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

by Alexander Fullerton

  Torp had got Nick’s signal, and the white at Valkyrien’s stern was spreading as she put on more power. Funnel-smoke increasing simultaneously … The towing hawser came up out of the water, rising and lengthening as Intent’s inertial weight came on it. Trench yelled down at the foc’sl, “Stand clear of the wire!”

  Cox and two seamen jumped away from it: and Lyte, who should have seen it before Trench had, was lecturing them about it. A steel-wire rope under strain was a lethal thing if it parted and found human flesh and bones in the way of its scything recoil.

  “She’s swinging to starboard, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Chandler was watching the ship’s head in the compass, checking her response to the pull on her bow. This was the tricky bit—getting her moving, and particularly at this angle, turning her out across the direction of the wind and the up-fjord tide. On the port side of the foc’sl a sailor crouched with a sledge-hammer over the slip on the port cable; if the towing wire snapped he was ready to knock that slip off and send the anchor plunging down. With no engine power of her own to call on, Intent was entirely dependent on Valkyrien and on that wire.

  “Clear anchor!”

  Lyte had yelled it. It meant the anchor was high enough to be visible and it was on its own, not caught in some submarine cable or wreckage. Chandler said, “Ship’s head north 35 east, sir.”

  Nick had put starboard rudder on to help her round: he didn’t give a hoot what the ship’s head was. Torp could see to that. She was turning steadily now and the wire looked all right, still had a springy sag in it. They heard the thud as the twenty-eight-hundred-weight anchor banged home into its hawse-pipe: the rhythmic clanking ceased. Now they’d put the bottlescrew slip on that cable—because the Blake was in use as a towing slip—and veer to it until the slip had the anchor’s weight.

  Claus Torp could be seen on the roof of his wheelhouse, out on its starboard edge, with binoculars trained aft on Intent. Might have done a lot worse than run into Torp, Nick thought. It was a pity his ship had no guns and wasn’t capable of more than 6 knots. A waste, in present circumstances, of such a man.

  But there might be guns ashore that could be mounted in her. Or some less ancient craft that could be taken over and adapted.

  “Midships.”

  “Midships, sir!”

  CPO Jarratt, the coxswain, was on the wheel. Chandler’s head bobbed up and down like a hen drinking as he switched his glance between the compass and Valkyrien’s stern. Completely unnecessary. If Torp went the wrong way what could they do about it? Chandler was—or might be, in some ways, Nick thought—a bit of a pompous ass. Perhaps not the right man to deal effectively with a lad like Cox. A fed-up youngster needed to have enthusiasm imparted to him, not constant disapproval. Enthusiasm, and in extreme cases, chastisement as well. Having spent some years as a fed-up midshipman oneself, one knew it.

  “Swing’s easing off, sir. Steadying towards south 80 east.”

  “All right, Pilot. I can see what’s happening for myself.”

  On this course Valkyrien would take them out into mid-fjord, where they’d then go round about 50 degrees to starboard. And now that the pull was from directly ahead Intent was beginning to pick up a little speed. With no engine noise or fans sucking, the rustle and slap of water along her sides was a peculiar, rather spooky sound.

  Spooky was right. Ghost-ship. She’d have been written off as lost by this time. He stooped to the voicepipe: “Keep us in the middle of Valkyrien’s wake, cox’n, and use as little wheel as possible.”

  She’d be in rougher water in a few minutes, but only for half an hour. Then they’d turn a corner into a more sheltered part.

  MacKinnon had reported that he’d sharpened up the W/T reception, but there was no possibility of being able to transmit over any worthwhile range. Nick wouldn’t have used his wireless anyway, even if they’d had full power. One signal out would be enough to bring Germans in. Or—worse, or at any rate just as bad—over, with their aircraft. If the bastards had been capturing airfields the sky would be thick with their dive-bombers before long. For the time being this low, dense cloud was a blessing, but it couldn’t last forever.

  Patience—for one day. Well, thirty hours. Patience and a touch of fortitude. Then, fighting fit, sneak out during the dark hours with either Claus Torp or some other Norwegian as pilot. When Intent was well offshore he’d break the self-imposed W/T silence. She’d have generator power and a jury fore-topmast by that time.

  There was more motion on her, and on Valkyrien too, as they crept out into the less protected water in the middle of the fjord. Chandler was taking bearings—of Sornamsen light structure on the Finsneset headland, and Altoy Island, and a sort of beacon on the Otteroy coast almost right ahead. And now here was young Bywater, the doctor—skinny, darkhaired, smiling his rather boyish smile as he anticipated Nick’s question.

  “ERA Dobbs is sleeping peacefully, sir. It’s a downright miracle.”

  “Not medical genius?”

  “Ah—perhaps just a touch of that, sir.”

  “Fishing-boat green three-oh, sir!”

  Valkyrien was making the turn at this point, and the towing hawser was angling away to starboard. Jarratt could handle it … Nick had the boat in his glasses. Blue-painted, bouncing northward—as they were turning, it would be on the port bow in a minute. Nearly ahead now, and for a while it was going to be out of sight. But literally bouncing: a beamy, double-ended boat with a wheelhouse amidships painted a paler blue, and the boat was travelling in sheets of spray, moving quite fast, fairly smashing through the lumpy sea …

  Jarratt had done it well. Valkyrien had steadied on the up-fjord course and Intent was smack in the centre of her wake.

  That boat was in sight again, on the other bow. It looked as if it had sheered away to starboard: and several figures had come out of that little box amidships to stare at the oncoming ships. They’d know Valkyrien, presumably. Claus Torp was up on his platform again, waving his cap and his other arm as well, apparently calling the boat towards him … Message received there, evidently, and similarly interpreted: the boat was turning, plunging round and heading—by the looks of it—for Valkyrien. Perhaps its coxswain had been unsure of what Intent was, knowing there could be Germans in the offing?

  There was a lot of waving going on, between Torp’s ship and the boat. And now a light was flashing from Valkyrien. Nick lowered his glasses and looked round. Clash of the Aldis: Signalman Farquharson was ahead of him and had also beaten Herrick to the draw. From Valkyrien the calling-up signs ceased, and Nick read the laboriously spelt-out one-word signal: STOP.

  “From Valkyrien, sir—’Stop.’”

  “Very good.”

  He warned Jarratt of what was about to happen. Meanwhile the blue fishing-boat was closing in towards Valkyrien and Torp had put his helm over, altering round to starboard as his ship lost way. Giving the boat a lee on his port side, Nick supposed. One of the boat people was still on the outside beside the wheelhouse, waving frantically: a man in a bright blue oilskin, much brighter than the paintwork of the boat itself. He put his glasses up: it wasn’t a man, it was a woman. What he’d thought to be a sou’wester was a lot of dark hair blowing about in the wind. Then the boat vanished, behind Valkyrien, who’d gone round about 45 degrees to starboard, obviously so that the boat could go alongside in that slight shelter.

  Trench cleared his throat. “Popsie in that boat, sir.”

  “Yes. I noticed.” He put his glasses up again. The towing cable was sagging to the water but not much more than that. Valkyrien, being almost beam-on to the wind now, would drift faster than Intent was likely to, so the wire should be kept reasonably taut. He hoped they weren’t going to be kept waiting long; he wanted to have his ship alongside that quay, have the work start below, get some oil-fuel flowing into her sound tanks. There was a biting urgency to get her operational again.

  Before the bloody Germans come …

  There was
activity now on the Norwegian’s upper deck, around her mizzen mast. Several people were clustered on that far side, where the boat would be. He took his eyes off the binoculars to glance again at the hawser; Chandler murmured, “All’s well so far, sir.” Mustn’t take too critical a view of Chandler, he told himself. Lumbered with a bloody-minded snotty for an assistant, he’d quite understandably lose patience with him. The more of a perfectionist one was oneself, the more one disliked sloppiness in others; and Chandler as a navigator was something of a perfectionist. What else did one want from a navigator but perfection? It was simply that he, Nick, happened also to have some sympathy with bloody-minded snotties.

  “By the way, Pilot—”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve decided to take Cox out of the tanky job. I want to shake his ideas up a bit by pushing him around to other parts of ship. I think later he’d better come back to you—not as tanky, probably, but just to knock some navigation into his head. All right?”

  “Suits me, sir.”

  “Tommy.”

  Trench came back to the binnacle. Nick said, “You’ve got this CW candidate—Williamson, is it, on the searchlight?” Trench nodded. Nick paused: he’d just seen a patch of bright blue on Valkyrien’s deck. He focused his glasses on it: and he’d guessed right, it was the girl. He told Trench, “Your popsie, Number One, has transferred to Valkyrien.”

  “I’ve lost her, then. Some chaps have all the luck.”

  Torp, he meant. And one could, indeed, imagine … Nick said, “This CW, Williamson—how would he take to a spell as tanky, to widen his experience?”

  “I’d say the idea’s bang-on, sir.”

  “Except—” Chandler put it—”that at this stage I hardly need one.”

  “You will when we get home and you find a whole raft of Notices to Mariners to deal with. More importantly, it might be good for Williamson.”

  When we get home …

  The boat was leaving Valkyrien, nosing out round her stern and turning into the wind, sending up sheets of sea again as she picked up speed. Heading towards Intent? It looked like it: and it also looked like Claus Torp standing amidships beside the wheelhouse doorway with one arm inside to steady himself against the roller-coaster motion … It was him. He was shouting at someone inside and pointing with his free arm towards Intent. But if he was planning to come alongside—well, Nick hoped he wasn’t. He couldn’t give the boat any shelter, unless Valkyrien elected to pull her round, and Torp might not appreciate how flimsy a destroyer’s plating was, sideways-on.

  The boat was turning in towards them. Trench suggested, “Shall I put a ladder and fenders over, sir?”

  “I’d rather not encourage him. Hang on.” The last thing he wanted was that heavy-timbered craft bashing up and down against his ship’s side. But it had swung to port and it was heading directly for Intent, its stunted mast rocking like a metronome as it rolled, beam-on to the waves. Damn it … He opened his mouth to tell Trench to get fenders over quickly: then saw the boat going round again—about forty feet from the ship’s side, turning to point her stem into the weather, and slowing to a crawl as she came up level with the bridge. Torp had ducked inside: now he was out again with a megaphone.

  Trench snapped, “Loud-hailer, signalman!”

  “Intent, ahoy!”

  Nick got up on the step and put a hand to his ear to show Torp that he was listening. Below him, Herrick was plugging in the loud-hailer. Torp bellowed through his megaphone, “There are Boches in Namsos!”

  Silence …

  Implications spread quickly through the initial shock. Primarily, no repairs in Namsos. No oil … What ships have they got there, for Pete’s sake? He’d got the loud-hailer up.

  “How did they get there?”

  “There was one merchant vessel empty for loading cargo. In Namsos lying three day. This morning before light two hundred Boche soldier with guns come out from ship’s hold—all surprise, no time for defending. They have control now—all.”

  Wooden Horse tactics. And Namsos was German. Intent wasn’t capable of going anywhere. She couldn’t stay where she was, either.

  He lifted the loud-hailer again.

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I think I tow you into Totdalbotn.”

  Totdalbotn. Something familiar about that name. Some small port on this coast? But Torp’s earlier remark echoed in his brain: I think they are in every damn place, you know? Chandler had gone quickly to get the chart and bring it to him. And before he’d looked at it, he remembered—that enclosed anchorage right inside Hoddoy Island. Very sheltered and well hidden. The spot he’d been aiming to reach last night, before the engines packed up. Nearer to Namsos than one would have chosen to be, now that the Germans had taken over, but if they’d come in a freighter and had no naval units with them it might be possible to get away with a short stay—long enough for Halvard Boyensen to work some miracle in the engine-room.

  No oil, though. But then, there’d be none—none that he could get at, now—anywhere up these fjords. Once the ship was repaired she’d have to sneak out again on as much fuel as was left in the tanks, and when he’d got her well away he’d wireless for a rendezvous with some big ship from whom he could refuel.

  It had taken about fifteen seconds to cover that much ground, and to realise that while this was a major setback it didn’t have to be exactly doomsday. And in any case his options weren’t all that numerous. He pointed the loud-hailer at the fishing-boat, which was holding its station abreast the destroyer’s bridge, stemming wind and tide while Torp waited for an answer.

  “All right. We will do as you suggest. Totdalbotn.”

  Torp bellowed, “Okay! Very good!”

  The conference was over. The blue boat began to surge ahead and swing away to starboard for its trip back to Valkyrien. Torp had disappeared inside it. Nick got down off the step, and Leading Signalman Herrick took the loud-hailer from him. Chandler said, looking at the chart, “Nice private little anchorage, but it’s awfully close to Namsos, sir.”

  Nick barely heard him. He was staring up-fjord, thinking about the Germans and the ship they’d come in. “Merchant vessel,” Torp had said, but she might be armed; she wouldn’t have displayed weapons any more than she’d advertised her cargo.

  He told Trench, “We’ll go to action stations, please.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Boat’s coming off shore, Vic.”

  “Yeah?” Blenkinsop’s eyes were squeezed half shut in the gap in his balaclava. “What you got, Yank, telescopic eyeballs?”

  “Damn it, look there!”

  “Blind as a soddin’ bat.” Rush glanced critically at the sightsetter. “Too much you-know-what. Oughter leave it alone for ‘alf an hour, give the poor bloody thing a chance.” Rush looked shorewards at the tight huddle of houses and the tall, black-looking light-tower, where Hardy’s boat had gone in and from where it was now returning. They were in Vestfjord, the inner part of it, the funnel-shaped entrance to Ofotfjord and to Narvik.

  “B” gun’s crew weren’t much of an audience for Rush’s jokes this evening. There was increasing tension in the ship as the time for action neared. Paul could feel it in himself: excitement touched with fear, and also an element of frustration at not knowing what was happening or why they were hanging around here, why the flotilla leader had sent that boat inshore.

  The buzz was that the tiny village with the lighthouse was called something beginning with “T” and that it was the pilot station for this area. That would explain the boat being sent in—to bring off a Norwegian pilot for the tricky passage up to Narvik. Particularly if it was true that they’d be making that passage in the dark.

  Black water, and a streaky blackish sky. Snow patched the land and blanketed the inland mountains, mountains rising white and steep dramatically against dark sky. Intermittently falling snow was quickly filling the non-white patches; before long there’d be nothing but white, anywhere. Because of the cold, mos
t of the gun’s crew were wearing greatcoats instead of oilskins. Here in Vestfjord, with the sheltering arm of the Lofotens making a seventy-mile barrier between themselves and the North Sea violence they’d come from, there were no leaping seas to wet them. Only the snow-showers and, in place of discomfort from salt water, the biting cold.

  Hostile, who’d been on some detached duty, had just rejoined the flotilla, so now all six destroyers were present. Hardy the leader and Captain (D)’s ship, had moved close inshore, and the rest of them had cruised around further out, waiting. Leading them now was Hunter; then came Havock, and astern of her, Hotspur. Hoste had dropped back to last place, in order to let Hostile slip in ahead of her. Hoste’s CO, Lieutenant-Commander Rowan, was junior to the other five captains.

  Paul was thinking of applying to join submarines. The idea had been triggered by a broadcast which the skipper, Rowan, had made about an hour ago over the ship’s tannoy, telling them about things that had been happening up and down the Norwegian coast. Among the items of news had been details of British submarines’ successes off southern Norway, in the Skagerrak and Kattegat. Paul had been left with the impression that the submarines were the real front-liners: in enemy waters and sinking Germans while the Home Fleet in all its glory was—apparently—parading up and down well out to sea.

  And something else influenced him too, towards the submarine idea. The talk at that dinner-party at Mullbergh had turned in that direction, and Paul’s father had told him how he’d always regarded them not as ships but as devices—and nasty, dirty ones at that; but in 1918 he’d had to take passage in one through the Dardanelles to Istanbul, and while he would not, he’d said, want to do anything like it again, he’d come to understand the submariners’ fascination with their trade. At this, Jack Everard had definitely sneered. In his opinion Nick’s original view had been the right one. Submarines weren’t ships, they were things: and not the sort of thing that one had wanted to join the Navy for. Strictly for oddballs and technical people …