The singing had stopped, thank God. There was a mutter of Norwegian conversation over there now. A relief quartermaster taking over, probably.
Gauntlet and Hoste apart, the more immediate problems weren’t exactly bagatelles. Namsos was in German hands and less than ten miles away by water. Less than eight as the crow—or the Stuka—flew. With a garrison already planted there, it was obvious the Huns would send some kind of naval support as soon as they had craft to spare; they’d send a torpedo-boat or a mine-sweeper or two up from Trondheim, perhaps. And putting oneself in the shoes or boots of a torpedo-boat commander, one’s first sensible move on arrival in a place like this would be to search all the fjords and inlets and hidden anchorages, not only for enemies but also for craft which might be commandeered and used for occupation purposes. Meanwhile, Intent was immobilised and helpless, and her chances of becoming operationally fit depended on this one Norwegian, Boyensen. Well, assuming he was as good as he was cracked up to be, he’d mend her. But then—here was the biggest problem of the lot—she’d have fuel for only a few hours’ steaming, and there was no source of fuel open to her and within her likely range. His earlier idea, of sailing with near-empty tanks and then signalling for help, had collapsed when he’d subjected it to closer inspection. You needed a big ship to refuel from, so in effect he’d be asking for a cruiser to be sent inshore. The odds were that with the German air superiority which was implicit in so many of the signals they’d intercepted, he’d be asking for the impossible.
Hence the birth of the hare-brained scheme. In the circumstances, he thought it might be near-enough impossible to think up any scheme that was not hare-brained. He’d begun to toy with this one—fancifully, not really believing in it then—during the tow down Namsenfjord.
Meanwhile, and looking on the brighter side, this anchorage might have been tailor-made for present purposes. Intent lay in ten fathoms, in the inlet in Totdalbotn’s southern shore. (Botn, Kari had told him, meant “head-of-fjord,” the equivalent of the Scottish prefix “Kinloch.”) About a mile eastward there was a projecting hook of land, marked on the chart as “Skaget,” which effectively hid the ship from anyone passing up or down the main waterway to or from Namsos. Unless a German ship actually came up into this backwater, the only real danger of being spotted would be from the air. And that was no immediate worry, with cloud-cover intact again.
It was higher cloud, though, and thinner. After such a large shift in the wind direction it was quite possible that the day might clear, later on. And that would be—not so good. Intent’s point-five machine-guns, two 4-barrelled mountings side-by-side on their platform between the funnels, were her only defence against dive-bombers; and they were short-range weapons, effective up to no more than half a mile. The main armament of four-sevens had a maximum elevation of forty degrees, which made them useless in an AA role. But in fact no matter what guns she’d had, Intent would be finished if they once found her here. Even if she’d been mobile, in these restricted waters she wouldn’t have a hope.
The point-fives were manned now, and so was “B” gun. A lookout was being kept from those points and from the director tower and from the bridge, and there were sentries on foc’sl and quarterdeck. Also, a shore lookout had been established on Hoddoy, on a five-hundred-foot ridge a bit less than two miles from this anchor berth. It was manned by Norwegians, a family from a farm somewhere in that area. Nick had picked the spot, after a study of the chart and a careful binocular inspection of the surroundings. From that hill, there’d be a view over land and water from north-west to south-east; really only Namsos port itself would be shut off, by some intervening high ground on the island of Skjerpoy. His idea had been to send young Cox and an OD to camp there, but Claus Torp had suggested local people might be persuaded to do it and be less conspicuous than British sailors. He’d arranged it yesterday afternoon, when he’d gone ashore in his motor skiff to check on telephone communications and pick up what news he could.
They’d got into Totdalbotn early yesterday afternoon. By 4 pm Valkyrien had been secured on Intent’s starboard side, and by 4:30 Boyensen had been at work.
There was movement and voices up near the point-fives; and a sailor in a greatcoat and a webbing belt was coming aft, exchanging greetings with Valkyrien’s quartermaster. He’d be coming to relieve the sentry: which meant it was now 6:00.
If there’d been an attack on Narvik at first light, as last night’s signals had indicated there would be, it would be all over by now. And if Hoste had been in the attacking force—which presumably she would have been—Paul would have some answers of his own by this time to the question he’d asked not long ago at Mullbergh—what did action feel like … Nick remembered vividly his own first taste of it: the awful period before it started, when one had been scared stiff of not coming up to scratch; then the relief when there’d been a lull in the fighting and time to realise that one had been in it and not had time to be frightened, only been totally immersed in doing one’s job. He wished Paul that sense of relief. He hoped he’d be enjoying it at this minute. Paul’s reappearance in his life was the best thing that had happened to him in years: the boy had become a personal reason to want to live, to survive the war—in order to spend time with him, get to know him, have Mullbergh in good shape to pass into his hands.
And simply for the fact that he existed!
If he hadn’t turned up, if he’d stayed with his mother in the USA, would there have been no reason to care much about survival?
Well, things were different now, and there was no need to think about how they had been. But thank God, anyway, for Paul’s arrival on the scene. His half-Russian son … They had a lot in common, Nick thought. They didn’t look much alike—Paul was more athletic-looking, generally better-looking than Nick reckoned himself to be—but inside, one sensed the similarities, the common wavelength. The basis of it was that you felt you knew how he’d react to given circumstances or problems: that given the knowledge, training, experience, whatever it took, he’d react very much as one would oneself.
It was something to hold on to, all right. It was a hell of a lot to hold on to.
After Valkyrien had berthed alongside yesterday, and ropes and wires had been secured and a brow put over from Intent’s waist to an entry-port in Valkyrien’s bulkhead, Claus Torp had invited Nick to go aboard. So he’d gone over, leaving Trench to see to essentials in the destroyer. Torp had met him at the gangway, and as he’d arrived he’d seen the engineer, Boyensen, and two other characters come sloping aft with toolboxes. It was more than he’d hoped for, that they’d get on to the job so quickly.
Torp sketched a salute as Nick stepped off the gangway.
“You are welcome aboard, Captain. I have to tell you, however, that since I have only twelve men on board, passage crew you see, with no cook or steward—”
“For heaven’s sake—”
“What I do have is Aquavit. Also Scotch whisky.”
“Not for me, thanks. But I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure. Come, please.”
Valkyrien’s saloon was very much as he’d thought it would be. Mahogany, and a dark red carpet, brass lamps in gimbals. Curved-backed swivel chairs were bolted to the deck around a central table which was covered in a green-baize cloth.
“Captain, I introduce my daughter.”
She’d come towards them from the other end of the saloon. Dropping a book—it looked like one of the yellow-jacket English thrillers—on the table as she joined them. This was obviously the female in the bright-coloured oilskins, Tommy Trench’s “popsie.” He’d forgotten about her, until now. Torp was saying, “Kari, this is Commander Everard of the Royal Navy.”
She wasn’t conventionally “pretty.” But she took all his attention immediately. She was—very attractive, in a way that might be difficult to describe, he thought. Except for the striking contrast of dark hair and light-blue eyes there was no feature you’d say was all that special. Very un-fussy, natural … H
e felt—immediately—involved, and off-balance at feeling any such thing: he saw the same kind of surprise in her face, and then the emergence of that stunning smile.
“Welcome to Norway, Captain.”
“You’re very kind.” He glanced at Torp, if only because he felt he had to take his eyes off her for a moment. “So is your father.”
“Oh, he’s not such a bad fellow.”
“You talk very good English, if I may say so.”
“You may say so as often as you like.”
Torp informed him, “Kari is a teacher. Of English, among other subjects. My teacher, of English.”
“Must be a very good one, then.”
“Thank you … Knut Lange, the man with the boat—the blue boat you saw?—was bringing her from Namsos to a village; it is called Skorstad, where we have friends. After, he would have come out to stop Valkyrien as I am coming into the fjord.”
“I see.” He asked Kari, “Will you teach me Norwegian?”
“If we have time, of course. But first—” she pointed—”won’t you sit down?”
He laughed. Sitting, he asked Torp, “Your friend with the boat was still going on to this village, was he, when he left us?”
“Sure. And other places not so far from there. He had two other passengers, who had been in Namsos, to be taking to their homes. But he will come back to us here tomorrow, he was saying.” Torp added, by way of explanation, “He is our good friend.”
Knut’s boat might come in very handy, with the lunatic plan that he was tinkering with. It was going to need a lot more thought before he’d be ready to discuss it with anyone else, though.
He asked Kari, “Can you tell me what’s happening in the town?”
“In Namsos? Our little village, a town?”
“I beg its pardon.”
“Oh, it would be honoured … But I was not there myself, you see, I was with cousins who are at a small place called Hals. There is a bay where Knut brought in his boat. What is happening is the Germans have taken everybody by surprise, before daylight this morning. It was an empty ship, they thought, but out of it suddenly came soldiers, guns—”
“What kind of guns?”
“Big, on wheels.”
“Field guns.”
“And also some motor-cars—trucks.”
Nick looked at her father. “All highly organised, prepared weeks in advance. Just sitting there, waiting.”
Torp nodded. “Now, we know it.”
“It must have been planned very well,” Kari said. “They ran directly to the mayor’s house and to the railway station, customs office, police station—to the main roads too, the crossroads have barriers and soldiers— all that. Now all the people must give their names and details for lists to be made and so on. They are being told the Germans are friends of Norway who are come to defend us against you British. This is what I have been told by people coming out of Namsos. Quite a lot of the young men—some old ones too—are making away for the mountains, to organise resistance, join an army or—will your British army come now to drive out the Germans?”
What a question, he thought. Did Britain have enough of an army and weapons, equipment, aircraft, to have held on to the Norwegian ports even if we’d stepped in first, he wondered? Let alone to drive out an entrenched occupation force. Most of the British army was in France, waiting for the war to start, while the French sat behind their Maginot Line, morale crumbling—one heard—almost defeated before a shot was fired … What army, and who’d send it? Had the War Cabinet in London had a request submitted in quadruplicate; ratified by the League of Nations or initialled by the Almighty?
Nick had some questions of his own. Where had the field guns been set up, was the Trojan Horse ship herself armed, how might the German troops be deployed around the harbour area?
Kari didn’t know. Torp said he might be able to find out; he’d go ashore to a farmhouse at Totdal, where he had friends—or one in Sveodden, which was nearer and where he also had friends—and see if the telephones were working. It was too soon for anyone who’d been in Namsos since the arrival of the Germans to have come this far—except by water, which no one had …
“They’re bound to have taken over the telephone exchange.”
Torp nodded. “I will be careful.” The Norwegian asked him, “Why do you want to know about the guns and defences?”
Nick wasn’t ready to discuss it. Particularly if Torp was going to be ashore this afternoon, telephoning his friends. He answered vaguely,”Well, if that ship’s armed—”
“I am sure she is not.”
“Like you were sure she was in ballast?”
“I think they have painted false draught-marks, you know?”
He told them, “I imagine we will send troops. So any information we can get while we’re here will be useful. If—” he looked at Torp—”if the repairs to my ship go as we hope, and we can get away from here, what would your plans be?”
“To sail with you, I think.”
“In Valkyrien?“
“Why not in Valkyrien?”
“Would she have the range to reach—well, Scotland?”
Kari said, “She could be sailed there. With her sails.”
“Yes,” Torp agreed. “But steaming, she would have range to go where on our coast your army is landing.”
“I’m only trying to understand your intentions, you see, how they fit in with mine. It seems to me you’re as much at a loose end as I am. More so—you’ve no operational command in existence, so far as we know, and to the Germans you’re an enemy just as I am.”
Torp nodded. “Yes.”
“So we’re in it together. Do you accept the fact that I’m the senior officer here?”
“It’s obvious.” Torp glanced at Nick’s three stripes. “You are in command. Although, since I don’t have one single gun—”
“That’s something we can think about later. But my point—the question of your leaving Norway, coming to England—you accept that it may be necessary?”
Kari told her father, “I’d like to go. It wouldn’t be forever. We’d come back, with—”
“You can go. But if there will be fighting in Norway I want to be here.” He told Nick, “She could sail Valkyrien. She has done so before—”
Kari put in, “Illegally, but frequently.”
“—and she has been sailing boats since she is a very little girl.”
That idea seemed a bit far-fetched. But then, it was a day—an epoch, perhaps—for far-fetched ideas … He asked Torp, “What about your crew?”
“They are reservists. They do what I tell them.”
That seemed to clear the ground. He could regard the Norwegians, for all intents and purposes, as part of his own force. One snag was the girl: if he was going into Namsos to get his oil, which was bound to be a slightly hazardous operation, he didn’t like the idea of having her there with them. But he’d need Valkyrien for a landing-party … Or perhaps Knut’s boat, instead?
“Deep thoughts now, Captain?”
Kari, smiling. He asked her, “Do you have any close relations or dependants here, whom you’d be leaving behind?”
“No. Only cousins.” Torp had answered the question. Kari told him, “He was asking do I have a mother, I think.”
“My wife died when Kari was quite small.”Torp explained, “It is why I left the Navy, to look after her in our home.”
“Consequently he’s a big noise in Namsos.” Kari was teasing him as well as giving Nick the information. “Some great sacrifice, this leaving the Navy was. Timber-merchant, ship chandler, shipping agent, auctioneer—”
“Good man to pick for a father, then. And perhaps with his interest in timber he could get me a spar that we could shape for a fore-topmast and a couple of lighter ones for yards—d’you think?”
“Sure.”Torp thought about it for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers, and told his daughter, “From old Jens. He will have some already trimmed. If the telephone is working,
I give a message to the Korens, and they tell Knut when he is there with his boat, and he will bring them to us tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a smooth piece of organisation.”
“You must tell me lengths, diameters—”
“Yes.” Trench, with Metcalf as consultant, would provide those details. “But one other thing. If my men bring cables over, would you be prepared to run your steam generator and feed us with power?”
“Perhaps. If I can do it and not make a lot of smoke, I think so. I must speak with Boyensen.”
“I’m most obliged. For all your help.”
“You may end with doing some things for us, I think.”
“Well, I hope so.” Nick checked the time. “And to start with, may I offer you both dinner tonight, in Intent?”
“Morning, sir.” Trench saluted as he joined him on the quarterdeck. Quarterdeck and CO in one salute: a reasonable economy. Nick looked at his watch, and saw that it was 6:25.
“Bright and early, Tommy.”
“Not as early as you were, sir, I’m informed.”
“What’s this, your intelligence service?”
“Something of that sort.” The big man fell into step beside him. “Thank you for a most enjoyable evening, sir.”
That supper party with the Torps as guests, he meant. It hadn’t been exactly a gourmet’s delight—canned pilchards, followed by what the wardroom chef called “cutlets,” which meant shapes of minced corned-beef cooked in breadcrumbs, and a savoury of bacon-wrapped prunes on toast. Afterwards, green Chartreuse, and the men smoked cigars. They’d listened to the BBC news broadcast, which had spoken of air attacks on German shipping in Norwegian ports and of German dive-bombing of the Home Fleet offshore. The Norwegian King and the government had left Oslo in order to direct the fight against the Nazi invaders from a new headquarters … Or words to that effect. It wasn’t news, actually, since Torp had been getting Norwegian broadcasts during the day. The government and the Royal Family had moved up to a place called Hamar, about a hundred kilometres north of Oslo; they’d moved out only one jump ahead of the Germans, who’d chased them in armoured cars and then bombed and machine-gunned their transport from the air. In order, presumably, to clear the ground for this Norwegian traitor—a Major Quisling—who’d since been heard on Oslo radio announcing himself as the country’s new ruler.
Storm Force to Narvik: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 1 Page 17