The logs were now half-hidden in a cloud of whirling snow, and Magnusson saw a whole pile of them, going down like ninepins, hit the watchman’s house which immediately disintegrated in a shower of separate planks and tiles. A hut was swept aside like chaff and a row of poles carrying a telephone wire snapped off like pipe stems. An electricity cable went down with flashes of blue light where it snapped and shorted.
There was no sign of life on the submarine. The gun on the foredeck reared up crookedly, and the aerials and jumping wire running from stem to stern had been swept away. Huge lengths of timber were still bouncing off the casing, hammering at the periscopes, tearing away the rail round the guns, the antennae, every single thing that protruded from the outer skin, valves, pieces of casing, even a winch, all smashed by the tumbling logs as if by a great brown monster.
* * *
As the last log catapulted into the fjord, the din stopped. They could hardly see the submarine beneath the criss-crossed pile of timber. Beyond it the water had been stirred to foam and the trees were floating now, some on top of others, moving slowly upstream on the tide under a fine spray and a cobwebby cloud of drifting snow.
For a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Then Wolszcka came abruptly to life, and they saw he was working frantically with a crowbar to lever a last log over the lip of the slope. As it went, rolling and bouncing, he began to laugh and cheer, jabbering away in Polish and shaking his fist at the wreckage below.
At the sound, Magnusson and Atwood began to slither down the torn, scarred slope to the quay, now almost collapsing after the pounding of the logs. Magnusson was the first to reach the tangle and for a while he stood wondering what in God’s name to do. Not in a thousand years could he have imagined the destruction they had caused and he hadn’t the slightest idea how to mount the pile of intertwined logs to reach the submarine.
The forward hatch was free of wreckage and, as he watched, he saw two men scramble out of it. Without hesitation, Atwood brought up his rifle and the two men were lifted over the side to drop into the fjord and drift away on the tide, one of them passing Magnusson just below the surface of the water, a hand sticking out, the Angers clawing in agony. Immediately, Wolszcka, who had hurried after them down the slope, scrambled across the logs and on to the casing, and Magnusson saw him running towards the forward hatch.
He crouched above it to drop his charge and slam the hutch shut. Almost at once, it lifted and fell back with a clang, and Magnusson heard the thump of the explosion and saw the puff of blue smoke. As the smoke disappeared, Atwood ran like a monkey up a log that was resting with one end on the shore and the other alongside the conning tower, where it was held in place by the wreckage of the periscopes. Reaching the hatch, he fished in his pocket for a grenade and Magnusson saw him pull out the pin and throw it in. The flat slap of the explosion stirred Magnusson into action. The log he chose was not securely wedged and it moved, almost throwing him off. He reached the after deck, found the engine-room hatch and tossed a grenade down. It bounced off the ladder inside and vanished. As he drew back, the metallic clang of the explosion sent out a puff of blue smoke.
Atwood seemed to have the balance and dexterity of an acrobat, performing a tight-rope act down a log to the after escape hatch. As he reached it a man pushed his head through and Atwood kicked at it on the run with his heavy boot as if he were a footballer aiming for goal. As the German’s head snicked back and he disappeared without a sound, Atwood wrenched the pin from another grenade, dropped it through the hole after him, slammed the hatch shut and stood on it until the muffled thump proclaimed that the grenade had gone off.
Other bombs had been dropped through the forward hatch, and at this point Magnusson realized there was another hatch in front of the conning tower and behind the forward gun that was used by the gun’s crew to reach their weapon quickly. Even as he headed for it, he saw it open and jam against a log. Scrambling up, he slipped a grenade through the gap. There was a yell of fright as the hatch dropped back, and he ducked against the conning tower. There was a flat crack below him, then no further sound.
By this time, the men with the home-made charges were scrambling aboard, moving more cautiously with their heavy loads. One of them climbed up to the conning tower and, wriggling between the logs, wrenched the pin from the grenade that was to act as a detonator and dropped his charge down the hatch. As he scrambled clear the deep, muffled explosion flung up smoke and fragments of what could have been clothing or fittings or even human flesh. Campbell and Marques were uncoiling a rope over the stern to lower a charge over the side; then they ran along a tree towards the shore. As they reached the far end, they jumped, landing up to their waists in water, and as they struggled ashore, there were two muffled thumps and two huge columns of water rose up alongside the submarine’s stern.
As the explosions died away, they all stopped to draw breath. Outwardly, there was little to show for their efforts, all the devastation had been wrought inside the submarine. If there were men left alive, they would be so shocked and terrified it would be a long time before they would dare move. When they did, and scrambled clear, they would find they were manning only wreckage moored to the jetty by the splintered pile of logs.
Atwood, who had been stuffing charges into every hole he could find, was standing now near the watchman’s wrecked house, staring round him, panting, as if overwhelmed by the destruction they had caused.
‘Christ,’ he said quietly.
For once he seemed satisfied.
8
For a long time they stood still, only Wolszcka grinning and chattering to himself as he touched the others on the arm or shoulder and gestured at the wreckage. Then Magnusson pulled himself together and, fishing under his jacket, he unrolled the white ensign he had rescued from Oulu.
Watched by Atwood, he took his bayonet and stabbed it through the corner of the flag into the bulk of one of the logs that stood upright among the tangle. Breaking down a loop of telephone wire, he attached the lower corner of the flag. Rather to his surprise, Atwood solemnly saluted it. In one as murderous as the sergeant, it seemed a surprisingly sentimental thing to do.
‘Just to let ’em know, sir?’ Atwood asked.
‘Yes. And so the bastards don’t take it out on the Norwegians when we’ve gone. They’ll decide the Royal Navy did it.’
This was too much for Atwood and, dragging out a clasp knife, he busied himself carving KOYLI on the tree trunk beneath the flag.
‘Not all of it, sir,’ he said. ‘Not by a bloody long chalk. The Koylis ’ad a share.’
He stood back, admiring his handiwork. Then he grinned at Magnusson, turned to the men watching him, and began to shout in his high-pitched angry yelp. ‘Okay, back to the vehicles! Everybody aboard! We’re goin’ ’ome!’
The words seemed to bring them all back to life and they started to scramble up the slope. Magnusson’s mind was numb and he worked his way up as if in a daze. Annie was at the top, staring down, relief on her face.
They climbed into the vehicles, packing people in like sardines, but there was still not room for everybody, Atwood was undeterred. He formed his men up in threes – no nonsense about any panic retreat for him – and as the vehicles began to move, Magnusson heard him addressing them calmly.
‘We are The King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry,’ he was saying. ‘Remember that. No ’urry. No running. Only gets you out of puff. Just a good light infantry pace. One ’undred and forty to the minute. We might even thunderfoot it there afore ’em.’
As the lorry ground up the hill, the infantrymen set off at their quick step and Magnusson began to think Atwood might even be right.
* * *
The entire population of Marsjøen had gathered at Fjållbrakka to see them arrive. As the vehicles swept down the winding road, and the men started to cheer and grin, they began to dance in the roadway, grabbing their hands as they jumped down.
As the lorry shot off again to pick up Atwood and his men, Marque
s appeared.
‘Prisoners, sir,’ he asked. ‘What do we do about ’em?’
Magnusson grinned. ‘Why not take ’em with us?’
‘Why not indeed, sir?’
The Germans were coming out, their hands above their heads, in a long line, blinking against the light, as the lorry returned, coasting down the slope.
Boch’s face was dark with rage. ‘You cannot do this,’ he said. ‘We are German sailors.’
‘And we’re British sailors,’ Magnusson said. ‘And I think you’ll find we can.’
Atwood immediately took over and marched the Germans aboard Cuxhaven to where Marques was waiting with the hatch of the hold open.
‘Down you go, mate,’ Atwood said to Wolff. ‘They’re going to be bloody pleased to see you lot when we get back to England. It’ll be one up to the Koylis that we’ve brought prisoners back, and no mistake. I bet nobody else has. An’ it ain’t often light infantry put a naval vessel out of action, so that’ll be a feather in our hats too.’
The watchman and his wife were waiting apprehensively in the timberyard.
‘I think we’d better take them as well,’ Magnusson said. ‘Then they won’t be able to incriminate anybody who’s decided to stay behind.’
As the villagers began to come aboard, Magnusson sent Annie ashore.
‘Tell ’em it’s the last chance,’ he said.
One old man, frightened of being alone, changed his mind. The rest stood in mute silence, unable to leave their homes and prepared to endure the Germans rather than give up the possessions of a lifetime.
Campbell appeared. He seemed elated with what had happened. ‘Willie John reports he can handle the transmitter,’ he said. He grinned unexpectedly. ‘He’s in the radio shack now with a bottle of akvavit.’
‘Where the hell did he get it this time?’
‘Off one of the old boys at Marsjøen.’
Willie John, Magnusson decided, didn’t have much future in the Navy. ‘He’s quicker than a rat up a drain,’ he said. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s trying to call up on an open frequency. He says somebody in England’s bound to pick it up.’
‘Tell him to get cracking then. Tell him to get a signal to Cockayne to say we’re coming home – with Cuxhaven instead of Oulu.’
‘What about the torpedoes? We were going to dump ’em.’
‘Better leave ’em,’ Magnusson decided. ‘Perhaps they’re a new kind our lot don’t know about and they might like to examine ’em.’
‘Let’s hope that other fishing boat, Iversen, doesn’t appear from Trondheim with her new pop-gun,’ Campbell said. ‘Even a seventy-five millimetre shell among ’em would make a big bang.’
‘Pity we can’t pack the German prisoners round ’em,’ Magnusson suggested. ‘That would damp it down a bit.’ Campbell’s eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘that submarine. When the Germans arrive they’ll clear her and repair her and sink ships with her. Why don’t we do her for good and all, with a torpedo each side of her to blow her in half.’
‘I don’t know a damn thing about torpedoes.’
‘I do. A bit, anyway. And Marques did his time in subs. They’re fitted with warheads but you couldn’t detonate ’em with a hammer at the moment. Why don’t we do it with explosive and a time pencil. That ought to be enough to send up the warhead.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Let’s ask Marques.’
Marques seemed to think they could. For safety they checked with Orjasaeter. The Norwegian’s eyes lit up and he nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I can do it.’
‘Right,’ Magnusson said. ‘Then we will.’
* * *
They were already preparing to hoist up two of the torpedoes on the specially fitted crane when the last of the Norwegians came on board. Captain Haldursen watched them but made no attempt to follow.
‘I am not coming with you,’ he said. ‘I am taking Støregutt. Jakka is coming too. We’ve refuelled her from the diesel the Germans took. Perhaps your country will have need of such boats. With Norway defeated, she will perhaps use them to fetch other Norwegians who are eager to leave, or perhaps to land Norwegians who wish to carry on the fight. Perhaps they’ll bring arms or radios or messages.’ His face was alight with hope. ‘I cannot believe now that the war is over for Norway.’
The two little vessels, each of them only sixty feet long, cast off as they hauled Cuxhaven’s gangway aboard. The auxiliary engine was chunking away below and, as the last ropes left the land, Cuxhaven began to edge slowly from the quayside. The few people left ashore gave shy waves and there were a few thin cries of farewell. Gathering speed, the great ship began to move down the fjord against the tide, the anchor trailing a tiny bow wave in the water.
By this time, Campbell and Marques had the two torpedoes hoisted up from the hold on to the deck. Their war-heads were swathed with rags and Campbell gave Magnusson a quick grin.
‘All ready. Every bit of the know-how of Lars Orjasaeter, CPO Marques and yours truly.’
As they drew near Grude, they were brushing past logs moving slowly on the tide. U49 was still swamped below its load of criss-crossed timber, and there was a slow curl of smoke rising up near the engine-room hatch. As they drew closer they saw flames and realized that some of the timber had caught fire.
‘Let go the anchor.’
As Cuxhaven came to a stop, swinging on her anchor chain, a shot rang out from the shore and they heard the swift crack of a bullet passing overhead.
‘Somebody’s survived.’ Magnusson turned to Campbell. ‘Right. It’s up to you. We’ll cover you. Get everybody below.’
As the women and children disappeared into the saloon, Sergeant Atwood, Wolszcka and a few more poked ma-chine-guns over the taffrail and sent bursts ashore. A single shot came back in reply, but nothing more.
‘Get cracking and make it fast,’ Magnusson said. ‘We don’t want to be caught here by that bloody Iversen with her gun.’
The ship’s boat already hung just over the water. As she touched, Marques began to swing out the first of the torpedoes.
‘Lay on that rope,’ he was saying. ‘And quick about it!’
With the two torpedoes floating at the stern of the dinghy, Orjasaeter, Marques and Campbell climbed over the side. They were just about to set off across the fjord when Wolszcka started to climb after them. Atwood pulled him back.
‘C’m’ ’ere, you daft bugger,’ he said. ‘You’ll blow the bloody lot up if you get in there! Leave it to them what knows ’ow.’
Wolszcka didn’t argue and as the dinghy began to move slowly across the fjord, Campbell looked up.
‘Come and watch the real Navy at work,’ he called.
As they approached the submarine, another shot rang out from the shore.
‘From the cross,’ Magnusson snapped. ‘There are a couple of men there.’
Sergeant Atwood nodded. ‘Seven hundred,’ he snapped. ‘Half left. Bloke on cross. Five rounds, concentrate, fire!’
There was a rapid clatter and, through his binoculars, Magnusson saw chips flying from the wooden cross. There was no more firing from the shore.
The dinghy was alongside the stern of the submarine now, the only part clear of the logs, and they could see Marques leaning over the side. Magnusson glanced at his watch. They seemed to be taking a long time, and he was terrified that Iversen would appear in the fjord with her gun.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he muttered. ‘Look slippy!’
As he raised his binoculars again, he saw the three working by the submarine scramble back into the dinghy and begin to pull on the oars like men demented. Magnusson found himself tensing as he waited for the crash of the explosion. It seemed to take all day for the dinghy to cross the fjord and bump alongside Cuxhaven.
‘Let’s go,’ Campbell panted as he scrambled to the deck. ‘We’ve got a quarter of an hour, I reckon.’
Even before the boat was properly clear of the wat
er, the anchor was hauled up and Cuxhaven started to move forward.
‘Anchor a-cockbill,’ Marques yelled.
‘Leave her there for the time being. We can hoist her inboard when we’re clear.’
‘Boat secured.’ Campbell arrived, panting, at Magnusson’s side.
‘Let’s have some canvas on her. Topsails and foresail.’
The two fishing boats had gone ahead of them and were waiting a mile down the fjord, the tonk-tonk-tonk of their engine filling the gash in the land with its deep thump.
They were all staring towards the submarine as it slid astern. The white ensign was still fluttering from the end of the log where Magnusson had placed it. It was whipping in the breeze now, standing out straight, clear and sharp against the dark background of the scarred earth and the drift of grey-blue smoke coming from the burning timber.
Campbell looked up from his watch. ‘Now,’ he said.
But nothing happened and he looked quickly at Magnusson, then at Marques and Orjasaeter.
‘I make it now, sir,’ Marques corrected politely.
‘Wait,’ the Norwegian said. ‘The time pencils are not exact to the second.’
The submarine was disappearing well astern now.
‘The buggers have misfired,’ Campbell said, his face full of disappointment.
‘Wait! Wait!’
They had almost reached the bend in the fjord and Magnusson had just given up hope when they saw a huge column of water lift from the stern of the submarine. The logs appeared to heave together and the whole vessel seemed to rise out of the water. Almost immediately they heard the roar of the explosion, and a moment later another as a second column of water went up alongside the collapsing remains of the first.
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