‘What did you say, Captain?’ the Eider Dane asked.
‘Nothing, Per, just thinking aloud that’s—’ McIntyre stopped short. He thought he had heard a noise.
‘What is it?’ Per hissed.
‘Shut up!’ McIntyre cocked his head to one side. There was no denying it. Boots were crunching softly along the frosty path, several of them. ‘Quick,’ he whispered. ‘There’s somebody coming.’
‘Shall we run?’
‘Nope. We’re going to have to deal with them. Once we run, the Huns’ll know someone’s being spying on their precious illegal weapons. No, it’s gonna be a matter of dead men tell no tales.’
Per gasped.
McIntyre scuttled to the side of the barge nearest to the bank. Two dark figures were making their way towards the barge and by the faint light he could see they were carrying rifles – soldiers or armed Schupos, the German police. He strained his eyes. No, there were just the two of them. Good. He pulled out the heavy revolver with the silencer attached. They were as good as dead, he told himself. Slowly he began to rise, with the pistol held tightly to his thigh, like a dentist holds his forceps when he does not want to frighten an anxious patient.
Suddenly the Germans saw him. ‘Hey, Sie da?’ the bigger of the two cried. ‘Was machen Sie auf dem Kahn?’
McIntyre did not answer. He knew the tone in his voice, if he answered, might well give away his intention. He had done this before; he knew.
‘Ich hab Sie was gefragt!’ the bigger of the two snapped angrily. Now McIntyre could see he was a cop – green police, as the Germans called them – complete with polished leather helmet. ‘Antworten Sie dock, Saukerl!’
McIntyre remained silent.
The bigger of the two cursed and flicked on the torch which was attached to his breast pocket. The beam hit McIntyre in the eyes and then descended to his body. He blinked, but did not move. They couldn’t see the gun, he knew that.
Now they were satisfied that he wasn’t dangerous, the two heavy-set policemen, with their sweeping moustaches in the fashion adopted by the Kaiser, now deposed and living in Dutch exile, advanced upon him, obviously intent on giving him a few slaps about the head before dragging him off to the local clink. McIntyre smiled to himself. That’ll be the day, he thought.
They were five yards away when he brought up the heavy pistol. Behind him Per, hiding behind a packing case, gasped. McIntyre didn’t hesitate. He had killed so many men now, that violent death meant very little to him. It was a job to be done just like any other job. He caught his breath, then fired.
A soft plop. At that range he couldn’t miss. The bigger policeman was lifted off his feet abruptly. Sudden scarlet stained the front of his tunic. Then, with a weird kind of keening, he sat down, fat hands grabbing for his chest. They never managed it. Abruptly he keeled over and was dead before he hit the ground.
Frantically the other policeman fumbled to unsling his carbine. McIntyre didn’t give him the chance to do so. He spun round and pressed the trigger again. The policeman’s face shattered like a soft-boiled egg tapped by a too hard spoon. Bloody gore jetted from it in a scarlet arc. He fell backwards into the water and went under without a struggle. A few bubbles exploded on the surface and then he was gone.
McIntyre put the pistol back into his pocket and said to Per in his calm detached manner, ‘All right, let’s get rid of the second stiff and then we’ll have a look at what the third barge contains…’
* * *
‘It contained rifles, thousands of them in perfect condition,’ the Canadian with the lean dangerous face said, the smoke from his cigarette curling up around crinkled eyes. ‘Not a bad night’s work for the price of a couple of dead Huns, even if I do say so myself.’
‘Very good work indeed, Captain McIntyre,’ C agreed, and Smith could see that even he was shocked a little by the cold-blooded way McIntyre had murdered the two Boche policemen. ‘Rest assured that your efforts will be rewarded in due course.’
‘No more medals, sir,’ McIntyre said. ‘I’ve got a drawerful of them already.’
‘We shall find suitable pecuniary means, I am sure,’ C said. He turned to Smith. ‘Now strange as it may seem, Smith, just after a world war, when factories all over the world were turning out weapons by the million, arms are hard to find. Throughout Europe, as you well know, tribe is fighting tribe and creed is fighting creed. Arms are in great demand and short supply. The only place where there are plenty of weapons is, surprisingly enough, Imperial Germany or its successor the new Republic. With the demobilisation of the Kaiser’s army, they have hidden huge stores of arms all over the country. You have just heard how Captain McIntyre here discovered one of those hidden stores.’
For some reason McIntyre sniffed, but said nothing.
‘But how do these weapons concern me, sir?’ Smith asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘We – or rather the Eider Danes in Captain McIntyre’s employ – are in the process of stealing those weapons at this very moment,’ C answered. ‘It will be your task to ensure that once they are stolen they are safely delivered to their new owners.’
‘And who are they, sir?’
By way of an answer C turned to the big map of Europe once more. ‘The new state of Poland,’ he announced sweeping his hand across Central Europe. ‘Created by ourselves and the French, as a bulwark against the Bolsheviks in Russia and whatever danger the Huns of their new Republic may present in due course. Cordon sanitaire, the French call it.’ C gave a wintry smile. ‘Not that it’s proving very “sanitaire”, especially for the hard-pressed Poles.’ He paused to let his words sink in.
‘Now at this moment the Red Army is crossing the Polish border and heading for Warsaw. The gros of the new Polish Army is, therefore, primarily concerned with attempting to stop the Reds. If Warsaw falls, their generals know, so does Poland. But that is not the only danger facing Poland. To the west, Germany is also flexing its muscles on Polish territory. Here around Breslau the population is predominantly German. After all, the place was a Prussian province up to eighteen months ago when we handed it over to the Poles. Officially, Germany is not involved. After all Germany is a defeated nation and Poland is a creation of the victorious allies. Unofficially, the Huns are doing their damnedest to retake the two provinces of Lower and Upper Silesia here and there. So they are using what they call Freikorps, I believe. Free Corps to you, Smith.’
‘Yep,’ McIntyre chipped. ‘A hard lot of bastards. All ex-frontline soldiers who just love to kill and loot – that’s what they’re in for, the killing and the looting. Tough hombres, the lot of ’em,’ He stopped and relapsed once more into a brooding silence.
‘In particular there is the so-called “Iron Division” under a General von der Goltz, a very experienced officer who fought all the war against the Russians. He is marching through Lower Silesia with the support of most of the local populace, heading for the chief city in Upper Silesia – Oppeln, as the Huns call it. But before it can capture it, he’s got to take the Annaberg – here?’ Again C stabbed the map with his well-manicured forefinger.
‘Now to you, Smith – and me, up to quite recently – Annaberg means nothing, I know. But to the Poles, a very Catholic people, the height – it’s about four hundred yards above the central plain – is of symbolic significance. Anna is reputably the mother of Mary, the mother of Jesus. The Catholic Poles have long revered her for that reason. During their years of oppression by the Protestant Prussians, the height became their symbol of their resistance. So von der Goltz has to capture the Annaberg for both tactical – and symbolic – reasons. You follow me, Smith?’
‘Just about, sir,’ Smith said and McIntyre sniggered, muttering under his breath, ‘Damned Pope-lovers.’ Smith guessed he must have been brought up in one of those strict, dour Calvinist Scottish households, though the commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ seemed to have slipped by him.
‘Now to defend the Annaberg against the von der Goltz t
wenty thousand-odd mercenaries, the Poles have only got the local peasantry led by country gentlemen of a certain age, who last saw military service at the turn of the century. Armed with swords, flintlocks, hunting rifles, lances and the like, they are no match for von der Goltz’s Huns. You, my dear Common Smith,’ he ended with another of his wintry smiles, ‘are going to redress the balance.’ He paused for a moment and then said very formally, ‘In a way, Common Smith, if things go as we plan, you are going to save Poland…’
Four
‘Now then, Smithie,’ Sub-Lieutenant ‘Dickie’ Bird drawled in the languid fashion he affected. ‘What’s all the dashed mystery about, eh?’ He dabbed his mouth delicately with a lace handkerchief, well soaked with an expensive eau-de-cologne. ‘Ever since we arrived here you’ve been dashing about like the proverbial blue-arsed fly. Not even time for the odd noggin, the spot of pink gin, the cup that cheers etc etc in the ward-room.’
A weary Smith grinned. He knew Dickie’s affected manner of old. Underneath it was steel-hard purpose. It was not everyone, after all, who won the DSC at seventeen when still a midshipman. He looked across at the berth where, under the command of CPO ‘Sandy’ Ferguson, Leading Hands ‘Ginger’ Kerrigan and ‘Billy’ Bennett were rigging up a Lewis gun on the foredeck of HMS Swordfish. It was forty-eight hours ago now since they had brought it up the Humber from the Selby shipbuilding yard, and since then the crew had worked all out to get the craft ready for the task ahead. Smith supposed it was now time to let Dickie into the great secret.
‘Come on, old bean,’ Dickie urged. ‘Spit it out, PDQ.’
Smith shook his head. ‘What a type you are, Dickie. But I’m afraid there is no pretty damn quick answer to this one. Come on, let’s get out of the cold and I’ll tell you what I do know.’
Together, followed by the sound of hammering, which echoed and re-echoed across the Humber mudflats, they strolled back to the tin hut which served as a rest room for the crew, to be greeted by a comfortable warm fug as they opened the door. Smith indicated Dickie should take a seat on one of the crates which served as a chair and lit a cigarette. ‘All right, Dickie, here’s the story. I was going to tell the chaps later on anyway.’
‘Damn sporting of you to tell me first, Smithie,’ Dickie said sarcastically, and taking out a gold cigarette case, lit a cigarette himself. ‘I’ve got my own gaspers. Don’t bother to offer me one.’
‘Sorry, Dickie. My mind was on other things. You can guess that we’re going on active service again, can’t you, Dickie?’
‘Natch. Why do you think I left the arms of that high-born lady from Piccadilly who has been keeping me in the style to which I have become accustomed? Of course, I guessed that.’
Smith laughed and said, ‘Well, it’s one way to keep the wolf from the door.’ Then his smile vanished. ‘But on this one, Dickie, we can’t wear navy clobber.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we will be masquerading as civvies.’
‘Civvies?’
‘Yes, as far as I know, Dickie, the Admiralty has no knowledge of our mission. Officially, at least. We are working under the orders of a certain organisation which does not exist.’
‘You mean the jolly old Secret Service, Smithie.’
Smith nodded.
Dickie whistled and said, ‘I say, this sounds exciting, old bean.’
Smith looked serious. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, Dickie. All I know is that it’s going to be damnably dangerous. Now you’ve got the map of Northern Europe in your head, or at least you should have. They knocked it into us often enough at Dartmouth.’
Dickie tapped his forehead. ‘High forehead, Smithie. Sure sign of great intellect. Yes, got all of Northern Europe up there. Fire away, old bean.’
‘Well, this is the deal. We are to sail from Hull to the Dutch island of Texel. There a discreet little oiler will be waiting for us, to fill up the fuel tanks before we enter the Baltic.’
‘Not another one of those raids on the Bolos like at Kronstadt, is it, Smithie?’
He shook his head. ‘No, this time we’re not going that far. We are to sail to the estuary of the Elbe where it enters the North Sea. There we are to rendezvous with a small fleet of Polish fishing boats and thereupon escort them into the Baltic. We shall then proceed south of the island of Bornholm, keeping well out of German territorial waters. I don’t suppose they have much of a fleet left since they scuttled their Grand Fleet at Scapa last year, but you never know.’
‘It’s something to do with the Hun then?’ Dickie asked.
‘Yes, I’ll tell you that in half a mo. From Bornholm we head south-east until we make landfall just outside the new Polish port of Kolobrzeg,’ he stuttered a little over the unfamiliar Polish name.
‘Did that used to be called Kolberg when the Huns had it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s fifty miles from the new German–Polish border, so we should be pretty safe there, I think. Once we see the fishing boats safely into harbour, our job’s done and we can come home. Then perhaps their Lordships or C or someone might offer us further employment,’ he ended a little lamely.
‘Oh, do forget the future, Smithie. Let’s talk about the present. Explain, please, why we are being sent out to escort a bunch of Polish fishing boats. If they are so important, why doesn’t their own navy escort them?’
‘Because, Dickie, Poland doesn’t yet have a navy. Let me explain.’ Swiftly Smith told the young sub-lieutenant, whose languid manner was belied by his sharp, alert blue eyes, what C had told him.
Dickie listened, his eyes becoming keener by the moment, as he took in all the details of the voyage to come, occasionally interrupting to say something like, ‘We’d betterit off the mouth of the Elbe. I believe they’ve got some kind of lookout at Elbe Five.’ He meant the buoy floating there, or, ‘The narrows between Denmark and the German coast will be decidedly tricky. We’ll be well within reach of German territorial waters.’ But when Smith had ended he said, reaching out his rather delicate hand, ‘Smithie, old chap, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m with you all the way,’ and his grip was firm and hard as he pressed his old comrade’s hand. ‘It’s going to be absolutely great fun!’
‘I hope the chaps will react in the same way, Dickie, when I tell them later on,’ Smith said earnestly, as the sirens further down the coast signalled knocking-off time for the great port’s hundreds of dockers.
‘Of course, they will, Smithie,’ Dickie said enthusiastically. ‘Why, they are all volunteers and would have given their eye teeth to get into a wonderful stunt like this. You can rely on them all right.’
Smith nodded. ‘Now then, Dickie, I want to get up to Trinity House. I’ll catch a tram on Hendon Road. I want you to hold the fort.’ He crossed to one of the lockers which had just arrived that morning, took off his naval tunic with the dull red ribbon of the Victoria Cross as its only decoration, and reaching into the first locker pulled out a hip-length navy blue coat that looked as if it had seen better days. It was followed by a battered merchant navy cap, the peak of which was cracked. ‘Civvies,’ he announced, putting them on. ‘It’s about time that we started acting our new role.’
‘Oh my sainted aunt, talk about – look what the dog has just dragged in,’ Dickie exclaimed, a smile on his face.
‘Just see what I’ve found for you, Dickie,’ Smith threatened. ‘When the chaps knock off, have Chiefie Ferguson kit them out, too.’
‘But why are you going to Trinity House?’
‘New charts. Since we’ve ended the blockade of Germany, the Huns have been forced to issue the Trinity House wallahs with new charts of their coastal waters. If we’re going to run food into Hamburg, Bremerhaven and the like, we’ve got to know what changes in the coastline have taken place since 1914. You know what that area of the North Sea off the Friesian Islands is like, with those shallows and shifting sand and so on. Besides,’ he grinned suddenly, ‘the Huns have been forced to give details of the still existing
minefields, those which have not yet been cleared, and you can guess where they are located – in the narrows leading into the Baltic.’
‘Ah,’ Dickie said, as Smith marched to the door. ‘Been using your grey matter for a change, eh, Smithie?’
‘Remember I’m your commanding officer, Sub-Lieutenant Bird,’ Smith said with mock severity.
‘No, you aren’t,’ Bird countered. ‘You’re some old broken-down merchant seaman. In the Royal Navy we’d put your type into irons without him opening his mouth. Dumb insolence, written all over your ugly mug.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Watch out. There might be Bolos out there in ’ull,’ he dropped the ‘h’ like the locals did. ‘Place’s swarming with Reds. Watch your back.’
‘I will… I will,’ Smith promised and then he was gone into the grey winter’s day towards where the dockers were swarming to the waiting blue and white trams.
It was Friday, payday on the docks, and the tram stops swarmed with all kinds of local civilians trying to get money out of the dockers, tallymen pleading with them to ‘pay off a bit on account’, bookies’ runners taking bets for the morrow’s racing at Redcar, Jewish tailors’ representatives promising ‘three-piece suits with two pairs of trousers for thirty bob. Now can yer beat that, ducks?’ And whores. They were everywhere, raddled and ancient, offering their services for ‘a bob and a pint of stout, come on, luv’ to skinny tubercular kids who couldn’t have been more than sixteen (if that) asking almost shyly, as they stood there with plaid shawls over their heads, ‘Wouldn’t yer like a good time, darlin’? Come with me and I’ll spoil yer, honestl Only ten bob.’
The Baltic Run Page 4