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  Bentley looked toward the shore. Beyond the dunes lay Rommel’s headquarters—and it would be heavily-guarded.

  He was not concerned with the guard around the immediate precincts of the headquarters—that would be the commandos’ pigeon, and one they were specially trained to creep up on and pluck.

  But what did concern him was that the Germans would have a sufficiency of 88 millimetre high-velocity guns, the famous anti-tank weapon of the Africa Corps. Their range was well over half a mile ... They could fire armour-piercing shell, and in parts Wind Rode’s thin skin was not as tough as a tank’s. He would have to wait close inshore for the commandos, for they would need to be taken off swiftly once the balloon went up. And if the German guns ranged on him, his ship would make a beautiful target, waiting out there off the beach.

  J E MACDONNELL 6: ALARM – E-BOATS!

  By J E Macdonnell

  First published by Horwitz Publications in 1959

  ©1959, 2022 by J E Macdonnell

  First Electronic Edition: January 2023

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate

  Series Editor: Janet Whitehead

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “NICE FELLER,” LIEUTENANT-Commander Peter Bentley decided, and watched the destroyer’s motor-boat carving a white curve in the sometimes blue, mostly dirty, water of Alexandria harbour.

  “M’mm,” Randall contributed to the assessment. “Those Royal Navy types are a bit still usually. Phlegmatic.” He grinned. “Never could pronounce that damn word right. I hope his party turns out as friendly.”

  The man under discussion was Commander Terence Bromage, senior-officer of the 10th Destroyer Flotilla, Bentley’s superior. Bentley had been assigned to him with his old destroyer Wind Rode as soon as the Australian ship had entered the Mediterranean a few weeks before.

  The party was being put on by a destroyer of the flotilla (of which Wind Rode was the only Australian) to celebrate last night’s victory over a much stronger enemy cruiser force that the flotilla had searched out and met with unexpected torpedoes.

  Wind Rode had sunk a cruiser, torpedoed another damaged cruiser to the bottom, and blown up a destroyer with gun-fire: and, while busily engaged in all this, had been tackled by the remaining cruiser. Her thin-skinned life had been saved by the timely arrival of Bromage, and by what he had shot out of his torpedo-tubes.

  So, as Bentley told his friend and first-lieutenant as he turned away from the gangway:

  “It promises to be some ding. A hefty glass of milk is indicated, I think. Stomach lining!”

  The two officers walked slowly forward towards Bentley’s sea-cabin. First-Lieutenant Randall automatically cast his professional eye to right and left, for the upper-deck was his special province. Bentley would have liked to do the same thing, but he didn’t, and felt a deep satisfaction because he knew now it wasn’t necessary.

  Since Randall had joined Wind Rode from their old ship Scimitar, the filthy destroyer had blossomed. Even since the milling Witches’ Sabbath of last night the decks had been swabbed and returned to their previous shipshape neatness. The engineer had a team of engine-room-artificers working on the damaged funnel, their chisels and hammers, making a steely tintinnabulation in the quiet evening air.

  Bentley stopped a moment to watch them, and had a few words with the engineer. They moved on a few paces, and Randall said:

  “What do you think of the old bucket now, Peter?”

  The question was casually put, but there was an underlying note that halted Bentley. He leaned his muscled length on the top guard rail and stared out at the mass of grey warships nosing their buoys. It was less than three months since he had stepped on board at Brisbane, to take over from an elderly, passed-over captain, and to find his new command filthy, demoralised and slack from bridge to messdeck.

  That was three months ago. In that time he had started on her himself, and then Randall had come as his first-lieutenant, and the giant, steel-handed Hooky Walker as his chief bosun’s mate. Old friends, old hands at this game, dependable as anchor chain. And now? What did he think of her?

  Bentley looked at his first-lieutenant. His lips twisted down at the corners when he smiled and said:

  “I’d take her anywhere. Anywhere!”

  It was fortunate for the young commander of an old, but still-lethal midget, that omniscient prescience was denied him. Otherwise the expected enjoyment of a party put on mainly for his benefit, to introduce him to his brother captains in the flotilla, might have turned to stomach-tensing worry.

  Bentley had stated he would take his ship anywhere. That’s a confidence which covers a lot of territory; and shortly he was to find himself wishing that he was anywhere but the place to which he would be ordered to take her.

  But crystal-gazing not being one of his accomplishments, he hummed to himself as he showered and changed in his sea-cabin under the bridge. It should be a good show—bucks only, the night-action to fight over again, hearing the experiences of his fellow captains in the fire-splashed night.

  He was pleased, too, that Bromage had invited Randall. R.N. types could be more than a bit stuffy, though you didn’t find that in destroyers normally. However, if it turned out sticky, he and Randall could gravitate to a corner and grog on regardless.

  “For the love of Mike! They’ll soak it all before we get there. Shake a leg!”

  Randall’s grinning bulk filled the doorway. His weather-burned face had a scrubbed look about it, his hair was still wet from the comb, and his big frame was dressed in starched khaki shirt and shorts. The muscles of his calves bulged his brown stockings.

  Bentley pulled his shirt down over his head and tucked it in his shorts.

  “Make yourself useful,” he grunted. “Cigarette case on the desk there. Load it and pull out a spare tin. Those shoes under the bunk.”

  “Shall I powder under your arms, sir?” Randall growled, and took up the cigarette case.

  “Has the boat been called away?” Bentley ignored him.

  “The boat’s been alongside for the past five minutes. That’s what I like about my skipper—always the perfect example of punctuality to the troops. Where the hell do you keep the rest of your smuggled tobacco hoard?”

  “Top right-hand drawer of the desk. If the boat’s been called away before time, that’s the fault of a useless first-lieutenant. Not there, you clot. Right-hand drawer.”

  Randall answered rudely. They disputed amicably in insulting terms until the captain was satisfied he could meet his lord and master, then walked along the narrow-waisted ship to the gangway.

  Mr. Lasenby, the gunner, was officer of the day. His hand came up in a salute so rigid that it set the tip of his fingers quivering. His brown face would have made a Pharaoh’s death-mask look mobile.

  “Keep it clean, sir,” he said through tightly compressed lips. “If you need any help over there the sub will look out for me.”

  “Thank you, Guns,” Bentley said seriously. “I appreciate your offer, but please don’t worry yourself about us. I’m quite sure we’ll be able to handle all they can pour into us.”

  “My shipmate!” Lasenby said, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on the bridge. And then, in a different tone of voice, “Pipe the side!”

  The pipes shrilled out their piercing cadence of respect for Wind Rode’s commanding-officer, and he followed Randall down into the boat—the captain always leaving last, to avoid his having to wait in the boat for junior officers.

  Bentley settled himself in the stern sheets beside his friend and gazed back at the ship as the boat drew away. But his mind was on the gunner. Both sides of Lasenby had been perfectly demonstrated there—the faultless salute and rigidly set face was the gunnery-officer, the drilled expert who had laid his guns on that enemy destroyer and raked her fore and aft: the poker-faced comments to the officer who was his captain came from the Lasenby who, while still completely respectful to his superior, thought of him as a shipmate, a colleague in the job of keeping their ship taut and efficient.

  It had not always been like that …

  “They’re a good bunch, Bob,” Bentley said suddenly.

  “A hell of a good bunch,” the first-lieutenant grunted. “Now …”

  The party was being held on Thomas’s ship, Greyhound. Thomas, Bromage had told them, had lit up the enemy line with his searchlight and had hardly fired an angry shot while the three other destroyers of
the flotilla had clawed and punched their way to victory. He had therefore decided he might as well be the complete mug and dispense liquor and laurel wreaths to the heroes.

  Greyhound was bigger and more modern than Wind Rode; but, Bentley noted with a pride he quickly subdued, she was certainly no cleaner. As the boat swung in for the gangway, Bentley told himself he would have to cut out this habit he had of instantly comparing his ship with others—too much of it could become unhealthy, develop into some sort of complex …

  The officer of the day received them courteously and asked them to follow him. Bentley heard the noise well before he reached the wardroom ladder.

  But then, he grinned to himself, they had something to celebrate—it had been a solid blow at the numerically-superior enemy, one which the Commander-in-Chief fully appreciated, as witness his commendatory signal to Bromage. It should be, Bentley thought with anticipation, a good night.

  The officer of the day pulled back the curtain and led them in.

  From then on it was a succession of strange faces, tankards of beer thrust into their willing hands, with the fat, wide face, creased and twinkling eyes, of the genial Bromage seeming to be always before him.

  “Well,” said a thin voice beside him, penetrating through the hubbub, “how are we doing?”

  Bentley recognised Thomas, the destroyer’s captain. He was as slight as Bromage was broad, and in a shrewdly experienced brown face Bentley noticed the whitest set of teeth he had ever seen. Thomas rubbed a small hand across his flat belly, and smiled up at his Australian guest.

  “Shouldn’t say this, of course—British reserve, the old Silent Service and all that. But you put up a damned good show out there—damned good.” He sipped his beer to cover the slight embarrassment hanging between them. “Your first command, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir. I hope the rest of the commission’s a bit less hectic.”

  Thomas glanced at him shrewdly He was not sure what he had expected to meet in the representative of a race usually judged as brash and tough. He found himself enormously pleased with that simple and unaffected “sir”. Bentley was his equal in rank, and could have called him Dick or Harry or Tommo … He chose “sir” because of the inherent gentlemanliness of his nature, and because Thomas was older and more senior in the rank. And Thomas knew this.

  “Great Scott!” he ejaculated. “You’re dry again. On a diet or something? Steward!”

  He flashed Bentley another dental broadside and took up a tankard from a steward equilibrating past under a tray of glasses.

  “Hello, Pommy!” someone shouted from the door. “Don’t let the mob worry you. Come on in!”

  “Oh, hell!” said Bromage beside Bentley.

  Bentley looked at him quickly, and then swung his glance to the door. He was a destroyer captain, for years his brain had been in a state of razored alertness, and he was gifted with an instant certainty when it came to judging men. If he hadn’t been able to judge men down to the last things that made them tick, he wouldn’t have been what he was or in the position he was in at this instant. He could be wrong often and anywhere, incidentally, but not in the fundamentals of situation and character.

  And the man standing in the door, the man who had caused the involuntary ejaculation of dismay from Commander Bromage, was as decent a looking fellow as Bentley could wish to see at this happy moment.

  Because of Bromage’s words, and because his geniality had deepened into concern, Bentley looked at the visitor with considerable interest. He was a big man, heavy, and his sloping shoulders said a lot to Bentley, the boxer. He had a tough, square-jawed face, and his strong lips were clenched around the stem of a pipe in a genial grin as he stepped into the vociferous room. On the shoulder straps of his khaki safari jacket were the crowns of a major, and on his broad chest were three rows of faded medal ribbons.

  Bromage said quickly:

  “I think Beveridge—he’s got Griffin, you know—would like to have a word with you. Over in that far corner.”

  Bentley nodded. Before he could move, the newcomer’s deep voice brushed over the noise in the room: “What the hell’s going on, Tony? I came over for a quiet ear-bashing and find this damned hen party!”

  “I like that,” someone laughed from the end of the mess. “Close the bar, boys—Pomeroy’s arrived.”

  “And, as usual, he’s thirsty,” another deriding voice called.

  Bentley looked back at the man standing with his legs straddled inside the door. Major Pomeroy, apparently, was well-known and well-liked amongst this naval company. He stood there smiling so that his teeth were bared, his pipe angled up like a four-inch gun.

  “All right.” he roared, and took them all in with his blue-eyed stare, “seeing as you press me to stay, I’ll help you lighten your casks. Thank you, steward—this’ll do for a pipe-opener.”

  He grabbed a brimming glass of beer from the passing tray and removed his pipe long enough for the level in the glass to be lowered by about two inches. Then he clamped the pipe back into place and grinned widely at them.

  “There’s only one way you can get rid of me from this cosy little thing.” His voice was still loud, to rise above the animated laughter and talk; so that in the sudden silence it seemed as if he were shouting.

  “And that is,” Pomeroy went on, not conscious of the effect his words had had, “to produce a bloody Australian. You know me, boys. But in this elegant company I can smell no smell. Down the hatch!”

  He lifted his head and disposed of what was left in the glass. He looked round for somewhere to place the empty, and it was then he noticed the still faces, and that the talk had stopped. A curious heavy tenseness like the threat of thunder had crept into the atmosphere.

  A voice, deep as his own. and coming from a chest as big, cut across the silent room.

  “I take it you have something against Australians.”

  “Eh?” Pomeroy looked at the speaker in surprise. Then his face cleared. He was a hefty, well-spoken officer with the two rings of a lieutenant on his shoulders—obviously a stranger from some visiting British ship.

  “Something against ’em?” he went on, and looked around, seeming surprised that he had not had his empty hand filled with a fresh glass. “Oh no, it’s not as bad as that. Apart from the fact that they’re a mob of gutless wonders with a complete lack of discipline under fire, they’re all right, I suppose. On a parade ground in Sydney—or further south, if possible, but God forbid that I ever get mixed up with ’em again in this stoush. Tony! What the hell’s wrong with the grog supply?”

  He grinned amicably at his host, Lieutenant-Commander Thomas. The little destroyer captain gestured hastily to a steward.

  As soon as Pomeroy had mentioned the word “Australian” Bentley’s alerted senses had encompassed the reason for Bromage’s earlier dismay. It was not difficult to put his finger on it. Somewhere, at some time, Pomeroy, British Army major, had obviously come up against Australian troops and had not been impressed. His antipathy was apparently well known: and now he had come unexpectedly into a room wherein, unknown to him, were two of the race he disliked so strongly.

  Bentley wasn’t worried about Pomeroy’s likes and hates: he was concerned with the pugnacious look on Randall’s tough face. He had not had time to prevent the first-lieutenant’s first words to the major, but he could prevent what was about to happen now. Randall was shouldering his way through the crowd to place himself before Pomeroy. His intentions were obviously unfriendly.

  “Bob,” Bentley called quietly, and he felt Bromage stir beside him. Randall did not stop.

  “Bob!” There was no mistaking the tone in the voice this time. Randall turned his head, saw the stony stare on Bentley’s face, and altered his direction in answer to his captain’s gesture.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Bromage said quickly. “I had no idea Pomeroy would come aboard tonight.”

  “Now he’s aboard, sir, do we have to pipe down like a lot of schoolgirls?” Randall had come up to them. His square-jawed face was as uncompromising as a cliff. He looked around the room, where the two other captains and their first-lieutenants were trying to resurrect the earlier jollity.