Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  The wireless set rattled and the sergeant major took the headset from the operator and pressed it to his ear, muttered something in reply, and shook his head.

  ‘Captain says to watch along the northern road. They’ve picked up something about SS troops coming down from Hergen.’

  Memling nodded and went on staring out over the empty fjord. If he were the German commander charged with ousting a bunch of bastards from a tiny pinprick of a town that made absolutely no difference to anyone but the people who lived there, that is exactly what he would want them to think. In the meantime he would be doing his level best to bring his troops up by boat, especially now that he had the fog for cover. Norway’s west coast was long on water and boats, short on roads and vehicles.

  ‘Well?’ the sergeant major demanded.

  ‘Bugger the road. If they’re coming … ‘ Memling waved a hand at the fjord.

  The sergeant major was a regular, and even two years in the Royal Marine Commando had not broken him of the habit of holding all officers in awe. ‘But the captain … ‘

  ‘Bugger the captain as well. What the hell does he know?’ Memling sighed and shifted position to take the strain off his thighs, ‘If it bothers you that much, send two men to the end of the road. But no further, mind. I want them within shouting distance when the Nazis come out of that fog. And make damned certain the machine gunners know their fire points.’

  The two troopers were sent off grumbling as the rain began in earnest. Visibility was even worse now, especially with the coming dusk. The grey-blue sky seemed to have lowered right to the water. Across the fjord, streamers of cloud billowed in slow motion along the dark mountain slopes, and Memling, who had a fondness for just such days, spent a few moments enjoying the spectacle.

  Everything about this raid had been screwed up from the beginning. The chief planning officer was killed by German bombs in London the day before the rendezvous in Dundee. His replacement, a hopelessly inept army officer who had given the plans only the sketchiest of readings, had undertaken the briefing, and consequently they had received a great deal of misinformation. And there had been no proper co-ordination with the RAF or the navy.

  Two days earlier they had marched in full kit to the docks, to find the berth for the Dutch navy destroyer that was to take them to Norway empty. Three hours in the freezing rain and they were marched back again, eight miles in each direction. An old British destroyer was finally substituted, one of the American lend-lease four-stackers that lacked the speed to get them in and out quickly. As a result, the landing was made in daylight rather than at dawn. Of course no one had thought to inform the RAF, who were to raid three airfields nearby, of the delay, and so they had gone according to the original schedule. Consequently the Mosquitoes, laid on hastily to provide badly needed close support, were jumped over the North Sea and turned back.

  That and the fact that Captain Miles Renson, a regular marine officer with extensive service in Greece and Crete, had proven to be a bungler. Renson was making drastic mistakes, and Memling was damned if he was going to contribute to them. If Renson insisted upon concentrating his forces in the wrong spot, he certainly would not help him commit suicide.

  The more he studied the narrow beach, the more he was convinced the German attack would come this way. Renson had already ignored his radioed warning as well as the runner sent to convince him. The captain was going to make damned certain he did not take advice from a junior officer, and a mere volunteer at that.

  Memling made up his mind abruptly. ‘Sergeant Major, keep the men here and under cover. No one is to move without my express permission. That includes instructions from the captain. Understand?’

  The man’s expression was apprehensive, but he acknowledged the order.

  ‘‘I’m taking Corporal Hayward with me to make a sweep along the beach to the north and west. If anything happens, I’ll fire a red flare. Either way, you’ll know I was right.’

  The sergeant major gave him a sceptical look, and Memling shrugged and motioned Hayward after him as he started up the slope to the road edging the beach.

  Thirty yards on, the road swerved inland a few hundred feet. Memling vaulted the low wood fence and jumped down to the beach. The road would have been easier, but there were still snipers about and Renson refused to clear them out, claiming the risk was too great.

  They trotted along, keeping a wary eye out for enemy troops that might have infiltrated to test their defences. The beach was littered with a winter’s accumulation of driftwood, making progress difficult.

  Hayward had fallen behind a few paces and was moving swiftly, scanning to the sides and rear. Memling was glad that he had picked the stubby Yorkshireman. He was probably the steadiest of the lot, and that was saying a great deal. Nearly all of the commandos were regulars chosen from the various branches of the service. If any survived, it would be because of their skill. Most of the men on this job had seen action before, hit-and-run nuisance raids such as this or else with a variety of units in Greece or the desert. Renson had as well, and that made his behaviour all the more inexplicable to Memling.

  They had gone about a mile when Hayward hissed at him:

  ‘Listen!’

  Rain was falling heavily, and the wind was strong enough to set the trees swaying, so that it was difficult to distinguish sounds. Memling knelt close to the water’s edge and cupped an ear. After a moment he heard it too, an oar striking water.

  Visibility was now less than a hundred yards in the gathering dusk, but the sound told him that there was at least one boat approaching the town. He swore to himself. Who the devil is in that boat - German troops or Norwegian fishermen? The question had not occurred to him before. If they were fishermen, they might not know of the British raid; and if he guessed wrong and fired the red flare, it could give his ambush away. Yet if he held back until he was certain, there would be no time for Renson to move his troops to meet the threat. The familiar surge of exhilaration coursed through him then, and he laughed. The corporal stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Hayward, fire a burst towards the boat, high enough not to hit anyone.’

  ‘Bloody ‘ell!’

  ‘Damn it, do as you’re told!’

  Hayward stared at him a moment, then as the puzzle of the boat’s identity occurred to him as well, slipped the fire selector button on his Sten to the right for automatic, rested the wire stock against the side of his hip, and glanced to see that Memling had the flare gun out and ready.

  Memling nodded, and Hayward squeezed off a short burst.

  The result was an instant’s silence, followed by shouts and gunfire. They were Germans all right, and Memling fired the flare gun as both he and Hayward dived for the meagre cover offered by the trees.

  The German barrage lasted only a few moments. Hayward raised his head, spat a mouthful of sand, and gave Memling a steady look. ‘Yer a fookin’ idiot ... sir.’

  By the time the two men reached the wharf, the firefight was over. Drifting through the fog were the shattered remains of two fishing boats and several bodies. The shingled beach was littered with debris, and two commandos stood guard over a huddle of German prisoners while a third helped an exhausted soldier from the water. Captain Renson was talking to Lieutenant Peter Driscoll, commander of the second Special Service company. Memling was both surprised and relieved to see that his own company was still drawn up into the perimeter as he had ordered. The rest of Driscoll’s people could be seen filtering back through the town.

  Memling saluted Renson. Renson returned the salute with a suspicious glare, ‘I do not think it was a good idea for you to leave your command, Memling.’

  Jan took a deep breath. Renson, it seemed, was not about to give an inch. ‘My sergeant major is very capable, sir. I had no doubt that he could hold the position.’

  Renson remained silent for a moment, then turned pointedly to Driscoll who was watching Memling with a puzzled expression. ‘Then the aircraft are not totally destroyed?�
�� the captain asked.

  ‘Not totally, sir. However, we damaged all those found on the apron and set the main hangar on fire. We got two more as they were being rolled out.’

  Renson swore quietly, then turned away abruptly and hurried down to the beach.

  Driscoll drew a shaky breath. ‘What in hell is going on here, old man? I come back after nearly getting our arses shot off, and he’s fuming mad. Claims you ran off down the beach against his orders.’ Driscoll stared hard at Memling. The two had barely met before boarding the destroyer.

  ‘Damn him!’ Memling swung about as if to follow, then thought better of it. Nothing would be gained by a confrontation now.

  ‘Then it’s not true?’ Driscoll asked, doubt evident in his voice. Memling turned back to him, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Of course not. That makes it sound as if I had deserted. That fool intercepted a German message ordering a combat party here by road from the north and concentrated everyone in that direction.’

  ‘From the north? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Exactly. It made no sense to me either. It would have taken them a good two hours to reach us, but Renson withdrew from the waterfront and concentrated on the northern approach to the town. We were wide open to attack from the fjord. I stationed most of my company along the beach, then took a trooper and went along the north shore. When we heard the Germans, we opened fire. That gave Renson enough time to realise what was up and save all our necks.’

  ‘I see.’ Driscoll nodded. ‘So you are saying that it was your action that saved the party … ‘

  Memling stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘Don’t tell me ...’

  Driscoll held up a hand. ‘Now, now, don’t get excited. ‘I’m just trying to get this straight. Didn’t make sense that you would run off down the beach. The old man has probably been in the desert too long. Doesn’t really believe in boats any longer.’

  Memling laughed ruefully at that. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Renson shouted then, and they started down the beach after him.

  It was raining in Felixstowe when the Special Service unit came down the gangway. Memling stood by the railing of the over-age destroyer, trying to ignore the smell of diesel oil, salt air and coal smoke which pervaded the harbour. Grimy docks huddled under the lash of rain. Bits of garbage and wood floated in the oil-slick water. Barely visible as it made for the entrance to the harbour boom, a grey submarine wallowed towards the North Sea. The Luftwaffe had been at work recently. Great holes had been chewed in the line of sheds, and over towards the town the church steeple had been knocked askew. It was depressingly unlike the pretty seaside resort he remembered from before the war.

  The last of his company trudged off the ship, and Memling followed down the gangway. A non-commissioned officer wearing the red flashes of the Special Police stepped out from the canvas cover. ‘Lieutenant Jan Memling?’

  Memling frowned and nodded. ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘I have orders to take you to London at the earliest moment, sir.’

  ‘London? I’ve just returned from an exercise, Sergeant. I must see to my men and make my report.’

  ‘Sorry, Lieutenant Memling. My orders state you are to be returned immediately.’

  ‘Damn it.’ Memling frowned. There was just one reason he would be recalled to London. ‘Just where in London are you supposed to take me?’

  The SP gave him a long, steady stare, if you do not come willingly, sir, I am empowered to place you under arrest.’

  ‘What’s going on here, Memling? Why aren’t you with your people - this time?’ Renson had come up from behind, startling his junior officer.

  The calculated insult was too much, and Memling swung around, but the SP interposed himself. ‘I am afraid, Captain, that I am to blame,’ he said, neatly diverting attention. ‘I have urgent orders for Lieutenant Memling that require his immediate return to London.’

  ‘London? Immediately? What’s this all about, Memling? Found some way to take yourself off active duty?’

  Memling started towards him, but the SP gripped his arm tightly. Driscoll appeared out of the mist at that moment, closely followed by Memling’s sergeant major. Driscoll nodded and, glancing directly at Renson, motioned with his head. ‘Go ahead, Jan. We’ll see to everything here, won’t we, Sergeant Major?’ The implication was not lost on Renson who glanced from one to the other, then back to Memling. ‘I see.’ He nodded half to himself. ‘I see how it is now. Perhaps you should go along, Memling. I am certain that we can get along without you.’

  ‘Go along, sir,’ the sergeant major urged. ‘Lieutenant Driscoll is right.’

  Memling nodded reluctantly and handed over his helmet, Sten and kit bag of Mills bombs. ‘Do I have time to clean up?’ he asked the SP, who shook his head with an apologetic grimace.

  ‘Afraid not, sir. I have a car, and if we hurry we can just make the afternoon train from Ipswich. So if you will follow me.’

  Memling had been in Special Services for little over a year, caught up in the first sweep through the forces for officers with special training. Even though intelligence personnel were to be kept out of combat units for fear of capture, his MI6 background had been accidentally overlooked at Portsmouth, and he had managed a transfer from the Home Forces G-2 unit to which he had been assigned. In the months that followed, Memling asked himself why as he was slithering up vertical cliffs or wading chest deep through freezing streams in what was euphemistically called training. And although he knew the answer, he was loath to formulate it to himself. But the Norwegian raid was his third combat mission, and, as before, he felt he had performed creditably. His thinking had been cool and clearheaded, and the cowardly fear kept under control. Not once had he experienced the slightest panic.

  The SP led him through a turnstile at Liverpool Street Station and stopped to speak with a man dressed in well-cut civilian clothes. The SP produced a receipt book, which the civilian signed after looking closely at Memling. The SP nodded goodbye and disappeared. The civilian introduced himself and offered a weak handshake. His accent spoke of public school and cricket.

  ‘Lieutenant Jan Memling, I take it. Name’s Crawford. Work for the Firm, you know. Asked to pop over and bring you around for a chat. Cup of tea if you come quietly.’ He laughed at his own feeble joke and led Memling out to an American car painted army drab. Not a word was spoken as the car began its journey through streets clogged with pedestrians and cyclists.

  It seemed that every time Memling returned to London, the city looked ever more dingy and battered. The crowds were larger perhaps, if more ill-dressed, than before - thinner, paler, even dirtier after three years of war. But they still retained that infectious humour that had come to characterise the otherwise dour Londoners the moment the bombs began to fall. Traffic was light, nearly all military, due to petrol rationing.

  Finally they drew up before the building in Northumberland Avenue, and Crawford waved Memling out. The car remained in position until he had opened the heavy oak door and stepped in. The hall was much the same, smelling of wax and age. The mahogany panelling still shone from daily polishing, and the porter still sat in his little office, looking less wizened than when Memling had last seen him - as if the war agreed with him. A different marine sergeant watched from the end of the hall. The porter nodded the usual greeting, failed to remark on his dirty battledress, and spoke softly into the telephone.

  The hall was cold, as was every building in Britain these days. Jan perched on a chair. His eyes drifted closed as the events of the past few days began to fade. The destroyer had taken them off after dark and had run down the fjord in a nightmare of darkness, fog, and gunfire, which they dared not return. The fog had continued most of the morning before melting away at noon, and RAF Mosquitoes had arrived to provide a semblance of air cover. But by mid-afternoon the planes were forced to leave as the anti- cyclonic front that had favoured their landing in Norway moved west towards Britain, hauling with it the rain and fog and
leaving their particular area of the North Sea in weak sunlight. It had taken the Luftwaffe only an hour to find them.

  Fortunately for them, Driscoll had done his work well. The Ju.87 dive-bombers had to come from further north, and the ship’s gunners had done a creditable job of holding them off, even damaging one severely enough to send it limping home before dusk caused the Stukas to break off. There had been two submarine alerts during the night, but the threat had never materialised. Memling had snatched an hour’s fitful sleep before the seas began to break and he was seasick.

  ‘Lieutenant Memling?’

  Memling opened his eyes to see a neat pair of ankles. Momentarily intrigued, he followed them up past dimpled knees which even the heavy lisle wartime stockings could not conceal, past the hem of a victory skirt which caused momentary pause, then past a neat waist, breathtaking bust, and a pert and somehow familiar face framed by long dark hair. He got hastily to his feet, suddenly conscious that he had not shaved or bathed in five days.

  ‘Hello.’ Memling was certain he had met her before.

  She smiled and indicated the staircase. ‘Will you follow me, please?’

  As they climbed the stairs she glanced back with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry we must walk, but the electricity to the lift has been shut off.’

  Memling shrugged. ‘Climbing stairs is supposed to be healthy.’ He wanted to say ‘good for your figure’, but refrained.

  ‘I wouldn’t think you needed exercise, Lieutenant. You look fit enough.’

  Before he could answer, she hesitated and half turned to him. His head was level with her chest, and he dragged his eyes up to her face with some difficulty. ‘You wouldn’t remember me, Lieutenant Memling, but we met just after you returned from Belgium. ‘I’m Mr Englesby’s assistant, Janet Thompson.’