Death on the Rhine by Charles Whiting

Author:Charles Whiting
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

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It was well past midnight. Creeping forwards at a snail’s pace in the thick fog, Smith tensed as he prepared to open the throttles wide. It was going to be a terrible risk with visibility down to zero, but it was the only way he could give the Swordfish sufficient momentum to allow her to drift by the German frontier with her engines not working. Next to him, CPO Ferguson tensed, too. He realised only too well the chances the skipper would have to take in a moment.

‘It looks as if we’ve got about five miles to the German frontier crossing, sir,’ he broke the heavy brooding silence. ‘I ken it’s risky, but I doubt if there’s a thing out there. I’ve been harking these last ten minutes.’

‘All right, Chiefie, we’ll do it,’ Smith said through gritted teeth. He started to pull back the two throttles. The Swordfish began to pick up speed. The two men could feel the deck start to vibrate under their feet. Swiftly, her prow rose out of the water.

Smith flashed a glance at the dials. She’d almost reached twenty knots an hour. They were surging through the fog at a tremendously risky speed. God, he prayed there’d be no craft in their way; there’d be one hell of a crash.

Smith, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead with strain and worry, counted off the minutes to himself. His gaze flashed from left to right, trying to penetrate the grey wall of fog, alert for the first sign of another boat. Then, he’d done it. He pulled back the throttles and turned off the motors. A sudden silence. The hiss as the Swordfish slowing down a little, was carried forwards by its own momentum. Leaning out of the bridge, CPO Ferguson hissed to the two lookouts on both sides of the bow, ‘Keep a weather eye open now, mind ye!’

They didn’t reply. They were too intent on their task, peering through the gloom for the first sign of danger.

The Swordfish was slowing down noticeably now. Smith told himself they should be at the German frontier, but it was hard to say. They were hemmed in on all sides by that grey gloom. Suddenly he started. There was no mistaking it – the soft put-put of a small boat. There was someone out there. He looked at Ferguson. The old Scot’s face clearly registered his shock. Was it the German authorities? As the Swordfish slowed down even more, the steady throbbing of the unknown boat’s engine came ever closer.

‘Ferguson, take over,’ Smith hissed, as if he might be overhead, ‘I’m going to have a look-see.’ Hurriedly, he clambered down the dripping wet iron ladder that led to the deck.

‘To port,’ Ginger whispered. He cocked his head to one side, his black oilskin slick and dripping with the wet fog. ‘There, sir. Can you hear it?’

Smith nodded and strained too. The boat could be only a matter of yards away. It seemed to be steering a parallel course to the silent Swordfish, which by now was moving at perhaps three or four knots.

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