“Have we no idea what it might be?”
“It’s got to be something big that much is certain. It’s my guess, that it’s to do with getting the army out of France…but exactly what our role in it all will be,” he shrugged, “only God and the Admiralty know.”
Usbourne smiled, “I thought they were one and the same person, sir.”
“No, Pilot. That’s just a rumour… I think they just went to the same school.”
Usbourne smiled down at his Wellington boots and then looked up at the ‘Old Man’. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir…There’s more men, in France than you can shake a stick at. It may take weeks to get them across the Channel; surely we can afford to lose a few hours, picking up the three marines at the Inlet.”
Barr put down his glass and sighed, “I have my orders. The situation is probably a lot worse than any of us realise. No… our chaps, at the Inlet, have enough food to last them to the end of the bloody war and water’s no problem. I imagine they will be having an easier time of it than we will, over the next few weeks…God knows we may even be doing them a huge favour!”
* * *
Trondheim, 2130 hrs, 26th May, 1940.
The cold north-easterly had closed in around Olaf Kristiansand’s home like a besieging army. His family had retired early leaving him alone, listening to the news. It wasn’t good news, even from the British station. In France, Boulogne had fallen to the Germans. The British still held Calais and, with the help of the French, a smaller port called Dunkirk.
If you were to believe the Germans they had already taken Calais. It was all very confusing, but whatever way you looked at it, the British were losing the war.
The radio announcer had spoken of a National Day of Prayer for the trapped troops. Kristiansand had very little faith in prayer, it hadn’t saved Norway.
He must have dozed off for a sudden noise jerked him awake. Someone was at the door he stood up wearily and made for the door, then remembered the radio and stopped dead in his tracks; quickly he hid it under the false bottom in the log basket.
“Whose is it?”
“A friend.” said a female voice that he did not recognise.
When Kristiansand hesitated the voice added, “I have come about Jens…he has been taken…”
The Norwegian quickly slipped the bolt back onto its stop and swung the heavy door open. The snow swept in, driven by a wind that howled it around the living room. He stood to one side to let the oilskin wrapped figure squeeze in past him.
He closed the door against the snowy blast and turned his back to it. “Who are you? Who is this Jens you speak of?”
“My name Bendedikte Loevaas… Jens recruited me and you recruited him…correct?”
“Recruited…recruited you say, I am too old for the services, I do not…”
“And I have not the time for this! I have come here, at considerable risk to myself, so, please, just listen. They have him now… I am on my way to friends. If he talks he will give them both our names, the only two he knows…correct? What you do about it is up to you…I must go…” she made to leave. Kristiansand blocked her way.
“How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“You don’t… and I don’t have to prove anything to you… Look…I came here to help you, I could have just left…I’m beginning to wonder why I didn’t. I have risked my life…Get out of my way!” she pushed ineffectively at the big Norwegian.
Kristiansand stood to one side. The woman pulled her hood back over her blonde hair as he unbolted the door. She stepped out into the blizzard, paused and turned to face him.” Think of your family, can you afford to take chances, to risk their lives?” Then she was gone.
Kristiansand stood in the open doorway, the snow quickly covering his shoulders. He shivered and it wasn’t from the cold.
* * *
HMS Nishga
Heavy with static, the refined tones of the BBC announcer drifted in and out of clarity, “Storm; south, force 11, veering north-westerly, decreasing Force 10.”
“Was that us?” asked Lieutenant Usbourne of the signalman. The man nodded.
The Navigating Officer looked above the moisture-obscured windscreen. The rain was coming in from the south east, drifting in dense lines across the bleak wind-swept fo’c’s’le. “Middy!…better let the ‘Old Man’ know.”
The Midshipman disappeared below, rattling the metal ladder in his haste.
Minutes later Barr, wrapped in his worn oilskins, appeared on the bridge; he stood, at the top of the ladder, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the southern horizon, “Better get Number One to secure the upper deck. Where is he, anyway?”
“I think he’s in his cabin, sir.”
Barr nodded as if he expected that as an answer, “Ask him to wait until the port watch have had breakfast and then get them to secure below first, there should be time.” As if by warning, a strong gust of wind cracked and howled at the signal halyards.
Barr stopped Usbourne, halfway to the ladder, “Better keep the close range weapons closed up. Use the men on the main armament to secure the upper scupper. I’ll not take any chances, we’ll still be in range of their fighters.”
Something in his voice made Usbourne looked back, Barr was leaning over the chart table, he looked tired and drawn. Usbourne felt suddenly uneasy, the ‘Old Man’, they all depended on so, was becoming just that. Growing old before his time, before their very eyes. If he’d had a decent Number One, someone he could rely on it would help. He certainly shouldn’t have to worry about which watch did what, that should be a matter for his First, he had enough on his plate, God knows.
* * *
The wind had veered right round in under an hour. Warming to its task, the gusts had become stronger, more malignant. The ship was still beating its way south, confused waves surrounded them on all sides, battered by the wind-change into colliding, leaping peaks.
By the middle of the forenoon watch, it had steadied from the south. The gusts replaced by a strong blow, force seven or eight, the sea-state maybe a little less, but building, like an over-stoked boiler about to blow its top.
Grey had gone to a late breakfast, along with the port watch. His relief paced a lonely vigil to port. Barr sat slumped in his chair, deep in thought, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep.
Jenkins, his steward, appeared silently at his side in his hands he balanced a silver tray of coffee and sandwiches.
“Just the job, Jenkins, thank you.” said Barr, coming suddenly to life and rubbing his wet gloves together in anticipation.
“The cold sausage from your breakfast, sir, I thought you might prefer it up here.”
“Thank you, Jenkins, that’s very considerate of you.” Of course, breakfast, he’d completely forgotten, he had left it untouched in his cabin. He lifted the lid of the cover a crack, withdrew one sandwich quickly replacing the lid against the driving rain. The coffee was hot, laced with sherry, the way he liked it, he gulped hungrily at it, feeling the heat flow into his empty stomach.
They were still hours from Scapa Flow and the seas were piling up nicely. Eight-foot waves, stepping in from the south like a hundred white-haired chorus lines, ducking under the warship in perfect step and dancing away to the north.
Half way through his second sandwich, the port lookout shouted something, but the words were rushed away on the rising wind. The Officer of the Watch, nearer the man by several yards, snatched his glasses to his eyes.
Training his binoculars onto the same bearing, Barr glimpsed the stern of a small boat slipping into a deep trough. A split second later and she had disappeared as if she’d never been. Moments later and she re-emerged, lifted high on the crest of the following wave, her upper deck was embroiled in foam, her scuppers gushing streams of water, she was awash from stem to stern.
There was time enough for Barr to recognise her as a M.F.V. before she once again vanished from sight. A motor fishing vessel, foreign in design, but a M.F.V. all right, heading w
est. He sat tight-lipped for a second or two, deep in thought.
“Action Stations, if you please… and come to starboard …steer south east, revolutions for fifteen knots. While the officer of the watch relayed his orders, Barr studied the boat through his glasses. She was rolling like a tub, empty by the looks of her and making hard going of it, as would be expected. There was something else…she seemed to be lolling, although it was very difficult to be sure, considering the conditions. Her roll was certainly erratic, not smooth and measured, as you would expect in a beam sea. At the end of each roll she jerked over sharply. She could have water in her hold, that would explain it, when she rolled, any water would rush to one side, jerking her the rest of the way over like that. She was on the wrong course if that was the case. Beam on to the sea she could easily flip over onto her beam ends.
The closing up reports began to echo up the voice pipes as Barr turned to his Yeoman of signals, “Challenge her, Yeo, find out who she is and if she wants assistance.”
The shutter of the Aldis clattered for several minutes, to no effect. “She’s not answering, sir.”
Barr crossed quickly to the Gun Director’s voice pipe. “Bridge, Guns… The Gunnery Officer’s voice echoed back, ghost- like from the tube,
“Guns.”
“Put one round across her bows… not too close, looks as if she’s in enough trouble as it is.”
Before he had even replaced the lid, ‘A’ gun barked out. Instantly a spout of water shot into the air sending a column of water to claw at the sky a half cable ahead of the target.
Barr lifted his binoculars, something white was being waved frantically from the boat’s bridge window. It could be the shot across the bows had woken them up…it could be they were boxing clever.
“ Pilot, take us in… hailing distance… take up station on her port side. I’m feeling generous, give her the benefit of our lee.”
“Number One, I want you to head the boarding party.” Grey’s expression of sudden panic did not go unnoticed, so much so that Barr felt obliged to explain. “This looks more like a job for your damage control team than ‘Guns’ heavy mob. I don’t think there’ll be any need to knock heads together. But… no chances mind, I want your men armed. Better take Petty Officer Stone, he’s a good man. You’ll need a good Petty Officer Stoker and the biggest pump we’ve got by the looks of things. Oh and take a ship’s diver. Have the sea boat manned and ready just in case, but I think I’ll try and get up alongside her first… if I manage it, your chaps will have to be ready to jump.”
* * *
“Half ahead both engines… Messenger tell the fo’c’s’le, top and quarterdeck to be ready with fenders… Officer of the Watch make sure that Number One and his D.C. team are on the quarterdeck ready with their gear and get the sea boat swung outboard, just in case.”
The ‘Nishga’ inched forward, steadily closing the gap between the two vessels. The M.F.V. was now less than a cable away, fine on the starboard bow and gradually drawing aft as the destroyer overhauled her.
“Slow ahead both engines.”
The way dropped off the ‘Nishga’ and she began to roll. They drew level, from his vantage point on the wing of the bridge; he could look straight down onto the top of the fishing boat. White water swirled around her wooden deck in whirlpools, rhythmically emptying in a rush through her lee scuppers. The sea, squeezed between the two vessels, shot out astern like another wake. Every time the fishing boat rolled away to starboard he could see faces, white with fear, staring up through the bridge windows.
“Stop both.” Only feet now separated the two as they rolled their way west. “Half astern both engines” The destroyer began to vibrate, astern a mound of water climbed into the air as the screws bit deep. “Slow ahead…revolutions for five knots.”
A big wave rolled lazily in, lifting the two boats like toys it passed under them and they fell back in toward each other with tremendous force. The men positioned along the length of the warship, struggled frantically to keep their feet and to position the heavy basketwork fenders before the two collided. Then they came together, filling the air with the creaks and groans of the contorted basketwork.
“Over you go lads,” yelled Barr, his voice was whipped away on the wind, but there was no mistaking his gesture. Men took running jumps, high over the dropped quarterdeck guardrails. Clear of the churning gap they landed on the sea-washed decks of the tiny fishing boat.
* * *
Lieutenant Grey landed squarely on the rolling deck, shouting for Petty Officer Stone, he made for the bridge.
The ‘Nishga’ was moving away already, like a slow train leaving its station. Clear of the smaller boat she listed heavily to starboard as, screws turning faster, she turned away to port.
Grey went quickly up the three steps to the enclosed bridge. Drawing his revolver, he swung the door open. The tiny bridge was crowded with oilskin clad figures, thick with cigarette smoke and reeked of vomit. Petty Officer Stone squeezed in alongside him, pushing for room with the butt of his Lanchester. There were five people in the tiny space, seven with the two destroyer men.
“Anyone speak English?” called Grey.
“I speak a little,” the voice sounded young, northern European and came from the back.
“Right lad, come through here where I can see you.”
The English speaking youngster pushed through the throng tugging at the hood of an overlarge oilskin.
“Now, who is in charge here?”
An unruly mop of blond hair had tumbled over the face and was pushed to one side with a decidedly graceful sweep of one hand.
“God Lord, a woman!” exclaimed Grey.
The slight figure said something in what sounded Norwegian to Grey’s untutored ears, whatever it was it brought a laugh from the others.
“Keep quiet !” bawled Petty Office Stone.
They might not have understood the English, but they understood the big Petty Officer’s tone and fell silent.
Stone spoke to the girl without taking his eyes off the four men “Tell the man on the wheel to lash it amidships, and then the lot of you can get your hands on your heads….Beg your pardon, sir, but it’s better this way.”
“Yes, of course,” acknowledged Grey.”
The girl repeated the order and placed her own hands as requested.
“Who is in charge?” the gravel in Stone’s voice made it a threat rather than an enquiry.
The girl answered, “The captain was injured in a fall and is below with one other. This man is the only other seaman. She pointed to the man busy lashing the wheel amidships..
“Can you watch these, sir? Just while I send a couple of the lads below to search the others out.”
Stone didn’t bother to wait for a reply, but disappeared out onto the wind lashed upper deck.
Grey turned to the girl, “Who are you people?”
“We are all Norwegians.” said the girl, she spoke perfect English with hardly a trace of an accent. “My name …”
Grey was becoming impatient with the girl’s casual attitude. “Never mind that now. What are you doing on board this vessel, you are obviously not fishermen?”
“My name is Bendedikte Loevaas,” she said evenly and with a touch of deviance. We, all of us, are fleeing from the Nazis, we were part of a network of information gatherers, we were betrayed. We are headed for the Shetlands.”
“Why the Shetlands?”
“It is the nearest land that is free from the Nazis and most of us have family ties there, the islands once belonged to Norway you know.”
Grey ignored the remark, “This network of agents, where were they based?”
“We had no specific base, we covered the coastline reporting the movement of enemy ships, aircraft, troops, that sort of thing. The information was relayed to you British.”
“What is the name of your leader.”
“We only know our immediate contacts, the leader is known only as Olaf.”
Grey tried not to show surprise, “A common enough name in your country, I understand. Did you ever meet this Olaf?”
Before the girl could reply the door banged back on its hinges and a blast of cold air roared in. “Right, Foster, on the wheel. The rest of yer, Take this lot below, one at a time, search them first.”
“Does that include the girl, P.O.?” asked a lecherous voice from out on the deck.
The grim faced PO his head held enquiringly to one side like a dog who hadn’t understood his master’s order.
“Certainly not!” said Grey, “She stays on the bridge.”
The girl’s mouth opened, “I object, you have no right to…”
Stone reared up in front of her, “I suggest, Miss, you speak when you’re spoken to.”
* * *
Grey rubbed the condensation from bridge window, through the running curtain of water could just make out the ‘Nishga’. She was showing no lights and had taken up station to port and slightly ahead of them. From there it afforded them some protection from the wind and the waves.
Out on the deck, Petty Officer Stone was making his way aft pausing, legs astride, as the larger waves lifted the boat. He reached the bridge door, swung it open and stood just inside. “What do you want the men to do now, sir?...sir?”
Grey turned wearily round, Stone could tell instantly that he had been drinking again.
“Yes?”
Stone looked down at his feet, “Shall I carry on, sir?” Grey made no reply simply turning his back and resuming his vigil at the window.
Stone opened the door and slammed it to behind him. Bloody fool! A fat lot of use he’s going to be. He shook his head slowly pursing his thin lips in though. He blamed himself, he should have done something about it after Boulogne, but, well, he couldn’t help thinking that but for the grace of God… He just wasn’t up to the job, but then, in Stone’s book, few officers were.
His men were only yards away, even so he had to cup his hands around his mouth and yell at the top of his lungs I order to get heard above the roar of the storm, “Leading Hand!” Take one man, cut away the mast. Get the rest of them turned to dumping what they can from the upper deck. We’ve got to reduce the weight topside as much as we can, to lessen this loll. It’ll reduce the weight of the boat at the same time …which won’t be a bad thing. Make sure you dump the gear evenly.
On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) Page 26