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

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Then while we are waiting, I have an invitation for you to lunch with us, please, in Valkyrien. And before you make excuses I warn you we have fresh-caught fish and that Kari is the best cooker of fish that was ever born.”

  “No excuses, then. I accept with the greatest pleasure.” Seymour had put the coffee in the hatch and he was on his way round—out of the pantry into the cabin flat and then in by the door through which Torp had entered. Nick said, “I was wondering—talking of fish—whether we could buy any fresh produce for the ship while we’re here. Fish, eggs, vegetables, meat? One snag is we’ve only British currency on board.”

  “That would not matter. Only how much time there is. To arrange now for sufficient—is it for your whole crew?”

  “Yes. Hundred and sixty-five.”

  “Well.” Torp looked doubtful. “If it had been last week you were asking—before the Boche came—”

  “You’d have told me to get the hell out of it. For trespassing in your neutral waters.”

  Torp frowned, blinking, watching Seymour carefully setting down the tray. He decided, apparently, to let the point go; he said,”Halvard Boyensen tells me his work goes well. I think you will not wish to stay here only to have provisions? If he finish maybe tomorrow midday—”

  “I want to sail tomorrow night. About midnight.”

  Seymour could take that buzz for’ard. Nick saw it register—the steward’s quick, interested glance. Sailors on the messdecks expected occasional buzzes from the wardroom stewards, and stewards lost face if they couldn’t provide some from time to time. Nick told him, “I shan’t be on board for lunch, Seymour.”

  “No, sir. I ‘eard.”

  “And we shan’t need anything else now. Shut the hatch, would you, before you leave the pantry?”

  A minute later it slid shut, and then they heard the pantry door shut too. Nick told his guest, “I can’t sail without taking in some oil-fuel. You are certain, I suppose, that there’s some in Namsos?” Torp nodded. Sudden interest in the blue eyes. Kari’s eyes, in that broad, entirely masculine face. Slight pouches under them and thickly matted brows above. Extraordinary … Nick pointed at the table on which last night they’d dined and on which he’d now laid out the chart and reference books and signal pads for making notes on. He asked Torp, “Would you make me a sketch of the harbour layout, quays and oiling jetty, and so on? Use the back of that chart, perhaps, so we can have it on a nice big scale?”

  “I think, Kari, I can say without exaggeration or flattery that I’ve never eaten such fish as this. The sauce is—well, what is it?”

  “It’s secret.”

  “She makes up such secrets by herself.” Torp pointed at her with his fork. “When you see she has a—what d’you call, a goof look?”

  “Goofy. But I’d hardly—”

  “No, you would not, would you. But goofy, yes. She is thinking then about food. Why she is not fat like a pig I do not know.”

  “Or why you aren’t, if she gives you meals like this one very often.”

  “He’s quite fat, don’t you think?” Kari poured herself a glass of water. “Tell me about the plan you’ve made?”

  Torp had produced the sketch which Nick had asked for, and provided answers to all his questions. Then they’d gone over the plan in detail, and made changes here and there. Biggest of all was that instead of an advance party going in by skiff to land and cut the telephone wires leading out of the town—it was a necessity, but it had worried Nick, because of the danger of the men being caught and the Germans alerted to the likelihood of an attack—Torp believed that his friends in Totdal, who had an old Ford truck, would agree to making the journey by road to Sjoasen and from there north up the main coastal highway to a place where the wires could be cut three or four miles south of Namsos itself. The whole road trip would be about forty kilometres, fifty at the outside. And from the torpedo stores the Norwegians could be provided with fitted charges and fuse, to make a real job of it. The rest of the plan hung together with only minor changes, all the result of getting answers to those questions, and by the time they’d come over to Valkyrien for this lunch it was cut and dried, ready for presentation to Nick’s officers this afternoon.

  The oiling quay was on the western side of the harbour. It was made of concrete and about a hundred metres long. There was a railway line connecting to it. Another concrete quay of about the same length was being constructed just beyond it, but was in too rough a stage now, Torp felt, for any guns to have been mounted on it. Plenty of cover, though, among the heaps of sand and concrete blocks. The other jetties, all to the east, were smaller and made of wood, used mostly for loading timber from local sawmills. To the east again was the timber pond, the storage area, and the shallows on that side of the town dried out at low tides.

  Kari had asked him to tell her about the plan. Nick glanced at her father. Torp shrugged. “Why not. You don’t want her at your meeting, do you?”

  “Well—no, I suppose—”

  Kari asked him, “Why don’t you?”

  “Because—” Torp answered her—”our friend Commander Trench might not be paying attention to the right teacher.”

  “Oh, you’re ridiculous!”

  “I think he’s right.” Nick added, “And Tommy might not be the only one.” Torp chuckled. Kari was looking at Nick, waiting for some more serious explanation. He said, “We’ll tell you about it now, then this afternoon we can use foul language if we want to.”

  “Sure.” Her father nodded. “I want to.”

  “In a nutshell, Kari, we’re going to raid Namsos, take control of the oiling jetty, and hold it for as long as we need to fill our tanks with fuel. Roughly for an hour from the time the oil starts flowing.” That would be CPO Beamish’s department, getting the oil in. Beamish would land with the assault party on the main quay. Nick went on, “While we’re doing it—well, look, here’s the town and harbour. This is our approach, up Namsenfjord. In this headland here, which is three thousand yards from the quay we’ll be at, is a little cove, with a point called—?”

  Torp supplied the name: “Merraneset.”

  Kari said yes, she knew it, of course.

  “That’s where you wait, with Valkyrien. This ship will be the way out, the escape ship in case Intent should get sunk or stuck there. We’re borrowing your two motor skiffs, and we’re also going to ask Knut Lange if he’ll join us with his boat. If Intent has to be abandoned we’ll blow her up and the survivors will escape by the boats to Valkyrien.”

  Torp added, “It would be for you then to take her out and maybe sail her to Scotland. I’ll give you a course to steer. The Royal Navy would perhaps find you before you had gone so far.”

  She asked him, “You will be in the destroyer?”

  “Sure. As pilot. We do all this in the dark, you see.”

  “Who will be with me in Valkyrien?”

  “Martinsen on the engine, and Kristiansen and Rolf Skaug on deck. Perhaps also young Einar.”

  “The old ones and the baby.”

  “Exactly. Also any others who do not wish to volunteer. Maybe some of Knut’s crew—it depends.”

  “Volunteer for what?”

  “Halvard Boyensen will remain in the destroyer, because they have no engineers. Others—well, you see, Commander Everard’s plan is to put ashore two parties of men with rifles and Thompson sub-machine-guns, one on the half-built quay and the other on the most western timber jetty. From there they will cover the approach to the oiling quay also, and maybe derail a railway truck at the inshore end. But the ship’s guns will also be used, so for landing-parties we must give more men.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “More beans?”

  “No, thank you.” He told her, “We’ll be tying up loose ends this afternoon. When it’s all settled I’ll give you some details on paper. Signals, for instance. We’ll use Very lights, red and green, to tell you when we’ve finished and are casting off—so you can then up-anchor and start out— or if things ar
e going wrong and the boats are coming to you. That sort of stuff.”

  “I am in charge of Valkyrien while you are doing these things?”

  “Yes. Your father thinks you’d be better at it than any of his other people.”

  “All right.”

  Extraordinary. As cool as if she’d been asked to take the history class this afternoon. Nick would have liked to have got up, walked around to that side of the table, and kissed her. He had a positive feeling, suddenly, that he was going to end up kissing her in any case; and it wasn’t because she’d volunteered so readily. He looked at Claus Torp. “You’ve got quite a girl here.”

  “Well.” Torp shrugged. “We’ll see how she makes out.”

  Kari said, ignoring her father, “I am sorry there is no pudding now. Only these.” Pointing at a bowl of apples. Torp pushed his swivel chair around and got up. “Boyensen will be eating lunch now. I will ask him how is the repair progressing.”

  “Take an apple with you?”

  She’d tossed one to him. Nick declined. The door shut behind Torp, and Kari began to peel her own, concentrating on it as if she was alone and engaged on some particularly intricate task.

  “You’re terrific, Kari.”

  She didn’t look up. “I am glad you should think so.”

  “I’m looking forward to taking you to those theatres.”

  “You must make sure your raid is successful, then.” She was trying to keep the lengthening strip of peel unbroken. “It’s going to be very dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “It might be, but it might turn out to be easier than we expect. Depends on a lot of things. How old are you, Kari?”

  “Twenty-seven.” Munching apple. “You?”

  “Forty-three.”

  Mental arithmetic going on. Sixteen years was the answer, and it was an uncomfortably high figure, he thought. But Fiona Gascoyne was only four years older, at thirty-one, and she didn’t seem to regard him as decrepit, exactly.

  “You don’t look as much. I’d have guessed thirty-eight, at very most forty.”

  “Call it thirty-eight, then there are only eleven years between us.”

  “Okay.” At least she was looking at him now. “Why are you not married?”

  “I was. I was divorced quite some while ago. My former wife lives in the United States and has an American husband now.”

  “Did you have children?”

  “One son. He’s nineteen, and he’s at sea. Up off Narvik somewhere, to be precise.”

  “In a—” her apple-hand moved in the direction of Valkyrien’s port side, where Intent was—”destroyer?”

  “Yes. One called Hoste. She’s one of a flotilla that was in action at Narvik very early this morning. They sank a lot of German ships, but two of our destroyers were lost in the process.” Kari had stopped chewing: she was watching him intently. He’d already noticed that she was quick on the uptake. He told her, “The news bulletin didn’t mention which ships. But—”

  He’d stopped because he’d felt her hand on his. She’d leant forward, reached to him across the table.

  “I’m so sorry. Of course you are worrying now. But he’ll be all right, you’ll see. It will not have been his ship that—”

  “Ah-hah!”

  Torp, in the doorway of the saloon, was wagging a finger at them.

  “You hold hands, eh? This is what’s happening when my back is turned?”

  Kari had neither withdrawn her hand nor looked round. She told Nick, “Your son will be all right. I’m sure he will.”

  It would have been wonderful to have been able to take her word for it. She truly, genuinely wanted him to: he could see it, feel it. She may even have believed it herself: or been determined to, as if by creating that certainty in herself and for him she could make it so.

  “Son, did she say?”

  He looked up at Torp. “He’s in one of the destroyers in that flotilla up at Narvik. The action we talked about this morning.”

  “I see.”The Norwegian crossed two sausage-sized fingers. “That is for him. For—what is his name?” Nick told him. Torp repeated it: “Paul. Good luck to Paul.” He swung a chair round and let himself down on to it. “Boyensen says tomorrow noon.”

  Nick looked round at them: at Trench on his left, Henry Brocklehurst beyond Trench, Claus Torp at the end of the table, and Pete Chandler on the right.

  “That’s the picture, then. Summing it up, the timetable will be as follows.” He glanced at his notes. “Intent will weigh at 2300 tomorrow and proceed at 6 knots with Valkyrien following close astern and with both motor skiffs on our davits and turned out ready for lowering. We may also have the blue fishing-boat in company. At 0100/12th we’ll be off Merraneset, where Valkyrien will be detached to remain hidden in that cove. The skiffs will be manned at this point, and Intent will increase to 20 knots for the last one-and-a-half miles to the target area. At 0105 we will stop engines, lower the skiffs and slip them, and they will proceed to points A and B as shown on that sketch, land their parties, and remain with them in case resistance is such that either or both have to evacuate. Alternatively to bring off any wounded men or messages. The fishing-boat, if we have it, will remain alongside—port side, as we’ll be starboard side to the wall—and will be employed as circumstances dictate. ‘H’ hour, for the skiffs’ arrival at A and B and Intent’s at the oiling berth, will be 0110. Allowing for berthing and connecting up and roughly an hour’s fuelling, I would hope to have recalled the landing-parties and be casting off by 0230 … Are there any questions, now?”

  Trench nodded. “You say telephone lines out of Namsos are going to be cut, sir?”

  “At 0100, we hope. Commander Torp is going ashore later this afternoon to make arrangements for it. Which reminds me, Number One— Mr Opie is to provide two one-and-a-quarter-pound fitted charges and a good length of Bickfords and some igniters—and a pair of pliers, while he’s at it. As soon as this meeting’s over.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Brocklehurst suggested, “Might it not be as well to blast any shore guns we can see as soon as we do see ‘em, before we get alongside, sir?”

  “If they open fire on us, yes. Otherwise I’d rather we took them with our assault party, fairly quietly and without waking up the whole town and garrison.”

  Tommy Trench was going to lead the assault on the oiling quay. He’d have a dozen men with him. Two of the twelve would constitute CPO Beamish’s personal bodyguard until he was back on board with the fuel-hose connected.

  “Do you think there’s a chance of keeping it all that quiet, sir?”

  Brocklehurst again. Nick admitted, “Not of keeping it quiet. But with a bit of luck we might get the oil flowing before the opposition becomes too obstreperous. And they might not realise, then, what we’re doing.”

  “You mean it may not occur to them that we’re fuelling.”

  “Exactly. They’re pongoes, after all.”

  Everybody laughed. Nick looked at Chandler. The navigator said,”Since we have a highly experienced pilot, sir—” he bowed towards Torp—”I don’t think I’ve any navigational problems at all. But the plan for the withdrawal does bother me a little. If we’re intending to pick up Valkyrien and take her with us—” Nick shook his head. Chandler, who hadn’t been looking at him, didn’t see it. Torp did though, and raised his eyebrows, staring at him down the length of the table. Chandler was saying, “—her best speed being 6 knots, if we cast off at your estimated time of 0230, sir, we shouldn’t be out of Namsenfjord until something like 0700. As we’ll have kicked up quite a rumpus by then it seems to me that such a leisurely withdrawal would be asking for the sort of trouble we can’t easily handle. Aircraft attacks, for instance. Even if the telephones are out of action we’ve no way to stop them screaming for help by wireless.”

  “Well.” Nick made a note. “Perhaps we have … But—you’re right, of course, there’s no question of withdrawing at 6 knots. It’s a point which I and Commander Torp haven’t gone
into yet—although I do have a proposal for him.”

  Torp stirred. “What is it?”

  “Valkyrien will be there in case we fail. If we succeed, she then has no function to perform. We embark everyone from her, and the last man out opens her seacocks.”

  “Scuttle?”

  “If we don’t, it’s odds-on the Germans will. And Intent with her.”

  “No.” Torp’s face looked as if it had turned to wood. “I am glad to accept your command, sir, but—no. I don’t sink my ship.”

  Nick had expected trouble on this issue. It was something for him and Torp to settle on their own.

  “I understand your reluctance, Commander. Perhaps we can talk about it after this meeting.”

  “Wait. I tell you what I can do.” Torp got up, came round to lean on the table between Chandler and Nick, pointing with a blunt forefinger at the chart. “Here we will be, off Merraneset. I will come here from shore not in your ship but in one of my skiffs. Or in Knut’s boat maybe. I and my own people will board Valkyrien. You in this ship can go at your own speed straight out Namsenfjord to the sea.” He put a hand on Chandler’s shoulder. “There are no dangers if you keep your eyes open. Fifteen miles—even at 15 knots you are out in the open sea at maybe 0330, with darkness for one more hour. Not bad?”

  “Not bad for us. But—”

  “I take Valkyrien this way. Up Lokkaren, Surviksundet, Lauvoyfjord, Rodsundet, or Seierstadfjorden. The Germans will be hunting after you and this way, not for some old yacht up here.”

  “How long will it take you to get clear?”

  “Three, four hours. From Flottra then I steer west, 5 knots. Departure Flottra 0630. When you signal your people you tell them this and they can send a few battleships for escorting me, huh?”

  “Of course. The entire Home Fleet.”

  But seriously—he might get away with it. Nick still had one reservation. He told Chandler, “Pilot, when we break this up, ask the PO Tel to come and see me, would you. I want to talk about jamming any German transmissions while we’re alongside. That was a useful point you made.” He looked across at the GCO: “Once the shooting starts, we may want to use some starshell. Have one gun lined up for it, with starshell in its ready-use racks.”