Alistair Maclean - The guns of Navaronne

Mallory nodded. «Just get them out and up. Maybe four hours, Brown says. Andrea and I will do our landlubberly best to help.»

Two hours later, with the engine still out of commission, they were well outside territorial waters, closing on a big island some eight miles away to the W.N.W. The wind, warm and oppressive now, had backed to a darkening and thundery east, and with only a lug and a jib — all the sails they had found — bent to the foremast, they could make no way at all into it. Mallory had decided to make for the island — the chances of being observed there were far less than in the open sea. Anxiously he looked at his watch, then stared back moodily at the receding safety of the Turkish shore. Then he stiffened, peered closely at the dark line of sea, land and sky that lay to the east.

«Andrea! Do you see—»

«I see it, Captain.» Andrea was at his shoulder. «Caique. Three miles. Coming straight towards us,» he added softly.

«Coming straight towards us,» Mallory acquiesced. «Tell Miller and Brown. Have them come here.»

Mallory wasted no time when they were all assembled.

«We're going to be stopped and investigated,» he said quickly. «Unless I'm much mistaken, it's that big caique that passed us this morning. Heaven only knows how, but they've been tipped off and they're going to be as suspicious as hell. This'li be no kid-glove, hands-in-the pockets inspection. They'll be armed to the teeth and hunting trouble. There's going to be no half-measures. Let's be quite clear about that. Either they go under or we do: we can't possibly survive an inspection — not with all the gear we've got aboard. And,» he added softly, «we're not going to dump that gear.» Rapidly he explained his plans. Stevens, leaning out from the wheelhouse window, felt the old sick ache in his stomach, felt the blood leaving his face. He was glad of the protection of the wheelhouse that bid the lower part of his body: that old familiar tremor in his leg was back again. Even his voice was unsteady.

«But, sir — sir—»

«Yes, yes, what is it, Stevens?» Even in his hurry Mallory paused at the sight of the pale, set face, the bloodless nails clenched over the sill of the window.

«You — you can't do that , sir!» The voice burred harshly under the sharp edge of strain. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, then he rushed on. «It's massacre, sir, it's — it's just murder!»

«Shut up, kid!» Miller growled.

«That'll do, Corporal!» Mallory said sharply. He looked at the American for a long moment, then turned to Stevens, his eyes cold. «Lieutenant, the whole concept of directing a successful war is aimed at placing your enemy at a disadvantage, at not giving him an even chance. We kill them or they kill us. They go under or we do — and a thousand men on Kheros. It's just as simple as that, Lieutenant. It's not even a question of conscience.»

For several seconds Stevens stared at Mallory in complete silence. He was vaguely aware that everyone was looking at him. In that instant he hated Mallory, could have killed him. He hated him because-suddenly he was aware that he hated him only for the remorseless logic of what he said. He stared down at his clenched hands. Mallory, the idol of every young mountaineer and cragsman in pre-war England, whose fantastic climbing exploits had made world headlines, in '38 and '39: Mallory, who had twice been baulked by the most atrocious ill-fortune from surprising Rommel in his desert headquarters: Mallory, who had three times refused promotion in order to stay with his beloved Cretans who worshipped him the other side of idolatry. Confusedly these thoughts tumbled through his mind and he looked up slowly, looked at the lean, sunburnt face, the sensitive, chiselled mouth, the heavy, dark eyebrows barstraight over the lined brown eyes that could be so cold or so compassionate, and suddenly he felt ashamed, knew that Captain Mallory lay beyond both his understanding and his judgment.

«I am very sorry, sir.» He smiled faintly. «As Corporal Miller would say, I was talking out of turn.» He looked aft at the caique arrowing up from the southeast. Again he felt the sick fear, but his voice was steady enough as he spoke. «I won't let you down, sir.»

«Good enough. I never thought you would.» Mallory smiled in turn, looked at Miller and Brown. «Get the stuff ready and lay it out, will you? Casual, easy and keep it hidden. They'll have the glasses on you.»

He turned away, walked for'ard. Andrea followed him.

«You were very hard on the young man.» It was neither criticism nor reproach — merely statement of fact.

«I know.» Mallory shrugged. «I didn't like it either… . I had to do it.»

«I think you had,» Andrea said slowly. «Yes, I think you had. But it was hard… . Do you think they'll use the big gun in the bows to stop us?»

«Might — they haven't turned back after us unless they're pretty sure we're up to something fishy. But the warning shot across the bows — they don't go in for that Captain Teach stuff normally.»

Andrea wrinkled his brows.

«Captain Teach?»

«Never mind.» Mallory smiled. «Time we were taking up position now. Remember, wait for me. You won't have any trouble in hearing my signal,» he finished dryly.

The creaming bow-wave died away to a gentle ripple, the throb of the heavy diesel muted to a distant murmur as the German boat slid alongside, barely six feet away. From where he sat on a fish-box on the port- of the fo'c'sle, industriously sewing a button on to the old coat lying on the deck between his legs, Mallory could see six men, all dressed in the uniform of the regular German Navy — one crouched behind a belted Spandau mounted on its tripod just aft of the two-pounder, three others bunched amidships, each armed with an automatic machine carbine — Schmeissers, he thought — the captain, a hard, cold-faced young lieutenant with the Iron Cross on his tunic, looking out the open door of the wheelhouse and, finally, a curious head peering over the edge of the engine-room hatch. From where he sat, Mallory couldn't see the poop-deck — the intermittent ballooning of the lug-sail in the uncertain wind blocked his vision; but from the restricted fore-and-aft lateral sweep of the Spandau, hungrily traversing only the for'ard half of their own caique, be was reasonably sure that there was another machine-gunner similarly engaged on the German's poop.

The hard-faced, young lieutenant — a real product of the Hitler Jugend that one, Mallory thought — leaned out of the wheelhouse, cupped his hand to his mouth.

«Lower your sails!» he shouted.

Mallory stiffened, froze to immobility. The needle had jammed hard into the palm of his band, but he didn't even notice it. The lieutenant had spoken in English! Stevens was so young, so inexperienced. He'll fall for it, Mallory thought with a sudden sick certainty, he's bound to fall for it.

But Stevens didn't fall for it. He opened the door, leaned out, cupped his hand to his ear and gazed vacantly up to the sky, his mouth wide open. It was so perfect an imitation of dull-Witted failure to catch or comprehend a shouted message that it was almost a caricature. Mallory could have hugged him. Not in his actions alone, but in his dark, shabby clothes and hair as blackly counterfeit as Miller's, Stevens was the slow, suspicious island fisherman to the life.

«Eh?» he bawled.

«Lower your sails! We are coming aboard!» English again, Mallory noted; a persistent fellow this.

Stevens stared at him blankly, looked round helplessly at Andrea and Mallory: their faces registered a lack of comprehension as convincing as his own. He shrugged his shoulders in despair.

«I am sorry, I do not understand German,» he shouted. «Can you not speak my language?» Stevens's Greek was perfect, fluent and idiomatic. It was also the Greek of Attica, not of the islands; but Mallory felt sure that the lieutenant wouldn't know the difference.