North Strike

by John Harris

  He was still bothered by the deaths of Worinen and Astermann. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but the fact that they had died in a war that wasn’t their own – and because the ship had been sent north again instead of being allowed to return to safety – was constantly in his mind.

  As he went on deck next morning the day was misty and grey, and Campbell was pointing at the fjord. Several ore-carrying tramp steamers were moving out, and passing them towards the harbour was a big whaling factory ship carrying the German ensign.

  ‘Jan Willem,’ Campbell said.

  ‘Well, they were expecting her,’ Magnusson said. ‘Now they’ve got her.’

  There was a cluster of houses on the headland, and he reckoned there must be a telephone by which he could contact Annie Egge. He was worried about their isolated position and by the fact that the Norwegians were suspicious of them. Some officious officer might well decide to inquire what they were up to and, as at Bodø, find an excuse to keep them there.

  He had himself rowed ashore and found a farmhouse where the farmer agreed to allow him to use the telephone.

  Annie was startled to hear his voice. ‘You should be in Trondheim,’ she accused him at once.

  ‘We couldn’t go there,’ he said. ‘The Germans in Bodø decided we radioed Altmark’s position.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. She was spotted by aircraft.’

  There was a long pause then the cool voice came back calmly. ‘I think the Germans will use it as an excuse to violate our neutrality. Why did you return here?’

  ‘We were ordered to. We lost two men in the storm.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Perhaps it is our fault,’ she said slowly. ‘We took many German children into our homes, but they took advantage of our kindness to spread their evil gospel, and some misguided people began to think the German way was the way that indicated strength and confidence.’

  Magnusson couldn’t find an answer and for a long time there was silence. Then, even over the wire, he heard her draw a deep breath, almost a sigh, as if she were struggling to control her indignation.

  ‘The factory ship, Jan Willem, has arrived,’ she said. ‘I’ve been aboard her with magazines and woollen comforts. She would be ideal for refuelling German warships and she has too many men aboard.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You think because I’m a female I don’t know the size of a ship’s crew? I’ve been aboard more ships than I can remember. They say it’s because they’re working a double-watch system, but I’ve noticed there are a lot of binoculars aboard and a lot of men who don’t look like whalers, and they are very interested in everything that’s going on in the town; particularly in Eidsvold and Norge, which have also arrived since you left. I am wondering if she has munitions aboard too.’

  ‘Can’t you get your customs people to inspect her?’

  ‘They have done. They found nothing suspicious. They think she ran into a British warship and came here to dodge her, but I have heard that the Dutch attaché in Denmark has told the Danes that the Germans are about to invade them.’

  ‘What have the Danes done?’

  ‘Nothing. Their old men are as tired and blind as ours. I’ve also heard that a German troopship was torpedoed this morning south of Bergen.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Where could she be going, but to Bergen?’ The voice sounded harsh and bitter. ‘Many soldiers were rescued by Norwegian fishing boats. They were in full uniform and they said they were on their way to protect us against the British and French.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ Magnusson asked bitterly. ‘Ours or the Germans?’

  ‘I am on neither side!’ she snapped. ‘I am on Norway’s side. I don’t care whether the British beat the Germans or the Germans beat the British so long as Norway is safe.’

  There was a long silence and he heard her draw another deep breath. ‘I will try to find out what has been heard. It might take a day or two. I’ll get word to you.’

  It was with a feeling of unease that Magnusson headed back to Oulu. The bloody war, he decided, was becoming complicated.

  It was snowing again when he climbed aboard, and Oulu’s decks were white, her yards picked out against the iron sky. Below, it was cold and the crew wore their thick jerseys and heavy boots. The evening meal seemed worse than ever and Magnusson went to bed because, to his surprise, Campbell and Willie John were playing a game of draughts in the saloon and as it grew noisy he felt he needed to think. Instead he fell asleep immediately.

  He was awakened in the early hours by Marques’ hand on his shoulder. Seeing the petty officer towering above him, he sat bolt upright, the blankets sliding to the deck.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The Finns, sir.’ Marques answered him calmly. ‘They’ve gone. They lowered the starboard boat and went.’

  ‘Didn’t the watchman see ’em?’

  ‘They hit him with a sock filled with sand. He’s just come round.’

  ‘Where are they heading?’

  ‘Djupvik, he thought, sir. They’ll be there by now.’

  ‘Is it because of Worinen and Astermann, Chief?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. They just want to go home.’

  ‘Then why the hell didn’t they leave us in Bodø?’

  Marques shrugged. ‘I suppose because in Bodø there’s no railway to Sweden. Narvik’s connected directly by rail. It’s only twenty miles to the frontier, and from there you can get directly to the Baltic coast and pick up a connection into Finland.’

  Magnusson sighed. ‘Well, thanks, Chief,’ he said. ‘Call Mr Campbell and roust out the rest of the crew.’

  As they appeared on deck, blinking and sleepy-eyed, scratching at beards and shrugging hastily into jerseys, lumber jackets and gloves, Magnusson explained what had happened.

  ‘We’ve still got enough to handle her,’ Campbell said, undaunted and itching as always to do his duty. ‘You and me, Marques and four seamen. Willie John and the telegraphists can give us a hand on deck while the rest of us handle the sails. There are enough to get us to sea.’

  Magnusson glanced at the sky. The wind was still ruffling the water and sending it slopping against the sides of the ship. The shrouds and stays were whining and occasionally gusts of spray were whipped over the bow and low clouds scudded over the mastheads.

  ‘Not in this weather,’ he said. ‘Not without the Finns.’

  During the next afternoon, the snowstorms grew fiercer. Nobody came near them but Magnusson wasn’t kidding himself it was because of the weather.

  Willie John confirmed his suspicions. ‘We’re pickin’ up traffic from the direction o’ Kiel an’ the Jade River, boy,’ he said. ‘The German radios there are chatterin’ like guests at an Irish weddin’. There iss somethin’ in the wind.’

  They watched throughout the day, their eyes nervously on the weather. By evening the wind was still blowing from the south-west, noisy and fierce, sending the spray across the ship to frost the decks with ice. Towards midnight, however, it dropped a little and Magnusson guessed that if it fell away completely there would be fog, and he was hesitant to take a short-handed ship to sea in it.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘As soon as we’re clear of the Lofotens, we’ll radio and hope to Christ the Navy does as it promised and comes to the rescue.’

  They were gloomy as they ate their evening meal.

  ‘I didn’t think it would turn out this way,’ Magnusson said, and he realised he was disappointed.

  He arranged for a lookout to be on deck all night in case the Norwegians started to investigate. If the harbourmaster appeared, he was prepared to up-anchor and chance it.

  He was awakened in the early hours by Myers breathing in his face.

  ‘Sir,’ he said in an urgent whisper. ‘Destroyers!’

  Magnusson sat up. Myers looked scared and Magnusson’s heart leapt hopefully.

  ‘Whose?’ he asked. ‘Ours? Or Norw
egian?’

  Myers did a curious little embarrassed shuffle and coughed to clear his throat. When he spoke again, his voice came harshly and twice as loud.

  ‘Shouldn’t think neither, sir,’ he said. ‘Not flying the bloody swastika.’

  Part Two

  Southwards

  One

  As Magnusson hurried on deck, he was joined by Campbell. Most of the ship’s company were lining the rails, staring across the misty water. A flotilla of large destroyers, in line ahead, was just passing the end of the inlet, heading eastwards into Ofotfjord towards Narvik. Their navigation lights were burning but obscured occasionally like the lighthouse on the point by the flurries of snow. At their sterns flew the red, white and black swastika ensigns of Nazi Germany.

  ‘They must be invading,’ Campbell said.

  The Germans, intent on what lay ahead, seemed not to notice Oulu against the trees. Through his glasses Magnusson could see the officers’ faces all staring down the fjord. Near Ramnes, one of the ships slowed to a stop and a boat went ashore loaded with sailors and men in the heavy pot-shaped German helmets.

  Opposite Djupvik were the two small converted trawlers, Michael Sars and Kelt, on outpost duty, and one of the German destroyers broke out of the line. As it approached the Norwegian ships they saw a string of flags flutter to her yardarm.

  Willie John appeared from below in a hurry. ‘The Norwegians are radioin’ tae base in plain language, boy,’ he said. ‘They’re sayin’ they’re in touch wi’ German destroyers!’

  The German ship had closed with the Norwegians now, and they could hear the iron voice of a loud hailer coming in fits and starts on the wind. As the other destroyers vanished from sight round the headland by Djupvik, they saw a puff of smoke burst from one of its guns and a few seconds later heard the dull thud echoing across the narrow waters of the fjord.

  ‘If this isn’t an invasion I don’t know what it is.’ Magnusson was frowning, wondering what the hell his job was supposed to be now.

  They were still watching the German destroyer alongside the Norwegian trawlers when they heard another shot coming from beyond the curve of the land.

  ‘Must be Eidsvold or Norge!’

  A red Very light drifted above the headland, and soon afterwards they heard four heavy thuds and a thunderous rolling explosion. Almost at once a cloud of brown smoke rose over the trees. There was the sound of gunfire; someone somewhere was putting up a fight. The German destroyer had now left the Norwegian trawlers and was heading up the fjord. She was just picking up speed when they saw a sailing ship creeping through the curling banks of mist along the south shore close to them, laying as near to the wind as she could so that her canvas was on the point of flapping. Her topmasts were missing but, as though to defy the Germans, she flew at the yardarm the red and white flag of Poland. It was Kosciuszko.

  The German destroyer spotted her at the same time and leaned over to the water as she swung on to a new course. Closing to within a few hundred yards of the Polish ship, she opened fire at once without challenging. She was at point-blank range and the shell struck the deckhouse amidships.

  There was a blinding flash and Kosciuszko seemed to bulge in a shower of splinters. Men were dashed aside like lead soldiers, the deckhouse disappearing in a whirl of flying planks. A second shell struck the starboard bitts, and fragments flayed the deck and tore sails to shreds. The third shell struck her at the base of the foremast, bringing down spars and rigging in a tangle of wires and ropes. The fourth exploded amidships, and more planks flew through the air to splash into the water. Immediately, flames began to spread with lightning speed, running up the shrouds and setting light to the furled sails. In no time, tar, tallow and grease had caught fire and the whole ship appeared to be ablaze.

  The mainmast began to bow forward, slow and dignified, with the yards dipping even further to hang suspended before they too crashed down. Men were running along the deck, shouting hoarsely through the smoke as the Germans moved in even closer and swung broadside-on so that they could fire with everything they possessed.

  The Poles were still trying desperately to sail their ship and for a little longer she continued to move forward, a mass of wreckage trailing alongside, even as the shells were tearing into her hull. Then the remains of the foremast and mainmast fell, the canvas draped over her side, smoke curling up as further shell bursts set it alight.

  There were still a few men on their feet, hacking and cutting, trying to tip the flaming mass into the fjord. But the ship seemed to be littered with dead, the wheel gone and the masts and bulwarks all beaten flat. By the time another salvo had splintered the stump of the foremast, Kosciuszko had settled until her decks were almost awash and the surviving Poles reduced to shaking their fists at the hated enemy. One of them had produced another flag and stood waving it defiantly until a shell lifted him into the sea, the flag settling over him like a shroud until the weight of the water in its folds carried it under and him with it.

  By now there was virtually nothing left of the ship and the Germans turned their machine-guns on the bobbing heads in the water, apparently determined to extinguish even this feeble flame of resistance to their Polish conquest and not let a single man live.

  At last the firing died down because there was nothing left to fire at. The German ship moved closer to the burning wreckage and a final shot sent it to the bottom. Then she swung away and headed down the fjord towards Narvik.

  Silently, the men on the deck of Oulu stared at the debris-littered fjord. Then they realised there was a single man swimming in the water, trying to make his way towards them, crying feebly as he lifted an arm to attract their attention.

  ‘Lower the boat,’ Magnusson said. ‘Have him out!’

  The Pole was a pale-faced, bullet-headed boy of about nineteen and for a while he sprawled on the deck gasping and shivering like a stranded fish. Then he sat up, his eyes blazing, the blood dribbling from a cut on his forehead to mingle with the water on his face, to shout some unintelligible Polish watchword and shake his fist at the retreating destroyer.

  ‘Tadeuz Wolszcka,’ he finally introduced himself. ‘Cadet.’

  Magnusson drew a deep breath, almost unable to speak for his loathing for the Germans.

  ‘Find him clothes, Campbell,’ he managed. ‘And sign him on. We have one more hand.’

  As he turned away, he saw the German destroyer had swung back on her course and Willie John’s voice broke in on his thoughts.

  ‘She iss signallin’, boy,’ he pointed out quietly. ‘She says she iss sendin’ a boat.’

  As the German ship drew closer, Wolszcka glared at her, his eyes red with hatred.

  ‘Get him below deck, Chief,’ Magnusson said to Marques. ‘And keep him out of sight or they’ll probably take him and shoot him out of hand. And have a club handy because if he gets a chance he’ll break out and try to murder a few of them.’

  The German officer who stepped aboard was tall and fair and very correct. Licking his lips nervously, Magnusson was glad he hadn’t shaved and that he was wearing an old jersey and a stained donkey jacket.

  ‘Guten Morgen, Herr Kapitän,’ the German said.

  Feigning stupidity, Magnusson answered in Finnish.

  ‘Magnusson,’ he said. ‘Förste styrman.’

  The German frowned and tried again in German. Magnusson frowned back at him and answered stubbornly with the same words. Then he pointed at Campbell. ‘Andre styrman,’ he said. He gestured at Willie John. ‘Tredje styrman–’ at Marques – ‘timmerman’ and at Myers – ‘doonkey.’

  The German was still frowning. ‘You speak English?’ he asked.

  It gave Magnusson a lot of pleasure to force him to use the language of the enemy.

  ‘A little,’ he said.

  ‘What ship are you?’

  ‘Oulu, of Mariehamn. We try to go home. That is all. Skepparen dead in America. We have cargo of grain for England but we decide perhaps Finland want it more.’

/>   The German smiled. ‘That is a very good idea,’ he said. ‘We are in command here now, not the Norwegians. They were stupid enough to try to resist. All they got for their trouble was the loss of two of their ships. We sank them with torpedoes.’ He sniffed. ‘They were destroyed at once. They were only old ships. Perhaps you will do well to take heed of what happened and do as we tell you.’

  Magnusson’s hatred boiled inside him. ‘If we don’t?’

  ‘Then we must take measures to see that you do.’

  ‘As you did with the other ship?’

  ‘They were only Poles.’ The German spoke as if the Poles were an inferior race fit only to be exterminated like cockroaches. ‘Jewish-run. Germany has no time for Poles. How many crew have you?’

  ‘Ten. Yesterday we have twenty-two but they leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They go home to Finland by train.’

  The German smiled. ‘I think they have much to learn from Germany,’ he said. ‘We are here to protect the Norwegians from the British and the French. It will be done peacefully. We expect the Norwegians to help us.’

  ‘Ikke alle hester blir solgt,’ Magnusson said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a proverb. Not all horses get sold. Perhaps this one won’t.’

  Two

  Annie Egge watched the Germans arrive.

  The day before, when she had read in Aftenposten that the British and the French had informed the Norwegian government that mines had been laid in Norwegian waters to prevent them being used by German ships, her heart had sunk. Norwegian neutrality had received a nasty knock.

  There were rumours of a German invasion in the paper and she knew it was more than possible now. Then the radio had given the news of men and horses being washed up on the shore from the sunken troopship south of Bergen. If there was a troopship off the Norwegian coast, where could it have been going but to Norway? Her father’s reaction to the mine laying – ‘Now look what they’ve done! They’ve dragged us into a war!’ – only irritated her because he seemed not to realise that the Germans were already making their preparations.