On the Edge of Darkness

by Anthony Molloy

  “Yourself being an educated man I’m sure you will appreciate my taking the opportunity to teach you a few things. I’m a religious man, so I’m thinking I’ll teach you about faith, hope and charity. He stabbed with a lightening left… CRUNCH! Thompson staggered back, one hand to his split lip. “That was to give you faith… the faith you’ll never get hit harder than that in the rest of your life.”

  Again the left stabbed out… CRUNCH! Thompson’s eyes glazed over either side of an already swelling nose. “That’s to give hope, hope that you’ll never see me in a bad mood again … and now charity… because,” this time it was his right that shot out… CRUNCH! “That’s the last time I’m after hitting yer.”

  ‘Regatta Reg’ sank slowly to his knees, his arms straight down at his side he fell ungracefully forward onto a battered and bloody face.

  * * *

  Relaxing in the wardroom, his feet on the coffee table, Grant sipped at the pink gin, it was his second. He sniffed at the heady fumes, it smelt like perfume and put him in mind of Charlotte. She wouldn’t have liked the idea. A shadow fell across his glass and he looked up into Charlotte’s eyes. It was Crosswall-Brown. He hadn’t realised how alike they were until that moment.

  “Fancy a game of crib, old man?”

  “Why not… Sound idea,” said Grant.

  Crosswall-Brown already had the board and cards in his hand. He placed them on the small oak table to one side of Grant’s chair and pulled up another.

  “Good to be back in civilisation?” he asked shuffling the dog-eared pack.

  Grant nodded his head, “Too true. It’s like a different world, Ben. I took all this for granted when I was Number One on the old bucket.”

  “Like it all back?”

  “What the job?” He thought for a second, “No… well, at this moment…” he laughed, “… possibly yes.” He took a deep breath and looked deep into the glass. “I like the excitement of my own command…the responsibly, I suppose, certainly the independence. But you know what I really appreciate, what is even more important to me, is to be master of my own fate, at least as much as one can be in this day and age. If I’m going to risk my life and other peoples I want it on my terms … Don’t get me wrong the ‘Old Mans’ the best… But I have served with some right…well… dangerous idiots, in my time. Mostly people who are someone’s son and heir and who don’t know their ear holes from their…Well, you know the aperture I have in mind. People who no idea how to do the job and are put in charge of those who have.”

  “People like me you mean.”

  “No! God Lord no. You’re the exception that proves the rule.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Sorry, you know what I mean, don’t you, old chap? To take command, it’s the hardest things any of us can be called upon to do, certainly not everyone can do it, it’s not something you should have as a right. When men’s lives are at stake old school ties shouldn’t count for anything. We British do have a tendency to put some right dunderheads at the top. Look at Haig in the last show. We put that man in charge of thousands of men and he slaughtered them. He simply did not have the ability, not an original bone in his whole body. He was more dangerous to our troops than the bloody Germans. Pure waste; pure murder, if the truth be known.” He stared into his glass. “Sorry I’m going on a bit. I’ve probably had too many of these… I know I’ll never have the kind of responsibility that that old man had. By God, I don’t think I’d want it. I’ve enough… more than enough!” He leant forward over the table. “I’ll tell you what, old chap, I’m going to use every ounce of grey matter I possess, to bring the few I have under my command through this one safely.”

  “I’ll drink to that … Steward, bring two ‘Horse’s Necks’. He laid a seven of hearts, “Fifteen two.”

  * * *

  Commander Barr rubbed his smooth, recently shaved chin and turned back to the map of Norway, “Jerry is using this coastal road to supply his troops at the front. Not surprising really, this is the only usable road. It crosses the river Landola… here. As you can see it is very near to our old base… here, at Olaf’s Inlet. The plan is to carry out a night attack and spend the following day hiding up at the Inlet. This will also give us the opportunity to gather any information the ‘Network’ have accrued since our last visit. You all have your orders in writing. That’s about it Gentlemen… unless are there any questions?”

  Barr pointed at Grant’s raised hand. “Robert?”

  “It might be a good idea to contact Olaf before the attack, sir, rather than after, he may have more up to date information on the target.”

  “Good point…but that will delay the operation by twenty-four hours…”

  “Not if we contact Olaf early enough sir, it’s only two hours from the Inlet to the bridge.”

  “True… that’s what we’ll do then. Any more for any more?…No …Suggestions?…No. Well, thank you, gentlemen, I know you all have lots to do, carry on please.”

  * * *

  As soon as it was dark the four boats slipped south, making good progress in a stern sea, they were off the Inlet three hours before first light. The ‘Eddy’s’ dingy was lowered quietly over the side and Bushel and his men paddled in along the length of the Inlet, under the high overhang and into the cave. Since they had abandoned the idea of a permanent presence they had to check for signs of the enemy before they entered. Grant had given them thirty minutes to search the cave, tunnel and cliff top.

  The three men secured the dinghy and moved slowly and gingerly along the rock ledge. Bushel was in the lead, using the canvas sling of his Lanchester to check for trip wires. He edged forward, half a step at a time the gun held out in front, its sling dangled to the cave floor.

  It was surprising how much warmer it was below ground. Bushel had, almost, come to think of the place as home. They had constructed a sleeping gallery halfway up where the tunnel widened. Nature had done most of the work for them, they had simply levelled the floor and fixed mountaineering spikes into the hard rock walls to take their hammocks.

  Bushel climbed on pass the gallery, all seemed as they had left it. If it weren’t for the cold the task of guarding the Inlet it would have been a quiet number, even more so since the construction of the ‘HQ’ around the tunnel exit at the top. It had taken them two nights to roll and drag the trees into position and to carefully arrange them to look like a natural fall of timber. Inside they had rigged one of the ‘Nishga’s’ canvas awnings, suspending it from the tree trunks forming the roof.

  The HQ was the first of his ‘Thoughts’, that’s what he called them, his little play on words… his little joke… too little to tell the others. ‘Thought One’ was the HQ at the top of the tunnel, ‘Thoughts Two and Three’, had yet to be started, they were to be machine gun positions constructed in a similar manner to the HQ that would give flanking fire, should the need ever arise.

  With the thick snow cover the construction was invisible from the air as well as from the ground. Not invisible, no that wasn’t the word, undetectable no… indistinguishable, yeah that was it indistinguishable from the other piles of wood in the plantation. He remembered how he had spent moonlit nights meticulously covering everything with a dusting of pine needles only to have it snow shortly after completion.

  The work had made the position on the cliff top better for their purposes, but there was still room for improvement… as his school reports used to say.

  Before the discovery of the tunnel the position had been a death-trap. He had realised that the first time he’d laid eyes on it. It would have been impossible to withdraw under fire with their backs to the cliff, even if the boats had waited… and Barr had made it bloody clear that they wouldn’t be doing that.

  He climbed on…He’d spent a lot of time trying to figure out an escape route before the tunnel had been discovered. Now if the worst came to the worst they could all climb down into the sleeping gallery and hide up, with all their supplies, f
or months if need be.

  He reached the hatch into the HQ and switched off the torch. He shut his eyes tight for a few seconds to regain some night vision.

  Even if an attacking force took the HQ, they would be hard put to find this hatch. No one would dream that there could be anything but solid rock here. He remembered his alarm when the matloes had suddenly appeared from the tunnel that first time. Silly bastards nearly got themselves shot.

  After the ‘Nishga’s’ Chippy had fitted a hatch ‘Snake’ had camouflaged it. He had some patience, that bloke, you had to hand it to him…he had individually chosen the small rocks, from among the same type that had littered the ground around the immediate area of ‘Thought One’. The rocks fitted into the existing floor like a jig saw; not a straight line anywhere, it was difficult to find even though they knew where it was.

  He eased a shoulder against it now, inching it open the tiniest fraction. It was dark out there, he felt around for any wires.

  Everything seemed in order, as quietly as he could he scrambled through, checking behind the hatch cover before lying it gently back onto the floor. Suddenly something cracked to his right. He dropped to one knee swinging his gun round. A rodent of some kind rustled away into a dark corner. He listened for a few moments, his finger poised on the trigger, taking the first pressure. You could never be too careful, he smiled to himself, there could always be more than one rat.

  At the observation slit in the wood wall he listened for several minutes. Hearing nothing he returned to the tunnel entrance and whispered,

  “ ‘Snake’ take the main path… Blakey, the cliff tops. Look for footprints in the snow and remember where you’ve trod I don’t want any false alarms over our own footprints.”

  * * *

  The marine scouting party found plenty of reindeer prints, but no sign of human visitors. ‘Snake’ stayed as lookout at HQ while the others climbed back down the tunnel to the dinghy. It took only minutes to give the waiting boats the all clear.

  As soon as they were alongside Sub Lieutenant Hogg, accompanied by Bushel, climbed to the surface and putting on skis, set off at a fast pace to make contact with Kristiansand as planned.

  * * *

  On the ‘Eddy’, below decks there were different priorities.

  “Earpy, you know any Germans?” asked Wilson.

  Wyatt thought for a moment, “No, Why?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “Arh…You know…I mean what’s so different about ‘em, that makes ‘em do all this,” He was indicating a dog-eared, month old, newspaper.

  “Arh, you don’t wanna take any notice of that, that’s all a load of bollocks. They dream all that up just to sell newspapers, everyone knows that!”

  Goddard put his darning aside to join in the conversation. “I knew an Austrian lived near us, baker, he was all right.” said Goddard.

  O’Neill rubbed his blue veined nose, “It’s not your ordinary man that’s the problem now is it? It’s the bloody politicians. Aren’t they the ones that are responsible, they make all the troubles of the world. By rights it should be them that should sort the bastard out. When I’m in a bit of trouble ashore I don’t go asking Chamberlain to sort it out for me, do I? They cocked it up, they should sort it out, not drag every other bastard into it.”

  “Not a bad idea that ‘Nervous’.” said Wilson, “Rig up a ring outside the ‘ouses of Parliament and get ‘Itler and Chamberlain to fight it out. Grudge Fight that’s the way we sort things out in the ‘Andrew’; works all right. Clears the air, like.”

  “Can’t say I’m fancying Churchill or Chamberlin in a punch up . I wouldn’t be after putting my money on either of them. You English would have to change your Prime Minister if you wanted to win anything.”

  “Get a bigger bloke in,” added Goddard.

  “You could be Prime Minister, Nervous,” said Wilson warming to the idea… “Now, come to think about it…That’s it, whoever is the Heavy Weight Champion of Great Britain gets to be Prime Minister as well… Yer Middleweight Champion gets to be Minister for War...We could do away with elections and all that crap, have boxing tournaments instead. Charge an entry fee and do away for the need to tax every bastard.”

  There was a companionable silence while the mess deck thought about the revolutionary idea.

  Ordinary Seaman Goddard, deep in thought, had not been listening to the conversation. “Whose side are the Austrians on, anyway?”

  Wyatt pulled a face, “Fucked if I know.”

  “Did you say Austrians or Australians?” asked Wilson from his seat close to a noisy donkey boiler.

  “Austrians!” yelled Goddard, Austrians. I know whose side the Australians are on.”

  “Well, sprog, you know more than I do,” said O’Neill. “Sure, I’ve had more fights with Australians than I’ve had with Austrians.”

  “That’s because the Austrians ain’t got a Navy. Land locked ain’t they?”

  O’Neill thought about the likelihood that any country could do without a Navy and dismissed it as unlikely. “Sure, if they ain’t on our side they must be on the other side.”

  “Nah” said Burton, “‘Itler conquered yer Austrians before we got into the War, ain’t that right, Tug?”

  “Don’t talk daft,” said Wilson, ‘Itler’s an Austrian, everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t,” volunteered Goddard.

  Wilson shook his head, “Why am I not surprised?”

  “If you're right, said O’Neill, “they managed to keep that quiet.”

  “Wouldn’t you if he was Irish?”

  “He’d make a good Irishman,” ventured Wyatt, an evil smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he’s a stormy bastard all right.”

  O’Neill refused to bite.

  Wyatt tried again, “Are they right, what they say about the Irish?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “ That Irish arse is poisonous.”

  “And isn’t it like yourself to lower the tone of the conversation.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Wilson had a question before things could deteriorate any further. “Do you speak from personal experience when you say it’s poisonous, Earpy?”

  “I wouldn’t touch one with a barge pole,” said Wyatt.

  “As I remember the saying, it’s Scotch arse that’s poisonous,” continued Wilson, on a more scholarly line of thought.

  “ ‘Ere ain’t you a Scotsman, Tug?” enquired Burton.

  Wilson shook one finger smiling, “Oh no yer ain’t going to get me biting, you know damn well I’m from Silvertown.”

  “I thought as much,” said the South Londoner, “North of the Thames, that’s Scotland, in my book.”

  * * *

  Olaf’s night visitors returned to the Inlet as dawn splintered through the grey of the eastern sky.

  “It’s as well we came in here first,” reported Hogg, “according to the Kristiansand there’s a whole nest of Panzers, resting from the front and parked right beside our bridge. He was there the day before yesterday he said that the whole area is a hornet’s nest.”

  In the silence that followed Grant lit a cigarette and offered the pack around. “A lot could have happened in two days… We’ll take a look ourselves tonight, We’ll have to delay the raid; I want to be sure what we’re taking on, if we take it on at all.”

  * * *

  The moon shone down on the parked German tanks, by its ghostly light they had an appearance not unlike massive silver crabs. There were eleven of them, assembled in a tight circle, nose to tail. Five were the older PzKwIII’s the remainder were the heavier PzKwIV with their long-barrelled seventy five millimetre gun.

  A gap had been left on the bridge side of the laager through which soldiers in the green uniforms of the Waffen SS moved continuously. Two sentries patrolled the outside perimeter; another guarded the gap checking papers.

  The
south side of the defensive ring was only yards from the bridge and its sentry box. There had been no attempt at concealing the parked vehicles from the air, no camouflage netting, no cut branches, nothing. The Germans, obviously, felt secure from attack by air.

  Above the enemy tanks, a road wound its way up to the top of a steep incline. Half way up and almost level with his own position Grant could see an empty lorry, with SS markings it was waiting outside a barbed-wire compound, its engine running, exhaust fumes swirling in its headlights.

  The wire gate was opened and it passed through and parked just inside. The compound, unlike the tanks, was draped in camouflage netting. Grant assumed it to be an ammunition or fuel dump.

  Below, the main road was jammed with enemy traffic, its earth surface churned to a glutinous brown slush.

  Across the bridge, on the far bank of the Landola River, Grant could make out three eighty-eights their muzzles pointing skywards. That side of the bridge had its own sentry box, manned by two members of the Feldgendarmerie checking papers.

  Grant was about to crawl back from the ridge, to where the marines waited, when he noticed a group of soldiers on the bridge. They were waving, looking down at the river. Crouching low he carefully moved to his right and looked down into the swirling waters of the fjord. A hundred feet below an E-boat was passing slowly under the bridge.

  A Naval patrol, it was only to be expected, he was a fool not to have thought of it before. The bridge must be one of the most important in Norway right now.

  As he considered the implications of his discovery he caught sight of the lorry, on the slope opposite, it was weaving its way back down to the crowded road.

  He would have to leave his marines here to time the E-boat’s movements ready for a possible attack on the bridge the following night. Suddenly a tank engine roared into life, making him start. The revving of its powerful engine drowned even the drone of the convoy passing along the road. The tank, nearest the small opening, was moving to allow the lorry, he’d seen descending the mountain, to pass into the ring of tanks. As soon as it had passed the tank moved back into place and switched off its engine. Grant watched as men began to unload the lorry’s cargo, fuel and ammo, stored together, The Germans were getting complacent.