On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1)

by Anthony Molloy

  At the top of the ladders, one by one, they were suddenly lifted, swung clear of the hatch and knocked unconscious. The next in line had no time to think. No time for a sleep befogged brain to register surprise that the man in front had gone through the hatch so quickly. As he reached the top he only had time for amazement at the ease with which he had cleared the hatch. By the time he realised he had help; it was too late. The crack of the pickaxe handle and the exploding pain heralded the dark that enveloped him.

  It had taken minutes, no cry of alarm had alerted the men still below. They knew nothing until cork-blackened faces suddenly appeared from nowhere.

  * * *

  On the wing of the destroyer’s bridge the Yeoman of Signals raised the Aldis lamp to his forearm, signalled ‘received’ and turned to the Captain.

  ‘Signal from the First Armed Guard’, sir, relayed from the marine lookout post, ‘Mission accomplished’.”

  Barr’s automatic response hid the acute anxiety he had been feeling. “Very good, Yeo.”

  * * *

  Barr and the Gunnery officer, Lieutenant Grey, who had been second in command of the First Armed Guard, stood on the E-boat’s tiny bridge.

  “Well done, Lieutenant, we are now the owners of one E-boat and who knows, with luck, a few weeks worth of recognition codes.”

  “Not to mention her collection of slightly concussed crew members,” said Grey, indicating over one shoulder with a thumb. “Good news from Macdonald, the Leading Stoker, he’s checked the engine and repaired the fault; it was a blocked lubrication pipe on one of the bearings. They would have had to stop the engine to work on it, obviously why she came in here. Macdonald has fallen in love with the engines he hasn’t been out of the engine room, even had his food brought down.”

  “What does he find so fascinating?”

  “The Daimler Benz engines.”

  “Nasty oily things engines,” said Barr absentmindedly looking across to the trees where the ‘Nishga’s’ sickbay attendant administered to the bunch of rather dejected looking prisoners.

  “She has three of them, driving three shafts and a Siemens auxiliary for manoeuvring and silent running.”

  “Hmm,” breathed Barr, “ More importantly how much ammo has she.”

  “Magazine’s full, so are the ready use lockers. She hasn’t fired a shot this trip. Fuel tanks are full as well, Eight thousand litres of diesel. According to Macdonald that’s enough for two thousand miles.”

  “Now that is interesting.” Barr was frowning in concentration, very interesting.

  “Wouldn’t like to pick up her fuel bill, that works out at about a mile to the gallon.”

  “We’ll ferry the prisoners back to ‘Nishga’ and drop them off at the Flow as soon as we can, preferably before they eat us out of house and home.”

  “What about the dead chap, sir, bury him here or later, at sea?”

  “Later, I think, have him put aboard ‘Nishga’. I want you to collect some ‘wreckage to scatter when we go out tonight, we’ll float him off with it, thrown in some oil…it might fool Jerry and stop them cancelling their recognition codes. They might not even bother to mount a search; with the invasion in full swing I think they have their hands full at the moment.”

  “Does that mean the operation is definitely on for tonight, sir?”

  “I think we’re ready, we’ll be leaving the marines ashore. We’ll give them a stoker and a couple of good seamen to work this beauty for them; he patted the metal in front of him. “That way if we can’t get back, for whatever reason, they’ll have a chance of getting home under their own steam. Lady Luck seems to be with us this trip, Number One.”

  * * *

  The marines stood by the light on the headland, looking down on the ‘Nishga’ as she singled up her moorings. She had darkened ship, but hooded torches gave enough light for them to see the wires dropping with an audible splash into the icy water. A burst of iridescent foam suddenly piled high at her stern.

  She began to move slowly astern, two thousand tons of metal pulled at the one remaining wire, the after spring it drew taut singing its protest while her sleek bows swung out from the cliff face.

  The foam dropped away to an urgent ripple of white water, the after spring hung in a great bight, then slipped into the glassy water and was hauled quickly inboard. The warship trembled briefly as her powerful engines first stopped her and then moved her slowly ahead, free of the land and into her natural element.

  Barr called from the blackness of the bridge wing, “Yeo, make the signal for the lights to be turned on and for the boom to be opened.”

  The Aldis chattered out four dashes of light, startlingly blue-white in the almost total darkness. Instantly green and red lights glowed high above them.

  “Well done the ‘Royals’,” offered the Pilot as he took his bearings.

  “Must admit,” replied the Captain from somewhere in the dark, “I’m glad they’re on our side and…” The bridge team waited for him to finish, he had stopped in mid-flow. Something had just occurred to him; they knew the signs and remained quiet.

  * * *

  It had begun to rain as they left the Inlet, a sudden downpour drifting across the ship from the north-west, battering the choppy waves down into a submissive thick oily swell. Each heaving wave lifted her momentarily before rushing away to the southeast. There was an edge to the wind as they made their way north, constantly changing their course amongst the maze of scattered islands and lethal rocks.

  Visibility had dropped drastically to just a few cables by the time the ship’s engines finally died away and the ‘Nishga’ lay in a narrow channel between two islands.

  The rain increased its tempo further reducing the visibility drifting out of the darkness in sheets, sweeping across the deserted fo’c’s’le and vanishing into the gloom out to port,

  Barr leant over the chart table, squinting into the weak glow from the hooded light, rain dripped from the peak of his cap splashing on the chart waterproof covering in blue blobs.

  “I made a note of this position as we came south, Pilot. It should be ideal for our purposes, if we keep this island,” he stabbed a wet finger at the chart, “between us and the deeper channel, here. It will give us some cover, but allow us to fire across it into the main shipping lane.

  “It is a good position,” agreed Lieutenant Usbourne, “The dark backdrop will make it very difficult for them to see us, at least until we open fire. I see one snag, sir, enemy convoys could use either of these passages between the islands or they could just as easily stand farther out to sea.”

  “They could, that’s true; but I don’t think they will want to use the narrower passage; not for convoys. If they chose to keep out to sea they’ll lose the cover afforded by the islands. Time is on our side…We can afford to wait, if I’m right the pickings will come to us and they will be well worth the wait.”

  The bridge ladder rattled, and the shadowy figure of Grant appeared out of the dark.

  “Ah, Number One, have you and the midshipman managed to work through those captured recognition signals yet?”

  “I’ve just come from the wireless office now, sir. It was quiet easy. Mr Hogg seems to understand German very well, I must say. I’ve forwarded the codes to the Admiralty, repeated ‘Warspite’, we should be able to put the cat among the pigeons all the way along the east coast with this little lot,” a paper rustled in the dark as he tapped it.

  * * *

  Lady Luck wasn’t with them that night, no coastal convoys, no sign of enemy shipping at all. Nor for the two nights that followed in wet and dreary succession.

  They returned tired and empty handed to the inlet each morning before first light. Barr began to doubt his judgement.

  The fourth night was a clear moonlit one with a stiff breeze nipping in from the west. Barr sat, as he had on all the previous nights, huddled in his bridge chair, running through his plan over and over. He stirred only to drink ‘Kye’ or to consult the chart.


  He was still there when the watch changed at four and Grant began his spell as officer of the watch.

  After the change over briefing, Grant paced the deck, one weather eye on his Captain. It wasn’t like Barr to be so quiet. Determined to engage the Captain in conversation he edged closer with each crossing of the bridge.

  “Bit warmer tonight sir, have to keep an eye on this wind though, lee shore and…”

  The lookout’s cry interrupted his efforts at small talk.

  “Red one seven five! Ship! Near! “The two officers spun round together, binoculars already raised. The excited lookout was pointing. “There sir! Port quarter!”

  Grant lowered his night glasses, “She’s just come out from behind the far island, sir… Well spotted lookout.”

  There, less than a mile away across the sheltered channel a warship was moving swiftly into open water. She was illuminated by the moonlight as if it was day. The silver light dancing on her grey paint work, her bow wave flickering, a phosphorescent blur as she cut neatly through the black water.

  “Action Stations, Number One, if you please…And hoist the Battle Ensign.”

  Grant leant across and stabbed at the button,

  The Chief Yeoman turned from his binoculars shouting above the dim of the action alarm, “German all right, sir, F Class escort, by the looks of her.” The Yeoman had the best eyes on the ship, honed by twenty-two years squinting into all kinds of weather. “Astern of her… I see two…no three coasters.”

  The ship’s communications had sprung into life, every part of ship reporting in its turn. Grant, who had been ticking them off in his mind, saluted, “Ship closed up at action stations, sir.”

  “Very good, Number One… Pilot; bring the ship round to port, broadside on to the convoy. I want all guns to bear on the target… Oh and before you go to your action station tell ‘Guns’ I want the for’ard four point sevens to engage the lead ship, the escort. Our after guns are to fire at the aftermost coaster. With a bit of luck we’ll trap the other two ships in between and in mid channel.” He looked at the bow, swinging rapidly now. “Tell him to fire as his guns bear. Without waiting for a reply he lifted a sound powered telephone from its cradle, whirled the handle and spoke briefly. Abruptly ‘A’ and ‘B’ turrets erupted simultaneously in a blast of noise and shooting flame, the sea flickering and flashing a pale green in the stark glare.

  Grant had a clear view of’ ‘B’ Gun as he made for the ladder. It was a hive of disciplined activity as shell after shell roared from it’s blackened barrels towards the distant target. It was a fiery demon belching forth a billowing cloud of acrid cordite fumes. The crew were its companions answering its every call in fiendish servile haste. In the flashing light they moved at the jerky pace of an old movie. Duffel-coated and tin-helmeted they laboured like slaves to sate the insatiable hunger of their terrible master.

  On the bridge, enveloped in clouds of choking smoke, men strained streaming eyes as they tried to gauge the results of the satanic activity around the four point sevens. Across the water in short spells of clear visibility the terrible damage could be seen. Massive explosions and great swelling clouds of black smoke, enveloped the target; clouds that were aglow from the flames licking and flaring from the doomed convoy. The lone German escort lay dead in the water, aflame from stem to stern, listing heavily to starboard like a wounded sea bird. Taken completely by surprise, at point blank range, she’d had no chance to return fire.

  ‘Nishga’s’ after guns shifted target to the next merchantman and almost immediately she swung out of line and stopped in the water; bludgeoned to a halt by the continuous, devastating and rapid fire. Suddenly she exploded, her placid heart ripped out, as her cargo of ammunition ignited. The massive fireball rose rapidly into the sky illuminating the remaining ship, a tanker, aft men could be seen wrestling with her flag, dragging it unceremoniously to the deck.

  “Cease Fire,” yelled Barr, from behind his binoculars. Above the fearful noise; the gongs sounded at each of the ‘Nishga’s guns and they fell silent; their crews falling exhausted to the cold decks.

  * * *

  The sea boat pulled slowly back to the German tanker, weaving its way amongst the flotsam through oil streaked water.

  The oarsmen were tired; their blackened faces illuminated by the glow from the two fires still burning; they had spent much of the night crossing backwards and forwards between the two ships.

  It had been they who had ferried the First Armed Guard out to pick up the pitifully few survivors from the water. The cutter had collected the survivors from the escort, twenty-five men in all. There had been none from the ammunition ship.

  The prisoners were a sorry looking lot, wide-eyed and dejected, their faces and clothes covered in oil.

  Only one, a crop-headed rugged looking individual, had been defiant, shaking his fist at the boat’s crew as they drew near. Another, coughing oil had died in the boat. They had simply slipped him back into the water like an unwanted fish.

  Then there had been the trip with the two Petty officers. The ‘Jack Dusty’, to supervise the commandeering of useful stores and a stoker to dip the fresh water and fuel tanks of the enemy vessel.

  The prisoners were ferried across to the tanker. The enemy tanker was carrying aviation fuel, there were no volunteers to crew it; no one, as Wyatt put it. Before adding, ‘anyway, the ‘Flow’s’ a lousy run ashore anyway, more life in the body they had just put back in the water’.

  * * *

  Astern of the two ships the first inkling of morning wove the eastern horizon with slender pink ribbons. The German tanker was making a healthy twelve knots, the ‘Nishga’ slowly circling her at twenty, shepherding her home.

  On the bridge of the warship the ever-present and all-invading ping of the Asdic speaker formed the background to the watch’s routine. The bridge lookouts scanned the empty horizon their dark silhouettes stark against the dawn’s glow. The officer of the watch studied his chart, occasionally crossing to the compass platform to check a bearing or the ship’s head. The bridge signalman had his eyes on the tanker’s bridge wing where, in the growing light, his colleague could be seen peering sleepily back.

  The morning was passing peacefully by in the well-oiled rhythm of naval watch keeping. Below decks, the morning jobs were well under way, the galley fire was lit, the ship’s cook and the duty cooks from each mess began to prepare breakfast. The hands off watch were shaken and climbed ladders to wash and shave.

  At six-thirty the decks were scrubbed and hosed down with salt water from the fire main then the hands went to their breakfast.

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Wyatt, “what this? Cabbage for breakfast?”

  “It tastes ….weird.” said Stubbs.

  “That’s because it’s ain’t cabbage,” replied Wilson, smugly, he was cook of the mess and had prepared the ‘dish’, as he insisted on calling all his ‘creations’. Confiscated it from that Jerry tanker, the cook reckons yer Jerry eat it all the time.”

  The men wordlessly poked the sauerkraut around their plates. The action moved Wilson into further defence of his cooking. “Well, it was free…There ain’t a lot left in the mess funds…I thought we oughta give it a go.”

  “That’s what it’ll do, all right…make you go,” remarked Wyatt, prune faced.

  “Cook said it was sour sommick or the other.” Wilson added, with a vain attempt at enthusiasm.

  Another short silence followed provoking Wilson once more, “If you don’t like it stick it on the side of yer plate and eat yer German banger.”

  “German!” said Wyatt, “Gawd Almighty!” he pushed his plate away with an expression of disgust, “I don’t know about you blokes, but if this is what we’re fighting Jerry for, I reckon we oughta let him win.”

  * * *

  They escorted the tanker until the drone of aircraft engines, from the west, announced the arrival of the air cover they had radioed ahead for.

  Before parting company with
their prize, they heaved to and transferred several drums of aviation fuel pumped up from the tanker’s hold. The rumour spread that the wardroom had run out of gin.

  They turned south then, signal lamps flashing. Barr hoping that the westerly course would again fool any spotter planes.

  A thankfully uneventful day followed; there was time to rest after the rigours of the night, time to recharge their batteries and time to clear up the chaos above and below decks.

  For the first time in weeks, they went into four watches instead of two. It meant three-quarters of the men had an afternoon off, a ‘make and mend’.

  It didn’t please everybody.

  “You know I ain’t had a dry stitch on me back in yonks.” said Wyatt, moaning to no one in particular whilst arranging his overalls over an adjacent warm pipe.

  “‘Ere! Look at that will yer,” exclaimed Goddard, staring at the naked beauty in his borrowed ‘Esquire’, “That’s what I’d like my girl to look like.”

  “If you had a girl you wouldn’t know what to do with her.” said Wyatt.

  “I wish my misses had breasts” commented Wilson peering over the reader’s shoulder.

  “What’s she got instead?” inquired Stubbs.

  Wilson feigned memory loss, “I can’t remember it’s been so long.”

  “How long has it been since the last leave, Blur?” asked Wyatt.

  “Christmas… four months now… I wish you lot would stop calling me Blur!”

  “No one uses their proper name in the Andrew,” said Wyatt emphatically.

  “I know that! ‘Tug’ started calling me ‘Blur’ and now everyone does.”

  “Wyatt finished hanging out his washing before adding, “Well, yer stuck with it now, you’ll never get rid of it. Even when yer change ships it’ll dog your every footstep, I’ve had mine for yonks.”

  Wilson smiled looking up from darning a sock, “Shouldn’t loaf when there’s work about… Should pull yer weight, like the rest of us.”