The Norwegian blinked at it. “Hokay.” His engines were turning over very slowly, just paddling the heavy boat up towards its goal.
“Hey, what’s—”
Trench said, “Machine-gun. Keep your voices down, everybody.” That gunfire had come from the Altbotn direction.
Metcalf grumbled, “Warming the blooming bell, sir?”
Translated, his comment was that Torp had launched his attack too soon. Then they heard the first depthcharge go off, a deep explosion like subterranean thunder. Trench watched the oiler, dreading that he might see what he now expected—alarm, lights, men rushing about. Practically holding his breath. Forewarned, a couple of men with rifles could make the boarding operation just about impossible. The second deep and distant whumpf came: he said evenly, quietly, “That’s both charges. So far so good.” His own voice in retrospect sounded as if he might be slightly bored: whereas in fact his heart was beating like a hammer. More machine-gun fire. Too damn soon … If those Huns weren’t stirred up by now it wouldn’t be old Torp’s fault. He saw a glow of light to the left of the oiler, silhouetting her vertical stem and the start of the long, low foc’sl; the glow had resolved itself into a swivelling searchlight beam from the destroyer anchorage. For a second or two the oiler was bathed in its light as it swept past, then it had gone round to poke at the beach and coastline of that farther bay. The lights in the houses ashore, Trench noticed, had all gone out. Heads under the bed-clothes too?
This boat hadn’t been illuminated at all by the searchlight: the oiler had shielded it completely. Which suggested that the inshore approach had been a wise choice. But surely they must wake up, realise something was going on?
Lange’s head came out, like a tortoise’s out of its shell. “Hokay?”
The oiler was dead ahead. To the right, the aftercastle with the funnel growing out of it and no lights showing in the cabin scuttles would contain crew’s quarters and galley. A few other things as well. To the left, the bridge superstructure with bridge, chartroom, captain’s and officers’ accommodation, W/T office … Between those two islands of superstructure was the low tank-top section with catwalks above it, where they were going to board. Trench pointed at that gap, roughly a hundred feet of it.
“There. Okay.”
Meaning, Let’s get there—quick, before the stupid bastards pull their fingers out …
“Sure!”
So Lange knew two English words … He wasn’t rushing, though. He’d shut the throttles back as far as they’d go, just about. Dead slow, sliding up towards an enemy who was either daft or unpleasantly alert and waiting to see the whites of the intruders’ eyes. Trench ran over some of the detail in his mind. Leading Telegraphist Rose would be taking care of the wireless, ensuring that no calls for help went out. Cox would be attending to the clearing of machinery spaces, then leaving guards on the access points and, with Metcalf, searching the rest of the lower compartments and placing more guards as might be necessary. You had to make sure no bloody-minded Hun could slip down to those bottom areas to open seacocks or place a charge. (Germans were scuttle-minded: witness Graf Spee, four months ago.) An LTO, electrician, had been detailed to locate the main switchboard and protect it against sabotage. All cabins had to be searched and firearms impounded, documents and codebooks in the chartroom and captain’s quarters or elsewhere kept safe from destruction.
If there was anyone up on that bridge, Trench thought, he or they might be fully occupied looking out over the bow, towards the destroyers and the searchlight business. With luck, they might … he heard a thump—overhead: saw it was starshell, white light spreading … Looking down again quickly, to spare his eyes. Ten yards to go. Too late for the starshell to make much odds, but if it had come five minutes earlier … Sea sloshing noisily, violently, between the boat and the tanker’s sheer black side. There were to be no lines put across: Lange would keep the boat alongside by its own power, holding it there until they’d all gone over.
“Stand by!”
He’d called the warning aft just loudly enough for the nearer men to hear and pass it on. Gunfire now from the Altbotn direction was something to be welcomed, to hold the Germans’ attention during the next few minutes. Trench was up on the timber canopy and so were Cox and Metcalf and the men who’d be first up behind them, including a killick who’d be taking care of the for’ard end of the ship. Men who’d come slightly later were manoeuvring the heavy planks ready for shoving them over. They wouldn’t be entirely steady gangways, with the boat’s rise and fall on this swell, but at least the oiler was giving them a lee. Another reason for boarding over this side.
Two Norwegians on the deck below this wheelhouse, several feet lower than Trench and others on its roof, were holding up the outboard ends of two planks, as high above their heads as they could reach. They’d launch them upwards and outwards as the boat touched alongside. They were the tallest of the Norwegians.
Three yards—two—one—
“Gangways over!”
The ends of the planks were still bouncing on the oiler’s side as Trench rushed over the left-hand one. Other men behind him and on the second plank, and two more bridges crashing over. Not a soul in sight. He was aboard, and no one had shot at him. He grabbed the rail of the catwalk which bridged across the tank-tops in a fore-an’-aft direction, hauled himself up on it, ran towards the door into the bridge superstructure: conscious of a whole rush of men behind him, all fast and no noisier than they needed to be. The door was heavy steel, shut and clipped, and he was dragging the clips off. Four, and it still wouldn’t open, but Cameron, the killick who was going to lead his party straight through this superstructure and out on to the for’ard section, located a fifth clip low down and heeled it off. The door swung open and they rushed inside, down a short passage, then right into athwartships passage where, amidships, a ladderway led upwards. Trench went up it. On the next level, cabin doors. Up to the next level with sailors close behind him and the sound of bayonets clicking on to rifles.
He burst into the bridge.
“Get your hands up!”
Three men whipped round to face him: face his revolver and two levelled rifles with bayonets on them. Signalman Lee hadn’t stopped, he’d gone straight through and out into the bridge wing, two other seamen following him. Of the three Germans here two were officers and one was a grey-haired petty officer: one of the officers, a short, stout man, had gold-leafing on the peak of his cap. Trench roared again,”Hands up!” The more junior officer complied. From for’ard came shouting and a single rifle-shot which seemed to have silenced it: Cameron doing his stuff. The PO lunged forward suddenly with some weapon raised above his head: Trench raised the pistol and his finger was tightening on its trigger when the man stopped dead with a bayonet-point about two inches from his throat. All he had in that lifted hand was a pair of binoculars. Now all three had their hands up.
“Captain?”
“Ja.” The short one with scrambled eggs on his hat nodded. “I am kapitan.” He clicked his heels. Too short and fat to be impressive. “Grossman. I protest—this is unarmed merchant vessel, in passage through neutral waters—”
“Rotten luck.” Trench nodded. “Just order your men to surrender, please.” The man stood staring at him, trying to look haughty. Trench added, “If they resist they’re quite likely to be shot … What’s this, Marsham?”
AB Marsham was prodding a youngster in from the starboard bridge wing, at the point of his bayonet. Some sort of cadet.
“Tryin’ to flash a message to the destroyers, sir. Caught ‘im in the act.”
The newcomer took his place with the others and raised his hands. The captain nodded. “You will not get away. You will see in one moment—”
A flash: huge, yellow, reaching from sea to cloud-level, and with it an explosion that shook the deck they were standing on. One destroyer done for: and all the Germans had swung round to look. Trench allowed it, as an exercise that might take the starch out of them. The
re was a mass of fire now, flames lighting the base of a pillar of black smoke. He’d only spared it a glance but his impression had been of a destroyer broken in two halves and one of them burning.
“Captain!”
He had the man’s attention again. “Will you order your crew to surrender, please?”
A second ringing crash and another leap of fire. No need to look, and the German captain evidently didn’t feel he had to either. Behind Trench, Leading Telegraphist Rose reported, “W/T office is locked up, sir. They didn’t get no signals out.”
“Well done, Rose. You’d better stay there for the time being, keep an eye on it.” He raised his gun a little, pointing it at the captain’s head. “Well?”
“You take us prisoners?”
“You and your officers, yes. Perhaps a few others. Most of your crew can go ashore.” He didn’t mention how they’d go ashore. Officers were to be held prisoner, Nick had decided, because as highly trained men they were better not returned to the German war machine. There might be some technicians who’d be rated similarly. Outside, a third explosion speared the night with flame, rattled the bridge windows. The German captain had shut his eyes and would probably have shut his ears too if he’d had the necessary equipment. He opened his eyes now, blinking, sad, hard-done-by, noble in defeat. He’d have been a real bastard in victory. He muttered, “I will do as you wish.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Leading Steward Seymour announced from the doorway, “Remainder of the officers, sir. Winkled ‘em out of their beddy-byes, sir.” They filed in, between two fixed bayonets and with Seymour’s right behind them—four men of differing ages, shapes, and sizes but all indignant, confused, frightened. They had coats or dressing-gowns over their pyjamas. Trench waved his pistol: “Over there, and keep your hands up. Stand in line so I can see each one of you. Captain, tell them that in German.” He saw a new arrival, an OD named Kelly.
“Sir, report from Leading Seaman Cameron. Forepeak is suitable for prisoners, room for a dozen or more. And I’m to tell you ‘e’s sent ‘is prisoners aft to where the other lot is, sir.”
“Thank you, Kelly. And casualties?”
“No, sir. Fired one shot over a bloke’s ‘ead, and ‘e turned all smarmy.”
“Fine. Seymour, what about the chartroom?”
“Williamson’s in there, sir. Nobody’s touched nothing, and there’s a safe that’s locked still.”
Williamson was the CW candidate who was going to become Pete Chandler’s tanky. Trench had detailed men and parties for these various jobs mainly during the blue boat’s passage through the fjords. It seemed to be working out all right. He looked at the captain again: “Your keys, please. Take them from him, Seymour.” And it was time for that broadcast.
But there was another interruption: a stoker, Ackroyd, from Cox’s detail. He reported, “From Mr Cox, sir: engine-room, boiler-room, generator room, shaft tunnel, and steering-gear compartment is all clear and secured with guards on upper access points, sir. Crew’s quarters likewise cleared, and search of other spaces is continuing. One German seaman killed, sir, and no resistance is now being offered. Main switchboard’s under guard and prisoners are being mustered on the upper deck right aft.”
“Very good, Ackroyd.” It was better than “very good,” he thought, it was bloody marvellous. “You’d better report back to Mr Cox, and tell him that if you or any other stokers can be spared now I’d like you to join Leading Stoker Evans on the oiling preparations.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Only if he can spare you.”
“I’ll explain that, sir.”
Ackroyd would have the makings of a killick. Trench saw that Seymour had the captain’s keys: he told him, “Take those to Williamson. Tell him to empty the safe, list its contents, and parcel everything up ready for transfer to Intent. Then come back here, please.” He told Kelly, “Ask Leading Seaman Cameron to come up here with a few hands to escort these officers to their new quarters.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Kelly shot away.
Trench turned to the captain. “Where’s your broadcast system worked from?”
Grossman pointed. There was a switchbox on the bulkhead with a microphone on a trailing lead.
“But why is this necessary? You have my ship: it is not—not honourable that a commander should order his—”
“You’ll do it though. Now.”
He’d gestured with the gun, towards that corner.
“As a sea officer I ask you, sir—”
“I don’t mind shooting you, Captain.” The German stared at him: then he moved, sluggishly, looking aggrieved. Trench said, “Keep an eye on him, Gilby.”
“Aye, sir.” Cook Gilby and his bayonet followed the little man to the microphone. Grossman was right, of course, that his ship was now in British control, but lurking in some Teutonic brain might be thoughts of sabotage or other mayhem, and an order from their own CO to surrender could scotch such notions. The German voice was already booming through the ship.
“Sir?” Lee, the signalman, had come in from the wing of the bridge, which connected with the signal deck abaft it. “Beg pardon, sir, but Intent’s circling round on our starboard quarter, looks like we might ‘ave ‘er alongside soon. Should I shine a light down? There’s a six-inch each side, I could—”
“No.” If the Old Man wanted a light he’d shine his own. Intent had no searchlight, thanks to that Hipper, but she still had her signal lamps and a ten-inch would serve that purpose. “But—Lee, have you struck the German ensign?”
“Not yet, sir—”
Seymour was back. Trench told him, “Go and give Lee here a hand. I want the German ensign hauled down with a light on it so Intent can see it. Then hoist the White Ensign, also with a spotlight on it. All right?”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The captain had finished his speech. Trench went over to the corner before he could leave it, and told him, “Switch it so I can be heard all over the ship, please.”
Grossman flipped one master-switch up, and nodded: “So.”
Trench slapped the microphone: it was live, all right. He said into it, “D’you hear there. Petty Officer Metcalf, take four hands as berthing party for Intent, starboard side. Leading Stoker Evans, stand by for oiling, starboard side.”
“Stop together. Midships.”
His orders floated back to him out of the voicepipe as Intent slid up towards the oiler.
“Slow astern port.”
Five minutes ago they’d seen the German “State Service” flag—a red rectangle with a black swastika in a white circle in the centre and an eagle-emblem in one corner—come sliding down from the masthead. Nick had said to Kari, “Tommy Trench is giving us a show.” A few moments later a White Ensign, floodlit, had risen in place of the German flag. There’d been a round of cheering from the guns’ crews, and Kari had clapped her hands. “Bravo!”
She was worried to distraction about her father, and trying hard not to show it.
“Sub—berthing party, port side, and get Beamish moving as soon as we’re secured.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Joy, jubilation in the sub-lieutenant’s voice. He’d fired Intent’s torpedoes, seen three of them hit, seen both enemy destroyers shattered and sunk. Not one shot had been fired at Intent during that short, highly conclusive action. Where the fourth torpedo had gone was a mystery. Dived into the mud, perhaps, if its depth-keeping mechanism had failed, or turned and streaked out to sea if it had been a gyro failure. Failures did occur. But those three fish had done the job.
“Stop port.”
“Stop port, sir … Port engine stopped, sir.”
This sweet smell of success might fade when news came of the Valkyrien party. There’d been a lot of gunfire during the starshell period. And it mattered enormously about Torp. It had before, but Nick’s concern had been partly smothered in the planning of the operation and in uncertainties of other kinds. Now that the objects had been achieved— would soon have
been achieved, if there was no unexpected interference now—that anxiety became stronger and more immediate. Not just for Torp’s sake, in the way that one was concerned for the safety of the two torpedomen, for instance, but for Kari’s and, selfishly, his own. If Torp had come to grief, he—Nick Everard—was going to be stuck with the girl. By his own sense of responsibility for her—whatever she had to say about it, he’d fall into the role of—well, foster-father?
The rescue syndrome? The Black Sea and Ilyana, now the Norwegian fjords and Kari?
No connection. Totally different circumstances: and totally different people. Even he was different, after twenty years. Wasn’t he? And whether he cared for her or not—well, to what extent the care was for her, or for her and her father as an entity, the agency he’d been relying on, he couldn’t tell. There wasn’t time to think about it properly and for the moment it didn’t matter anyway.
Heaving lines flew from Intent’s side, were caught by men on the tanker’s deck. They had torches to help them see what they were doing. Fenders were in place and hemp breasts were slithering out now, dragged over by the heaving lines bent to them. Nick saw Metcalf down there, bawling at a Norwegian to underrun a spring before it got trapped between the two ships’ sides, and the Norwegian, understanding no English at all, saw what was needed and did it. Leading Stoker Evans had an oil pipe triced up, dangling from a boom above and ready to be swung over.
Nick told Chandler, “I’m going to pay a call next door, Pilot. Look after this end, will you.”
“Keep the guns closed up, sir?”
“Yes. We aren’t quite out of the wood yet.”
The girl asked him, “Shall I go with you?”
“Well, I’ve things to see to. Better wait here until your father gets back, Kari, then it’ll be up to him whether you stay with us or move over to the oiler.”
He didn’t want her down there when the boat came.
Trench met him at the oiler’s side. Intent was secured alongside and they’d put a brow across.
Storm Force to Narvik: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 1 Page 27