The guns of Navaronne Read online

  The guns of Navaronne

  Alistair Maclean

  The classic World War II thriller from the acclaimed master of action and suspense. Now issued for the first time as an e-book.Twelve hundred British soldiers isolated on the small island of Kheros off the Turkish coast, waiting to die. Twelve hundred lives in jeopardy, lives that could be saved if only the guns could be silenced. The guns of Navarone, vigilant, savage and catastrophically accurate. Navarone itself, grim bastion of narrow straits manned by a mixed garrison of Germans and Italians, an apparently impregnable iron fortress. To Captain Keith Mallory, skllled saboteur, trained mountaineer, fell the task of leading the small party detailed to scale the vast, impossible precipice of Navarone and to blow up the guns. The Guns of Navarone is the story of that mission, the tale of a calculated risk taken in the time of war…

  Alistair Maclean.

  The guns of Navaronne

  This is a work of fiction in the historical setting of World War II. All persons and events are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  Prelude: Sunday

  01:00—09:00

  The match scratched noisily across the rusted metal of the corrugated iron shed, fizzled, then burst into a sputtering pool of light, the harsh sound and sudden brilliance alike strangely alien in the stillness of the desert night. Mechanically, Mallory's eyes followed the cupped sweep of the flaring match to the cigarette jutting out beneath the commodore's clipped moustache, saw the light stop inches away from the face, saw too the sudden stillness of that face, the unfocused vacancy of the eyes of a man lost in listening. Then the match was gone, ground into the sand of the airfield perimeter.

  «I can hear them,» the commodore said softly. «I can hear them coming in. Five minutes, no more. No wind to-night — they'll be coming in on No. 2. Come on, let's meet them in the interrogation room.» He paused, looked quizzically at Mallory and seemed to smile. But the darkness deceived, for there was no humour in his voice. «Just curb your impatience, young man — just for a little longer. Things haven't gone too well to-night. You're going to have all your answers, I'm afraid, and have them all too soon.» He turned abruptly, strode off towards the squat buildings that loomed vaguely against the pale darkness that topped the level horizon.

  Mallory shrugged, then followed on more slowly, step for step with the third member of the group, a broad, stocky figure with a very pronounced roll in his gait. Mallory wondered sourly just how much practice Jensen had required to achieve that sailorly effect. Thirty years at sea, of course — and Jensen had done exactly that— were sufficient warrant for a man to dance a hornpipe as he walked: but that wasn't the point. As the brilliantly successful Chief of Operations of the Subversive Operations Executive in Cairo, intrigue, deception, imitation and disguise were the breath of life to Captain James Jensen, D.S.O., R.N. As a Levantine stevedore agitator, he had won the awed respect of the dock-labourers from Alexandretta to Alexandria: as a camel-driver, he had blasphemously out-camel-driven all available Bedouin competition: and no more pathetic beggar had ever exhibited such realistic sores in the bazaars and marketplaces of the East. To-night, however, he was just the bluff and simple sailor. He was dressed in white from cap-cover to canvas shoes; the starlight glinted softly on the golden braid on epaulettes and cap peak.

  Their footsteps crunched in companionable unison over the hard-packed sand, rang sharply as they moved on to the concrete of the runway. The hurrying figure of the air commodore was already almost lost to sight. Mallory took a deep breath and turned suddenly towards Jensen.

  «Look, sir, just what is all this? What's all the flap, all the secrecy about? And why am I involved in it? Good lord, sir, it was only yesterday that I was pulled out of Crete, relieved at eight hours' notice. A month's leave, I was told. And what happens?»

  «Well,» Jensen murmured, «what did happen?»

  «No leave,» Mallory said bitterly. «Not even a night's sleep. Just hours and hours in the S.O.E. Headquarters, answering a lot of silly, damnfool questions about climbing in the Southern Alps. Then hauled out of bed at midnight, told I was to meet you, and then driven for hours across the blasted desert by a mad Scotsman who sang drunken songs and asked hundreds of even more silly, damnfool questions!»

  «One of my more effective disguises, I've always thought,» Jensen said smugly. «Personally, I found the journey most entertaining!»

  «One of your—» Mallory broke off, appalled at the memory of the things he had said to the elderly, bewhiskered Scots captain who had driven the command vehicle. «I — I'm terribly sorry, sir. I never realised—»

  «Of course you didn't!» Jensen cut in briskly. «You weren't supposed to. Just wanted to find out if you were the man for the job. I'm sure you are — I was pretty sure you were before I pulled you out of Crete. But where you got the idea about leave I don't know. The sanity of the S.O.E. has often been questioned, but even we aren't given to sending a flying-boat for the sole purpose of enabling junior officers to spend a month wasting their substance among the flesh-pots of Cairo,» be finished dryly.

  «I still don't know—»

  «Patience, laddie, patience — as our worthy commodore has just advocated. Time is endless. To wait, and to keep on waiting — that is to be of the East.»

  «To total four hours' sleep in three days is not,» Mallory said feelingly. «And that's all I've had… . Here they come!»

  Both men screwed up their eyes in automatic reflex as the fierce glare of the landing lights struck at them, the flare path arrowing off into the outer darkness. In less than a minute the first bomber was down, heavily, awkwardly, taxi-ing to a standstill just beside them. The grey camouflage paint of the after fuselage and tailplanes was riddled with bullet and cannon shells, an aileron was shredded and the port outer engine out of commission, saturated in oil. The cabin perspex was shattered and starred in a dozen places.

  For a long time Jensen stared at the holes and scars of the damaged machine, then shook his head and looked away.

  «Four hours' sleep, Captain Mallory,» he said quietly. «Four hours. I'm beginning to think that you can count yourself damn' lucky to have had even that much.»

  The interrogation room, harshly lit by two powerful, unshaded lights, was uncomfortable and airless. The furniture consisted of some battered wall-maps and charts, a score or so of equally scuffed chairs and an unvarnished deal table. The commodore, flanked by Jensen and Mallory, was sitting behind this when the door opened abruptly and the first of the flying crews entered, blinking rapidly in the fierceness of the unaccustomed light They were led by a dark-haired, thick-set pilot, trailing helmet and flying-suit in his left hand. He had an Anzac bush helmet crushed on the back of his head, and the word «Australia» emblazoned in white across each khaki shoulder. Scowling, wordlessly and without permission, he sat down in front of them, produced a pack of cigaottes and rasped a match across the surface of the table. Mallory looked furtively at the commodore. The commodore just looked resigned. He even sounded resigned.

  «Gentlemen, this is Squadron Leader Torrance. Squadron Leader Torrance,» he added unnecessarily, «is an Australian.» Mallory had the impression that the commodore rather hoped this would explain some things, Squadron Leader Torrance among them. «He led tonight's attack on Navarone. Bill, these gentlemen here — Captain Jensen of the Royal Navy, Captain Mallory of the Long Range Desert Group — have a very special interest in Navarone. How did things go to-night?»

  Navarone! So that's why I'm here to-night, Mallory thought. Navarone. He knew it well, rather, knew of it. So did everyone who had served any time at all in the Eastern Mediterranean: a grim, impregnable iron fortress off the coast of Tur
key, heavily defended by — it was thought — a mixed garrison of Germans and Italians, one of the few Aegean islands on which the Allies had been unable to establish a mission, far less recapture, at some period of the war… . He realised that Torrance was speaking, the slow drawl heavy with controlied anger.

  «Bloody awful, sir. A fair cow, it was, a real suicide do.» He broke off abruptly, stared moodily with compressed lips through his own drifting tobacco smoke. «But we'd like to go back again,» he went on. «Me and the boys here. Just once. We were talking about it on the way home.» Mallory caught the deep murmur of voices in the background, a growl of agreement. «We'd like to take with us the joker who thought this one up and shove him out at ten thousand over Navarone, without benefit of parachute.»

  «As bad as that, Bill?»

  «As bad as that, sir. We hadn't a chance. Straight up, we really hadn't. First off, the weather was against us — the jokers in the Met. office were about as right as they usually are.»

  «They gave you clear weather?»

  «Yeah. Clear weather. It was ten-tenths over the target,» Torrance said bitterly. «We had to go down to fifteen hundred. Not that it made any difference. We would have to have gone down lower than that anyway — about three thousand feet below sea-level, then fly up the way: that cliff overhang shuts the target clean off. Might as well have dropped a shower of leaflets asking them to spike their own bloody guns… . Then they've got every second A.A. gun in the south of Europe concentrated along this narrow 50-degree vector — the only way you can approach the target, or anywhere near the target. Russ and Conroy were belted good and proper on the way in. Didn't even get half-way towards the harbour… They never had a chance.»

  «I know, I know.» The commodore, nodded heavily. «We heard. W/T reception was good… . And McIlveen ditched just north of Alex?»

  «Yeah. But he'll be all right. The old crate was still awash when we passed over, the big dinghy was out and it was as smooth as a millpond. He'll be all right,» Torrance repeated.

  The commodore nodded again, and Jensen touched his sleeve.

  «May I have a word with the Squadron Leader?»

  «Of course, Captain. You don't have to ask.»

  «Thanks.» Jensen looked across at the burly Australian and smiled faintly.

  «Just one little question, Squadron Leader. You don't fancy going back there again?»

  «Too bloody right, I don't!» Torrance growled.

  «Because?»

  «Because I don't believe in suicide. Because I don't believe in sacrificing good blokes for nothing. Because I'm not God and I can't do the impossible.» There was a flat finality in Torrance's voice that carried conviction, that brooked no argument.

  «It is impossible, you say?» Jensen persisted. «This is terribly important.»

  «So's my life. So are the lives of all these jokers.» Torrance jerked a big thumb over his shoulder. «It's impossible, sir. At least, it's impossible for us.» He drew a weary hand down his face. «Maybe a Dornier flyingboat with one of these new-fangled radio-controlled glider-bombs might do it and get off with it. I don't know. But I do know that nothing we've got has a snowball's chance in hell. Not,» he added bitterly, «unless you cram a Mosquito full of T.N.T. and order one of us to crash-dive it at four hundred into the mouth of the gun cave. That way there's always a chance.»

  «Thank you, Squadron Leader — and all of you.» Jensen was on his feet. «I know you've done your very best, no one could have done more. And I'm sorry. Commodore?»

  «Right with you, gentlemen.» He nodded to the bespectacled Intelligence officer who had been sitting behind them to take his place, led the way out through a side door and into his own quarters.

  «Well, that is that, I suppose.» He broke the seal of a bottle of Talisker, brought out some glasses. «You'll have to accept it as final, Jensen. Bill Torrance's is the senior, most experienced squadron left in Africa to-day. Used to pound the Ploesti oil wells and think it a helluva skylark. If anyone could have done to-night's job it was Bill Torrance, and if he says it's impossible, believe me, Captain Jensen, it can't be done.»

  «Yes.» Jensen looked down sombrely at the golden amber of the glass in his hand. «Yes, I know. I almost knew before, but I couldn't be sure, and I couldn't take the chance of being wrong… . A terrible pity that it took the lives of a dozen men to prove me right … There's just the one way left, now.»

  «There's just the one,» the commodore echoed. He lifted his glass, shook his head. «Here's luck to Kheros!»

  «Here's luck to Kheros!» Jensen echoed in turn. His face was grim.

  «Look!» Mallory begged. «I'm completely lost. Would somebody please tell me—»

  «Kheros,» Jensen interrupted. «That was your cue call, young man. All the world's a stage, laddie, etcetera, and this is where you tread the boards in this particular little comedy.» Jensen's smile was quite mirthless. «Sorry you've missed the first two acts, but don't lose any sleep over that. This is no bit part: you're going to be the star, whether you like it or not. This is it. Kheros, Act 3, Scene 1. Enter Captain Keith Mallory.»

  Neither of them had spoken in the last ten minutes. Jensen drove the big Humber command car with the same sureness, the same relaxed efficiency that hallmarked everything he did: Mallory still sat hunched over the map on his knees, a large-scale Admiralty chart of the Southern Aegean illuminated by the hooded dashboard light, studying an area of the Sporades and Northern Dodecanese heavily squared off in red pencil. Finally he straightened up and shivered. Even in Egypt these late November nights could be far too cold for comfort. He looked across at Jensen.

  «I think I've got it now, sir.»

  «Good!» Jensen gazed straight ahead along the winding grey ribbon of dusty road, along the white glare of the headlights that cleaved through the darkness of the desert. The beams lifted and dipped, constantly, hypnotically, to the cushioning of the springs on the rutted road. «Good!» he repeated. «Now, have another look at it and imagine yourself standing in the town of Navarone — that's on the almost circular bay on the north of the island? Tell me, what would you see from there?»

  Mallory smiled.

  «I don't have to look again, sir. Four miles or so away to the east I'd see the Turkish coast curving up north and west to a point almost due north of Navarone — a very sharp promontory, that, for the coastline above curves back almost due east. Then, about sixteen miles away, due north beyond this promontory — Cape Demirci, isn't it? — and practically in a line with it I'd see the island of Kheros. Finally, six miles to the west is the island of Maidos, the first of the Lerades group. They stretch away in a north-westerly direction, maybe fifty miles.»

  «Sixty.» Jensen nodded. «You have the eye, my boy. You've got the guts and the experience — a man doesn't survive eighteen months in Crete without both. You've got one or two special qualifications I'll mention by and by.» He paused for a moment, shook his head slowly. «I only hope you have the luck — all the luck. God alone knows you're going to need it.»

  Mallory waited expectantly, but Jensen had sunk into some private reverie. Three minutes passed, perhaps five, and there was only the swish of the tyres, the subdued hum of the powerful engine. Presently Jensen stirred and spoke again, quietly, still without taking his eyes off the road.

  «This is Saturday — rather, it's Sunday morning now. There are one thousand two hundred men on the island of Kheros — one thousand two hundred British soldiers — who will be dead, wounded or prisoner by next Saturday. Mostly, they'll be dead.» For the first time he looked at Mallory and smiled, a brief smile, a crooked smile, and then it was gone. «How does it feel to hold a thousand lives in your hands, Captain Mallory?»

  For long seconds Mallory looked at the impassive face beside him, then looked away again. He stared down at the chart. Twelve hundred men on Kheros, twelve hundred men waiting to die. Kheros and Navarone, Kheros and Navarone. What was that poem again, that little jingle that he'd learnt all these long years a
go in that little upland village in the sheeplands outside Queenstown? Chimborazo — that was it. «Chimborazo and Cotopaxi, you have stolen my heart away.» Kheros and Navarone — they had the same ring, the same indefinable glamour, the same wonder of romance that took hold of a man and stayed with him. Kheros and — angrily, almost, he shook his head, tried to concentrate. The pieces of the jig-saw were beginning to click into place, but slowly.

  Jensen broke the silence.

  «Eighteen months ago, you remember, after the fall of Greece, the Germans had taken over nearly all the islands of the Sporades: the Italians, of course, already held most of the Dodecanese. Then, gradually, we began to establish missions on these islands, usually spear-headed by your people, the Long Range Desert Group or the Special Boat Service. By last September we had retaken nearly all the larger islands except Navarone — it was too damned hard a nut, so we just by-passed it — and brought some of the garrisons up to, and beyond, battalion strength.» He grinned at Mallory. «You were lurking in your cave somewhere in the White Mountains at the time, but you'll remember how the Germans reacted?»

  «Violently?»

  Jensen nodded.

  «Exactly. Very violently indeed. The political importance of Turkey in this part of the world is impossible to over-estimate — and she's always been a potential partner for either Axis or Allies. Most of these islands are only a few miles off the Turkish coast. The question of prestige, of restoring confidence in Germany, was urgent.»

  «So?»

  «So they flung in everything — paratroopers, airborne troops, crack mountain brigades, hordes of Stukas — I'm told they stripped the Italian front of dive-bombers for these operations. Anyway, they flung everything in — the lot. In a few weeks we'd lost over ten thousand troops and every island we'd ever recaptured — except Kheros.»