by Alan Evans
Moehle nodded, “Just so. We have aboard a company of pioneers and engineers, about a hundred of them, to be landed here first. There’s a tug coming out to take them ashore. And I’ve spoken to Hipper about our prisoners and she’s going to take them.” He said drily, “There was a bit of an argument but she’s got the room now she’s landed her troops and Heye is taking her back to Germany tomorrow night.” Kapitän-zur-See Hellmuth Heye was Hipper’s captain. “He’s sending a boat for them. See to their transfer, Kurt.”
The guards bawled in at the door of the sickbay and the fat little SBA scuttled about among the prisoners. “They want you on deck. You go now to Hipper and you will soon go in Germany. Wish it was me!”
Smith glanced at Buckley, both of them still only in sweaters, and said softly, “We need some more protective clothing.” They needed a lot of things for an escape attempt but clothing came at the head of the list for now.
They moved out, one guard with his rifle going ahead, the other bringing up the rear with the dozen prisoners strung between. As he climbed the ladders Smith saw the mess decks still packed with soldiers, some sleeping with their heads on tables or curled up on the deck, others peering lifelessly, queasily at the bulkheads. He came on one pile of packs and equipment stacked close by the ladder, green-grey field jackets tossed on top of it. Before he could say a word Buckley had stepped briefly aside, picked up two of the jackets and was back in the line, without a soldier turning his head and neither guard any the wiser.
Smith took one of the jackets when Buckley handed it to him. He wondered if wearing it would annul his right to be treated as a prisoner of war? But they would execute him for espionage anyway, he knew that. As he stepped out onto the deck he shrugged into the field jacket and buttoned it up against the icy wind. Buckley had stolen two large ones. His jacket was only a shade tight but the other hung on Smith, the sleeves almost hiding his hands so he had to turn back the cuffs.
A drizzle was falling now so the other ships and the shore were only furred silhouettes. The prisoners stood huddled, anonymous shapes in the early morning gloom. Smith and Buckley once again worked their way into the middle of the group. They waited until all of them were there, one of the guards counting, “Eins, zwei … “ Then they were marched towards the solitary light burning dull yellow in the waist.
It hung at the head of an accommodation ladder rigged against the cruiser’s side and a crowd of soldiers stood close by. They were waiting their turn to descend the ladder and wore a motley collection of clothing. Some were in the grey-green service dress, many wore overalls with the uniform tunics pulled over them and a few were muffled in greatcoats reaching down to their ankles. Many of them humped big packs slung from their shoulders and high on their backs. There was a stack of canvas sacks and stencilled wooden crates and Smith thought, Tool-bags? Crates of supplies? Engineers?
The prisoners were halted on the fringe of the crowd. An officer standing under the light at the head of the ladder turned and nodded as one of their guards reported their arrival. Smith recognised Kurt Larsen. And he would remember Smith.
Kurt peered at his watch and swore softly. Hipper’s boat had not arrived. He told the petty officer overseeing the embarkation of the soldiers, “The prisoners are here. I’m going to find out what’s happened to their boat.” Brandenburg was ready to sail, only waited to be rid of these soldiers and prisoners. “I’ll only be a few minutes. If it turns up while I’m away, load ‘em.”
Kurt Larsen strode off towards the bridge and Smith drew a breath of relief. He looked about him. The other survivors from Glowworm and their guards all stood with backs turned to the bitter wind that drove across Brandenburg’s deck. Smith nudged Buckley and gave a jerk of his head. The signal was understood and together they inched sideways until they merged with the soldiers. The guards did not see them go and the soldiers stood uncaring in a dark, wet dawn mood, cold and turned in on themselves, eyes on the queue ahead of them waiting to descend the accommodation ladder.
There was an eddy in the crowd as they started to shuffle past the stack, each man stooping, grunting, to lift a tool-bag or crate onto his shoulder then moving towards the ladder. Smith eased forward and Buckley followed. They allowed themselves to be sucked into the line and as they passed the stack first Smith, then Buckley lifted a tool-bag and swung it onto his shoulder. There was a minute of shuffling and jostling as they queued for their turn, tense seconds as they passed the petty officer under the light, the tool-bags on their shoulders between him and them. Then they were stepping down the ladder to the tug lying alongside, rising and falling gently on the swell.
Aboard her, they stood shoulder to shoulder, packed in among the others and once more in sheltering shadow. The last of the soldiers stumbled down the ladder and the tug swung away from Brandenburg’s side, headed towards the scattered lights marking Trondheim.
It ran in between two breakwaters, slowed and eased to starboard. Her engines stopped then briefly went astern, taking the way off her, then she neatly rubbed against a quay with a creaking of her rope fenders. The soldiers were able to step ashore from its deck. They swarmed over the guard-rails, each carrying his tool-bag or crate and started to build a new stack, forming a new group.
Smith and Buckley went with them, set their burdens down on the stack and worked through the group to its inshore edge. Before them was a row of sheds lined along the quay, and beyond them lay the cat’s-cradle of railway lines that was a marshalling yard. Here, away from the scattered lights at the quayside, they stood in shadow again, looking at the backs of the group. After a moment they just sidled away from the backs and walked off into the deeper darkness.
Buckley took a great, gulping breath then muttered, “Never thought we’d make it.”
Smith found he, too, had been holding his breath. Now he was panting and warned, “We’re not in the clear yet, by a long way.” But at least they had escaped from the ship. It was a beginning.
There were alleys turning off from the quay between the sheds and they took one of them. They wended their way through the web of railway lines and more buildings. German soldiers were everywhere but all of them were busy. None of them questioned two more “soldiers” like themselves who moved briskly now, purposefully, as if they knew where they were going and were bent on some duty. And there were Norwegians, staring at the troops, bewildered and glaring impotently.
Buckley muttered, “Think we should ask one o’ them if he can hide us, sir?”
Smith shook his head. He was well aware that they had a long way to go and were without food or money. They could not hope to hide behind their makeshift disguises for long. They had to have clothes. They needed help. A stranger might give it — or turn them over to the Wehrmacht. So they would only take that risk later and if forced to it. Besides, he did not want to hide — yet. He knew who he was looking for. But he had to find that someone soon.
And had he found the place now? Here was a fish quay but were there more than one? Would the man he sought be here? Fishermen stood about in their jerseys and heavy jackets, thick trousers sprinkled with fish scales, their legs stuffed into the tops of seaboots. There were boats tied up to the quay and Smith’s hopes rose faintly but briefly, died as he saw the armed German sailors put aboard to guard them. It was no more than he had expected.
Kurt Larsen reported to Moehle on the bridge, “The pioneers have gone ashore and the prisoners have been transferred to Hipper. But two of them are missing. I —”
Moehle swore and broke in, “Have you started a search? How the hell did they get out of the sickbay? They were under guard!”
Kurt answered, red-faced, “They came up on deck with the others. The senior rating commanding the guard swears he counted them and they were all present on deck.” There was no sense in wasting time on excuses. Kurt went on, “I think they mixed in with the pioneers and they’ll be ashore by now.” They had escaped right under his nose and Kurt waited for his captain’s just wrath.
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Moehle scowled at him, then grinned. “It’s good for the soul to feel a bloody fool sometimes. And whoever they are, they’ve got their nerve.”
Kurt answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Nothing we can do about it, but they can’t get far. Send a signal to the military ashore. I can’t see them searching now — they’ve got their hands full at the moment — but tomorrow, maybe…”
And the major in Trondheim who received the signal in his newly requisitioned office glanced at the flimsy sheet and promptly tossed it aside to be dealt with later. “Right now we’re carrying out an invasion,” he muttered, “not searching for escaped prisoners. First things first.”
Smith kept on walking around the fish quay, glancing at faces, seeking one. It was long odds against him finding it but there was a chance…He and Buckley skirted grumbling or silent groups, getting hostile glances from the fishermen because of the uniforms they wore. They had almost run the gauntlet when a hoarse voice called, “Hey!” They did not look around but they heard running feet coming up behind them. A suspicious sentry from one of the boats? Or were they being hunted already? But then the hand seized on Smith’s arm, halting him and pulling him around. And he saw the face he sought.
Per Kosskull, big, blond and bearded, ran a hand through the hair that grew long to shag over the collar of his jacket. He stared disbelievingly at Smith and whispered, “I think sure it was you but — “ He fingered the Wehrmacht field jacket.
Smith explained, “We stole them to escape. We were prisoners aboard Brandenburg out in the harbour.”
Kosskull nodded, then said quickly, “We must better walk.” He fell into step at Smith’s side and jerked his head at Buckley, “He was in your boat, ya? Who is?”
“My cox’n.” Which meant his servant but not his lackey, his right-hand man, a score of things. Then Smith told Kosskull about Glowworn and his capture. As he talked and they strode on along the quay he remembered how he had saved this man when his boat had exploded and burned. Per Kosskull had shrugged off the loss then with the words, “I have another in Trondheim.” Now Smith said, “I remembered you.” He came straight to the point, “You said you had another boat here.”
Kosskull glanced at Smith, then halted, asked, “You want it to get away?”
“I have to escape.” He returned the fisherman’s stare, not pressing his case, sure of the kind of man he was dealing with and letting him remember that night weeks ago when Smith had saved his life.
Kosskull nodded, “Yes, I have a boat.”
“Is it under guard?” Smith gestured back towards the fish quay.
Now Kosskull shook his head. He set off again still heading along the quay with the railway tracks on his left. “I went out with the boat last night for the fish…”
He said he had found the weather bad, had caught nothing and so had run for home. He was inside the fjord and past the Norwegian shore batteries in the Narrows when he heard them open fire. He steered inshore and then was overtaken by the two cruisers and their destroyer escorts as they charged in at over twenty knots. “Like all the Norwegian Navy at once, but I knew they were not Norwegian.”
He had not suspected an invasion, let alone German sentries being set to guard the fishing boats of the Trondheim fleet. But he had been wary of bringing his boat back to the port where the warships had gone. He had heard gunfire and knew something odd was going on. If there was more gunfire he didn’t want his boat involved. Instead he tucked it away in an inlet near the town and then came in on foot. “Is not far.”
They walked for almost an hour, the first ten minutes of it in the town. They left the quay, crossed a cantilever bridge and followed a road lined with factories. In these streets through which Per Kosskull led them they met few people and only once a file of Wehrmacht soldiers. They were marching rapidly and scarcely spared a glance for Smith and Buckley, marching equally rapidly in the opposite direction, with Per Kosskull between them like a prisoner under escort, or a guide.
Then came empty country roads, and for the last half-hour a track that wound along the side of the fjord through firs with branches heavy with snow. It crunched under their feet. Then Kosskull turned off the track to skid down the steep drop to the fjord, clutching at saplings as he went to slow his speed and keep his balance. And at the bottom they found the boat, tucked into a little inlet and tied up to the trunks of firs whose branches overhung it like a screen.
It was a motor launch, with a cabin set into a half-deck forward, aft of that a well that held the engine housed under a hatchcover, and piles of fishing nets. The steering position was a wheel mounted just aft of the cabin. Kosskull pointed to the electric torch tied on a loop of string and hanging from a hook by the wheel, “In case you need at night. If the engine stop.”
Smith said, “We’ll pray to God it doesn’t.” But he was grateful for the torch, tried it and found the battery good. Kosskull laughed, then took them into the cabin. There was room for another half-dozen men in there but the three of them were bent almost double under the low deckhead. He showed them the primus stove and the cupboard with his stores, bread, butter, cheese, tinned meat and condensed milk.
Out in the well again he slapped the engine housing and said, “Enough gas for two hundred miles, maybe. Maybe more?” He shrugged and explained, “The weather.”
Smith nodded. They would use more fuel and time in adverse conditions.
The fisherman cocked an eye at them, “It is bad out there now. And tomorrow, maybe next day. Where I fish last night —” he grimaced “— is bad, but out at sea is very bad and this is little boat.”
Smith said, “We have to go. Are you coming?”
Kosskull shook his head. “This is my country. There will be Norwegians fighting the Germans. I will find them.”
He showed them how the engine worked and watched while Buckley started it. Then he stepped ashore and cast off the lines tied to the trees. He called, “Good luck!”
Smith answered, “Thank you, for everything.” He had given them a chance for freedom and life.
And Buckley waved to Kosskull, “Good luck to you, mate.” Then he muttered, “We’re all going to need it.”
Smith silently agreed as he eased the launch away from the bank, cautiously getting the feel of her. He knew there would be British ships off Narvik, trying to stop the iron ore ships sailing south to Germany, and that was about three hundred sea miles north. Kosskull had said the launch had fuel for two hundred, more or less. Well, they would go as far as they could on that. And then? He would face that later. Now he was free and at sea.
That freedom was soon at risk. As the launch puttered out of the inlet Buckley called urgently, “Ship right ahead!”
Smith saw her at once, just the vague shape of her out in the channel in the centre of the fjord. It was full day now by the clock but the leaden sky still hid the sun and seemed to hang even lower than before. A drenching rain mixed with big, wet flakes of snow added to the gloom. He turned the launch to run along the shoreline just out of the shallows and at the foot of the hillside that rose steeply from the water. He hoped that as she was showing no lights she would be hidden in the darker shadow there.
He looked again at the ship, seen only like a ghost in that bad light but he did not need Buckley to tell him, “Brandenburg again, sir.” The bulk of her slid past in a beat of engines and swash of screws, showing no more light than the launch. Behind her came a transport, a carthorse following a thoroughbred, lacking the warship’s grace but also devoid of its menace. She ploughed through the water of the fjord that the cruiser slit with her sharp stem. But Smith thought they were both making about fifteen knots or more.
The lookouts on Brandenburg and her consort did not see the launch. Smith relaxed as the two ships sped on down the fjord towards the sea. But that had been close. If he and Buckley had sailed ten minutes earlier they would have been further out in the fjord, seen, stopped and questioned. The questions would not have taken long and tha
t would have been the end of it.
Smith and Buckley exchanged glances when they heard gunfire again. From Brandenburg or the Norwegian shore batteries in the forts guarding the entrance to the fjord? They did not know and the firing was brief. Buckley said, “Looks like she’s slipped past ‘em again, sir.” Smith nodded agreement. When they passed the forts themselves at noon, only dimly seen through the rain, they drew no fire. Either the little launch had not been seen or the gunners did not think it worth ammunition.
They found rough going even there in the sheltered waters of the fjord; the waves still kicked up and the wind rocked them. When they finally left it and embarked on the open sea they set their lives at risk. The little launch was tossed about like a cork, now climbing a wave that hung over it like a cliff, then sliding bow-first down the green, glassy slope on the other side. The tops of the waves often broke over her and as often she dug her stem into them. Her well filled with water nearly to the gun’ls and Buckley had to bale her out with a bucket.
They had no oilskins but he had earlier found some tarpaulins he fastened around their shoulders. They kept out some of the weather, the freezing spray and the wind that cut to the bone. Before they left the fjord he had wedged himself in the tiny cabin and made coffee. They had drunk it and chomped on bread and cheese from Per Kosskull’s stores. Smith reflected wrily now that it was as well Buckley had prepared that rough meal because they would not be using the primus stove in this sea.
The last of the day passed without sight of the sun. They fought their way northwards all through it under a darkening sky, standing watches at the wheel in turn, and in between bailing out the water they shipped in the well. They got their heading from the compass by the wheel but Smith wondered uneasily if it was any good. He suspected Per Kosskull used it rarely, if at all, preferring to rely on his knowledge of these waters gained over a lifetime. He thought they might be making six knots over the ground. They had no chart, log or sextant. He decided navigation was going to be difficult.