Thirty-eight

 

With the war in Eastern Europe over, shipping began to move again in the Black Sea. But they were harassed by Bolshevik Russian ships from Sebastopol and Odessa who kept stopping vessels. They insisted on examining papers and conducted vigorous searches for Russian refugees.

In November, with the army on the Danube, the Russians stopped the Yokub, one of McClumpha’s ships. McClumpha happened to be aboard travelling to Constanza. When Edward visited him at his home he found him in bed, with a black eye, a cracked rib and bruises all over his body.

‘I’ve been operatin’ up and doon this coast for over thirty years an’ never had trouble. Your Russians are gettin’ too big for their boots. Ye should tak’ oot one o’ y’r boats an’ sink a few o’ them.’

 

Guarded, as often as not, by two fast motor launches that cruised up and down alongside them, the Russian squadron consisted of an old battleship called the Sverdlov, a cruiser that had once been the Priz Pavel and had been renamed Lenin, a destroyer, a supply ship, and a gunboat which was the one that usually caused the trouble. She was old with a high superstructure and looked not unlike the Tahaf at Arina.

MacNab arrived with two of the four boats from Egypt before the end of the week. There was another boarding by the Russians the following week and more beatings. Bois d’Effre sent a protest to the Russian base at Odessa. The officer who delivered it was treated with contempt, and shortly thereafter another of McClumpha’s ships was stopped. Bois d’Effre decided to deliver an ultimatum and dispatched Edward, dressed to kill with a borrowed sword, and MacNab, complete with aiguillettes, as his aide.

As his climbed aboard the Sverdlov Edward could not help noticing how dirty the ship was. The crew looked surly and he saw one of them relieving himself against a gun turret. The Russians were sloppily dressed with hardly a uniform in sight. Nevertheless, a bosun’s pipe twittered and the sailors pressed forward, clearly impressed by the gold on his cap and sleeves. An older man who looked like a petty officer pushed through the crowd, accompanied by a man in a leather coat and what looked like a railway porter’s cap. The petty officer could speak French and they exchanged greetings in that language.

‘I’m running the ship,’ the petty officer said. ‘And this is the political commissar. He’s here to see we behave ourselves. One of these days I’m going to chuck him overboard.’

Edward offered a cigarette which the petty officer snatched with great enthusiasm. ‘I’m here to deliver an ultimatum,’ he said. ‘We object to you stopping our ships.’

The petty officer shrugged and pushed the commissar forward. He spoke no English nor French but, with a rough translation by the petty officer, Edward managed to make himself clear.

‘Our ships are proceeding about their lawful business,’ he explained. ‘If Russian ships interfere any more we shall be obliged to take action.’

The petty officer translated and the commissar laughed, snapped his fingers contemptuously and launched into what appeared to be a political diatribe. The petty officer obliged once more.

‘He says the glorious revolution has freed the people from the bondage of rules. The Russian people will do as they think fit.’

The argument continued in this vein for half an hour then the petty officer drew Edward to one side.

‘I can guess what you’re intending, sir,’ he said. ‘Just try to avoid involving me, please.’

He showed Edward round the ship. Breech mechanisms, sighting instruments and rangefinders looked rusty and dirty and Edward suspected that the magazines and shell rooms were probably half empty. There were bullet holes in the panelling of the wardroom where the officers had been murdered.

The petty officer produced some vodka, which Edward knocked back without animosity. He was then escorted back to the deck. He noticed that several of the sailors had donned caps, as though faintly ashamed of their grubby appearance.

At the ladder, he turned and saluted. While not exactly returning the salute, the petty officer raised his hand in a farewell gesture.

As he settled himself back in his boat, Edward looked up to see dozens of heads hanging over the rails watching him. The leather-coated commissar took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it contemptuously into the boat. The glowing stub fell at Edward’s feet.

‘Right, you bastard,’ Edward thought. ‘I’ll see you again.’

 

Within three days, scorning of Edward’s ultimatum, the Russians shelled the ferry from Constanza to Burgas, killing several people. As soon as they received the news Edward set off with the two launches, followed by two of McClumpha’s tugs. The launches arrived just as the ferry slipped beneath the water.

There were dozens of people floundering in the sea and the launches moved quickly to pick them up. On his return, Edward faced Bois d’Effre, red in the face with outrage.

‘I have heard from the general,’ the Frenchman said. ‘He has agreed that it’s time we hit back.’

 

They got the Thorneycrofts tuned up in a matter of hours, and treated the Russian squadron to a view of them moving along their line at a distance of half a mile.

The Thorneycrofts were not fitted with guns, torpedoes or depth charges. A gun banged once from the Sverdlov, but it wasn’t clear whether this was meant as a warning or not. The straight runs changed to manoeuvres, the two boats working together, driving along the side of the Russian squadron, then opening out in two great arcs to meet again in the same spot.

The remaining two boats from Egypt failed to arrive as expected, which left Edward with only one boat armed for depth charges and one for torpedoes. The Russian ships and their accompanying launches were still doing their slow, untidy patrol north and south, always just inside Bulgarian waters. It was worked out that during the early hours of the morning they would be about three miles off Varna.

‘We’ll do the job with what we’ve got,’ Edward decided.

Summoning the two crews to his office, he explained what he intended, outlining the time of slipping, speed on passage and in action, and the cruising positions. Torpedo depth setting was not discussed because there was only one torpedo – on Edward’s boat.

Setting off in the dark, they drove to in the shelter of the bay. Not far away, Edward could see MacNab’s boat. Somewhere ahead the Russian squadron was trailing past in a long untidy line. Mist drifting over the sea made visibility poor and as he swept the horizon with binoculars it seemed to be bare. Then he spotted a faint hump, then another and another.

‘There they are.’

The Russian ships were nearer than expected and the crash start was enough to wake the dead. Within minutes they were on top of them, the Russian vessels growing rapidly in size as they approached.

Waving to MacNab, Edward watched him swing away round the stern of the squadron, then they were roaring towards the Lenin. At the last moment the Russians came to life. They were within 500 yards when a gun fired and a column of water lifted just ahead.

‘Splendid,’ Edward said. ‘According to international law that allows us to fire back.’

At a range of not more than 150 yards he yelled to the torpedoman and heard the thump of the ram and the splash as the torpedo shot out astern. Looking back as they swung away, he saw the torpedo leap out of the water like a porpoise and thought for a moment that the attack had failed. But then there was a flash abreast the cruiser’s after-funnel and a column of black smoke rolled up into the sky.

‘Enemy to starboard, sir.’

As the torpedoman sang out the warning, Edward saw the two Russian launches hurtling out of the mist. Swinging the helm, he roared at speed between them and had the satisfaction of seeing their shots hitting each other.

As the launches fell away astern, one giving off clouds of steam, he put the helm over again and swung in a wide circle towards Burgas. Shutting down, he looked around for MacNab who was making his approach from the other side of the Russians. An enormous column of water rose at the stern of the gunboat and MacNab emerged towards them through the shell splashes.

Daylight dawned as the two boats stopped alongside each other. In the distance the Russian ships were still moving slowly in the direction of Sebastopol, but the gunboat had stopped and the Lenin lay in the water with a distinct list to starboard.

‘I shoved my depth charges right under the stern,’ MacNab grinned. ‘I was so close the starboard strake actually rubbed against the side of the ship.’

It was a very satisfying moment. MacNab had disabled the gunboat and at the very last minute Edward had finally lived up to his reputation. He had torpedoed a proper ship with a proper torpedo launched from a proper torpedo boat.