The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  Paul told Lanchberry, “It’ll get worse before it gets better. We have a way to go yet.” He gave the periscope a pat, and sent it down; he’d stripped it, dried its flooded lenses and reassembled it, but whether it would stay dry now, or for how long, was anyone’s bet. He hoped it only flooded when she was banged around, as she had been in the ship’s wash and before that by the bad weather. The leak, he guessed, would be either around the frame of the top glass or from a strained seam in the metal barrel that housed the optics, and by this time it might have opened up enough to make for a constant seepage.

  Lanchberry and Gimber had got the gyro back into operation, and Brazier had attended to several minor items. The one thing nobody could do anything about was the flooded side-cargo, the list you knew she’d take up again as soon as she floated up off the bottom.

  He held up the damp, discoloured chart. Its paper absorbed the moisture of the atmosphere, and there wasn’t anything you could do about that either.

  “Look here.” Pointing, with a pencil. “If we find we have to do something about the air, at a pinch I’d surface her here.”

  “In daylight?”

  Gimber had his mouth slightly open, like a dying fish. Paul added, “If we had to, is what I’m saying.” Pointing at an islet near the bottom end of Rognsund—about a cable’s length from the western shore, and with a fringe of rocks and outlying reef. “We’d have cover there. Otherwise— preferably—we’ll carry on, come up about seven-thirty when it’s dark, then hole up here—this island, Langnesholm—until about dawn. Shove off before sunrise, and you could be at work on Lützow’s nets by four a.m., Bomber. That’d give us plenty of time to lay the cargoes and sneak out again.”

  Brazier nodded. “Right.” Lanchberry said, “Give him a job, at last.” Bristling crew-cut, blue-jowelled, eyes showing their whites as he glanced over his left shoulder. Brazier crouching like a caged but amiable Hunchback of Notre Dame. Paul wondered what he looked like. Certainly like nothing to please the eye.

  Depthgauge static at the figure 132.

  “One hundred feet.”

  Gimber pushed the pump-lever over to starboard to open the midships tank and set the pump’s suction working on it, lighten her so she’d lift clear of the sea-bed. They were in Lille Kvalfjord, and it was about four hours since those ships had nearly run them down. The adjustment to the trim, after they’d fiddled with it for a while, had worked quite well; she was clumsy, and Gimber still had to work at it, but she was manageable.

  “Ship’s head?”

  Lanchberry told him, “Oh-two-two.”

  “Steer that.”

  It would do well enough. He’d turned her before he’d bottomed her, so she’d be pointing the right way—out—in case a quick exit had become desirable. Movement now, heeling over. Like a whale starting to roll on the fjord’s rocky bed. The deckboards angled under his feet: then she was floating up … 130 feet. When she reached 120, safely clear, he ordered the motor slow ahead group down. X-12 was leaning woundedly to port but was otherwise responsive to her controls as she paddled gently out to re-enter Rognsund.

  Back in business …

  Gimber reported, “Hundred feet.”

  “Make it eighty, Louis.”

  The periscope leak worried him more than the list did, particularly as Gimber seemed to be managing the trim all right. To use the stub periscope, the short bifocal night one set like an alligator’s eyes just above the casing, you had to be right up there, breaking surface, and with her slightly awkward handling now you’d be really breaking surface, off and on. So there could be no question of using the stub in daylight, and without the use of the main periscope you’d be blind. As for the list—well, the aim had to be to get rid of the flooded side-cargo as soon as possible. Once she’d shed it, she’d be back on an even keel. Safe withdrawal after the attack therefore wasn’t compromised, except in the sense that a successful attack was the necessary first step in that direction and that the chances of completing an attack undetected had been reduced by the loss of manoeuvrability.

  “Depth eighty feet.” Gimber was adjusting the trim again. Lanchberry began to whistle between his teeth, then caught himself doing it, and stopped. Paul checked the log. One nautical mile—2000 yards—would take her far enough out into the sund, then he’d turn her to starboard to a course of 150 degrees on which a run of five miles would take her into fairly open water.

  “Half ahead, Louis.”

  There was a need to conserve battery power, but he also wanted to get down near that little island, Stjernovoddholmen, so that if lack of air became a really immediate problem he’d be able to bring her to the surface with some hope of not being spotted. The foul air was already making him feel sick, and he was aware that his pulse-rate had risen. Brazier was sitting instead of squatting, with his head down between his knees, the accepted position for countering nausea … Problem followed problem: this whole thing was a gamble, and all you could do was press on, cope with each difficulty as it arose.

  He was navigating by dead-reckoning now—using log-readings to get the distance run, and accepting the fact that the gyro was accurate only to within a few degrees one way or the other. He took her out to what he thought to be almost mid-fjord, and turned her to the southeasterly course before he could risk coming up and trying to get a fix. It would be a check on the state of the periscope, as much as on the boat’s position; if the prisms had been flooded again, he’d get no more than a blur. He brought her up slowly, in stages, and at thirty feet he cut the speed from half to slow ahead—to reduce or even eliminate any “feather” at the tip of the periscope when it pushed up through the surface.

  “Set the course indicator, Jazz. I’ll turn her down-fjord, and we’ll call that one-five-oh … Fifteen feet, Louis.”

  The hydroplanes tilted gently. There was no sound—which he was listening for, not wanting to be caught twice—of any other ship’s screws. Only the purr of the main motor, and the water rustling along her sides. At fifteen feet Gimber seemed to have her in pretty good control.

  “Ten feet.”

  He had the rubber bag in his hand, thumb on the feel of the “rise” button inside it. At ten feet the top glass would still be covered. His hope was to show no more than half an inch above the surface, if Gimber could hold her that steady—and in such calm water it would certainly have been possible if she had not had the list on her … He decided he’d order a depth just greater than the one he wanted, and use the upward variations, put up with periods of being blanked off.

  “Depth ten feet.”

  He pressed the button. “Try nine and a half, Louis.” The tube slid up, and stopped. Lanchberry looking back over his shoulder: Brazier with his head lifted, eyes slitted under the beetling ginger brows. Paul put his right eye to the lens. Bubbling, bright whorls, a kaleidoscopic medley of blues, greens and white, and diamond-like flashes through it all; the top glass was still covered when Gimber blurted, “Nine and a half. Can’t be sure of holding …”

  “Just do your best.”

  Rising now. He’d get some kind of a view, before Gimber forced her down again.

  The prisms were fogged. But he could see enough to confirm that she was well out in the middle. The land-mass to port—a mountainous rise almost abeam, matched the same feature on the chart. To starboard, about thirty degrees on the bow, there was a higher one inland on Stjernoy. Between those features—ahead, beyond a vacuity of clear water—blurred heights with snow on them towered against a patchwork sky.

  “Steer three degrees to port, and set the course indicator on one-five-oh.”

  “Three degrees to port, aye aye …”

  The top of the periscope had dipped under. Water swirled, bubbling, then darkened into stillness. He pulled his head back and pressed the “down” button.

  “Well done, Louis. Sixty feet.”

  “Periscope OK?”

  “Far from it. But we’re where we ought to be.”

  More or less. An
accurate fix wasn’t necessary anyway at this stage. He took a new reading of the log, from which to measure the run southeastward. Deciding at the same time that an emergency stop at Stjernovoddholmen wasn’t really to be welcomed. To get in close enough to have cover from the island when you surfaced would require accurate navigation, to avoid the hazards of rock and reef around it. This thin, putrifying air was going to have to last until the sun was down.

  “We’ll treat ourselves to another shot of the oh-two, I think.”

  Approving murmurs … Oh-two meaning oxygen. The midget was nose-down, paddling lopsidedly down past fifty feet. He decided he’d renew the Protosorb as well, since it might have absorbed about as much carbon dioxide as it could hold by this time. He told Gimber, “Half ahead,” and Brazier, “Scrape up the Protosorb, Bomber, and spread a fresh lot.” Lanchberry murmured, “Might as well be comfy,” and they all laughed— laughter coming easily, when you needed it. Paul crawled aft into the engine space for another oxygen bottle.

  It got worse again, of course. Worst of all were the last twenty minutes— having to resist the temptation to take a risk and surface before it was really dark. They were all sick, feverish, breathing in short gasps. The Bomber was asleep, but a better word for it might have been “unconscious.” Paul had kept her on 150 for two hours, logging three point nine miles in that time, then altered to due south. If tidal streams had matched expectations, they ought by now to be in the wide upper part of Altenfjord. About an hour ago they’d have passed southward between Horsnes and Klubbeneset, and her immediate destination—Langnesholm, a very small island close to the entrance of Langfjord—would now be about three and a half miles on the bow to starboard. Driven by the diesel after she surfaced, she’d get there in about half an hour.

  A quarter of an hour ago he’d brought her up to nine feet, but a quick glance through the blurred lenses had shown it wasn’t dark enough yet, and he’d ordered her back to thirty feet. Since then, every few minutes he’d found either Gimber or Lanchberry staring at him. Once he’d snapped irritably, “No—not yet!” It was like being stared at by hungry dogs: and he didn’t need their reminders, he’d been trying to keep his own thoughts away from that cold, fresh air. He was also worried about Brazier, but a man asleep used less air than the same man awake, and that one, being twice life-size, used a lot. So the temptation to see if he could be woken had also been resisted.

  The needle was steady on thirty feet, motor slow ahead group down, time 1935, the others’ panting intakes of breath irritatingly loud although one’s own—oddly enough—were not. He thought he’d left it long enough, now. At his sudden move—he’d been sitting with his back against the gyro—the others glanced quickly round. He nodded. “Nine feet.” The hydroplanes tilted sharply: he warned Gimber, “Take it gently, Louis.” Gimber muttered something. Paul ignored it, and told Lanchberry to wake the Bomber; Lanchberry leant sideways from his chair, grabbed one of the large feet that were projecting from the W and D, wrenched it to and fro. “Wakey wakey, rise and shine!”

  Bomber groaned. Lanchberry did it some more: there was another groan, and then a growl of “Oh, piss off …”

  “We’re about to surface, Bomber. You OK?”

  Gimber croaked, “Nine feet.” In fact she was at eight and a half. Brazier was on his knees at the heads bowl, retching into it. The periscope hissed up: Paul put his eye to it, circled right around, peering into blurry darkness in which an enemy would probably have been invisible even a yard away. But there was no sound of any.

  “Stand by to surface.”

  Circling again—knowing the periscope was defective to an extent that made the exercise futile, and hoping to God that Brazier was going to be all right. Surprising it should have hit the strongest of them all the hardest. Bigger lungs having more room for poison in them, perhaps, bigger heart needing more oxygen to run on … He sent the periscope down and positioned himself under the hatch.

  “Surface. Blow one and three main ballast.”

  The relief of getting into fresh air, then hearing the rush of it down the induction pipe when the Gardner thumped into action and began to suck it in, was so overwhelming that in those first minutes he didn’t give any thought to the dramatic quality of the moment—that he was surfacing his boat in a German harbour and the one that accommodated the Tirpitz, at that … He did think about it later, though, while he was conning her southwestward at six knots to find that island. He was closer to it, in fact, than he’d expected; the ebbing tide—it would be flooding now, low water about an hour ago—must have been stronger than he’d allowed for. Land outlines were clearly visible, sharp enough to fix by, using the gyro and finding the results quite good. He had binoculars on the casing with him—in this dead calm water there was no problem using them—and that opening about a mile and a quarter wide could only be the entrance to Langfjord and Lützow’s net-enclosed berth. Nets which Bomber Brazier would have to be fit enough to cut a hole in tomorrow morning. The feeling of nausea was wearing off: it was like beginning to feel better after a really terrible hangover.

  He saw Langnesholm—or rather, a dark end to land that couldn’t be anywhere else. His idea was to tuck X-12 in behind its southern end, so she’d be lying in the channel and in the island’s shadow … He lowered the binoculars, and called down for an alteration of a few degrees to port: straightening from the pipe, his eye was caught by a flash of white—starboard bow …

  He whipped his glasses up. It had vanished—but it reappeared, and he was on it. A ship’s bow-wave … Small, but fast, travelling from left to right: he guessed it might be an E-boat, or some other kind of fast patrol craft. He called down to stop the engine. If necessary, he’d dive her, but by cutting out any motion through the water—and if the enemy held its present course—he crouched, knowing the midget would be virtually invisible, with so little profile … The patrol boat would have entered through Stjernsund, he guessed, and from its present course might be heading for Leir Botn, the destroyer anchorage on the far side and opposite the south coast of Aaroy.

  It had gone on, out of sight. He called down, “No problem. E-boat or somesuch, just passing. Half ahead main engine.” Visualising the Germans in that boat’s bridge—if they’d known there was a fox here in their hen-run. Highly explosive fox. But it was nerve-tingling too, in some ways— the racket of the Gardner, for instance, as she gathered way again, pushing through a surface that was rippling from a newly risen breeze: you could imagine Germans hearing this from miles away. The new wind was knife-cold—it made his eyes run, turned his damp clothes into an ice-suit. He shouted down the pipe, “Below—how’s Brazier?”

  Gimber answered that he seemed to be all right. It was a big relief. And there was a job for him, or would be in a minute … “Tell him to put his rubber suit on.” Gimber passed that message, then called again: “Get a hot meal ready, shall we?”

  “Good idea!”

  Hot anything …

  He’d been watching in case the patrol boat turned back, but there was nothing to be seen of it. He moved the glasses on, sweeping up the port side towards the bow. Down there at the southern end of the fjord, where in its offshoot Kafjord Tirpitz and Scharnhorst would be lying—tucked up for the night and feeling safe—X-5, 6, 7 and 10 would also be in wait. Cameron and Place, he knew, had intended to spend the dark hours lying-up among the Brattholm islands, three or four miles from the Kafjord entrance. They’d quite likely be in sight and sound of each other, close enough to chat from boat to boat—just as X-12 would have had X-11 for company, if X-11 hadn’t been at the bottom of the Norwegian Sea, with Dan Vicary and his crew kicking their heels on board Scourge, pretty sick with frustration, no doubt.

  In another ten minutes he had her close to Langnesholm; an unlit lightstructure on its southern end provided a good leading-mark. He nosed her in towards the opening between the island and the mainland coast—into deep shadow and a cliff’s overhang. He called down, “Stop main engine!” The diesel’s pou
nding ceased, and the rush of air stopped too; he didn’t need to shout now, with only the swish of water along her sides. Silence emphasized the loneliness and the need for stealth … “Out engine-clutch. Main motor half ahead group down. Steady as you go.” He was crouching, with the tube at a slant, half lowered. The gap between the island and the mainland shore was too shallow higher up, and too rock-strewn, to be navigable, and since there’d be no possibility of passing through that way in the morning he was going to hide her at this southern end. It was also more remote down here—roughly seven hundred yards from the other shore— and it was necessary to run a battery-charge while they were here.

  X-12 gliding in, only the soft thrum of her motor and the wash of icewater around her. The rocky coast of Langnesholm loomed against the sky on the bow.

  “Stop main motor. Port five. Tell Brazier to come up.” The gear Brazier was going to use was lashed inside the casing; he confirmed as he got it out that he was fully recovered … “Slight pain in the nut is all.” There was a coil of steel wire rope and an anchor, and he was cutting the lashings off. Paul asked him, “Nut, or nuts?” The Bomber chuckled. The island coast was so near that any sentry up there might have been wondering what the joke was: Paul wondered how he could possibly risk running the diesel here, for the battery-charge … “Midships. Slow astern.”

  In a few minutes he had her at rest and, to all intents and purposes, hidden. Brazier went over the side, jammed the anchor in a rock-cleft and came back. He muttered, “You could have them aching soon enough in that stuff.” Paying out the wire until her weight was on it; the end was shackled to the bull-ring, and they’d leave it here, simply unshackle it when they left in a few hours’ time. Meanwhile it would hold her forty tons of deadweight stemming the inflow of tide.