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

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Very good.” His eyes were glued to that blue gleam. This was as close to Namsos as they’d come.

  “Port five.”

  Lange had begun the turn that would take him round into Lokkaren: Nick had seen the light shift away leftwards.

  “Midships.”

  “That rock is slightly before the beam, sir.”

  “Very good.”They were rock-climbing … He stopped again. “Port five.”

  The sense of being behind the enemy’s lines: silence and darkness emphasised it, that and the knowledge that in a very short time he’d be creeping up on enemy ships which lay meanwhile in sleepy ignorance of his existence. There was a kind of tight-nerved satisfaction in it: just being here, armed and ready and on the verge of action—and unseen, unsuspected … He’d felt it before, more than once, but not for—well, twenty years. There was a kind of poacher’s thrill about it. That night off the Belgian coast in 1917, for instance, in a CMB—the modern development of which were called MTBs—en route to snatch some prisoners out of a guard trawler known to the Dover Patrol as “Weary Willie”…

  “Midships.” They’d be past that rock by now.

  “Midships …Wheel’s amidships, sir!”

  “Ship’s head now, and the course up here, Pilot?”

  “Course should be oh-one-five, sir. Ship’s head—oh-one-eight.”

  Nick didn’t want to look at the compass, if he could avoid it, for the sake of his night vision. He told Jarratt, “Steer oh-one-six.”

  “Steer oh-one-six, sir.”

  Chandler informed him, “After a mile and a quarter there’s foul ground to starboard, sir, so he’ll probably ease over. After that he’ll have to come back much more—about ten degrees—to starboard for the slight dogleg through the narrowest part.”

  “All right.” Chandler had courses, times, and distances in his brown-covered navigator’s notebook, and a pencil torch so that when he squatted down near the base of the binnacle he could use it inside his coat. For all his stuffiness, Pete Chandler made a useful navigator. And the stuffiness might wear off, as he gradually changed from city gent to destroyer man.

  “Steer one degree to port.”

  “One degree to port, sir!”

  “Up five revolutions.”

  “Up five revolutions, sir. Course oh-one-five, sir. One-four-oh revolutions passed and repeated, sir.”

  It was the feeling of stealth as well as the surrounding quiet that made one talk quietly. As if voices might be heard ashore, or in the next fjord … The Germans in Namsos were lucky. A few of them would have died tonight. Perhaps quite a lot of them. But none of ours, please God … If this trick could be pulled off without casualties—catch them with their pants so far down that only Germans got hurt—that would be something!

  Torp and the others, plugging down Namsenfjord at this moment: for all five of them to return would be a bit much to hope for. One did still hope, though … Crouch had grinned, and said, “We’ll see ‘im right, sir, don’t worry!” and Surtees had confirmed, “We’ll ’elp the geezer out, sir.”

  Geezer … How would one explain that term, to a Norwegian? Literally it meant “old woman.” One could hardly imagine anyone less womanish than Claus Torp.

  The blue spot was moving left, and he bent quickly to the voicepipe. “Steer three degrees to port.”

  “Three degrees to port, sir!”

  “Your foul ground coming up, Pilot.” Lights in cottages on the coast to starboard. It felt like picking one’s way through people’s back gardens. Kari said, “There are shallows and a small island, and half a mile higher there is a ferry crossing.”

  “Not crossing now, let’s hope.”

  “I think it won’t be operating at night.”

  “Course one-oh-two, sir.”

  “Time?”

  “Five minutes past midnight, sir.”

  “How wide is the narrowest bit of this creek, Kari?”

  “About—hundred and fifty metres. Higher up. And before it there is a shoal, right in the middle. What is your ship’s draught?”

  “Twelve-foot six. What’s over the shoal?”

  “Sixteen, but—”

  More, with a rising tide.

  “He’ll lead us round it, I imagine, sir. Course will still be about oh-one-five. I mean after we’ve cleared this stuff to starboard.”

  “Yes, I think so.” Kari added, “This would be easy if the lights were burning.”

  “Steer two degrees to starboard.” Nick straightened from the voice-pipe. “Except they’d only be burning if your invaders had taken charge of them. Pilot, ship’s head now?”

  “Oh-one-five—”

  “Steer oh-one-five, cox’n.”

  Lyte reported, “Spar buoy to starboard, sir. Green four-oh, fifty yards.”

  “It marks the edge of the bad part. Knut will be going to the left of the shoal now. You can make out the high land on your port bow, I think?”

  “Yes …” There’d be no more than a fifty-yard gap between the shoal and that steep coastline. Without Lange to follow, this would have been a tricky passage to negotiate. Except that Kari could have brought them through … A few minutes later, the high ground to port was so close it seemed you could have leant out from the bridge and touched it. Only for a minute: then the blue glimmer was sliding to the right.

  “Starboard five.”

  “Starboard five, sir … Five of starboard wheel on, sir.”

  Jarratt wouldn’t be seeing much, if anything, through his wheelhouse window. He certainly wouldn’t see the faint blue glow through sea-misted glass. “Midships.”

  “Midships, sir!”

  “Meet her.”

  “Meet her, sir …”

  “Steady!”

  “Steady—oh-two-seven, sir!”

  “Steer oh-two-eight.”

  There’d be a gradual widening now, up to the top of the fjordlet. He asked Chandler, “Time?”

  “Twelve minutes past, sir.”

  Forty-eight minutes to zero hour. In that time they had to get around the corner into Surviksundet and through that stretch into Lauvoyfjord and across it to Rodsundet. It seemed like a lot of ground to cover when he pictured the chart in his mind, but it was probably a bit under seven miles.

  “Course oh-two-eight, sir.”

  “Very good. This is a fiddly business, cox’n.”

  “Seems like it, sir.”

  Blue light dead ahead, and distance just about the same. The cottages with lit windows to starboard were right by the fjord’s edge, a few of them, and the lights were reflected on the dead-flat water. Would Norwegians there be watching them pass? Taking them for Germans?

  Kari asked him quietly, “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “I don’t wish to spoil your concentration.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Will we hear when they explode the depthcharges?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  What one hoped not to hear from that direction would be the sound of German guns. Valkyrien wouldn’t stand up to five-inch shells. One had to hope for confusion, the enemy not knowing what had hit them or where from. If they could smash his searchlight …

  Kari murmured, “So we will know they have got that far.”

  Nick was adjusting the course to oh-two-seven, since Lange had drifted off slightly left; he told Kari without taking his eyes off the light, “We’ll be busy too by then. I’ll want you to be down below.”

  “Oh, but please—”

  “There’s no question of your remaining on the bridge.”

  Silence. Except familiar rattles, the steady thrumming of the engines, hoarsely sucking fans. Blue light edging left again: he called down to Jarratt, “Steer oh-two-five.”

  Cutting this corner now. Kari asked him, “May I go in your chart-room, so I can listen to what happens?”

  “Yes, you may.” She was a terrific girl, he thought. Torp had done a good job in the upbringi
ng of his daughter. He asked her, “Any hazards in this next bit?”

  “Not in Surviksundet, down the centre. The only shoal is at the other end and it is ten metres, so it won’t bother you.”

  Chandler muttered, binoculars at his eyes, “He’s going round, sir.”

  “Port five.”

  Round and into Surviksundet. About three miles of it, with a width of four to five hundred yards all the way through. Three miles at 12 knots—fifteen minutes. Straightening his ship’s course into it after a spell of drastic Knut-type corner-cutting, he thought, After this there’s only Lauvoyfjord …

  He wanted to be razor-sharp now. Had to be. Eight years pottering about with farm-hands and foresters had had a blunting effect, he suspected. The mind rested, took its time. He hoped he’d sloughed the landsman’s skin.

  “Up five revolutions.”

  “Up five revolutions, sir … One-four-five revolutions passed and repeated, sir.”

  He asked Chandler, “Are we up to schedule?”

  “Just about, sir. We can check it and adjust speed as necessary at Lauvoy Island. But I think—”

  “Yes, all right.”

  In other words, Don’t waffle …

  “One mile into Lauvoyfjord—” Kari’s voice beside him—”before we come to the island, there is a one-fathom shoal with a marker-buoy on it. I think Knut will leave it close to port.”

  “Right.”

  After this—when, touch wood, he’d filled Intent’s sound tanks and had possession of the oiler—what next? It was bad luck to count chickens, but one had to think ahead and be ready with the answers. It wouldn’t be so long, if all went well, before he was alongside the oiler, with Torp or Trench wanting orders.

  Head north, towards Vestfjord?

  “Steer two degrees to port.”

  “Steer two degrees to port, sir!”

  According to the signal they’d picked up, the one Whitworth had sent Penelope, Vestfjord was where the action was. And with a number of destroyers up there the tanker and her cargo would be welcome. So— all right, north. It had the additional advantage of being in the opposite direction to the Hun airfields. Head up towards Narvik—where the Second Flotilla’s action had been …

  “Port five.”

  “Port five, sir. Five o’ port wheel on, sir …”

  No need, when he made his signal, to mention leaking oil-tanks. After all, he’d have his own replenishments with him. If he reported the leaks they’d send him home. As long as this action left the ship in working order and with a few torpedoes left in her tubes, it would be justified. And they’d certainly want the oil up there. “Midships and meet her.”

  “Midships—meet her—”

  “Steady!”

  “Steady—two-eight-five, sir—”

  “Steer that.”

  Coming out of Surviksundet, entering Lauvoyfjord. Lyte reported from the front of the bridge, “Spar buoy fine on the port bow, sir.”

  “Ah. Kari’s shoal.”

  Chandler amplified, “Should be three cables south of the eastern end of the island, sir.”

  At 12:23 it was abeam, forty yards to port. Intent was on a course of 286 degrees. Chandler said, “We’re right on time, sir.”

  Thanks to Knut Lange’s short-cuts …Two minutes after they’d passed that marker, Lauvoy light structure was three cables’ lengths to starboard.

  Going like clockwork. Too good to last.

  “Blueboat’s going round, sir.”

  “Yes.” He put his face down to the voicepipe. “Starboard ten.” Then, straightening, “What’ll the course be now?”

  “Three-three-four, sir. And we ought to be coming down to eight—”

  “One hundred revolutions!”

  “Hundred revolutions, sir—”

  “Midships.”

  Getting closer now. And Lange had cut his boat’s speed too: in fact the light-cluster was brighter, they’d closed up on him a little. It was all right, though. “Steer three-three-four.”

  This course would take them up close to the western shore, the bulge of land where Lauvoyfjord ran into Rodsundet. The bulge was about one mile below the anchorage where the German ships were lying. The oiler was nearest and the destroyers were about two-thirds of a mile beyond her. All three were lying to single anchors—or had been, when last seen by Lange—and since high water would be at 0414 this morning the inward tidal flow would have them with their bows pointing north, down-fjord.

  At 12:50, when Intent would be only about one cable’s length—two hundred yards—offshore, she’d be continuing straight ahead while Lange’s boat sheered away to port to follow the coastline round the curve into the anchorage to get inshore of the tanker, in a position to board her over her port side. Intent would be passing about four hundred yards to seaward of her before turning in and closing the enemy destroyers.

  Low coastline to port, dimly visible because of its lower edging of white surf. The hills inland weren’t discernible even with binoculars.

  “Time?”

  “Quarter to the hour, sir.”

  He could hear the swell breaking along that coastline. He’d been too busy watching the blue light and the courses and speeds to have noticed until now the increasing motion on the ship. This northwester, mild as it was compared to the gale they’d had three days ago, would be blowing straight down Rodsundet and funnelling into Gyltefjorden as well, and they’d be feeling it more as they crept round the bulge.

  “Comin’ up to 0050, sir.”

  “Better go down, Kari.” He was watching the blue cluster, for it to disappear. At ten minutes to the hour, 0050, in the position they were reaching now, switching the light off would be Lange’s signal that he was branching away to port and would no longer serve as guide.

  “Has she gone down?”

  “She’s on her way, sir, yes. Cluster’s extinguished, sir!”

  The cold, hard rim of the voicepipe cracked his forehead as he stooped and overdid it. “Seven-oh revolutions.” He’d straightened. “Sub, for’ard tubes train to port, after tubes starboard. Stand by all tubes.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Give me the director telephone.” Chandler put it in his hand. He told Brocklehurst, “Have ‘B’ gun stand by with one round of starshell and train on red three-oh. Do not load yet.”

  Revs, speed and sound all falling away. The wind was whistling overhead, Intent pitching gently, waves slapping at her stem. He didn’t want to use starshell: he’d order it only if the targets couldn’t be seen without it.

  “Large ship at anchor red five-oh, sir!”

  Lyte had called it: and the for’ard port-side lookout was only a split second behind him. Brocklehurst’s voice came over the telephone: “Oiler bearing two-eight-oh, five hundred yards.”

  “Our targets should be to the north of her, right inshore.” He passed the telephone to Chandler. “Time?”

  “Fifty-six, sir.”

  “Tubes turned out and ready, sir.”

  Hope to God those bastards haven’t shifted …

  “Two destroyers to the right of the oiler—red three-five!”

  “Port ten.”

  “Director target!”

  “Steer three double-oh. Load all guns with SAP. Give me my glasses, Pilot. Time?”

  “Fifty-eight, sir.” Chandler passed the “load” order to the director tower. Nick called to Lyte, “Sub, tell Mr Opie I’ll turn to starboard in one minute and fire four torpedoes from the for’ard tubes. Can you see both destroyers?”

  Lyte had both targets in sight but slightly overlapping. He was talking to Opie now over the torpedo-control telephone. Nick had the enemy in his glasses. Beitzen class. Fine-looking ships. They wouldn’t look fine for long. After he’d made his turn to starboard they wouldn’t be overlapping much either, but they’d present one continuous line of target, which was what he’d planned for in this approach. He asked Chandler, “Time?”

  “Fifty-nine, sir.”

  �
��Starboard fifteen.” He was close enough to be sure of hitting, and swinging now to bring the tubes to bear. Checking the compass. From the west, a rattle of machine-gun fire. Too soon … Enemy bearing was two-eight-five. He called down, “Steer oh-one-five.”

  “Steer oh-one-five, sir!”

  That had been from the direction of Altbotn …

  “Sub—I want four carefully-aimed shots spread over both targets. Don’t rush—make sure of it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Lyte was hunched behind the sight. With stationary targets the only way he could miss would be if the torpedoes didn’t run straight. Which did happen, sometimes. From a westerly direction, shorewards, came a deep, muffled-sounding whumpf Then another. And on the heels of the twin explosions a rattling blare of machine-gun fire. Nick had his glasses on the dim shapes of the enemy destroyers. Silence now: but they’d be stirring, standing-to, alerted by Torp’s balloon having gone up a minute early. At any moment there’d be searchlights, starshell, a blaze of gunfire. Intent’s swing was slowing as she neared her firing course: with luck Lyte would get the fish away before the enemy woke up enough to—

  Searchlight: it flared into life, grew swiftly from the left-hand destroyer, its beam lengthening and at the same time scything round—to search the shore …

  Lyte snapped, “Fire one!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Coming through the bottleneck from Altfjord into Altbotn, Torp had brought his ship round so close to the point that he’d almost scraped her timbers on it. Then he’d still hugged the rocky shore. By making the most of its cover he’d aimed to have Valkyrien within five hundred yards of her target before the Germans had a chance of seeing her.

  He’d been outside the wheelhouse on the starboard side, at that stage, with Larsen inside at the wheel. Leading Torpedoman Crouch had been close behind him, and Billy Surtees behind Crouch. Surtees was tall and heavily built, a lot bigger than the wiry, curly-headed killick.

  Engine thumping like a pulse, a deep heartbeat banging through the old timbers. Knife-cold air: you had to narrow your eyes to slits to be able to look into it without them watering. Black night, with a light here and there in cottage or farmhouse windows. There was one in the curve of bay which they’d just passed, and it looked as if it must have been right down on the beach. Torp had taken her farther out to round that last point because it had some reef fringing it, a visible rock where the white swirled round it and a lot of other broken water. Now he had binoculars at his eyes and he was leaning with his left shoulder against the doorjamb of the wheelhouse; he had an ancient revolver stuck in his belt, a great heavy thing about a foot and a half long. Surtees had queried, eyeing it earlier on, “After elephant, are we?” Broken water again to starboard, Crouch saw. Torp lowered the glasses and turned to look at him, his eyes white and glary-looking in the dark. “Remember what we do?”