Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Wilf grumbled, “He had no bloody call to do that!” His voice had a nasal Cockney twang.

  Ted nodded, “That’s right. The lad wasn’t doing owt. Anyway, Jock shouted at him and hit him wi’ a right-hander. Then a lot more started barracking and pushing and shoving all-round the yard. That’s when me an’ Wilf managed to slip away. We nipped over the fence into the street, got down to the harbour and saw that boat tied up at the quay. There were a Norwegian feller working on it. We got him to see who we were and what we were up to and he sent us away in it. We’ve been at it ever since, me steering and Wilf bailing.”

  Wilf shivered. “Freezing bloody cold it was. We didn’t have any grub and there was nothing in the boat except a bottle o’ water. We hadn’t planned anything, d’ye see?

  And we didn’t dare hang about on the quay ‘cos there was Jerries swarming all over the place. We reckoned the Navy would be out here somewhere, but when we saw you we thought you might be a Jerry and we were ready to run for it again. If we hadn’t come up with you by morning we were thinking of heading for the shore and seeing if the Norwegians could help us.”

  Smith asked, “How many British seamen are held prisoner in Narvik?”

  Ted and the cook looked at each other and Ted said, “Well, there were two other ships besides ours. There’d be about ten or a dozen officers and sixty out o’ the fo’c’sle aboard them?”

  He looked the question at Wilf and the cook nodded in confirmation, “That’s abaht it.”

  Ted went on, “But I don’t know where they’ve got the rest of the fellers locked up. There was just our crew in the school — thirty-two of us altogether.”

  Smith asked, “Where is this school?”

  Wilf Collins said, “You ain’t thinking of trying to get ‘em out, are you, sir? Because you haven’t a bleedin’ earthly chance. That school’s on the far side o’ the town, about three-quarters of a mile from the harbour. There’s half a dozen destroyers in the harbour and the town’s full o’ them mountain troops. You’ve got to go right through the town to get to the school. Me and Ted, being just two of us and in civvies, and me knowing the town a bit, that made it easier, see? But we was still lucky. You and your lads wouldn’t get any further than the harbour.”

  Smith was silent for a minute. If the prisoners had been held in a ship and he knew which ship … But even if they had, a cutting-out expedition would be doomed to failure because of the destroyers in the harbour. It seemed that thirty-two British seamen were condemned to spend years in a prisoner-of-war camp. The Navy had rescued the three hundred seamen from the Altmark, saved them from that fate. But now the Navy — and at this moment he was its representative — appeared helpless here.

  He saw Galloway scowling in frustration but watching him. Hoping?

  Smith asked, “Can you draw me a map? Show me where the school is in relation to the harbour? Mark in the German positions?”

  Ted blinked bloodshot eyes. “Aye. I’m not an artist but I can sketch a bit. If you can get me some paper and a pencil, I’ll draw you a map. I expect Wilf can fill in what I don’t know or can’t remember. And he knows the town better’n I do.”

  Smith stared at them. They drooped, shivered in the cold and their exhaustion. He hungered for the information they could give him but they hungered for food. And they had done enough — for now. He said gently, “Thank you, but that can wait. Now you’ll be given a meal and then you can draw my map and answer some questions. After that you’ll be able to sleep for an hour or two.”

  Galloway took them away and Smith returned to the bridge. He strode back and forth, face impassive but brain churning. He paused once to stare out over the bow in the direction of the distant, unseen shore. Brandenburg was out there, somewhere, he was sure. And Sarah?

  He went back to his restless pacing. They had to start soon after dawn. He had the germ of an idea but whether it flowered would depend on the map and the seamen’s answers to the questions he would put to them. It would have to stand up to the cold light of reason. He would not recklessly risk men’s lives. But if he could save those thirty-odd men…

  15

  Smith said, just loud enough to be heard above the chatter of the little engine, “Stop her.” The big Colt.45 pistol dug into his side and he shifted the holster, easing the pressure. He stood in the well of Per Kosskull’s boat, leaning on the roof of the cabin and looking out over the bow. The snow had stopped, for a while at least, but the night was pitchy.

  He had spoken to Leading Seaman Donnelly, the man standing alongside him at the wheel. The engine died and the boat slid on through the slight swell tilting the surface of the water even this far inside the fjord, bow nodding. The way came off her and she was still but for that gentle lift and fall.

  Smith used his torch to flash the three shorts of an “S” in a signal to the two launches following astern. Their engines cut out and silence settled over the three boats. There was only the whisper of the water cut by the launches’ bows as they ran down on the fishing boat. They changed from mere humps in the night to distinguishable craft and lay rocking a score of yards astern.

  They did not look what they were. A hasty attempt had been made to disguise them as fishing boats like Per Kosskull’s. They were painted black, names and numbers lettered on their bows and sterns. Smith thought the disguise would have worked but it had not been needed.

  The three boats had left Cassandra in the Vestfjord at noon. A night approach was not possible; Smith wanted the night for the actual operation and escape afterwards.

  They dared not leave later than noon because the outflow from the fjord that had helped the two escaped seamen would be dead foul for the three motor boats butting into it. But they had traversed the Vestfjord and then the long dog-leg of the Ofotfjord without being seen by the enemy. Or seeing him. The visibility was bad when it was not snowing and when the snow squalls swept over them every few minutes it was reduced to a scant hundred yards or so. But they had picked up their landmarks one by one and finally, an hour after nightfall, they saw the headland of Framnesodden at the mouth of Narvik Harbour. The Framnesodden light, like all the navigation lights, had been put out, but the rash of yellow pin-pricks in the darkness showed where the town of Narvik lay.

  They had passed it and gone on along the coast but out of sight of it. Now they had closed it again. Mountains surrounded the fjord. Narvik was built on a round tongue of comparatively flat land sticking out from the southern shore of the Ofotfjord. The root of the tongue, its eastern side, was set in the mountains. The southern edge ringed the harbour while the northern and western sides were washed by the Ofotfjord. The railway that brought the iron ore from Sweden ran down to the harbour and the town had been built up from there. Now it half-filled the tongue, stretching back from the harbour but the northern and western half of the tongue was still empty, hilly and wooded. Smith was steering for that north-western corner. He was going in at the back door.

  Now he asked, “Do you see anything you recognise?”

  Wilf Collins stood beside him, elbows propped on the roof of the cabin. He peered into the darkness at the lift of the shore ahead of them and shook his head, “No. See, I only saw it from the other side a couple o’ times. And I’m a cook, remember, not a navigator.”

  And shouldn’t be there. Like Buckley, who was sitting in the sternsheets. Smith, turning, saw him hiding a grin now at Wilf’s remark. Smith had detailed a cox’n, Donnelly, for Per Kosskull’s boat when giving his orders, but when he had gone down into the boat, last of all by tradition, he had found Buckley already there. And he had drawn a rifle. It had been too late to order him out of it then. Smith had glowered at him and growled, “I’ll talk to you later.” —Ted Smethurst had produced his roughly pencilled map in Smith’s sea cabin but Wilf Collins. had provided most of the information, explaining: “This school where we were —” finger tapping the map “— was up by the hospital here.” His finger moved then tapped again. “I know just where it is beca
use last year — afore Ted signed on wi’ us me and some other fellers took Billy Finnegan up there. He’d got crushed trying to nip atween two railway wagons. That was after we’d been ashore for a few drinks and we was on our way back to the ship.”

  Wilf was silent a moment, remembering, and Smith waited for him. Then the cook went on: “His own bloody fault mind, he was a daft bugger, but still, he didn’t deserve that. The doctors did all they could for him up there but he only hung on a few days and never come to. They had him shot full o’ stuff to ease the pain. We used to walk up through the town to the hospital to see him.”

  Smith had asked him, “What about the country on the other side of the town?”

  A shrug. “That? It’s just woods and hills. A forest o’ bloody Christmas trees but we knew Billy wouldn’t see another Christmas. I used to walk out along the road after looking in on him until I got to the sea. Then I’d look in again on the way back to the ship. But he was always just lying there.”

  Smith had said, “Tell me about the road.”

  And later he said, “We need a guide. The map isn’t enough.” Moving across strange country at night using a compass and a makeshift map would be a time-taking and dangerous business.

  For a moment that didn’t register with the cook but Smith stared at him and waited again. Then Wilf said, “You want me to go back there?”

  Smith nodded.

  Wilf said, “I’m a civilian. You can’t order me.”

  “I’m not ordering anybody. I’ll be taking only volunteers.” If there were any.

  Wilf brooded, then said slowly, “If this war turns out anything like the last lot, then I’ve just as much chance of copping it in the Merchant Service as I would in the Navy.”

  Smith remembered 1917, when the U-boats were sinking ships so fast that Britain was in danger of being starved into submission. “That’s true.”

  That conversation had taken place in the light and the relative comfort of Smith’s sea cabin. Now they were in the bitterly cold darkness off an enemy shore. Smith said, “As you only saw it from the other side, we’ll take a look at it from there.” He told Donnelly, “Slow ahead.”

  The engine stuttered into life again but was swiftly throttled back to a mutter and the boat stole in towards the shore. The launches lay immobile and waited for the next signal from Smith’s torch. He said quietly, “There’s a headland showing to port.”

  Wilf nodded, non-committal: “I can see it.”

  Now a lookout, one of the two seamen stationed in the bow, called softly, “House over to starboard!”

  It stood back from the shore some fifty yards or so — it was hard to judge distance in the night — a black box.

  Wilf leaned forward, as if the extra inches would enable him to see better. “I think mebbe…” Then he pointed with a stubby finger, “S’right! That should be the little hillock I told you about.” Beyond the white frill of surf that marked the shore stood a fringe of fir trees. Among them and just above them rose a low, bald hilltop.

  Smith ordered again, “Stop her.”

  The boat slid on silently, just the ripple under her bow, and all of them listened, breath held. Were there enemy patrols? Or a section of troops watching them from the house?

  There had been volunteers in plenty — Galloway had said wrily that the entire ship’s company had put their names forward, and he was one of them. Smith wondered at that, why they wanted to go with him on this risky adventure. But it enabled him to pick his men. Galloway had been rejected and argued but Smith was adamant: the Executive Officer had to stay in command of Cassandra while Smith was away. Buckley had not volunteered, had decided already that he was going with Smith anyway.

  Kelso, Sergeant Phillips and Buckley shared the well with Smith. Four marines sat in the little cabin. Another dozen were shared between the two launches and Merrick commanded them. It was a small force but Dietl, who commanded the Wehrmacht in Narvik, had two thousand mountain troops. Smith could not fight him. This task would have to be brought off by cunning and surprise. He had brought with him the bare minimum to do the job. And the space in the three boats would be needed later on — if his plan worked.

  They heard nothing. The bow of the boat grated on shingle and the seamen in the bow jumped into the shallows and hauled it up. Phillips walked along the narrow strip of deck at the side of the cabin and knocked on its roof. The marines spilled out into the well and followed his stocky figure as he jumped off the bow onto the shingle. Smith told Wilf Collins, “Wait here till you see my signal to the boats.” He then set off after Phillips.

  His boots crunched on shingle as he ran across it, then he caught up with the marines at the edge of the trees. They were down on one knee and very still, watching and listening. Phillips turned and whispered, “There’s a road, sir. Is this the place?”

  “Looks like it.” Smith turned, saw without surprise that Buckley stood behind him, and used his torch to flash the short and long of an “A” to the launches hidden in the darkness offshore. Then he moved on up to the road, though he found it was little more than a track running along the shore. He told Phillips, “See who is in that house. Take Kelso with you.”

  Kelso trotted up then with Wilf Collins, who looked about him and now nodded confidently, “This is the spot. Sometimes I’d sit up on the hill, sometimes I’d come down hereabouts.”

  Ben Kelso panted, “Right on the nose, by God!” And eyed Smith with respect. It had been an impressive feat of navigation.

  Wilf s overcoat and cap had gone. Instead he wore the uniform of a seaman and a duffel coat issued to him on Smith’s orders. He had told him, “If this operation goes wrong that uniform will save you from being shot as a spy.” The cook had answered, “Thank you very much.”

  Kelso hurried off along the road with Phillips and two of the marines. Now the launches were coming in. They ran ashore either side of the fishing boat and marines spilled out of them. They ran across the shingle and into the trees, spread out along the line of the road and Merrick came to Smith. Who told him, “We’re waiting for Kelso and Phillips.”

  But it was only a minute or two later that Phillips returned. Kelso, puffing behind him, reported, “Just a man and wife and their kids in there. I got it through to them to keep their heads down tonight.”

  That was good advice. Now Smith turned and used his torch again to flash a signal out to the boats and he saw all three haul off from the shore, turn around and chug off into the night. They would wait out there, out of sight from the shore, until recalled. Now Smith and his landing party were committed.

  He said, “The hill.”

  Merrick called, “Corporal.”

  Lugg was there at his shoulder. As Merrick led out across the road and set off into the trees Lugg went with him, a pace or two behind and to his right. Another marine moved into position on Merrick’s left. Smith followed Merrick, trailing him by five or six yards. Then came Buckley, Collins and Ben Kelso, one behind the other and spaced at the same distance. Marines kept pace with them on both flanks and Phillips brought up the rear.

  They flitted through the deeper darkness under the trees until they came to the foot of the little hill. The main body halted there while Lugg and two of the marines went on. The minutes dragged but then he returned to report to Merrick, “Nobody up there, sir, but somebody’s been digging. Looks as if they might be going to put a guard-post there.”

  So tomorrow might have been too late to attempt this rescue. They were only just in time. Or were they? Smith told himself not to count chickens.

  They went on to the top of the hill. It only stood some sixty feet above the shore where they had landed but it commanded another road which ended on this hilltop and down which they had to go. This led down from the hill and wound away into the trees, towards the town less than a half-mile away. There were lights in plenty outlining the spread of it.

  Smith saw where the digging of weapon pits had been started but as yet they were only a foot deep
. It would be hard work using an entrenching tool in that frozen earth. He left Sergeant Phillips and four marines with two Bren guns to hold the hill. Then Merrick led the column on down the road into the trees again. All of them now marched at the side of the road. The snow crunched and squeaked softly under their booted feet. Their breath steamed in the cold air and the lights of the town crept nearer with every stride.

  They had marched a quarter-mile from the hill when the marines ahead of Smith halted and the whole column followed suit. A minute later Merrick came back and reported, “They’ve got a road-block up ahead. There’s a hut by the side of the road and a sentry on duty. There’ll be some more of them in the hut.”

  Smith glanced around him then waved a hand to indicate the forest hemming them in. “Can’t we get around it through this?”

  “Should think so, sir.”

  “All right. Single file and I’ll come with you. I want to see this place.”

  So they went on in a long straggling line, Merrick leading and Smith now only a pace or two behind. They moved through the trees making a wide arc and once Merrick paused, turned to Smith and pointed to their right where lay the road. Smith could see between the firs to a stretch of it. There stood the black square of the hut with a strip of light showing at one poorly curtained window. The sentry, a pale figure in his white snow-smock and trousers, trudged up and down at the side of the road with his rifle slung on one shoulder. He was trying to keep warm.