THE FIREWORKS HAD GRADUALLY FADED AWAY. THE HARBOR WAS NOW silent. Because everyone’s night vision had been destroyed by the explosions and the colored Roman candle fireballs, it became really, really dark. From the bridge of the Ems, it was difficult for the command party to make out the bow. The Giove and the Egadi had already disappeared out of sight entirely and were making for international waters. The Ems was all by herself in the harbor.
If anything went wrong now Major John Randal and his team were entirely on their own. No one could come to their aid. All of a sudden the few Raiding Forces and supporting personnel on the bridge and forward deck felt very alone. The realization was not a pleasant feeling.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Ems began to make way. Tugboat No. 1/King Kong blew large black puffs of smoke from its stack as it strained mightily against the tow wire. At her wheel “Warthog” Finley pointed his tug straight at freedom.
Sergeant Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis made an appearance on the bridge, trailed by Lieutenant “Pyro” Percy Stirling back from his tour of the ship. The ex-Legionnaire reported all resistance had ceased and all German sailors were secured throughout the ship.
“Nice job, Sergeant Mikkalis.”
“Not much to it, sir,” the former Swamp Fox Force topkick said. “You and Merritt shot half of them.”
“Lieutenant Stirling?”
“Sergeant Mikkalis has the situation well in hand, sir.”
“Place additional security on both of the Ems’s radio rooms,” Major Randal ordered. “Don’t let anyone in. I want those two rooms completely secure. No souvenir hunting—clear, Lieutenant?”
“In Technicolor, sir.”
“Does anyone know where the voice tube in the engine room is located?”
“I do, sir,” Royal Marine Jock McDonald volunteered. Like all Royal Marines, he was familiar with naval craft.
“Lieutenant Stirling, take McDonald with you. Report to the engine room after you beef up security on the radio rooms. Take charge of the stoker detail and have the German sailors put their backs into pouring the coal to the boilers.”
“Sir!”
“McDonald, you establish contact with us here on the bridge the minute you get down there and stay on the blower.”
“Sir!”
“Recruit extra hands from the other prisoners if you need ’em, Percy. Let’s give Captain Finley on the King Kong all the help you can,” Major John Randal ordered. “I’ve spent all the time in scenic San Pedro I care to.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
The thought of spending the rest of the war cooped up in a Portuguese POW camp was a powerful motivator. Major Randal could almost feel the raiding party straining to will the Ems out of the harbor. Exfiltration seemed to be taking a lot longer than the slow-motion attack run in, and that did not seem physically possible. The atmosphere on the bridge was supercharged.
Out on the bow the men were chanting, “Go, go, go,” at the King Kong. So much for noise discipline: If anyone in San Pedro heard them it is doubtful they would be mistaken for Italian or German sailors, not even drunken ones.
Although the Ems was gradually making way, it was not fast enough to satisfy the men of Raiding Forces. Going on a raid, all a Raider wants to do is close with the enemy and get stuck in. The feeling at the end of a mission is entirely different: All anybody wants to do is get out of there and be quick about it. Men brave as lions suddenly have a different priority entirely. The Commandos on the Ems wanted to go home, and right then.
“Engine room to bridge,” Royal Marine McDonald piped over the voice tube.
“This is the bridge, go ahead,” Commodore Seaborn responded, speaking into the intership communications device.
“How do you hear me, sir?
“Loud and clear, McDonald. Stand by the voice tube, Marine.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Now the Ems seemed to be gaining traction; she was noticeably moving. They were not traveling fast, but the ship was sailing smoothly. They could just make out the flashing blue beacon marking the entrance to San Pedro Harbor in the distance. The troops on the bow were chanting, “GO, GO, GO, GO.” Everyone on the bridge joined in: “GO, GO, GO . . .”
The flashing blue light became brighter and brighter. When the ship finally slid past, a cheer broke out on deck. Commodore Seaborn called down the voice tube, “Bridge to engine room, we have departed San Pedro Harbor.”
Cheering in the Ems engine room could be heard wafting over the voice tube on the bridge. Euphoria swept the Raiding Force Commandos all over the ship. They were going to make it home free. Back slapping, shared cigarettes, lit with shaky hands, laughter, and relief broke out shipwide.
Victory felt GOOD!
“The Giove and Egadi appear to be heaving to,” Commodore Seaborn announced. “Stand by, signaler.”
Sergeant Mickey Duggan stepped up next to him with his Aldis signaling lamp at the ready. Up ahead a brilliant white finger of light pierced the night. With military precision, it played across the Giove and then the Egadi. The light moved crisply making its inspection with a no-nonsense purpose of action.
“Your squadron of corvettes, Commodore?” Major John Randal inquired.
“Possibly,” the officer at the conn replied tersely. “A bit early, actually. We have not achieved the three-mile international line quite yet. I ordered the squadron to be patrolling right outside it.”
The light continued to probe the Giove and Egadi. The Raiders could see the two ships had slowed and were coming to a halt. Major Randal picked up the Zeiss night glasses that were hanging from a strap next to the helm. It took him a moment to focus the binoculars on the source of the light.
“Were you expecting a submarine escort, sir?” Major Randal asked. “That’s the source of the light.”
“Let me have those glasses,” Commodore Seaborn fairly screamed, ripping the binoculars out of the major’s hands.
After a cursory glance, sounding remarkably calm for a man only on his very second combat operation, the commodore announced, “German U-boat on the surface, dead ahead; she is cleared for action.”
The men on the bridge stood in shocked silence.
The Nazis were not going to be any too happy to discover that the source of all their priceless target information had just been captured by British Commandos.
“What’s a Nazi submarine doing inside Rio Bonita’s waters?” Major John Randal said through clenched teeth. Getting captured by a U-boat was one contingency no one had ever imagined, much less planned for. So much for expecting the unexpected! Major Randal decided in disgust.
“What better place to surface and wait for the radio signal from Ems?” Commodore Richard Seaborn asked bitterly. “Probably the safest spot on the entire Gold Coast. A U-boat at periscope depth can spot a surface ship and dive without being identified, and no British warship is ever going to drop depth charges in neutral waters without a positive ID. Have to give that skipper credit.”
“Why didn’t he dive the minute the Egadi first approached?”
“My guess would be he recognized her,” Commodore Seaborn replied, still studying the Nazi U-boat through the Zeiss night glasses. “The skipper has most likely lain out here at periscope depth night after night studying San Pedro Harbor. That’s exactly what I would have done.”
In the distance, the sailors on the bridge could hear a German voice shouting guttural commands over a mechanical hailer.
“Anyone feel like becoming a POW?” Commodore Seaborn asked in a chatty tone.
“Never happen prisoners of war,” Major Randal said. “They were going to hang us for pirates, remember?”
“Well, we cannot outrun them and we do not have any guns or depth charges to fight with,” the commodore pointed out, stating the obvious. “I fear that only leaves one viable option.”
“Sure as hell looks like it,” Major Randal said. “Lock and load, boys. All hands on deck. We’ll attack the German boarding party the moment they come on board.
“Sergeant Mikkalis,” Major Randal barked, “in the event anything happens to me, you take every man still on his feet, commandeer the German cutter after we take out the boarding party, then go capture that submarine. Is that clear?” His plan was simple. No matter what happened, his forces were to go down fighting and never surrender.
“As it gets,” the tough Commando sergeant snarled. “Make sure nothing happens, Major. I prefer to have you up front leading the way if it’s all the same, sir.”
“Major Randal, ring for ‘Full Speed Ahead,’” Commodore Seaborn ordered as calmly as if he were standing on the bridge of the HMS Hood requesting a cucumber sandwich from his orderly.
“Stand by to ram!”
With that electrifying command, he became the high seas, blue-water battle commander he had always aspired to be. A thrill of optimism shot though the men clustered on the bridge. Commodore Seaborn sounded like he knew what he was doing. They all hoped so.
Major Randal did not have the first clue as to how to ring for “Full Speed Ahead.” He opened the voice tube and shouted down it, “Bridge to engine room.”
“Engine room, sir.”
“Lieutenant Stirling, sir.”
“Percy, the Giove and Egadi are dead in the water directly ahead, stopped by a German U-boat. The submarine is on the surface cleared for action, and she is preparing to board us,” Major Randal informed him. “Commodore Seaborn has elected to attempt to ram the U-boat rather than surrender. Pour on the coal, make those prisoners put their backs into it! I want the furnace burning hotter than that lighthouse you blew on Tomcat!”
“YES SIR! YeeeeeeHaaaaaaa!”
“The lieutenant’s a ‘Death or Glory’ boy,” Sergeant Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis said. “You can bet good money he will crack the whip.”
The effect on morale of having a plan is incredible, even a forlorn hope like trying to ram a nimble Nazi submarine with a lumbering ship under tow. Any chance is better than no chance.
“We are one and all ‘death or glory’ boys this night,” Commodore Seaborn replied resolutely, stepping up to his rendezvous with destiny. “Now hear this; it is vital that the next two orders I give be carried out instantly. Any time now the Germans are going to challenge us. We have no idea what the correct response is, but then there is no reason the Ems, bottled up in San Pedro for the duration, would know. When the U-boat challenges, Sergeant Duggan, on my command, using the signal lamp, authenticate with the letters E M S and keep repeating it.”
“Aye, aye, sir. E-M-S.”
“The sub knows this ship is the Ems, which should confuse her because E-M-S is not going to be the correct reply to the challenge. The response may buy us some time because the skipper is not going to want to fire on a German ship that is in the act of trying to identify herself. Every second we can stall is precious now because it’s allowing us to close.
“Hoolihan, secure axes from the ship’s lifeboats. Report to the bow and take charge of the detail there. Stand by; then, on my command, have the Lifeboat Servicemen cut the towline. If Captain Finley should heave to or the towline goes slack for any reason do not wait for my command; cut it immediately. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The Royal Marine repeated the instructions. “Cut the tow on your command or chop it free immediately should the line go slack.”
“Those are your orders. Severing that line may be the most important assignment you are ever called to carry out, Marine.”
“You can depend on me, sir.”
“Right man, right job,” Major Randal said locking eyes with his Raider. “Get it done, Butch.”
Royal Marine Butch Hoolihan started to rush off the bridge but Commodore Seaborn reached out and restrained the young Commando. “The instant the towline parts, bring everyone forward on the bow back here on the double, Hoolihan.”
“Aye, aye, sir. On the double, sir,” he shouted.
And then all there was to do was wait for the Germans to make the next move.