by John Harris
The admiral paused and, studied his pipe before continuing. ‘This war along the Russo-Finnish border – it’s pretty clear that the Russians have gone into it because they’re expecting a German invasion of Scandinavia. Since we are, too, it seems to me they’re showing considerable political acumen.’ He paused again. tapped his pipe in a large glass ashtray and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Now the Norwegian coastline, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, would provide valuable bases for a British blockade against Germany. Or, for that matter, for a German naval offensive against British shipping. Winston wants a foothold there but the cabinet are against it.’ He fished out matches, lit up, then, blowing out clouds of blue smoke, pointed with the stem of the pipe at Magnusson.
‘You’ve been brought here because you speak Norwegian and Finnish and because you’ve worked on the Swedish iron ore run. You’re to watch what’s happening up there.’
Magnusson’s smile was faintly relieved. He’d been expecting something either incredibly boring or incredibly dangerous, neither of which he particularly fancied.
‘You’ll be given the silhouettes of known raiders,’ Cockayne went on. ‘As well as blockade runners and all ships engaged in the Swedish ore trade. It will be your job to keep us informed.’
Magnusson sat up. ‘Where will I be stationed, sir?’
‘In Narvik, where it starts.’
‘I see, sir.’
The admiral smiled, more menacingly this time. ‘I dare bet you don’t, my lad,’ he said. ‘Think you can do the job?’
Not half, Magnusson thought. Narvik wasn’t exactly Blackpool or Piccadilly Circus, and the workers on the railway and the iron company’s books there constituted practically the whole population of the town. And since summer came only every fourth year, the winters tended to be somewhat dark and burdensome. The mountains, the sea, the ever-changing colours, however, were breathtaking, and he liked Norwegians – especially Norwegian girls. He remembered one who believed in freedom of thought and action and was almost acrobatic in bed. He could visualise a splendid life of ease in a hotel with binoculars and a notebook.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘What arrangements have been made for accommodation, et cetera?’
‘Accommodation?’ the admiral’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Well, I’ll need a room somewhere overlooking the harbour and a reason for being there, I suppose.’
The admiral leaned forward. His heavy eyebrows came down again and made him look a little like Dracula. ‘You’ll not be living in a room,’ he snapped. ‘Either overlooking the harbour or anywhere else. You’re going to sea.’
It was a shock to Magnusson. He’d been looking forward to a nice cushy job, and sea-going near the Arctic Circle didn’t appeal one bit.
‘As captain, sir?’ His voice came out as a squeak and he had to clear his throat and repeat himself.
The admiral gave a bark of laughter. ‘Not damn likely,’ he said. ‘The Navy looks after its own far too well for that. No, my lad, you’ll be under Commander George Seago. But Commander Seago, while he’s an excellent sailor, doesn’t know those northern waters as you do and will need a little help. In addition, he doesn’t speak Norwegian. Or Finnish!’
Magnusson frowned as a thought occurred to him. ‘Finnish, sir? We’ll be in Norwegian waters. Why Finnish?’
‘Because your ship’s Finnish,’ the admiral rapped. ‘A three-masted barque. You’re going to war, my lad. In a sailing ship.’ He grinned unexpectedly as he ended. ‘I dare bet you didn’t reckon on that.’
Two
There was a long silence as Magnusson stared indignantly at the admiral. No wonder the old bastard had been so keen on finding out about his experience in sail! Forgotten all you know? Think you could still handle one? The old sod had just been setting him a bear trap to fall into, so he couldn’t back out when the big question came.
The admiral was watching him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. He seemed greatly amused.
‘A barque, sir?’ Magnusson croaked.
‘Exactly. Oulu. Know her?’
Magnusson’s mind roved wildly over the Finnish yards he’d visited and the tall masts and slender hulls of wind-borne ships he’d known.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said bitterly. ‘We once lay behind her at Mariehamn and I had a friend who was second mate.’
‘Only,’ the admiral said, ‘this isn’t Oulu.’
Magnusson frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘Actually,’ the admiral admitted, ‘Oulu’s in the West Indies. This one’s Jacob Undset done up to look like Oulu, so you’d better start calling her by that name straightaway and get used to it. She’s an old ship and she’s not exactly shipshape and Bristol fashion but we intend to work at it. When she’s ready, she’ll be seaworthy, but she’ll still look a bit neglected, which is just what we want. She was built in 1866 by Gardners of Sunderland to serve in the China tea trade as Dolly Grey, but she was sold in 1913 to your friend, Gustaf Erikson, of Mariehamn. She’s nine hundred tons and she’s claimed to be an unlucky ship because she’s been dismasted, damaged by fire, the victim of quite a few minor accidents, and more than once posted overdue. But she’s always made port, though sometimes short of one or two members of her crew.’
Magnusson listened with a sour feeling of being cheated. Unlucky ship. Built in 1866. Not exactly shipshape. It got worse and worse the more he thought about it. The admiral went on, as if he were relishing the expression on his face.
‘Even Erikson grew tired of her in the end,’ he said, ‘and after she’d collided with a tanker which swept away her starboard rail, he sold her to some bright-eyed entrepreneur in Falmouth who put gingerbread on her and rigged her as a galleon for some film about the Armada. Since then, she’s been a sort of floating museum there with fish tanks in her holds for holidaymakers to visit at a bob a nob.’
Magnusson’s heart was sinking. Living aboard would be about as comfortable as a leaky pigsty. The admiral was actually smiling at him now, as if he’d guessed at the thoughts of comfort and wild nights in a Norwegian hotel that had been running through his mind.
‘Since most of her fittings were adapted for Finnish usage,’ he said, ‘the two ships could easily be confused. We have to call her Oulu because everybody – and that includes the Germans and the Norwegians – will know that Oulu is still around, while Jacob Undset’s been off the active list for several years. Oulu was built at Nystad, in Finland, in 1870 and her dimensions are roughly the same. Eight hundred and fifty tons and a hundred and eighteen feet long with single topgallant sails and royals. She was damaged in a storm in 1929 and condemned, but she was eventually refitted and sold to Danish owners and later to Erikson, who still uses her on the West Indies run. At the moment she’s in Tobago and we’re making sure that that’s where she stays.’
The admiral paused and puffed at his pipe for a while. ‘We’re having to do the job this way for a variety of reasons,’ he went on. ‘We could put a man up there in a number of capacities, but the Germans are watching Norway like hawks and it’s known that some of the Norwegians are Nazi sympathisers, so they’ll be on the lookout for tricks too. Since you’ll be sailing a Finnish ship or a supposed Finnish ship – and since you’ll all have Finnish papers, you’ll pose as Finnish seamen, caught away from home by the war with the Russians and trying to get back to become part of it. Your cargo is rum from Jamaica and grain in sacks from America and, though it was intended for Britain, as was the genuine Oulu’s, you have decided it will be of more use to beleaguered Finland. To avoid being stopped by the British and forced into Falmouth, where your sailing instructions directed you, you are not going via the North Sea, through the Skagerrak and the Kattegat into the Baltic, but intend to sneak home through the Leads. It will be your job to convey all this to the Norwegians. In Norwegian. Preferably with a few words of Finnish to make certain they believe you’re who you’re meant to be.’
Magnusson interrupted. ‘Won’t they expect the s
hip’s captain to do that, sir?’
‘The ship’s captain on such occasions will be in bed with a high fever and will be asleep.’
It might have been a better idea, Magnusson thought, to have made him the ship’s captain, but he supposed a naval ship had to have a naval captain.
‘I see, sir,’ he said.
The admiral gestured. ‘A great deal will depend on you, my lad,’ he said briskly. ‘Which is why you’re being done the honour of a personal briefing, something not normally granted to a junior officer. At the right time a sighting will be reported, showing you to be in mid-Atlantic and inevitably the Germans will pick it up. Another sighting will be arranged later to show you off the Faeroes. In fact, you will sail up the Irish Sea, through the Minches, and, keeping well out from land to avoid being spotted, you will make your landfall west of the Lofotens and put into Narvik. There, you will be informed of what’s going on by our contact, a woman called Annie Egge, who runs the Norwegian equivalent of our Missions to Seamen. She will give you – you, Magnusson, because as the linguist, she’ll be dealing with you – she will give you your information. I don’t know what she’s like – like most middle-aged ladies who run Missions to Seamen, I suppose – all God and woollen comforts – but she has been feeding us reliable information for some time about German shipping, gleaned no doubt over the cups of tea and the meat and potato pie or whatever it is they serve up in Norway. Since, in the event of a German move into Norway, we shall need to know a few facts, you will keep your eyes open and take note of all Norwegian naval vessels, fortifications and movements, and all army and air force installations. You will remain there for several days under the guise of Finnish sailors making repairs after the voyage across the North Atlantic to enable you to reach Mariehamn. Commander Seago will know what to arrange. He has a certificate in sail.’
Has he, by God, Magnusson thought. At least, they had something in common.
The admiral seemed to sense his wandering interest and brought him back to the present sharply. ‘Your job,’ he snapped, ‘will be to fend off suspicious people.’
‘In addition to normal ship’s duties, of course, sir?’ Magnusson said with a trace of sarcasm.
It was entirely wasted. The admiral didn’t even notice it. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘In case anyone searches you, you will live as Finns.’
Magnusson had visions of Finnish cooking – salt pork, salt beef, labskaus, kabelgarn, ängelskit and the tinned meat they called Harriet Lane, after a long-forgotten young woman who’d been murdered and cut up to go in a trunk.
‘That means the food will be awful, sir,’ he said gloomily.
The admiral gave him a grim smile. ‘You will have a receiver-transmitter in the hold,’ he went on. ‘Hidden behind the sacks of grain. And your aerials will be hidden among the standing rigging. You will keep a watch at 9.30 each evening, and on receipt of your call sign and the letter ‘A’, repeated several times, you will move south down the Leads towards Trondheim, reporting en route in code all that you’ve seen in Narvik. You will put into Bodø for more repairs and will do the same there. Once more you will be contacted, this time by a chap who runs a ship chandlers there. You will do the same there as at Narvik, and on receipt of the letter ‘A’ will once more put to sea, reporting again what you’ve seen. From Bodø you will put into Trondheim, Bud, Statlandet, Hovden, Bergen, Stavanger and Egersund, in each case reporting en route to your next call. The visits you make will be for water, fresh vegetables, et cetera. It’s all being arranged and you will be expected to use your native wit, your knowledge of the language and local conditions to assist Commander Seago to improve on it. Your orders will make everything clear, and it goes without saying that if you’re searched they must not fall into the hands either of the Germans or of the Norwegians. Think you can manage all that?’
Magnusson was doubtful. It sounded too intelligent and responsible by a long way. ‘Do you, sir?’
The admiral nodded cheerfully. ‘Yes, I do. After all, we don’t expect bloodshed. You’re there to keep your eyes open, that’s all. You’re bound to have a few curious Norwegians aboard, because there aren’t all that many sailing ships about these days, so you’ll have to use your savvy. If there’s trouble, Commander Seago has instructions to drop everything and bolt. That shouldn’t arise, however, because, since you’re supposed to be Finns, the Norwegians won’t be suspicious and neither will the masters of German ships you might meet. And because Oulu’s a sailing ship she’ll be regarded as slow, ineffective and not very dangerous – a greatly mistaken assumption to make, as we discovered to our cost with Count von Luckner and his Seeadler in the last war. You’ll carry a radio officer who’s an expert and two telegraphists to work your radios. They will be your responsibility. Commander Seago’s duties will be concerned with the ship.’
Commander Seago, Magnusson thought, was getting off bloody lightly and most of the work seemed as if it were to be done by Murdoch Murray Magnusson.
‘How about crew, sir?’ he asked. ‘They’ll need to sound like Finns, I’m thinking.’
‘No problem,’ the admiral said cheerfully. ‘Apart from one or two specialists and one or two Royal Naval men, who will be kept well out of sight if you’re boarded, they will be exactly that: Finns. We have a number of them here in English ports. With the Russians knocking their country about, they’re as anxious as we are to join the fun.’
‘Is the cook a Finn, sir?’
The admiral smiled. ‘He is.’
‘I just hope the crew don’t mutiny, sir.’
The admiral stifled a smile. ‘The Finns will be your responsibility,’ he said.
Like the radios, the reports, the sightings, the handling of officials, the old bag in Narvik from the Missions to Seamen, and every other bloody thing, it seemed.
‘You will translate Commander Seago’s orders for the Finns, and their complaints, et cetera, to him. However, you’ll have a junior RN officer to back you up. He, too, has experience of sailing ships.’
There seemed to be more of them underfoot than Magnusson had thought. He’d believed they were a dying breed.
‘Like everyone else,’ the admiral was saying, ‘you will have a Finnish seaman’s pay-book and you will see that the British naval ratings get used to the names they’ve been given. Since a great many of the Finns on the Australia–Falmouth run have learned to speak some English there should be no problem there, though it’ll be up to you to see that the Finns are always more in evidence than the British during the fitting out and when you’re in Norwegian waters. You’ll have the assistance of all naval resources at Falmouth and Devonport. And I suspect you’ll need them, because Jacob Undset, or Oulu, as she’ll be known from now on, won’t be quite what you expect. When she’s ready I shall bring your orders myself and I shall inspect her – personally.’
There seemed to be something ominous behind the admiral’s promise.
‘I’ll endeavour to make sure she’s looking at her best, sir.’
‘You’d better,’ the admiral said darkly. ‘Because I shall know exactly what to look for. I did my first years at sea in sail too. HMS Martin, brig. 1901.’
Three
Commander Seago – like Magnusson in civilian clothes – was waiting in Devonport, and to Magnusson at twenty-nine he seemed very old for the job he’d been given. Before retiring as a passed-over commander to open a sailing school, most of his time had been spent teaching the mysteries of sail to midshipmen and he had a sad reproachful school-teacher’s attitude to everything, so that he looked like a dog waiting for someone to pat him. However, he also had that strange indefinable mystique of the Royal Navy, the mixture of arrogance and the belief that they were among God’s chosen few that clung to them all, from the admiral down to the pinkest-cheeked cadet from Dartmouth.
It made Magnusson feel vaguely vulgar, a feeling that was not diminished by the arrival of his junior, Rodney St Clair Campbell, Regular Navy and only recently promoted from sub
to lieutenant. The son of a much-decorated captain who was a contemporary of Seago’s, despite his youth he had done sailing ship training, was an expert navigator and had been recommended for a decoration for saving life during the Royal Oak disaster at Scapa Flow in October. What was more, he stood in line for a title, was heir to a large estate in Yorkshire, and belonged to a family which ran an Anglo-Danish firm in Hull which had been importing Scandinavian foodstuffs for generations. He even had Danish relations and, as a boy, before opting for the Navy, had spent half his holidays in sailing ships off the islands round Copenhagen so that, like the rest of his family, he spoke the northern languages as well as Magnusson himself. Scandinavian gloom seemed to be well developed in him, too, and his stony-faced naval manner made him look like a puppet operated from somewhere in Whitehall.
‘Merchant Navy, I see,’ he said condescendingly, eyeing Magnusson’s reserve braid.
‘Yes,’ Magnusson agreed cheerfully. ‘We’re the chaps who kept the ships at sea while you lot polished brasses and held reviews for the royal family.’
He had meant it as a joke, but Campbell’s face didn’t slip, and Magnusson eyed him, wary and uncertain, like a dog expecting a fight. While he accepted the need to choose men with a knowledge of sail and the northern languages, he had a feeling that the Navy might have shown more intelligence in their selection. On top of Seago’s sad, chilly, lost manner, Campbell’s aloof contempt for anyone who hadn’t been to Dartmouth gave him the feeling that the professionals were ganging up on him.
With Seago still in Devonport seeing the senior naval officer there, it was Magnusson’s privilege to be the first to travel on to Falmouth to see the newly christened Oulu.
He was staring down the river. Not far away were the spars and rigging of a square-rigged sailing ship. She had been a great ugly brute of a four-masted barque, with a flat square stern, and under the grey skies, she looked black. There was no sign of life about her, and she lay silently in the water, sagging in the middle, with the tide flowing back and forth across her deck. Her hull was festooned with weeds, like the remains of the ropes that had once held her to the shore but were no longer needed because she had long since become welded to the mud of the estuary.