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

by Alexander Fullerton

  So if one did join submarines, Paul thought, one might be fairly sure of not running up against Jack Everard?

  There was a superciliousness, an assumption of superiority, in Jack’s manner, which he found extremely irritating. There was also resentment, he thought, directed at this half-foreign interloper, an outsider who’d one day take Mullbergh away from Jack Everard the True Blue. Something like that.

  He might have to face that hostility very soon. If he was now Sir Paul Everard—HO, OD? There’d be Jack’s mother to deal with too. Really a nightmare prospect.

  “We’re off, lads!”

  Harry Rush had made the announcement. There was a light flashing from Hardy, the flotilla leader, and Hunter up ahead was leading these other five destroyers round to starboard, turning shorewards and right round, reversing course. Hardy herself was gathering way westward. You could see her bow-wave rising; her motorboat was inboard, up on its davits and in the course of being secured there.

  The light had stopped flashing. Paul guessed it might have been an order to form up on her. The way she was taking them was away from Narvik … Then he guessed that if the plan was to go through in the dark tonight, it would be much too early to start now—he checked the time—at 1750.

  What would close action be like, he wondered. Being shot at; seeing men hit, killed, wounded. He’d asked his father, on the last day he’d had at Mullbergh, what it felt like, the first time you were in it.

  “Well … You’ve swum in competitions, inter-school stuff?”

  “Why, sure, but—”

  “Nervous before the starter’s gun, then too busy to do anything but get on with it?”

  He saw the point, and nodded. “I guess so.”

  “That’s how it is, Paul. The fright comes before the action.”

  He’d been satisfied with this answer, at the time. Up to a point. With the mental reservation that when he’d swum in inter-college matches nobody had shot at him, and that this must make, surely, some difference … But now it didn’t feel anything like that kind of pre-contest nervousness, it felt more like—well, damn it, he told himself, it’s like he said, it really is! This is the “before,” and okay, so I’m worried; and he can be right about the “after” too, can’t he?

  In a tizz now, a Dherjhorakov-type tizz, with himself. Recognising it and trying to stifle it …

  His view of the village—Tranoy, that was the name they’d mentioned—was suddenly fading as if a curtain was being drawn across it. He went back into the shelter of the gunshield and told Baldy Percival, “More snow coming.” Hoste was heeling as she turned behind the rest of the flotilla; she was on Hostile’s starboard quarter and from this angle there was a view of the other five ships of the flotilla, in line ahead and all exactly alike, grey ships gliding through the quiet water. Sturdy, powerful. They looked good, he thought; they looked terrific. Baldy Percival muttered, “It might become pretty hot, you know, up that fjord.”

  “Hot?”

  “The fighting—”

  “Oh …”

  “And going up it in the dark?”

  “Not our worry, Baldy.”

  “It will be when we get up there. Then we’ll be—”

  “Worse for them than it’ll be for us. Catch ‘em on the hop, with any luck.” He looked at him, smiling. “Hell, Baldy, this morning you were glad you’d been in action. You said—”

  “Don’t you think this is likely to be rather different?”

  Paul shrugged, peered out into the falling snow. It was gathering on the gundeck, whitening the whole ship. Ahead, the fjord widened, white-covered mountains receding into a haze of cloud. Hoste heeled again as the flotilla began to zig-zag—to upset the aim of any lurking U-boat.

  Vic Blenkinsop answered his telephone headset with his customarily sharp cry: “‘B’ gun!”

  Listening … Then—”Ah now, bloody ‘ell mate, that’s a bit bleedin’ much—”

  Someone had shut him up.

  “What’s up, Vic?”

  He pushed the mouthpiece aside, and told them, “Ship’s company will be piped to action stations at 0030 hours.”

  It sank in slowly. This watch now ending was the First Dog; they’d be relieved in about one minute, at 1800, off-watch for the Last Dog, on again for the four hours of the First Watch at 2000. That trick would end at midnight. And half an hour after that …

  Rush complained, “Fuckin’ ‘ell-ship, this is. The ‘uman body ‘as certain simple wants—”

  “We know about your ‘orrible body’s wants!”

  “—such as more ‘n five minutes fuckin’ kip per fortnight—”

  “Don’t call yourself ‘uman, do you, ‘Arry?”

  “If you can’t take a joke, boyo—” Dan Thomas summed it up with an age-old naval admonition—”you shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ joined.”

  In Hoste’s chartroom, Alec Rowan re-read the operation orders which Captain (D), Captain Bernard A. W. Warburton-Lee, had signalled from Hardy to his flotilla.

  Final approach to Narvik: Hardy will close pilot station which is close to Steinhos Light. Hunter will follow in support. Hotspur and Havock are to provide anti-submarine protection to the northward. Ships are to be at action stations from 0030. When passing Skrednest Light Hardy will pass close to shore and order a line of bearing. Thereafter ships are to maintain narrow quarterline to starboard so that fire from all ships is effective ahead. On closing Narvik Hardy will steer for inner harbour with Hunter astern in support. Germans may have several destroyers and a submarine in vicinity. Some probably on patrol. Ships are to engage all targets immediately and keep a particular lookout for enemy who may be berthed in inlets. On approaching Narvik Hardy, Hunter, Havock engage enemy ships inside harbour with guns and torpedoes. Hotspur engage ships to north-west …

  Rowan leant over the chart. It was the best they had on board but he should have had chart 3753, the harbour plan, and it wasn’t in the folio. It was only now, to study in advance, that he’d have liked it. He knew that once they got in there there’d be no time for looking at charts of any sort.

  Hostile and Hoste had freelance roles. They were to be ready to join in the action here, there or anywhere, depending on how it developed.

  He read the last part of the orders …

  Prepare to lay smoke for cover and to tow disabled ships. If opposition is silenced landing-parties (less Hotspur) when ordered to land make for Ore Quay unless otherwise ordered. Hardy’s first lieutenant in charge. Additional visual signal to withdraw will be one red and one green Very light from Hardy. Half outfit of torpedoes is to be red unless target warrants more. In order to relieve congestion of movements all ships when turning to fire or opening are to keep turning to port if possible. Watch adjacent ships. Keep moderate speed.

  Clear enough, Rowan thought, and about as detailed as could be practical. When they got in there, everything would be happening at once and in all directions. They’d be like foxes in a hen-run—except that the hens would be twice their size and better armed … He’d turned to the next signal on the log, the one which in fact had preceded the operation orders and in which Captain (D) had passed to Commander-in-Chief and to Admiral Whitworth the information obtained ashore at Tranoy. According to the Norwegian pilots there, there were at least six big German destroyers and one U-boat up at Narvik. The destroyers were of rather more than 1,800 tons, and had an armament of five 5-inch guns apiece.

  Surprise was going to be important, Rowan thought, to balance that German superiority in fire-power. It was a factor which Captain (D), Warburton-Lee, must obviously have weighed up and accepted, since he’d ended his signal to C-in-C with the words: Intend attacking at dawn high water.

  High water would help to carry them over any moored mines which the enemy might have laid. But then again, mines wouldn’t be the only hazard on the way in. Ofotfjord was long and narrow, and despite the Hardy officers’ attempts at persuasion, none of the pilots from Tranoy had been prepared to come along.
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br />   There was a SITREP—situation report—just in. Rowan skimmed through it: noting as he did so that it had not, by and large, been the best of days. The Home Fleet had been under heavy air attack from German squadrons using captured Norwegian airfields. Rodney, Sir Charles Forbes’ flagship, had been hit—though not hurt, thank God. Several cruisers had suffered minor damage, and Stuka dive-bombers had sunk the destroyer Gurkha. Off southern Norway, German air superiority was total; effectively, only submarines could operate against German seaborne traffic down there. Had anyone realised, Rowan wondered, until this proof of the pudding was flung in their faces, how impossible it might become to operate surface ships without air cover?

  The carrier Furious was with the Home Fleet now. But they’d sailed her in such a hurry that she’d come without her fighter squadrons.

  He pulled on his duffel-coat and left the chartroom, climbed the ladder to his ship’s bridge. He told Mathieson, the first lieutenant, “You’ll find Captain (D)’s orders on the chart table, Number One. Read, mark, learn, etcetera. Then start getting us ready fore and aft for towing and/or being taken in tow. And I want smoke-floats placed on the foc’sl and quarterdeck. And—now—I want to see Gardner and Peters and Mr Stuart—and Mr Braithwaite, please.”

  Lieutenant Gardner was his gunnery control officer, and Mr Stuart was the gunner (T). Braithwaite was a commissioned engineer and Peters was officer-of-the-quarters on the after guns. When he’d seen them, Rowan intended to have the coxswain and the gunner’s mate and the chief buffer up for a chat. There were various arrangements to be made: for instance, the ship’s company were going to have to be fed at their action stations during the Middle, so they wouldn’t be going into action hungry as well as cold.

  He moved up to the binnacle. His navigator, Tubby Wellman, was using the hand-held station-keeper, a pocket rangefinder, to check Hoste’s distance astern of Hostile. Lowering it, he glanced at his captain.

  “Right on the nose, sir.”

  Rowan didn’t comment. He was thinking about those Norwegian pilots, the ones at Tranoy who’d been unwilling to risk their skins. Might it be because they considered this force too weak for the job and hadn’t wanted to be associated with losers?

  Supper on the messdeck was beef stew, bread without butter, and tea. The duty “cooks” of each mess had prepared the food by cutting up the meat ration and carrots, and peeling the spuds, earlier in the day; they’d delivered it to the galley for cooking, and now they’d brought it back hot and steaming. There was enough gash gravy to soak your bread in; since 3 Mess had only about five spoons left that was the only way to get it up.

  Whacker Harris pushed his empty plate away. He’d wiped it so thoroughly with bread that it looked unused. He mumbled, lighting a cigarette, “The condemned man ate an ‘earty meal.”

  “No foolin’.” Randy Philips nodded at him. “Should’ve been condemned years ago, you should.” He leant sideways, sniffing the air near Harris. “Strike a light. ‘E’s fuckin’ rotten.”

  The killick, Brierson, told them, “There’ll be corned dog an’ kye dished out sometime in the Middle, lads. Jimmy’s orders to the cox’n. ‘Eard it meself. So this ain’t quite your last repast on earth, Whacker ol’ son.”

  “Yeah, well …” Randy turned to Baldy Percival. “Bein’ HO an’ only at sea five fuckin’ minutes, Percy, I don’t suppose you’d appreciate the significance of an issue of corned dog an’ kye in the Middle, would you?”

  “Well—no, not in any particular way …”

  They never tired of pulling Baldy’s leg. It was so easy. He’d demonstrated this on his first day on board when he’d obediently gone trotting along to the chief buffer to ask for some green oil for the starboard navigation light.

  “It’s extra rations, see. They’re takin’ a chance there won’t be no further stores drawn, like. When it’s an odds-on chance of the old ‘ooker gettin’ sunk, they reckon to build you up for the swim, like.” He shrugged. “Waste o’ time in your case, o’ course.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, ‘ardly last two minutes, in water as cold as they got up ‘ere. I mean, all bones an’ bugger-all else, ain’t you … Smoke, Yank?”

  “Thanks.”

  He’d noticed that the old hands liked to have such offers accepted. They were gestures, more than offers. Philips probably wouldn’t care if he ate the cigarette, so long as he took it. In fact, he lit it too. Randy said, “We ‘eard about your guv’nor, Yank. Tough luck, an’ all. Don’t want to let it get you down, though.”

  He nodded. Several men had glanced at him and away again, as if embarrassed. Obviously they’d discussed it, and Philips was speaking for them all. Paul exhaled smoke. “Yes. Thanks, Randy.”

  “Might turn up yet, lad.” Brierson was wiping his plate with a crust. “Never say die.” He swallowed, reddening, and began again, “I mean—”

  “Sure, Tom. I know what you mean.”

  Baldy Percival said, “He could easily have been picked up by the Germans. It’s really likely, when you think about it. And it would probably be quite some while before the news came through.”

  “Well, bugger me!” Whacker Harris smacked the table. “First sensible remark our Percy’s made since ‘e’s been aboard ‘ere!”

  It was time to get ready for the next four hours on the gundeck. And really, Paul thought, one could snooze up there almost as easily as down here. Almost … When they got up top, the gun’s crew all looked as if they’d put on a stupendous amount of weight, with the extra sweaters under their greatcoats. Paul was three-quarters asleep when the flotilla went about, heading back towards Ofotfjord, and when the watch changed at midnight they were nearing Tranoy again, the place where Hardy had sent her boat in. This time, there wasn’t any stopping.

  Getting towards 1 am. Pitch dark, and snowing hard. The five destroyers ahead were showing light-clusters on their sterns; without them, it would have been near enough impossible to maintain the line-astern formation.

  Alec Rowan leant with his left side against the binnacle. Wellman and Mathieson were vague shapes hunched against the bridge’s starboard side, straining their eyes into cold, wet darkness. The flotilla was approaching the island of Baroy, which was on the south side of the entrance to Ofotfjord; when they sighted it, it would be quite close on the starboard bow. The gap between Baroy and Tjeldoy to the north was roughly four thousand yards.

  There was a light on Baroy, but it was unlikely the Germans would have left it shining, even if the Norwegians had. It was mounted on the end of a white timber-built house: which might or might not show up, now that the land behind it would be snow-covered. It would be an advantage to pick it up, because the Sailing Directions described it as the best mark for entering Ofotfjord, and with no pilot or local knowledge one couldn’t afford to waste any such aids. It was Hardy’s job to lead them all in, of course, but each ship still needed to know where she was; otherwise if the flotilla became separated from each other you’d be lost and groping.

  There was nothing to be seen at all except for Hostile’s stern cluster and its bluish glimmer on her wake, and the snow like a curtain all round. Thrum of the turbines, subdued humming from the ventilators. Hoste was doing revs for about 10 knots but the tidal stream would be outflowing and speed of advance would be more like 8. The snow was like a soft, soaked blanket, giving an impression of deep silence all around. Men spoke briefly and quietly, if at all. Below, guns’ and tubes’ crews slept around their weapons, while in the messdecks and other compartments ammunition-supply and damage-control parties lay on the decks or sat propped against steel bulkheads, dozing or playing cards.

  You could only use binoculars for a few seconds at a time; then the front lenses would be clogged with snow and you’d have to wipe them clean. It was a better bet to search with the naked eye. Less time-wasting. And the glasses would still be wet and smeary even when you’d wiped them.

  “Captain, sir?”

  The voice belonged
to Graham-Jones, Hoste’s surgeon-lieutenant. “New one from Admiralty to Captain (D), sir.”

  Warburton-Lee must be getting a bit tired of London’s chat by this time, Rowan thought. From thirteen hundred miles away they seemed to imagine that only they could direct this operation. The exchange of messages had been going on all through the night; and if the great men back there at home were poking their fingers into other sections of the pie as well, the Commander-in-Chief must be just about frothing at the mouth by now.

  He didn’t want to spoil his night vision, reading yet more signals. Once you’d lost it, it took about ten minutes to get it back. He told Graham-Jones, “Read the bloody thing to me, will you?”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The doctor went to the chart table, and leant inside its canvas hood. He called out, “Norwegian coast defence ships Eidsvold and Norge may be in German hands. You alone can judge whether in these circumstances attack should be made. We shall support whatever decision you take.”

  He’d switched the light off, and backed out. “Looks like the decision is we carry on, sir.”

  It looked, Rowan thought, like a touch of cold feet in high places.

  Mathieson called suddenly, “Baroy Light, sir. At least I think—”

  “Where?” Wellman’s tone was sharp. Navigators liked to be the first to pick up their marks. The first lieutenant told him, “It’s not lit, but there’s a light in the house itself and you can just make out the actual structure. Left from where you’re—”

  “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  “Well?” Rowan asked him. “Is it Baroy?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe it is.”

  Wellman had recognised it from the little sketch of it in the Sailing Directions. So now they were entering Ofotfjord, and Narvik was about thirty miles ahead.