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

by Anthony Molloy

  * * *

  The headlights of the armoured vehicle flashed twice. Hogg, back in the driving seat once more, stamped the accelerator to the deck and they shot forward like a bat out of hell. They hit the perimeter wire between two line posts ripping them from the ground as they careered on. There was an explosion as one tyre disintegrated, ripped to shreds by the barbed-wire. The tanker crashed on erratically, dragging with it a jumping occasionally airborne section of fence complete with posts.

  Clear of the field, they skidded to a halt, leapt down and sprinted across to the waiting armoured car. Barely had they obtained a handhold when it, it began to move, accelerating across the grass as they clung to it for dear life. Suddenly there was a huge explosion behind them and the night sky erupted into light.

  Chapter 14

  A Change of orders

  Swept Channel, Firth of Forth, 2215 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd May, 1940.

  “Do you hear there? This is the Captain speaking. As you have probably realised by now we are heading south and not north. Shortly after leaving harbour I received a signal from the Admiralty ordering us to the French port of Boulogne. Our orders are to assist the Dover Patrol in the evacuation of army personnel cut off by the advancing German Army. We will enter harbour at oh eight hundred hours tomorrow morning. That is all.”

  * * *

  Morning Watch, Approaches to Boulogne Harbour, Thursday, 23rd May, 1940.

  It was a beautiful spring morning, fresh and clean, already warm with the promise of a hot day to come. The sea oily smooth, sparkled with reflected sunlight. The warship’s raked bow cut through the still water sending an arrowhead of tumbling foam hissing down her sides.

  Despite the deep beat of the destroyer’s engines and the sharp cry of the seagulls overhead it was strangely quiet. The beauty of it all, made the horror that was to come the more bizarre, the more senseless. Its prelude was a deep rumble, rushing in from the distant shore, rolling over them like thunder. The once clear line of the horizon smudged suddenly with drifting smoke, billowing listlessly eastward.

  The seamen settled behind their gun-sights preparing themselves like nervous batsmen before the first ball of the over. Every sense stretched taut, trigger fingers tensed, sweating hands gripping tighter. Tired minds began to imagine the worst, the tumbling wake hid a torpedo’s track, a distant seagull became a diving aircraft, a breaking white capped wave a periscope.

  “Do you hear there this is the captain speaking. We have had another change to our orders. We are now proceeding to a point five miles north of the harbour to give close support to our troops on the ground. We will be carrying out a bombardment in company with elements of a French destroyer squadron.

  In addition, the port authorities have requested our assistance with their docking arrangements for the Dover Patrol, who will be entering harbour sometime today. I intend to drop the sea boat with a berthing party under the First Lieutenant at the harbour entrance and then to proceed to the rendezvous point with the French destroyers. That is all.”

  * * *

  As they sailed closer, Boulogne seemed to be completely ablaze. Black smoke, that hid most of the town, rolled out across a debris-strewn harbour.

  Barr scanned the installations with his binoculars. Judging by the gunfire the Germans were already in the town. He ordered the sea boat to be lowered.

  As if to confirm his worst fears, sniper fire began to rip in above their heads. Through his glasses, he could see puffs of smoke coming from a building on the port beam. He used the ship’s engines to quickly swing the ‘Nishga’ around so as to put her between the snipers and the men working on the sea boat.

  The ‘Nishga’s’ four point sevens opened fire with a bark that rumbled off the walls of the old warehouses like a roll of thunder. A full broadside slammed into the second floor of the building turning it into a dense dust cloud. The dust slowly settling, like a falling curtain, revealling the desolation wrought by the four hundred weight of explosive. It had demolished the entire floor; blown clean away as if it had never existed. The sniper fire had ceased, immediate proof, if proof had been needed, of its source.

  While the over-laden sea boat began its lonely crossing to the nearby jetty, the ‘Nishga’ turned sharply to starboard, her screws thrashed into life as if in a fit of temper. She surged forward flashing across the harbour, rapidly working up to full her speed. She cleared the entrance doing twenty knots and began a long lazy turn to starboard.

  * * *

  The sea boat bobbed madly in the departing ‘Nishga’s’ wake.

  While his men leant to their oars, every man anxious to reach some sort of cover, Lieutenant Grey watched the destroyer race away with feelings of acute trepidation, he felt abandoned and very much alone. Ashore, he could hear screams, shouting and the rattle of small arms. The jetty, they were making for was full to overflowing with soldiers, many on stretchers. There appeared to be no discipline some of the men even appeared to be drunk. Standing in the stern, peering through the swirling smoke, he caught fleeting glimpses of another jetty, one that appeared to be deserted. He pointed it out to Petty Officer Stone, standing beside him at the tiller. “Take her in there.”

  Although they were not receiving any direct fire, spent rounds of ammunition where falling in the water all around them as they nosed their way through the now dense smoke.

  Suddenly they were there, seaweed covered wooden pylons towered above the sea boat.

  “I’ll take her right in, sir, get her under the jetty, she’ll be out of sight there and it’ll give us some cover.”

  They bumped gently into a cross strut and quickly passed the stern line around it.

  Petty Officer Stone worked his way forward stepping on the thwarts, “It’s near enough high tide, lads, so leave plenty of slack on those lines, we don’t want to find her hanging down the jetty when we get back.”

  Fastened to pylon, a rusty iron ladder led to the jetty’s wooden decking ten-foot above their heads, pushing off from strut to strut they ‘walked’’ the boat across to it.

  Stone pointed, “I want two men to remain with the boat, keep her in cover, out of sight.” You’ll do he pointed out his two men. “It’ll better be here intact when we get back you got yer rifles use them if you need to, don’t let anyone and I mean anyone ,friend or foe, take this boat from yer, understood.”

  Stone gripped the bottom of the ladder, “The rest of you, up you go.”

  He held tight to the ladder, the boat rocking as the men made their way for’ard.

  * * *

  ‘Nishga’

  The French liaison officer climbed the short rope ladder up from the sea boat and stepped onto the ‘Nishga’s’ quarterdeck. He saluted and wished the Officer of the Watch ‘a good day’’ Together they walked along the iron deck to the break in the fo’c’s’le and passing through the Wardroom Flat climbed two more ladders before they reached the bridge.

  The four French destroyers were fine on the starboard bow steaming on the same northerly course and running parallel to the coast. The nearest was less than a cable’s distance and as the two officers reached the bridge her broadside rang out.

  They had arrived unnoticed; all eyes were trained on the shore watching the fall of her shot with professional interest. The target, a line of advancing German tanks, was in plain sight, less than a mile away so the explosions, when they came, could be easily seen with the naked eye. The target was momentarily obscured in a cloud of smoke and dust as the French shells exploded. The tanks, Panzer IIIs, judging by the fifty millimetre guns, trundled out from the other side completely unscathed.

  “Bloody Frogs, still can’t shoot,” remarked the Navigating Officer, without taking his eyes from his binoculars, “you’d think they would have learnt something since Trafalgar.”

  “Perhaps, monsieur, you would like the opportunity to show us your skills, said the Frenchman, I think it is, ‘ow you say in English, your turn now?”

  Lieutenant Usbourne wen
t bright red, “ I...I do apologise,” he stammered. “It was just a joke.”

  “Ah, yes!” said the French Lieutenant coldly, “the famous English sense of ‘umour. I was warned about it before I left my ship.”

  Barr hid a smile, amusing, but not really the start he would have wished for. He trained his glasses on the distant cape watching the swell marching on the lighthouse at its point. He turned abruptly and walked to the Gunnery voice pipe, his direct line to the Gunnery Officer high above them in the director.

  “Engage enemy tanks, green two oh, range two thousand yards.”

  He could hear the orders being relayed to the four point sevens.

  “Main armament to follow director; target bearing green two oh; range one thousand seven hundred.”

  “Shoot!”

  The full broadside shook the whole ship, the enormous recoil physically pushing the two thousand tons of destroyer sideways. The smoke billowing aft from ‘X’ and ‘Y’ turrets shrouded the bridge in its acrid folds before the following wind cleared it away over the bow.

  The smoke, however, had not managed to obscure the view from the Gunnery Director. He heard a ragged cheer from above.

  “ Hit by God!”

  “First bloody salvo!” said another voice.

  “Bloody wonderful!” came from another.

  The French Liaison officer turned his back and walked swiftly to the other side of the bridge. Barr concealed his pleasure behind a harsh.

  “GDP control yourselves this isn’t a cricket match.” The yelling stopped as if a tap had been turned off.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Grey reached the top of the ladder and peered along the wooden planking that formed the floor of the jetty. At its shore end, less than fifty feet away, stood a ruined brick warehouse, he immediately recognised it as the one ‘Nishga’s’ four-sevens had damaged earlier. Scrambling up the last few rungs he joined Petty Officer Stone kneeling behind the disintegrating remains of a small boat.

  “Best keep your head down, sir,” whispered Stone, “There’s someone in that building. I seen them moving around it might be more snipers.”

  Just then two men appeared climbing gingerly through the rubble. More men emerged from the ruins until there were about thirty in all. Some were obviously the worse for drink, all were dirty, covered in brick dust.

  “Pongoes, sir; Frogs by the looks of ‘em.”

  “Could be Germans,” whispered Grey.

  A shake in his voice made Stone look round at him. He was shocked by how pale and drawn he was.

  “They’re Frogs, all right, sir, I can smell the garlic from ‘ere.”

  Grey peered cautiously over the gunwale of the boat, “Looters do you suppose.”

  Stone shrugged, Deserters I’d say …most of them haven’t got their bundles…I think they’ve seen the boat.”

  “My God do you think so.”

  Stone’s assumption was confirmed seconds later when one of the advancing men called out in good English.

  “ English, we only want your boat, we want no trouble, give us the boat and you can leave.

  “Shall I tell them to clear off, sir?

  “Erh…I don’t want to provoke them.”

  “Don’t you worry, sir. I’m used to dealing with drunks and living with them. Leave it to me. He gestured to his landing party to follow him and rising from cover he marched smartly forward. In the middle of the debris-strewn jetty, he halted and about turned. Grey, still crouching behind the boat, could only admire the man, it was as if he was drilling recruits on the parade ground at Whale Island.

  With his back to the advancing mob, he held out his arms. “Form two ranks in front of me, move yourselves!”

  His ten-man squad fell in, picking up their dressing, reacting automatically to their training and the sound of his voice.

  “Squad!… Wait for it, wait for it! Squad…Shun! High port, arms!”

  Stone turned right smartly and marched to the end of the line, where he halted and faced front. “Front rank, one round only, over their ‘eads…Present!…Aim!…Fire!”

  The volley cracked out, echoing back from the warehouses, reverberating around the dockyard. The effect was as instantaneous as it was dramatic, the rabble froze, stopping dead in their tracks. Then, most turned on their heels and began running back down the jetty scrambling and falling over each other in their haste to escape. The rest, bolder or more foolish than their friends, took cover behind the metal bollards lining both sides of the jetty.

  Stone looked across at his officer, he was still hiding behind the boat where he had left him. He hoped the men hadn’t noticed.

  “High port arms! Order arms! Prepare to fix bayonets…Fix…Bayonets!” The click as the wicked bayonets turned into their sockets was followed by an eerie silence. A silence that seemed to extend beyond the dockyard, it was as if all the fighting and the looting in Boulogne had suddenly stopped and the whole of the city was holding its breath.

  Except, that was for Petty Officer Stone, “Squad! Shun! Slope… arms!

  By the left… quick… march!

  Eleven men stepped smartly off. The remains of mob rose one by one from cover staring at the advancing line of seamen.

  “On guard!” Eleven rifles flashed in the sunlight, the seamen marched on, no break in their step.

  The sight of the bayonets extended out to the front on the long Lee Enfield were enough. The remaining looters turned and ran.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Grey peered out from the sandbagged emplacement in which they had set up their HQ. There was a lull in the firing. He could see Petty Officer Stone and his men had resumed working at the shore end of the jetty. They still had no contact with the port authorities.

  Grey came out of cover into the open, looking to left and right he broke into a run out into the open ground. He could feel the fear rising like bile from the pit of his stomach, his hair prickling on the back of his neck. Reaching Stone and his men, he stared aghast at a huge hole they had made in the floor of the jetty.

  “What are you doing PO! How are we to get to the shore, how will the troops reach the ships?… For crying out loud!”

  Stone stepped in close to the distraught officer, his voice low, so it would not reach the men. “Keep your voice down, please, sir… You’ll upset the men. We have to defend our position, that rabble could come back, perhaps with some of their friends, ” he gestured over his shoulder towards the other jetty. “A lot of them still have their weapons. I’ve got the men to lift these planks so they can’t just storm in ‘ere at will.”

  Grey looked harassed, gazing at the planks and then at his PO.

  Stone could see he wasn’t getting through, Grey hadn’t heard him. “I’ll be our first line of defence, sir. It will make getting onto the jetty more difficult. Once the planks are off, if need be, a couple of men will be able to keep the boat safe.

  There was still no response from Grey. “We’ll use the planks that we remove to make a gangway, we’ll be able to slide it across when we need it.” Stone stared at his superior officer with a growing realisation that it was all too much for the man.

  Grey nodded, his eyes flickering wildly he turned away and abruptly sat down on a stack of the wood his knees pulled up close to his chest.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you returned to the emplacement, sir. I can take charge here.”

  Grey stood up and without a word walked off.

  Stone remained where he was for several seconds, staring after his superior. Then, conscious that the men had stopped working and were watching as well, he walked quickly after Grey calling out loud, “Where did you say you wanted the Bren situated, sir?”

  * * *

  Grey was sitting on the floor behind the sand bags, his knees hunched up to his chest, drinking from a canteen, Stone could smell the gin, he swore under his breath, that was all he needed, as if things weren’t bad enough. “Good stuff that, sir, but it won’t help the rest of us…You’ve wo
rk to do…the men are relying on us. There’ll be a time and a place for this.” He snatched the canteen from the officer’s limp-fingered grasp, “But it ain’t here and it ain’t now.” He crouched down beside Grey. “You’ll be better off without it, sir.” he added in a gentler ton.

  Grey had made no objection, unable to meet the P.O.’s steely blue eyes, instead he stared at the floor. “Can’t you see PO…”

  Stone could see he was close to tears.

  “I can’t cope with all… I’m afraid, you see… I’ve been able to leave this sort of thing…” he swept an arm up and let it fall back down, he took a deep breath, “…to avoid this sort of thing…leave it to the others.”

  Look, sir, you’re as good a bloke as they come, I know that, if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s judging blokes, you’ll do. Take it from me. I know this job inside bloody out… Christ knows I’ve been enough years at it. Stick close to me, I’ll help yer, cover for you if needs be. Take you under my wing, as they say… We’re all afraid of something.”

  “Not Barr not Grant, they aren’t afraid of anything,” Grey spit it out as if he was accusing them of some monstrous crime.

  “Oh they’re good officers all right, sir; two of the best. But they’re as afraid as the rest of us, take my word for it…either that or they’re stark staring mad, one of the two….”

  Grey shook his head despairingly, “No, not them!”

  “Well, begging yer pardon, sir, I know better, it’s all an act …we all do it…. for the sake of the lads and for our mates, but mostly we do it for ourselves, believe you me , we’re all as scared as each other…The trick is not to show it.”