by Alan Evans
As the early dusk closed in he took over the helm and asked, “Can you see what fuel we have left?”
Buckley peered at the gauge on the engine and reported, “The needle’s swinging about between a quarter and three-quarters full. Say half full, sir?”
Smith nodded. He would have to be content with that. It would see them through the night, anyway. If they survived the night. The sea was as wild as ever, the wind as strong. A heavy rain mixed with sleet was falling now, rattling on their tarpaulins, drumming on the cabin roof. Smith was numb where he stood at the wheel. All day he had tried to keep moving, even when at the wheel, but it was not easy. He had no feeling in his arms, legs, hands, feet. He knew Buckley was in little better shape. They were both exhausted.
Night fell about them like a shroud as the rain and sleet became snow, swirling blindingly around the launch. Smith had to meet each wave as it came, could see no further than that wave, and toppled over each and every crest into a black ravine. It took all his strength and skill to keep her head to the sea. Waves broke over the bow and the roof of the cabin to burst on him where he stood at the wheel. The well filled again and again; Buckley was continually bailing. Yet he still found time and breath once to shout at Smith, “We’ve come through worse than this, sir!” He grinned, teeth showing white in the darkness.
Smith grinned back at him and nodded. But — worse than this? He could not believe it. Buckley was trying to cheer him. The leading hand had tended the engine and done most of the bailing. Smith was certain he himself would have collapsed if he had done so much work but the big man laboured still. If Smith had been able to choose any man to go with him on this launch he would still have taken Buckley and without hesitation. And if they got out of this it would be due to his efforts.
The night dragged on interminably. They changed places again and again, but only exchanged one exhausting, agonizing labour for another. They were soaked, frozen, but still could have closed their eyes and slept where they stood at the wheel or knelt in the well to bail.
Smith was at the helm close to midnight and at first he thought what he saw was just a trick of the storm, a thickening of the snow so that it now showed as a white wall stretching across ahead of the launch. But then it seemed to take shape … He yelled at Buckley, “A ship!” And, “Use the torch!”
Buckley snatched it from its hook and the beam sprang out, probing weakly yellow at the muffling snow. Smith’s first thought was that they were not going to drown and he felt relief wash over him, warming, giving him life. Then he wondered what ship this was, remembered that he had seen Brandenburg put to sea and there would be other enemy ships out and bound for other ports — Narvik’? For a moment he was on the point of yelling at Buckley to put out the torch until they had found out whether this ship was friendly. Then realised that was nonsense; there was no way he could find out and anyway it was too late.
The ship had passed but a searchlight’s hunting beam found and held them in a pool of light. Smith turned to follow the ship, steering the launch to run up the beam which was blinding him. She would also be slowing and turning. Then the searchlight’s beam twitched away to cast its light alongside the launch, no longer blazing into his eyes. He saw the ship ahead once more, stopped to windward of him to give him a lee.
He closed her, ready to turn and try to run if she proved to be an enemy. And Buckley bawled, “I’d sooner take my chance with the sea than be took prisoner again!” Smith nodded, his face set, blinking away the water that streamed down from the hair plastered to his skull. But he thought he knew the ship ahead, could not believe it but then was certain as Buckley yelled in confirmation.
There was a scrambling net hung over her side and as he eased the boat in against it a voice bellowed above him, “Do you speak English? Do you need help?”
Smith said, “Tell them.” Buckley’s voice would carry further and more clearly than his own in this gale.
Buckley answered both questions, roaring, “Yes!” Then he added, “Cassandra!” And grabbed at the net.
Smith managed to laugh through his pain and exhaustion. Buckley’s was the correct answer from a boat carrying a ship’s captain when challenged by that ship. What would they make of it aboard? But now a light shone down on the boat, picked up Smith and he knew that those on deck would recognise him. He shouted, “I want to save this boat!” He would not be able to return it to Per Kosskull but there might be a use for it.
A voice burst out, disbelieving, “Bloody hell! It’s the captain!” But then the lines came down and two seamen with them, jumping into the leaping boat and hooking them on. Buckley was grabbing at the net to hold the boat in against the ship’s side as they both seesawed, the boat now almost level with the ship’s deck then plummeting twenty feet below it. Smith saw men on the net, waiting to help Buckley and himself. He let go of the wheel and threw himself at the net, hooked his stiff fingers like claws into its wide mesh and started to climb. Buckley and the two seamen from the boat were already fighting their way up Cassandra’s side.
The boat dropped away and sheered off then the sea came up and washed over him. Smith clung on and then he was lifted from the roaring black world and out again into that of swirling white. Buckley had hold of one of his arms and one of the seamen on the net had the other. Another was working lines around the two half-drowned men.
They climbed again, at first slowly then more quickly as the hands above hauled in on the lines and drew them up to safety. At last they stood on the deck, still in darkness but close enough to see their rescuers — and be seen. The long and long-faced, lugubrious Chivers was commanding the party that had brought them aboard. He gaped at them now.
Per Kosskull’s boat was being swung inboard. And Buckley told Smith simply, happily, “I knew you’d get us through, sir.”
Smith could not understand that but did not try. He was up to his knees in water as the sea washed over Cassandra’s deck but it was enough that he was aboard his own ship.
It was like coming home.
But there would be desperate work for all of them now.
9
Brandenburg rocked over in the turn and Kurt Larsen grabbed at the mug of coffee before it could slide away across the glassily polished surface of the wardroom table. He swore with sleepy pre-dawn irritation. Then he wondered at the reason for the turn? He was about to go on watch and now drained the mug, headed for the bridge.
Brandenburg had fought her way north with the transport Wilhelmina through the storm of the previous day. She disembarked Oberst Klaus Grundmann and his troops at Bergsund in the late afternoon. He had first landed a company a mile or so north of the port then waited for them to make their way overland. They cut the telephone lines running inland from the little town and then surrounded it. When Brandenburg and Wilhelmina entered the fjord and anchored off Bergsund they found there was no garrison, no one to oppose them.
That was not surprising. Bergsund was a small port, little more than a fishing village. Grundmann and his men were there because it offered access to the hinterland. From there he could drive north towards Narvik, though there was no road all the way to Narvik, or south to Trondheim. He could cut the fragile Norwegian communications and pose a further threat at the backs of Norwegian forces trying to organise resistance to the invasion.
Gustav Moehle had waited with Brandenburg until all Grundmann’s troops had disembarked and then to see if they needed the support of his ship’s guns. By the early hours of the morning Grundmann had confirmed that support was not needed. So Moehle left Wilhelmina to complete discharging her cargo of stores, transport, guns and ammunition, and sailed south with Brandenburg to rejoin the Naval Group at Trondheim. But now she had turned northward again.
Out on deck in the last of the night, Kurt was glad to see the weather had moderated. There was still a rough sea but not as mountainous as during the storm. Brandenburg smashed through its peaks and valleys, pewter-grey in this light just before the dawn.
On the bridge he took over from Paul Brunner, the Executive Officer, who told him, “Change of course was due to a signal. We’ve been ordered north to Narvik in a hurry. Commodore Bonte is in there with a destroyer force and it sounds as though he may need some help to get out.” Bonte’s ships had escorted or carried the troops sent to take Narvik.
So they were not going back to Germany at once. Kurt’s first thought was that now he might see the girl, Sarah. She was still in Norway, as far as he knew. When he had learned of this planned invasion he had hoped he would find her. But he did not know where she was in Norway; he had not been able to go ashore at Trondheim or Bergsund, could well not set foot in Narvik. The chances were a million to one against their meeting — but there was still that one chance. He knew he would not have it in Germany, knew what would happen to her if she went there.
He stared out unhappily at the heaving sea as Brandenburg steamed northward and the sky grew lighter though the clouds still hung heavy. The day came with squalls of snow sweeping in under that lowering sky. Brandenburg’s crew stood down from dawn action stations and Kurt paced back and forth across the bridge. It was desperately important that he should talk to the girl, and not just because he was fond of her.
***
Smith was torn from sleep by the clamour of the alarm rattlers. His body reacted quickly, far ahead of his mind. He was out of the cabin before he realised it was his day cabin. He was back aboard Cassandra and he had eaten a meal last night then collapsed into the bunk in the day cabin because Galloway was using the sea cabin abaft the bridge. But Smith was still captain and his place was on the bridge now.
He looked at his watch as he brought up at the front of the bridge, fastening his oilskins that were flapping in the wind, leaning on the screen and wriggling his feet more comfortably into his seaboots. He had slept for just six hours and his body told him that was not enough, but it would have to do for now. His weary mind dredged up his last thought of the previous night, seconds before exhaustion felled him: What would happen to Sarah now that Hitler was into Norway? She no longer had the protection of neutrality around her. They would send her to a concentration camp…
He recoiled from peering into that chasm, looked around the bridge and asked, “Where?”
Galloway answered quickly, “Enemy cruiser fine on the port bow, sir. She’s already in action against one of our destroyers to starboard. At least we think it’s a destroyer. Enemy is five miles away and t’other more than six so you can hardly see her.” He wore an old duffel coat and cap like others on the bridge yet he stood out, seeming immaculate as always.
Smith grunted acknowledgment as he saw the ships then took the glasses Galloway handed to him, saw they were his own from the sea cabin and said, “Thank you, John. And good morning.”
Galloway blinked at him, then grinned, “Good morning, sir. And it’s good to see you here. I still can’t believe it.” Then he dived down the ladder, heading aft to his station in action, commanding the damage-control parties.
Ben Kelso, breathless from his race up to the bridge, panted, “Bloody incredible!”
Smith glanced around and saw the same look on all their faces, Harry Vincent, Appleby, the signal yeoman and his signalman, the bridge messenger. The look was one of admiration and respect. Smith had given Galloway a brief account of his and Buckley’s escape from Brandenburg. Ben Kelso, along with the rest of Cassandra’s crew, would know all about it now. They remembered the earlier actions with Brandenburg and his attack on the Altmark. Now there was this escape from the enemy. They had known nothing of the loss of Glowworm, or the taking of Trondheim by the Wehrmacht, until Smith told his story.
He turned away from them and spoke into the voice-pipe, “Full ahead!”
He heard that acknowledged, “Full ahead, sir!” That was Taggart, Cassandra’s cox’n, who ran the lower deck and took the helm when she was in action.
Buckley handed Smith his steel helmet and he put it on. Then he set the glasses to his eyes and looked out over the bow. He agreed with Galloway; in this visibility of low cloud, sunless, one snow squall following another, the enemy cruiser was hard to make out and the further ship little more than a very small shadow in the murk. But the weather had eased and maybe they were moving away from the storm of last night.
The two ships in the distance ahead sparked with yellow light, the muzzle-flashes of their guns. But one of them, the destroyer off the starboard bow, trailed another, continual flame from her after end. She was on fire. Why was she engaged in a hopeless battle against the cruiser, instead of keeping her distance and calling up support? Smith swept with the glasses, checked and moved back, steadied them. He said, “The destroyer is escorting someone. I think I can make out another ship to starboard of her.” Just. Or was it a distant squall making that extra shadow on the horizon?
But Ben Kelso, after a few seconds’ hesitation, agreed. “Seen, sir. A merchantman?”
They could only speculate on that. And all the time Cassandra had been working up to her shuddering full speed and the reports had streamed in to the bridge as departments were closed up for action. Now the ship was silent, waiting. Smith ordered, “Open fire.” And then, slowly, “She looks like Brandenburg.” It could well be her in these waters.
Only “A” gun forward of the bridge would bear but now that flamed and recoiled, shaking Cassandra and all on her bridge. Then Ben Kelso answered sombrely, “Yes, sir. Agreed.” And there was a heightened tension on the bridge now. It seemed the grey phantom ship out there returned time and again to haunt them.
He turned, looked for Buckley at the back of the bridge, saw him and said, “Wonder if they’ve missed us?” Buckley grinned and as Smith swung back he saw a copy of that grin on Ben Kelso’s face. But the problem for Smith was unchanged: Cassandra was little better fitted to fight the bigger, newer cruiser than was the destroyer. She was inferior in armour, firepower and speed. So she had to win — or survive — through some other quality. He ordered, “Port twenty.”
The bow swung to point at the distant cruiser and still moved on: “Midships…steady on that.” Now all Cassandra’s guns would bear and they fired. She was steaming out to haul up on the bigger cruiser’s port side. Brandenburg looked to be matching her speed to that of the destroyer which in turn had to keep station on the slower merchantman. Smith nodded to himself. Cassandra was overhauling Brandenburg. Soon he would have her between him and the destroyer. They were able to take her in crossfire.
There were jets of flame and clouds of reeking cordite smoke as another salvo hurtled away from Cassandra. He felt the blast on his face and the concussion of air in his ears. Brandenburg’s two after-turrets had trained around and were now laid on Cassandra. Shells from those guns crashed into the sea, ahead and to starboard, hurling up tall columns of dirty water that stank vilely as Cassandra steamed through the slow-falling spray from them. Close. Soon the three ships would be pounding each other, locked in a death grapple. Smith’s face was set. So be it.
On Brandenburg’s bridge Gustav Moehle read the signal brought from the wireless office, swore savagely then passed the flimsy to Paul Brunner and Kurt Larsen. “Bonte’s destroyers have been attacked at Narvik. It sounds as though they are in trouble. We are ordered to assist and this takes precedence over all other operations.” He pounded the top of the screen softly with his fist in exasperation.
Brunner had passed the signal to Kurt and now had his glasses set to his eyes. A salvo from Cassandra fell in the sea off the port quarter and Brandenburg’s after turrets fired, heeling her over. He shouted, “I think she may be the same cruiser we fought off Iceland in February.”
Moehle shrugged, “Possibly, but they have several of those old ships still in service.”
Now Brunner warned, “She’s steering to take us in a crossfire between her and the destroyer.”
Moehle nodded, but said bitterly, “We could gain a victory here and sink all three of them.” Then he sighed, “But we have our
orders. File that signal. Full ahead.”
Harry Vincent reported, “She’s cracked on speed, sir. We’re not gaining on her now. In fact, I think she’s pulling away.”
Smith was sure of it. Brandenburg was widening the gap between her and Cassandra. A manoeuvre? She had no reason to run. Her captain must know he had the advantage in this unequal contest. The destroyer looked to be badly damaged now, with several fires and only one gun in action. But —
Harry burst out, “She’s running!” His voice rose on a mixture of disbelief, relief and frustration. Brandenburg was making smoke now that rolled down astern of her to hide her as she retreated.
Cassandra held on in pursuit, firing salvoes when Brandenburg could be seen under the smoke, swerving at Smith’s order when the enemy shells fell close. But the bigger cruiser shrank as she drew away, became vague, then was lost in the distance and bad light. The guns fell silent and Smith decided, “We’ve lost her and we’ll be needed back there, I think.” And he ordered the turn that sent Cassandra racing back towards the other ships.
He found them both stopped. Galloway, returned to the bridge, said, “The destroyer is Hornet.” He could read her number now, painted below her bridge. He referred to the list of Naval Appointments he held in one hand, “Captain is Lieutenant-Commander Miller.” He used his glasses again, “And the merchantman is the Ailsa Grange. Looks as if she’s being used for trooping. I can see soldiers on her deck.”
The destroyer lay right over on her beam ends, was down by the head and burning fore and aft now. She was being abandoned. The Ailsa Grange was close by, lowering some of her boats to take off Hornet’s crew. The destroyer’s boats and rafts could all be matchwood; Smith remembered the destruction wrought on Glowworm. “Tell the doctor to be ready for casualties.” Surgeon Lieutenant Kilmartin was a young heavyweight with huge hands and dark eyes that glowered out cynically from under bushy brows at any man who tried to shirk by reporting sick. “Kilmartin?” Cassandra’s crew would say gloomily, “More likely kill us!”