gun slung over his shoulder.

  ‘I wish I knew, Dickie,’ Smith answered with a worried look at his old shipmate. ‘All I know is that there’s something funny going on.’

  ‘Exactly, and funny-peculiar at that. You know, the entrance to the Corinth Canal would be an ideal spot for a trap.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Do you think it could be the Italians, Smithie?’

  ‘I’m coming round to that way of thinking. The Greeks have no reason to cause us any trouble. Besides, we can assume that they don’t even know we’re in their territorial waters in the first place. But the Italians certainly do by now.’

  ‘And this place is within the range of their flying boats based in southern Italy,’ Dickie added, his face creased in thought. ‘So did that seaplane bring anything with it and land it here, eh?’

  ‘Search me, Dickie.’ Smith puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘What could they have landed on the water which could do the Swordfish harm?’

  The other officer had no answer and the two of them lapsed into a gloomy, almost angry silence, frustrated by their lack of knowledge of what was going on ahead of them.

  Ten minutes later they were passing a series of buoys linking what Smith thought might be sardine nets. Obviously the Greek fisherman had put them out during the night. He frowned; it meant they would have to reduce their speed even more, otherwise they might foul their screws, especially as they couldn’t use a light in this emergency to illuminate the way ahead.

  At five knots an hour, with the lookouts leaning over the rail to guide them through the nets and buoys, they zig-zagged through the inland sea, watched – unknown to them – by the four Italian volunteers, who identified their progress by the wake they made in the lightening water.

  When Smith judged they were less than a seamile from the entrance to Corinth Canal he sent Dickie Bird down to the deck to warn each man on duty to be prepared for trouble. Already the horizon in the east was beginning to tinge the faint pink of the new dawn and when that sun did come over the horizon it would be in their eyes, blinding them at its low level of this time of the year.

  The advantage would be with anyone attacking from the east, which would be the case now if Smith had guessed right. The Swordfish would be perfectly silhouetted and at this snail’s pace a perfect target. Ferguson, next to Smith on the bridge, commented grimly, ‘Like yon bluidy sitting duck!’

  Time wore on leadenly. All their nerves were jangling tensely, even those of the usually unflappable Billy Bennett. His little dog seemed to sense its master’s nervousness, for it trotted back and forth across the deck unable to settle down at its usual place at Billy’s feet. None of the men seemed able to keep still either. Their eyes darted hither and thither and they constantly fidgeted.

  ‘Like cats on hot bricks,’ Dickie Bird commented to himself and the very next instant he found himself poking a finger into his right ear although there was no need to do so. Even the very stillness of the dawn was ominous. Where were the usual morning cries of the birds, the mewing of the gulls?

  Why were they so subdued?

  Suddenly, startlingly, the awesome stillness was broken by the roar of a nearby motor. All eyes swung round in the direction it was coming from.

  Something low and barely visible in the first light of dawn was hurtling towards them at great speed. Ferguson and Smith on the bridge flung up their glasses. ‘What in heaven’s name is yon thing, sir?’ Ferguson cried as he tried to identify the craft behind the white vee of wild water it was throwing up. ‘I dinna ken what it is!’

  Smith gasped, ‘Neither do I, Chiefie. All I know is that it’s heading for us. And it’s up to no good!’ He thrust his head out of the bridgehouse and yelled above the roar of the motor, ‘Stand by to repel boarders!’ And the old classic phrase was not meant as a joke.

  The strange object was coming nearer and nearer, rushing forward on a collision course with the Swordfish. Smith hesitated no longer. ‘Commence firing!’ he yelled above the roar.

  The crew reacted at once. A hail of machine gun and rifle fire sped towards the alien craft. But it was so low in the water and its bow wave so huge that it was difficult to aim at the target. It meant that the crew of the Swordfish was firing blind.

  Still the craft came for them at top speed. It couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile away. Desperately, Smith yelled, ‘For God’s sake, somebody hit the damned thing!’

  But the ‘damned thing’ bore a charmed life. Then, to their great surprise and relief its luck ran out. The craft hurtled into a line of sardine nets. Then it struck one of the buoys. There was a tremendous explosion and two dark shapes hurtled upwards.

  Next instant the whole craft disintegrated in a blinding flash of ugly red light. Shards of metal pattered down into the water like rain, then there was a loud, echoing silence.

  ‘What the devil was it, Chiefie?’ Smith gasped and dabbed the sweat off his wrinkled brow although the dawn was still cold.

 

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