Flames Over Norway

by Robert Jackson

  Lieutenant Commander de Villiers in HMS Hunter now led the British line. Raked by shells and burning, Hunter rapidly lost way, wallowing to a stop in the water. Close behind her, Lieutenant Commander Layman in HMS Hotspur gave urgent orders to take avoiding action, but at that moment a German shell cut the steering controls. With a terrific crash, Hotspur’s bow ripped into the helpless destroyer ahead of her.

  Both destroyers now came under heavy fire. With shells bursting all around, Layman managed to make his way from the bridge to the after steering position. After much effort, he managed to extricate his badly damaged ship from the sinking Hunter. The other two British destroyers, Havock and Hostile, came to Hotspur’s rescue, engaging the Thiele and Arnim as the latter ran down the fjord in the opposite direction. The vessels disappeared into the murk, leaving the British warships free to continue their dash for the open sea.

  Of Hunter’s crew of nearly 200, 50 men were rescued from the freezing waters.

  It was not quite over. As the British destroyers headed seawards, they sighted a large German merchant ship, the Rauenfels, entering the fjord. Two shells compelled her crew to abandon ship; two more sent her sky-high in a shattering explosion that brought rocks tumbling in an avalanche from the surrounding cliffs. The Germans might still be in possession of Narvik, but their surviving destroyers could no longer depend on fresh supplies of ammunition with which to replenish their dwindling stocks.

  The action had lasted less than two hours from start to finish. It had cost the Germans two destroyers sunk and three so badly damaged as to be unseaworthy, set against the British loss of two ships. Several hundred young men had been blown to pieces by shells or torpedoes, died screaming in flames, or gasped their last in icy blackness. It was only the beginning.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Orkney Islands, 10 April 1940: 04.15 hours

  Armstrong’s sojourn at Kinloss had been shortlived. Together with Royston, he had arrived after a gruelling flight through bad weather to find an urgent signal waiting. Both Spitfires were to deploy immediately to Hatston, in the Orkneys, to carry out operations in support of the Fleet Air Arm. Royston had ordered the third Spitfire to remain at Deanland, where its two pilots were to take it in turns to carry on the dangerous business of keeping a watch on the North German ports.

  So, after snatching a bite to eat and a short rest, Royston and Armstrong had flown on to Hatston, near Kirkwall, from where both pilots had carried out reconnaissance sorties over the Bergen area on 9 April. Exhausted, they had tumbled into their beds and slept the sleep of the dead for several hours before being roused in the middle of the night and summoned to an urgent briefing. The photographs secured by Royston, their content confirmed by Armstrong’s on the second sortie, revealed a target that was too good to miss.

  The briefing room was crowded. There had been no time for a proper breakfast, but plates laden with hot bacon sandwiches were passing around among the naval aircrews, taking the edge off their hunger, while a large urn on a trestle table supplied scalding hot tea. Royston and Armstrong helped themselves and sat down at the back of the room; although they had been asked to attend the briefing to help answer any questions that might arise, they had done their main part and this was now the Fleet Air Arm’s “show”.

  Armstrong heard someone call his name from the other side of the room. Startled, he looked in that direction and saw a naval officer waving to him. It was Dickie Baird. He was about to go over and exchange a few words when there was a call for silence from the front and a lieutenant commander stepped up on to a low dais. He pulled a string, unfurling a white screen on the wall behind the dais, then nodded to a projectionist who had been busily setting up his equipment near the door, at the end of the aisle that ran between the rows of chairs.

  “All set? Good. Let’s have the lights down, please, and the first of the photographs.”

  The lights dimmed, and one of the photographs taken by Royston flashed up on the screen. It was a vertical shot, blown up several times, and centred perfectly in it was a warship.

  “There she is, gentlemen,” the naval officer said, “caught with her knickers down, thanks to our RAF colleagues back there.” He nodded to Royston and Armstrong. “A very fine result, if I may say so.” There was a ripple of assent from the assembled aircrew.

  “Those of you whose ship recognition is up to date will have identified her already,” the lieutenant commander went on, tapping the image on the screen with a snooker cue. “She is the Königsberg, a light cruiser of around 6500 tons. That indispensable work of reference, Jane’s Fighting Ships, assures us that she is armed with three triple turrets each mounting a trio of five-point-nine inch guns, and that she carries a total of fourteen light anti-aircraft weapons. The main point, though, is that she doesn’t have much in the way of armour; her deck protection is only three-quarters of an inch thick, which makes her highly vulnerable to dive-bombers. So, gentlemen, we are going to nip over to Bergen and sink her.”

  He raised his hand to still the murmur of excitement that greeted his remark and continued his briefing in quiet, clipped tones. One by one, the photographs brought back by Royston and Armstrong flashed up on the screen. The briefing officer drew the men’s attention to one in particular, which revealed the warship at a slight angle and which had been blown up so far that it was blurred and grainy. It showed clear signs of battle damage to the cruiser’s superstructure.

  “You can see quite clearly that she’s been hit,” the naval officer said, “and that people are working flat out to patch her up.” With his cue, he indicated small craft clustered alongside and what appeared to be working parties labouring in the vicinity of the damaged areas.

  “I don’t think the damage is too serious,” the officer said, “so it is vital that we strike quickly. And by that, I mean that we must plan to arrive over the target at dawn in order to catch her before she has a chance to move and also to achieve maximum surprise. We don’t yet know if the Germans have fighters in the Bergen area, but we must assume that they have. By the way, I should mention that Bergen harbour was attacked by the RAF last evening, but apparently they didn’t hit anything.”

  “As usual,” some wag commented, and there were a few chuckles. The briefing officer raised his hand again. “All right, let’s not get too cocky. Remember it’s all up to us now, and we don’t want egg on our faces. So here’s the plan. May we have the lights back on, please?”

  The projectionist flicked a switch near the door, flooding the room with light again. The briefing officer blinked and cleared his throat.

  “We have sixteen Skuas available for this operation, eleven from 803 Squadron and five from 800. They will fly in two waves, keeping sight of each other all the time. Accurate navigation is of paramount importance, so the most experienced Observer will fly in the leading aircraft. That’s me, by the way.” One or two hoots of derision came from the audience and the lieutenant commander lifted a corner of his mouth in a half-smile before continuing.

  “Take-off will be at 05.10 hours; the weather should have cleared a bit by then.” Outside it was dismal, with flurries of snow sweeping across the airfield. “Each aircraft will carry one 500-pound semi-armour-piercing bomb. We shall be operating at the limit of our range, so the course immediately after take-off is zero-five-zero degrees, which will lead us straight to the target area — with a bit of luck,” he added, smiling at the earlier slur on his navigational ability.

  “We shall climb to 12,000 feet and make landfall on the Norwegian coast at sixty degrees, nine minutes north. Strict radio silence will be maintained during the sea crossing and on the run-up to the target unless enemy fighters are sighted. If the weather remains as forecast the first group should arrive over the target at around 07.15. Our weather people are predicting a thin layer of cloud at 8-10,000 feet in the Bergen area, with good visibility underneath, so we should have no trouble in locating the cruiser. Aircraft will attack in line astern …”

  Royston
and Armstrong listened intently as the lieutenant commander went on to complete his briefing. Afterwards, one or two of the aircrew came up to them and asked, rather shyly, what it was like over the target; whether they had experienced any flak and so forth. Realizing that it was the first mission of its kind that these young naval airmen had ever flown for real, the RAF pilots did their best to reassure them.

  “You don’t need to worry overmuch about flak,” Royston lied. “It always looks much worse than it actually is, and it’s mostly inaccurate. Fighters are much more of a worry, but neither Flight Lieutenant Armstrong nor myself saw any in the vicinity. You’ll be OK.”

  “I suppose you could class that as a load of bullshit, Ken?” Dickie Baird said quietly to Armstrong a few minutes later as he sipped a last mug of tea before going off to make his final preparations for the flight. “I remember Wilhelmshaven only too well.” Baird had just met Royston for the first time.

  “Yes,” Armstrong agreed, “but this show ought to be a bit different. The Huns probably haven’t had time to set up shore batteries, and you’ll be above the light stuff from the cruiser until you are well into your dive. You’ll be going like the clappers then, so they won’t hit you. Only the good die young, anyway,” he added with a grin.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Baird said. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, time to be off. See you later.” He turned and left the building, followed by his Observer, who had waited behind for him.

  Half an hour later, Hatston throbbed with sound as 16 Bristol Perseus radial engines burst into life. One by one, the bomb-laden Skuas lifted from the ground. Some cleared the end of the short runway by only a matter of feet, but at last all 16 were safely airborne. Forming up overhead, they climbed laboriously into the darkened north-eastern sky. Ahead of them lay 300 miles of icy sea, and Norway.

  For nearly two hours they droned steadily on. Ahead of them now, the pink and green flush of dawn began to spread across the sky. At seven o’clock, a dark, broken line rose out of the horizon; the black cliffs of the Norwegian coast. A bright sun burst out over the mountains beyond and suddenly the pilots made out the entrance to Bergen Fjord. After flying 300 miles through the night, they had made landfall in exactly the right place and within seconds of their estimated time of arrival.

  As the aircraft swept up the fjord, with Bergen itself becoming visible out of the thin morning haze, Dickie Baird, who was part of the second group, saw the leading wave go into line astern as it by-passed the town and headed for the mountains. A minute later his own group adopted a similar formation, so that all 16 aircraft resembled a long snake, weaving its way through the cold dawn sky. To the east of the town the head of the snake turned, placing the sun behind it, and began its descent through the thin cloud layer that partially obscured the town and its harbour.

  As Baird turned and descended through the cloud layer in his turn he spotted the cruiser, moored hard up against the Skoltegrund Mole. Ahead and below, the first wave was starting its attack, the Skuas seeming to falter momentarily in mid-air as the pilots lowered their big flaps. As a dive-bomber, the Skua was unsurpassed. It could dive vertically at near-constant speed, held back by its huge flap area, and the pilot’s visibility was excellent.

  “Stand by,” Baird told his Observer. “We’re going down now.”

  Bombs were already exploding around the Königsberg as Baird began his dive, taking careful aim on the warship. He increased the angle of the dive until the Skua was plummeting towards its objective at nearly 70 degrees. He held the aircraft rock-steady, watching the long shape of the cruiser, partly hidden now by drifting smoke, loom up in his sights. At 4000 feet the first bursts of flak came up, the blotchy yellow smoke whipping past the Skua. At 2000 feet Baird pressed the bomb release and the 500-pounder dropped away, curving down to explode near the warship’s stern in a geyser of foam. As he came out of his dive and pulled a hard turn to starboard he saw the cruiser’s decks erupt in smoke and flame as other Skuas came down on her.

  The aircraft weaved their way out of the harbour at low level, heading for the comparative safety of the sea. Astern of them, the cruiser was finished. She had sustained three direct hits, one amidships between her funnels, one on the port quarter and one on “A” turret. Two more exploded between the ship and the mole, tearing gaping holes in her side. Five pulverized the mole itself, and the rest were all near misses. An enormous column of flame burst from the stricken warship and she began to list heavily. Five minutes later, a thin plume of brown smoke speared into the air as her magazines went up and she broke in half, sinking in a cloud of steam.

  Skimming the water, the Skuas sped through a smoky spider’s web of tracer from small arms on the shore. One of the aircraft suddenly dived into the harbour at full throttle, disintegrating in a cloud of wreckage. The others formed up over Lyso Island and set course for home. The first of them landed at Hatston at 09.45, after a flight that had lasted four and a half hours. The engines of three aircraft spluttered and died as they turned clear of the runway; their fuel tanks were empty.

  Baird and his observer climbed wearily from the Skua’s long cockpit and slid off the wing onto the slushy ground, pulling off their flying helmets. Their hair, wet with sweat, started to freeze in the icy wind as they walked towards their dispersal hut. It felt good.

  *

  Stavanger airfield, Norway, afternoon, 10 April 1940

  “Verdammt!” The base commander at Stavanger aerodrome was in a towering rage. He had spent most of the afternoon being harangued by a succession of senior naval officers, his ears were burning, and he was humiliated. Before him, on the carpet, stood the commanding officer of the Me 110 squadron whose responsibility it was to provide air cover for the German naval unit operating off south-west Norway. Well, the squadron hadn’t done much by way of defending the Königsberg; by the time the first Me 110s had arrived overhead, the cruiser was already at the bottom of Bergen harbour.

  “If I may explain to the Herr Oberst —” the squadron commander began. The base commander cut him short, rising from his seat and stamping over to the window.

  “Explanations!” he snapped. “Excuses! I’ve had them all. The fact remains that we have failed in our duty, and it must not be allowed to happen again. We know the problems, and the biggest problem of all lies with those infernal reconnaissance Spitfires. Thanks to them, the Tommies know every move we make. We know they are there and what they are doing, but we can’t get at them. Your Me 110s do not have the rate of climb to reach their altitude in time to intercept them, and even if you did they can easily out-run you.”

  He returned to his desk and sat down again, glaring at his subordinate. “It’s not your fault,” he admitted grudgingly. “I’m aware of that. We have no warning system in place as yet, and you can’t be expected to perform miracles. It would be out of the question to mount continuous patrols; the English are not as punctual as we Germans, and are inconsiderate enough to make their reconnaissance flights at different times of the day.” He permitted himself a smile in recognition of his ponderous attempt at wit.

  A telephone on the base commander’s desk top shrilled. He picked the instrument up and grunted into it. Then he beamed, replaced the receiver and rubbed his hands together.

  “Excellent! Better late than never, as the English say. It seems that my antidote to the Spitfires is on its way here at this very moment. Come — let us go outside and welcome it.”

  The “antidote to the Spitfires” was not ecstatically happy. From the cockpit of his Messerschmitt 109, Hans Lehmann, newly promoted to the rank of Hauptmann, stared moodily at the rugged landscape of southern Norway as it unfolded beneath him. This would, his superiors had told him, be only a temporary detachment; it appeared that the Naval authorities in Norway were having trouble with high-flying reconnaissance aircraft. All he had to do was to deal with them, and then he could return to Jever.

  Lehmann derived some small comfort from the fact that he was not alone. He wa
s accompanied by his trusty wingman, Falcke, also recently promoted with the rank of Feldwebel, whose 109 rose and fell gently on the currents of air a couple of hundred metres away.

  The order for the move had come only hours earlier, and had been assigned the highest priority. Lehmann fully realized why he had been picked; he and Falcke, together with other experienced pilots at Jever, had often operated against the high-flying reconnaissance Spitfires that had cruised over Wilhelmshaven and Bremen during the last few weeks, and so they were experienced in this kind of work. The problem was that they had so far failed to shoot one down, a fact that appeared to have escaped the notice of those who had organized this trip.

  Because of the 109’s relatively short range, Lehmann had decided to stop off at the recently-occupied Danish airfield of Aalborg in order to refuel before continuing on to Stavanger. He had a pilot’s natural mistrust of weather forecasters, and topping up in this way would mean that they would have sufficient fuel to return to Jever in the event of running into bad weather en route.

  As it turned out, Lehmann need not have worried. The sun shone brightly throughout the flight, there was only scattered cloud, and the airfield at Stavanger was readily identified when it appeared up ahead. In a way, Lehmann was rather sorry when the wheels of his fighter kissed the ground; he suddenly realized that he had been enjoying himself, and he had to admit that the Norwegian scenery was breathtakingly beautiful.

  When the base commander, no less, turned out to meet him, accompanied by the commander of the resident Me 110 squadron, Lehmann felt positively important. The bubble burst dramatically when, as they were walking to the Oberst’s staff car, the latter suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and stared up into the clear sky, his mouth open. Then he gave vent to a string of curses and shook his fist at a thin vapour trail that was describing a perfect arc high overhead.