Nick was thinking as he crossed the plank to Valkyrien that his feeling of relief at Lange’s arrival might have been a trifle premature. There was no knowing what the Norwegian was about to tell them. It might be bloody awful. And even if the fjords were empty, there was still a tricky operation ahead of him at Namsos.
Torp came out of his deckhouse chewing, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. The same hand went to push his beat-up cap back to a more comfortable angle. He nodded to Nick, still chewing. “About times, he’s coming, eh?” Kari came out behind him, and went aft without acknowledging Nick’s presence. She’d been reserved in her manner with him all day, and he’d decided against issuing any supper invitations. She was cross with him for not having joined them in the wardroom last night, he supposed: which was silly, and also proof that he’d been wise in not going along.
Sooner or later, he thought, one annoyed them all, one way or another. He hadn’t annoyed Fiona yet, though. Perhaps by not giving a damn she was annoyance-proof?
The blue boat was curving round, angling to run in alongside. A Norwegian—the young one, Einar—was hauling the skiff farther for’ard to make room for Lange. Kari appeared suddenly at Nick’s side: “We have coffee still hot if you would like some.”
“No thank you, Kari. Kind thought, though.” Peace-offering? When she smiled she was really breathtaking. And she was calmly prepared to sail this ancient heap six hundred miles, with two old men and a boy for crew … He had a quick, imaginative vision of Fiona faced with any such suggestion, her huge eyes widening as she uttered a characteristic squawk: “My dear sweet man, you must be stark, staring bonkers!” Smiling at the mental picture—Kari meeting the smile and taking it as meant for her, smiling back: an unexpected dividend … Lange’s screws were going astern to take the way off his boat: stopped now, the stream of turbulence between the two wooden hulls quietening as crewmen fore and aft tossed lines to Norwegians on Valkyrien.
Lange hauled himself out of the doorway in the side of his wheel-house, and began to yell at Torp. After a dozen words, Kari turned, glanced back at Nick. He thought she looked startled.
“What’s he saying?”
She shook her head: still listening. The singsong recitation might have been going on forever. Then it ended: Torp had swung round, seen Nick, and he was coming over to him.
“You like good news first, or bad?”
“All of it, and for God’s sake let’s not waste time.”
“Okay. In Altbotn is still one U-boat, one destroyer. The U-boat has a big hatch open and the destroyer is lifting battery cells out with its torpedo davit. Maybe smashed battery—bad trouble for a submarine, huh?”
It would make sense. They’d need a surface like a pond’s, and that was what they’d found.
“Other side, by Saltkjelvika, is now two destroyers.”
Two where there had been one, and all three accounted for now. He’d guessed right. And his way out would be via Namsenfjord. With a brief call perhaps at Altbotn.
Torp was grinning at him. “Now some good news. In Rodsundet is not only the two destroyers. The one that came brought with it an oil tanker and this has anchored too. Big ship—maybe fifteen, sixteen thousand ton.”
Kari interrupted: “But with two destroyers—”
“Wait.” Nick put up a hand to silence her. If there’d been ten destroyers that oiler would still have attracted him. But two was acceptable. And no need to raid Namsos. If he took them by surprise: which, coming from inside the fjords, ought surely to be possible …
His mind had a picture of that side of it. A snapshot: he’d need to study it closely to extract detail but it was there, complete. The other side—Altbotn—that destroyer would have to be dealt with too. Oiling would take an hour, after the tanker was captured, and there’d have been some bangs by that time. Altbotn was less than two miles from the Saltkjelvika anchorage, over that neck of land, and the destroyer would have time to get out and meet Intent and the tanker outside, or even to get right round and catch them still alongside, oiling. The U-boat was probably no danger, but the destroyer was.
It could be done. He’d been on his mental toes, keyed up, and everything was whirring and meshing now. It would have to: in the next 45 minutes there was a hell of a lot of ground to cover.
“Number One—have the rifles taken out of that skiff. Claus, go ashore, please, cancel previous arrangements and get back here as soon as possible.”
“Very well.”
“Then bring Lange down to my cabin with you. Listen—” he’d stopped the Norwegian as he moved towards the skiff—”I’m going to need your ship and his boat and all your crews, we move out of here at 2300, and you and your people will accept the dispositions I’m about to make. Right?”
“We going to take the tanker?”
“Yes. But we have to eliminate the ships in Altbotn too, so we’ve got to be in three places at once.”
Torp threw a glance at Kari, then looked back at Nick. “Okay. Any way you say.” As he climbed over and down to the skiff he called something out to Lange, and the fisherman laughed, glancing round and up at Nick. Nick asked him, “Okay?” and Lange laughed again, raised a thumb: “Hokay!” He had already, when he’d been back here at midday, told Torp that his boat and crew were at Nick’s disposal for as long as Intent was in the fjords. He didn’t want to leave Norway but he’d help out now and he’d join in again when any other British force arrived, he’d said. Kari and he were yelling at each other now, and the other Norwegians were gathering round to listen, while Einar climbed down to join Torp in the skiff.
Nick went over the brow. Ideas developing. Intent’s ship’s company were grouped around in fair numbers, ears flapping for the buzz.
“Mr Opie here?”
“Here, sir.” The gunner came from aft; he had a Torpedo Log and Progress Book under his arm. Opie had rather the shape of a praying mantis: skinny, stooped. Eyes so sharp and small that they were like skewers stabbing at you.
“Mr Opie, I want two depthcharges provided, with wire slings so they can be slung over the stern either of Valkyrien or the fishing-boat. I’ll let you know in a minute which one. Also, I want two volunteer torpe-domen—one of ‘em had better be a killick—to go along with them.”
Opie said, “I’ll take charge of that party, sir.”
“No, I want you with us. The pair who do go will have to sprint a distance of roughly a mile and a half, possibly being shot at. They’re to be warned it’ll be a fairly chancy operation. Bloody dangerous, in fact. And I want to see them before we shove off.”
Opie nodded, pulling at his nose. It didn’t need any stretching. He must have known he wasn’t a man to sprint a hundred yards, let alone three thousand. He said, “We’ll start getting the gear up, sir.”
Nick looked round at Trench. “Tommy—you, Brocklehurst, and Chandler—in my cabin, now. Chandler’s to bring the chart of the fjords with him.”
He didn’t need the chart to work out the next bit, though. He’d checked over the various distances so often that he had them in his head. From here to Altbotn: just under ten miles. From here to the anchorage at Saltkjelvika: about seventeen. Lange’s boat would be the most suitable for Altbotn. So Valkyrien should come the other way with Intent. Sailing at 11 pm, 2300, and making good 5 knots—her top speed was six, but it was a rising tide and therefore an inflowing stream—three and a half hours in transit meant that the earliest time for zero hour would be 0230. Then an hour and a half for the fracas and the oiling would make it 0400. Dawn, near enough, no darkness left for the withdrawal. No bloody use!
Valkyrien would have to do the job in Altbotn. She wasn’t as good for it as the fishing-boat would have been, and Torp, who would obviously insist on participating in that expedition, hadn’t the youth or athleticism it was going to call for. But—no option … He was in the doorway of his cabin, having thought this out on the way down. Seymour was emerging from the pantry. Nick told him, “Shin up top, would you, a
sk Mr Opie to spare me a moment.” Seymour and Pete Chandler collided as the navigator came plunging off the ladder into the flat carrying the chart and instruments. Brocklehurst was with him and, dwarfing the GCO from the rear, Tommy Trench, herding them along. Trench said, “I’ve left Lyte on the bridge, sir. Had to leave the foc’sl to Cox. But he’s got PO Granger to keep him on the straight and narrow.”
They’d still be shortening-in the cable. And they could shorten it a bit more, now. Mr Opie followed his nose into the cabin, rapping on the door-jamb as he entered. “Sir?”
“Your charges are to be slung over Valkyrien’s counter. With that cutaway stern you’ll find it easy enough. You can use our starboard thrower davit to get them over. Haul Valkyrien for’ard a few yards if you need to. Wire slings, Mr Opie, a separate sling for each charge, and a slip on each of them which your torpedomen can knock off quickly and easily. They may be doing it under fire so it must be simple and if possible under cover. Leave the charges set to safe until just before she sails—you can arm them either by hanging over the side or from the skiff. I want shallow settings on the pistols … Is that all clear?”
Opie nodded. “Volunteers are Leading Torpedoman Crouch and Torpedoman Surtees, sir.”
“Can they both run?”
“Like bloody riggers, sir. That’s why I picked ‘em.”
“Picked them?”
“The whole lot volunteered, sir.”
It didn’t surprise him. If you told matelots an operation was going to be dangerous they all rushed for it. Before the Zeebrugge raid the recruiters had had practically to beat men off with sticks. He told Opie, “They’re to be issued with Tommy guns. Three drums of ammo per gun. Tell the GM, and that he’s to see both men know how to use the things. You’ve got half an hour to be ready, Mr Opie, so you’d better slap it about a bit.”
He turned back into the cabin. Chandler had the chart spread out. Eighteen minutes past ten. He’d been right about those distances, and there was no option as to which of his ragbag squadron did which job. Torp wasn’t going to like Valkyrien being treated as expendable. He’d have a counter-proposal: Nick could foresee it and he was ready to rule it out. He dropped the dividers on the chart, and told his officers, “Two separate forces. One is Valkyrien, the other Intent with the fishing-boat. Valkyrien as you heard is being equipped with depthcharges slung under her counter and set shallow; she’ll drop them under the destroyer and the U-boat who are alongside each other in Altbotn. Here. Torp will no doubt insist on commanding her. He’ll need one engine-room hand and one other crewman, Norwegians, and we are providing two torpedomen for the charges. Valkyrien should slip and proceed at 2255. That is, in 36 minutes’ time. At 5 knots she can easily reach Altbotn and her target by 0100, which is zero hour. You can check exact timings in a minute, Pilot. Now—Tommy. The fishing-boat—for short let’s call it ‘Blueboat’—is to be fitted with our own blue stern cluster. Send an LTO over to wire it up. Blueboat will be crewed by Lange and as many of his own men as he needs, and you, Tommy, will go in her to lead the boarding party and perhaps thereafter command the oiler. We shan’t just oil from her, you understand, we’ll take her with us. Command of her depends on Torp: I’ll offer him the job, otherwise it’s yours.”
If Torp got there, after the Altbotn operation, he’d obviously accept that offer. He’d be the best man for it, it would be a good use of his Norwegians, Nick would get his first lieutenant back, and everyone would be happy. The doubt was whether Torp would get there, after his action on the other side.
Nick told Trench, “Pick twelve men for your boarding party. I’ll take at least some of them back from you when we’re alongside the oiler later on. As well as the twelve you pick you can have all the surplus Norwegians—around ten of them, probably. Then if Torp assumes command of the oiler he’ll have his own chaps as crew. But add a leading stoker to your party, to be ready to work with Beamish when we get alongside. Rifles, bayonets, revolvers—and there’s one Tommy gun left— help yourself. You’ll need a signalman and he’d better take an Aldis and a pair of semaphore flags with him. And I suppose one telegraphist … And they’ll stay aboard. But look here, we’ll be fighting an action, so for God’s sake pick your men in a way that won’t cripple us in any one department. It’s up to you, because we won’t have time to consult on it. Take young Cox with you?”
Trench nodded. “Good idea, sir.”
“Lyte can do your jobs—all from the bridge. Torpedo control is going to be important. Is he competent?”
“He is, sir. But I’ll have a word with him.”
Lyte was Trench’s action understudy anyway, so he ought to know the job. If things went as they should they’d have sitting targets anyway. Nick went on, pointing out the route on the chart with the tips of the dividers, “We sail at 2300 and follow Blueboat at 10 knots through Sundsråsa, over to Lokkaren and up through it, then round this corner into Surviksundet and through into Lauvoyfjord. I think you’ll find, Pilot, that about here—” his pointer stopped on Lauvoy Island, just inside that much wider fjord—”we can reduce by a knot or two, provided we’re on schedule. I want to get over to this western coast then and hug it right into the anchorage. In case anyone didn’t get the buzz, by the way, the anchorage currently holds two Hun destroyers and one tanker of roughly fifteen thousand tons.”
Henry Brocklehurst raised his eyebrows. “Ah-hah.”
“Sorry. As we’re a bit rushed I may be missing other points here or there. Stop me if anyone sees any gaps … As I said, Pilot, you can work out precise speeds on the various stages, and when Torp’s back we’ll go over it all with him and Lange. No point bothering Lange on his own, because he doesn’t understand English. But his chaps know just how and where the oiler and the destroyers are lying, and we’ll get that out of them. What’s essential is that everything should happen simultaneously, at 0100: Valkyrien’s charges explode here in Altbotn, Blueboat puts you and your party into the oiler, Tommy, and I hit the destroyers with torpedoes. Approaches will be dead quiet, slow and not a chink of light. As soon as I’ve fixed the destroyers I’ll berth on the oiler—which will be yours, let’s hope, by that time. If not, we’ll board and give you some help.”
“Fair enough, sir.” Trench nodded. “What about Hun prisoners? Lock ‘em up?”
Nick rubbed his jaw. “Ship that size could have a crew of—Lord, forty or fifty. Take a lot of guarding, and we’re short-handed enough already.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we can bother with prisoners.”
They were all looking at him. Wondering whether that was all the guidance they were going to get. He pointed at the anchorage, the coast near Saltkjelvika.
“Not a very long swim. Couple of hundred yards, in sheltered water?”
“Ah.” Trench nodded. “If any of ‘em say they can’t swim, I’ll put ‘em in the forepeak or some hold that’s easy to guard.”
“I’m sure there won’t be time to give lessons.” Brocklehurst’s contribution raised a laugh. Nick said, “Final point: having put our boarders into the oiler, Blueboat will go inshore—about here, but Lange and Torp can fix the spot—to wait for and then embark the party from Valkyrien. They’ll have beached her somewhere about here—” the south-eastern shore of Altbotn, he was indicating—”and then legged it overland to the beach where Blueboat will be waiting.”
Contours on the chart showed high ground to the north and the south of that overland route. It was a valley of sorts and a road ran through it, so presumably it wouldn’t be too much of a problem for young, fit men.
He saw Trench glance up: turning, he found Torp in the cabin’s doorway. Age fifty-one, and carrying a little weight. Not too clearly one of the “young and fit” brigade. But if he insisted on staying with his ship— which he would …
“All right ashore, Commander?”
“They are disappointed. Here is Knut Lange.”
“Come in.” Nick looked at Trench. “Better get cracking. Pick your men and arm them, that
’s the first thing.” He told Brocklehurst, “You can help him. Get an LTO over to Blueboat with the cluster, to start with. And fill Lyte in on what I’ve been telling you. As far as gunnery’s concerned, I can’t spell out what’ll happen at zero hour, except that I want to hit with torpedoes first. Just have everything on the top line, right?” The GCO nodded. Nick added, “You can organise your department when we’re under way. All right, off you go …”
Chandler was bent over the chart, working out speeds and courses. He asked Nick, “We’ll have Blueboat to follow but we’ll have no pilot actually on board, sir?”
“Well.” Nick beckoned the Norwegians to come closer to the chart. “We’ll have Commander Torp’s daughter with us. I gather she knows these fjords as well as he does.”
Ten twenty-eight.
Ten thirty-one …
Kari had joined them in the day-cabin. Torp asked Nick, “Why my Valkyrien? Why not his boat?”
Nick explained: because Valkyrien couldn’t make the distance to Rodsundet and leave them enough hours of darkness to get away before the Stukas came. He’d have preferred it the other way round; the faster, smaller craft would have been more suitable for the dash across Altbotn, and Valkyrien’s height in the water would have suited the boarding operation better. If the oiler didn’t have a gangway or a ladder over her side it might present a problem—an iron wall towering above the boat and no way to scale it. In that event they’d have to wait until Intent came alongside. This wasn’t a good solution, though, because the tanker’s crew would have seen the attack on the destroyers and they’d be ready to repel boarders. One wanted them, if possible, to be sound asleep in their bunks.
Kari was acting as interpreter. Lange mumbled at her, snatched up a signal pad and took Chandler’s pencil out of his hand, began to make a sketch. It turned out that he was saying the tanker was a modern ship and very low in comparison to her length. She had a high bridge section amidships and more superstructure aft where the funnel was, but between those two areas of superstructure she had an exceptionally low freeboard. Men could board from the top of the fishing-boat’s wheel-house, and Lange would take some planks to put across.
Storm Force to Narvik: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 1 Page 23