Read Online Gold From Crete by C.S. Forester - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C.S. Forester
Tags: Fiction
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white fragment whirl on the sea’s surface.
‘There’s a bit of wreckage,’ said Crowe to Hammett. ‘Better get it for identification.’
Wreckage indeed it was, for it was the dead body of a man. They carried it into the captain’s day cabin as the nearest lighted place and laid it on the deck. Water ran from the soiled overalls which it wore, forming a little pool, which washed backwards and forwards with the motion of the ship. The stars of gold on the shoulder straps indicated lieutenant-commander’s rank; the distorted face was young for a man of that seniority. The arms were clasped across his breast, and there was what looked like a red stain beneath them. Blood? Crowe stooped closer and then took hold of the cold hands and tried to pry the rigid arms upwards; they were clasping to the lieutenant-commander’s breast a flat red book, and it was only with difficulty that they worked it loose, so fierce was the grip the corpse was maintaining upon it.
‘Send for Mortimer!’ snapped Crowe. ‘He speaks Italian!’
Most of the Italian that Lord Edward had spoken had been pretty little sentences asking, ‘When can we meet again?’ and things like that. But he had a good academic knowledge of the language and it took no more than a glance for him to see the importance of what he was looking at.
‘It’s his orders, sir,’ he said, turning the wet pages with care and peering at the smudged handwriting and the typewritten orders that were clipped to the wet sheets.
‘What does all this mean?’ demanded Crowe. ‘Here a latitude and longitude - I can see that for myself. Translate the Italian.’
‘He’s three days out from Taranto, sir,’ said Mortimer, ‘and - by George, sir, this looks like a rendezvous! It is, by jingo! And here’s the recognition signal.’
As Mortimer translated the typewritten material Crowe looked back at the dead man lying in the puddle on the deck. He thought of the hunted submarine struggling desperately to throw off pursuit, and the final refuge taken at the bottom of the sea, of the rain of depth charges that had brought her up again, shattered and helpless; there would be the rush to destroy the secret documents, and before that could be effected came the shells from the Apache , blowing the shattered hull above and giving the captain his death-blow, even while the invading water whirled him to the surface.
‘It’s authentic all right,’ commented Nickleby, peering over Mortimer’s shoulder.
‘Yes,’ said Crowe; ‘let’s hear it over again ... Go on, Mortimer.’
The sunken submarine had an appointment with another, in two days’ time, so that the one newly come from port could exchange information with the one returning - there was a day, a time and a position. Above all, there was the underwater recognition signal, the sequence of dots and dashes which, sent out in sound waves through the water, would be picked up by the other vessel as a signal for them both to rise to the surface at dawn to effect the exchange.
‘I think somebody ought to keep that appointment,’ said Crowe, looking quizzically at his assistants.
‘There’s a bit of difference in pitch between the sound of our underwater signal and theirs,’ demurred Holby.
‘Not enough to matter,’ said Crowe. ‘If they get the signal they’re expecting, the right signal, at the right time and place, they won’t stop to think about a trifling difference in pitch. Put yourself in their place, man.’
The staff nodded. There was something fascinating and magnetic about their captain’s determination to do the enemy all possible harm. But it was their duty to look at all sides of a question.
‘What about surface propeller noises?’ said Rowles, but Crowe shook his head.
‘There won’t be any,’ he explained. ‘We’ll send one ship - there’s no sense in taking the whole flotilla - and she’ll get there early in the dark, so she can drift. Who’s got the steadiest
‘There’s a bit of wreckage,’ said Crowe to Hammett. ‘Better get it for identification.’
Wreckage indeed it was, for it was the dead body of a man. They carried it into the captain’s day cabin as the nearest lighted place and laid it on the deck. Water ran from the soiled overalls which it wore, forming a little pool, which washed backwards and forwards with the motion of the ship. The stars of gold on the shoulder straps indicated lieutenant-commander’s rank; the distorted face was young for a man of that seniority. The arms were clasped across his breast, and there was what looked like a red stain beneath them. Blood? Crowe stooped closer and then took hold of the cold hands and tried to pry the rigid arms upwards; they were clasping to the lieutenant-commander’s breast a flat red book, and it was only with difficulty that they worked it loose, so fierce was the grip the corpse was maintaining upon it.
‘Send for Mortimer!’ snapped Crowe. ‘He speaks Italian!’
Most of the Italian that Lord Edward had spoken had been pretty little sentences asking, ‘When can we meet again?’ and things like that. But he had a good academic knowledge of the language and it took no more than a glance for him to see the importance of what he was looking at.
‘It’s his orders, sir,’ he said, turning the wet pages with care and peering at the smudged handwriting and the typewritten orders that were clipped to the wet sheets.
‘What does all this mean?’ demanded Crowe. ‘Here a latitude and longitude - I can see that for myself. Translate the Italian.’
‘He’s three days out from Taranto, sir,’ said Mortimer, ‘and - by George, sir, this looks like a rendezvous! It is, by jingo! And here’s the recognition signal.’
As Mortimer translated the typewritten material Crowe looked back at the dead man lying in the puddle on the deck. He thought of the hunted submarine struggling desperately to throw off pursuit, and the final refuge taken at the bottom of the sea, of the rain of depth charges that had brought her up again, shattered and helpless; there would be the rush to destroy the secret documents, and before that could be effected came the shells from the Apache , blowing the shattered hull above and giving the captain his death-blow, even while the invading water whirled him to the surface.
‘It’s authentic all right,’ commented Nickleby, peering over Mortimer’s shoulder.
‘Yes,’ said Crowe; ‘let’s hear it over again ... Go on, Mortimer.’
The sunken submarine had an appointment with another, in two days’ time, so that the one newly come from port could exchange information with the one returning - there was a day, a time and a position. Above all, there was the underwater recognition signal, the sequence of dots and dashes which, sent out in sound waves through the water, would be picked up by the other vessel as a signal for them both to rise to the surface at dawn to effect the exchange.
‘I think somebody ought to keep that appointment,’ said Crowe, looking quizzically at his assistants.
‘There’s a bit of difference in pitch between the sound of our underwater signal and theirs,’ demurred Holby.
‘Not enough to matter,’ said Crowe. ‘If they get the signal they’re expecting, the right signal, at the right time and place, they won’t stop to think about a trifling difference in pitch. Put yourself in their place, man.’
The staff nodded. There was something fascinating and magnetic about their captain’s determination to do the enemy all possible harm. But it was their duty to look at all sides of a question.
‘What about surface propeller noises?’ said Rowles, but Crowe shook his head.
‘There won’t be any,’ he explained. ‘We’ll send one ship - there’s no sense in taking the whole flotilla - and she’ll get there early in the dark, so she can drift. Who’s got the steadiest
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