Storm Force to Narvik: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 1

by Alexander Fullerton

  Gauntlet had begun to turn. At last … He watched her, counting seconds, for her to get behind that smoke barrier. It was already some distance from her, as the diameter of her turn added to the smoke’s down-wind drift. But she was round: by now she’d be hidden from the German. Heading back this way …

  But—still under helm: continuing the turn?

  Hustie was going right round, back into the smoke—attacking on his own again …

  “Port twenty, full ahead both engines!”

  Maximum revs were already on the clock but “full ahead” meant emergency, sit on the safety-valves. He shouted to Trench, “Stand by all tubes port side!” Trench raised a hand in acknowledgement: he’d already crossed to the other sight, having assessed the position for himself and seen that they’d be bound to fire on a starboard turn, since the enemy must be on a southerly course. If he hadn’t been, Gauntlet wouldn’t have laid out her smokescreen that way. Nick called down, “Steer one-five-oh.”

  “Captain, sir.” Chandler, with a signal log. “New one from Gauntlet. She’s reported the enemy as a Hipper-class cruiser.”

  He was watching Hustie’s ship straighten from her three-quarter circle and steady on a course of about 110 degrees. She’d be into the smoke before Intent could be: and it was too late to recall him. Partly because Gauntlet was further ahead but also because Intent would be entering this top end of the smoke—which, having been laid first, was further downwind now than the rest. And thinner, too. He told Chandler, “Get a signal off, Pilot. Same addressees.” That meant the C-in-C in his flagship Rodney and Admiral Whitworth in Renown, repeated to Admiralty in London. He dictated, “In company with Gauntlet in position—whatever it is—about to engage enemy cruiser with torpedoes, Gauntlet severely damaged in previous attack.”

  “Course one-five-oh, sir!”

  Tremendous racket: wind, sea, and turbine-scream … Gauntlet was vanishing into the smoke barrier. Nick yelled at Trench, “Tell Opie and Brocklehurst the target is a Hipper-class cruiser.” The smoke seemed to be holding together remarkably well, down at its southern end; but at this end it was breaking up, leaving gaps that were quite clear of it. Gauntlet was blanketed, but the disintegration of the smoke was spreading that way quite rapidly and it wouldn’t cover her for long.

  She’d have used some torpedoes, presumably, in her first attack; it was anyone’s bet how many she’d have left to use this time. No smoke here now to speak of: just patches, and eye-whipping sleet again: and suddenly there was Gauntlet—a low, blazing silhouette glimpsed sporadically as she slam-banged through the waves. But the fact that he was seeing her didn’t mean the German could. He took his eyes off her: it was the target, the Hipper, one had to look for now; and suddenly he heard—with interest and surprise because he hadn’t heard it for twenty years and it had the sharp familiarity of something long forgotten suddenly brought to mind— the noise of shells scrunching overhead. Then “A” and “B” guns fired, their reports not much more than harsh cracking thuds because of other noise, the smoke and smell of cordite instantly whipped clear on the wind. Hughes, at the director telephone, shouted, “Enemy cruiser bearing green five, range—”

  They’d seen her from up there because they were above the smoke and spray and had that extra height-of-eye: and the German must have spotted Intent even sooner. Then Nick had the Hipper in his glasses too. Immense, and spitting flame, huge-looking with towering bridge superstructure and single massive funnel. Shell-spouts rose to starboard, a grove of them lifting almost politely from the sea as though rising to watch the destroyer pass: battle experience a quarter of a century old prompted Nick’s order to the wheelhouse: “Starboard twenty!”

  Jinking towards the fall of shot. The enemy GCO was bound to make his correction the other way. So you turned your ship one way while he sent his next salvo elsewhere.

  But you couldn’t dodge forever: you had to get in close enough to have a fair chance of hitting with one or more torpedoes …

  Gauntlet: he’d been ignoring her while he watched the Hipper, but glancing to starboard now he saw Hustie’s obvious intention: he was steering his ship right for her, going to ram!

  He must have used up all his torpedoes in the first attack. So he had nothing left to hit the German with except his ship. Fifteen hundred tons throwing itself at ten thousand …

  “Midships!”

  “Midships, sir!”

  He should have held him back. They should have been attacking together now, simultaneously.

  “Meet her. Steer one-six-oh.”

  And now hold this course. No more dodging. Just a little gritting of the teeth. Salvo coming now …

  It would miss. Because it had to. And before the next lot arrived he’d be close enough to turn and fire. A fan of ten fish from abaft the beam mightn’t take all that much avoiding, especially with only one destroyer attacking on her own. You needed several, a coordinated attack. But— bad workmen blame their tools. He decided he’d fire the first five, the for’ard set, then hold on until the enemy began to take his avoiding-action, fire the rest when she’d committed herself and he could see which way she was swinging. There’d be punishment to take in that process … Shells ripping over: that tearing-sailcloth sound. A violent jolt flung him forward against the binnacle and he realised she’d been hit aft. He shouted for the general benefit, “Nearly there!” No point looking round: there’d be flames and smoke and you’d seen all that before. Young Lyte would be looking after things if he was still on his feet: and Opie, please God, would be alive and with his two sets of tubes intact. Stink of burning paintwork and fire-heat in the wind: and Trench pointing … Gauntlet had rammed the German right for’ard near his starboard hawse-pipe and she was scraping and crashing down his side, ripping off armour-plating as she went. Nick ducked to the voicepipe: “Steer one-five-five.” Up again: the Hipper had blasted off another salvo. Eight-inch shells would be in mid-air now. Gauntlet had sheered away from the cruiser’s side: she lay stopped, wallowing low in the sea and burning from end to end, and the German gunners weren’t even bothering to shoot at her now because they knew she was finished.

  They were shooting at Intent instead.

  “Course one-five-five, sir!”

  Shells would be arriving at any moment.

  “Starboard twenty-five!”

  “Starboard twenty-five, sir!”

  Shot was falling close ahead, the splashes lifting like green pillars and from the nearer ones foul, smelly water streaming back across the ship as she drove through them—and beginning, at last, to swing. More fall of shot to port: one near-miss, the ship recoiling as from a body-blow. Heeling hard to port as she slammed around across wind and sea. Trench was stooped ready over the torpedo sight. Another crash back aft somewhere. But she was still turning, fighting her way round: in seconds Trench’s sight would come on and the silver fish would leap away. More shells scorching down: and an explosion, aft again but—inside the ship? On its heels a whoosh of flame from aft and, overhead, a crack like a gun firing: then, drowning other noise, the racket of escaping steam.

  She’d stopped her swing. Trench looking round, an expression of dismay on his big spray-wet face. A snow-shower sweeping over like a shroud and Intent was stopping, slumping in the waves, surrendering to them like a stag pulled down by hounds. No swing now: the momentum of the turn was spent and the sea was beginning to punch her back the other way. She was stopped, and at the mercy of the cruiser’s guns.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In London there was no gale or sleet, but it was a blustery day and the tall, grey-haired civilian coming down St James’s Street in dark overcoat and homburg strode briskly, keeping the cold out and, by his manner, enjoying the exercise too. An ebony cane with a silver knob swung from one gloved hand; it was a stick that might have gone with a naval uniform and perhaps once had, and as he turned left into Pall Mall he glanced up at the sky with the air of one accustomed to reading weather-signs and making his own interpretation o
f them. It was a useful knack to have, too, now that for security reasons there were no public weather forecasts.

  He’d crossed the road, and presently he turned right into Waterloo Place, where he climbed a flight of stone steps. He was putting a hand out to push the glass front door open when a uniformed hall porter, reaching the door just in time, saved him the trouble.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  The voice was Scottish, the inflexion faintly interrogative, the tone reserved for someone whom the porter didn’t recognise as a member but wasn’t quite sure about.

  “Good morning. Thank you.” He was looking interestedly at the porter. “Don’t I know you?”

  That solved one problem: he couldn’t be a member. The porter was now battling with the new one. Concentrating, his brown eyes were narrowed to mere slits in a face which, with its corrugations and tan complexion, had something in common with a walnut.

  The eyes suddenly lit up.

  “Admiral Everard!”

  Hugh Everard, nodding, raised the hand with the black cane in it. “Don’t dare tell me … You were with me in Nile. In ‘16. And you were—in my gig’s crew?”

  “I was that, sir!”

  Hugh was still nodding to himself as he regained pieces of lost memory.

  “Robertson?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “You were a Dead-eyed Dick of a marksman, I remember. We were runners-up in the Scapa championships and you were in Nile’s eight. Am I right?”

  The walnut seemed permanently cracked in that wide smile.

  “Right enough, sir … Why, I’d never’ve—my word, it’s twenty or more years—”

  “I’ll tell you another thing, Robertson.” The blue eyes were smiling. “At Jutland you sustained a slight wound. A shell-splinter in the—er—”

  “Aye, sir, I did.” A hand moved as if to rub one buttock, but was then needed for opening the door as some members came up the steps. Hugh Everard moved to the side. Robertson came back to him: “May I ask, sir—did ye hear anything ever of old George Bates?”

  “Dead, poor fellow. Years ago, now. He came with me, you know, when I left the Service. Turned out he had a weak heart—Bates, of all men. Wouldn’t have believed it, would you?”

  “That I would not, sir. Why, us lads were the ones he gave weak hearts to!” He shook his head. “Sorry—very sorry indeed, tae hear …” Away to the door again: and now back, as Hugh began to unbutton his coat. Hugh murmured, “I’d give a great deal to have old Bates brought back to life … By the way, I’m lunching here with Admiral Wishart. D’you know if he’s in the club yet?”

  “I’d say he’s not, sir. But ye could take a seat i’ the—” His voice tailed off; he was looking puzzled. “I’d have thought ye’d be a member here, sir. But unless I’m mistaken—”

  “Never bothered to join, Robertson. Always plenty of pals here—and I’ve a club in St James’s Street, d’you see.”

  Robertson nodded. “Aye … Sir—your nephew, was it, at Jutland in that destroyer? Is he—”

  “My nephew Nick? Yes, he’s at sea. He left the Navy earlier on—various reasons of his own—but he’s back now. They’ve given him a destroyer, one of the ‘I’s … And would you believe it, his son’s at sea?”

  “Och, that’s grand!”

  “As an OD, what’s more!”

  “Ordinary Seaman?” Robertson looked shocked. Hugh nodded, smiling as if the thought of it pleased him. “Joined up without telling his father. A very independent young man, d’you see. Brought up in the United States—well, these last years, his school years, you know. Did you hear that my nephew married a White Russian girl in 1919, when he was messing about in the Black Sea? Well—cutting a long story short— she cleared off to the States and collared a millionaire. Took young Paul with her, of course. But when this war started he came over—worked his passage in some liner—and joined up right away. Didn’t want to use his father’s influence—or mine, he said. I told him, I’ve not a shred of influence, these days!”

  “Well, I’ll be—”

  “What d’you mean, Robertson, you will be?” Another tall man: but younger and bulkier, and in uniform with a rear-admiral’s broad and narrow stripe on each sleeve. He told the porter, “You have been. Frequently.” He warned Hugh Everard, “Shouldn’t pay attention to anything this chap tells you, Sir Hugh. Most awful line-shooter in the place.” Robertson was smiling, shaking his head sadly as if he’d given up hope for Aubrey Wishart years ago.

  Hugh told his host, “Robertson and I are old shipmates. Nile, 1916.”

  “Ah. Jutland.” Wishart’s eyes ran over the porter’s 1914–18 medal ribbons. He had some of his own, and they started with a DSO. Robertson repeated softly, “Jutland. Aye.” Wishart put a hand on Hugh Everard’s elbow. “Come along in, sir. Sorry I’m a few minutes adrift. Fact, there’s something of a—” he glanced round, and lowered his voice—”flap on. Looks like the balloon’s going up, up north.”

  They’d ordered buckling for a first course, and steak-and-kidney pie to follow, with a bottle of claret to help things along. Aubrey Wishart glanced across the table at his guest: then, meeting his eyes, uncharacteristically looked away again. Ostensibly, he was looking for the waiter who served the tables at this end.

  Hugh Everard was about old enough to have been Wishart’s father. They’d met through Nick, at a shooting weekend up at Mullbergh in Yorkshire, several years ago; and Wishart’s friendship with Nick dated from more than twenty years back, when as captain of an E-class submarine he’d taken the young Lieutenant Everard on a slightly hair-raising jaunt through the Dardanelles minefields to Constantinople. It was a solidly rooted friendship which had survived Nick’s years on the beach.

  Wishart murmured, “Turns out it’s a tall order you’ve sent me, Sir Hugh.”

  “What, a sea job for a retired admiral? What’s tall about it? Where’d an old goat like me be if not at sea?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “It’s got you in a dither, I can see that.”

  Wishart, fiddling with a crust of bread, could feel those blue eyes opposite boring right into his skull. It was the rottenest day imaginable to have chosen for this lunch, and he was wishing he’d followed his first inclination—to telephone the club and leave a message expressing regrets that Rear-Admiral Wishart was unable to leave his office for the present. If it had been anyone but Sir Hugh Everard whom he’d have been letting down, he’d have done that; and conversely, if it had been anyone else he wouldn’t have been feeling so much on edge.

  Gauntlet and Intent: now both gone. Intent’s, “about-to-engage-with-torpedoes” signal, and then—nothing.

  “You see, the problem is—”

  “My dear fellow, I know what the problem is. They’ll say I’m too old. Falling to bits and probably a bit dotty too. Eh?”

  “No, sir, not quite—”

  “Look here. Let’s talk about my little schemes later. I’m far more intrigued by what you said as we were coming in—about the balloon going up, ‘up north,’ you said? Norway?”

  Shouldn’t one have the guts to tell him straight out what’s happened?

  But as well as cowardice, there was a strong unwillingness to hurt. Hugh and Nick Everard were more like a very closely-in-touch father and son than uncle and nephew. More like very good friends. Each, Wishart knew, had a profound affection and respect for the other. It didn’t make this situation any happier.

  Hugh Everard saw his host glance round to see who, if anyone, might be in earshot. Let not thy left hand know … But here in this panelled dining-room with the oil paintings of Nelson and Jellicoe glaring down at them, mightn’t it be somewhat over-cautious, let alone rude, to refuse information to Admiral Sir Hugh Everard, KCB, DSO, and Bart? Hugh saw—thought he saw—some such thoughts whisking through Aubrey Wishart’s mind; then Wishart had nodded, and begun somewhat unhappily, “You’ll know that Winston Churchill’s been pressing Chamberlain for a decision to mine the Leads, to
stop the Hun sneaking his blockade-runners, and particularly his iron-ore supplies, through Norwegian waters?”

  Hugh nodded. “Heard that months ago. And it won’t stop ‘em, will it. Not on its own.”

  “The idea is to force them out of territorial waters so we can get at them. If they knew they always stood a sporting chance of finding mines inshore—”

  “What the devil are the Norwegians allowing them in their territorial waters for?” Hugh tapped the table angrily. “They raised blue murder when we went in and boarded the Altmark—in their so-called neutral waters and stuffed with prisoners out of British ships—and they say nothing about letting the Germans treat the same waters like their own private river!”

  “I gather they’re going to enormous lengths not to offend the Hun, sir. Not to give Hitler an excuse to invade.”

  “While that damned fool Chamberlain daren’t so much as cough in church for fear of offending anybody!”

  “Yes, well—”

  “I beg your pardon. Interrupted you. Were you going to say the mining is going ahead, at last?”

  “It is. In fact it was authorised for the 5th, three days ago, and then postponed to today. I believe most of the reason for the postponement was to give time for mounting a contingency plan, called R4, which involved putting our own troops into certain key ports—to forestall the Germans if they look like doing the same thing—which they might, as a reaction to our mining operations. Troops have actually been embarked—in the Clyde and at Rosyth; although in fact—” He checked what he was saying. “No. I must stick to the point. That was the reason, I think, for the postponement. And the PM imposed a condition on this plan R4—none of the troop-carrying force should be allowed to sail until or unless Germany actually attacked Norway. He’s—as you say— very much concerned to be correct, in regard to Norwegian neutrality.”

  “He’s an old woman, Wishart, in regard to anything you like … How would he expect to know German intentions in time to sail the troops?”