North Strike

by John Harris

  The report was confusing, and after more fiddling Willie John managed to get Oslo where the radio station was all too obviously in German hands. A triumphant, braying voice was warning the Norwegians to repudiate those men who wished to fight on and dismissing the efforts of the Allies with arrogant contempt.

  ‘The soldiers they have put ashore are cold and bewildered and miserable,’ the announcer stated. ‘They advanced southward in stolen lorries decorated with such foolishness as ‘Tours to the Midnight Sun’ and ‘See Beautiful Norway’. Now they are heading for a German prison camp. British bases at Namsos and Lillesjøna have been bombed out of existence and the only plans the British and French who have landed are making are plans to escape.’

  As Willie John switched off, they stood staring at each other, as bewildered and miserable as the captured British they had just heard about.

  ‘Seems to me the whole bloody thing’s falling apart,’ Campbell said stiffly.

  The Norwegian officer frowned. ‘The British have let us down,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Norway should get the best terms she can.’

  Magnusson looked at him angrily, but as he did so, he felt the deck move and swung round to see Sergeant Atwood push two men in front of him into the chartroom. His rifle was prodding at their backs and the men moved sullenly.

  One of them was small and sturdy with a lined intelligent face. The other was big and blond with a face like the craggy shores of his own fjords. Atwood handed over a torch.

  ‘His,’ he said shortly, indicating the taller of the two men.

  The newcomers were staring round them, their faces suspicious and angry.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the big man demanded. ‘Why are you aboard my boat?’

  There was a long silence and the Norwegian’s eyes glowed with fury. ‘You are not Norwegian?’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ Annie said quickly. She indicated the naval officer. ‘So is he. And there are more of us in the woods. We escaped from Narvik when the Germans came.’

  The Norwegian’s expression changed. ‘You were in Narvik? We heard about it. Is there much damage? Were the Germans defeated?’

  ‘Twice.’ Magnusson was pleased to hear the pride in Annie’s voice. ‘The British Navy came twice. Ten destroyers and many ships were sunk. The British lost only two destroyers.’

  ‘And the town?’

  ‘It has been badly damaged. Shells landed among the buildings. The dead were mostly Germans.’ She paused and looked at the Norwegian in the doorway. ‘Why is your boat empty?’

  The Norwegian moved to a locker and produced a lantern. Striking a match, he lit it and set it on the table. The yellow light lit their faces.

  ‘I am Mindur Haldursen,’ he said. ‘I am from Bjugn near Trondheim. When the Germans came I did not like to stay, so with my brother, Leif, and four members of the crew, we set off north. But the sea was full of German ships and we had to creep up the coast. We came here to try to reach Namsos, but then we heard that the bombing had destroyed the town and we did not know where the Germans were. In the end I decided to come in here. I thought I could get fuel because I have a cousin here.’ He gestured at the other Norwegian. ‘This is my cousin, Lars Orjasaeter. He says there are German sailors down the fjord at Fjållbrakka, and they are systematically taking over all fishing boats and arming them as German patrol boats. The war is almost over.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Annie demanded furiously. ‘How can you? The British will drive them away.’

  Captain Haldursen shook his head. ‘They have no chance. Instead of the guns we prayed for, they arrived with four footballs to a battalion and fifty thousand cigarettes per man. They will not hold out at Namsos for more than another week.’

  The bluntness shook them.

  The Norwegian shrugged. ‘It is hopeless,’ he went on. ‘They are like sitting rabbits in the snow. They are continuously shelled and bombed. The planes are always overhead and they only have rifles, a few machine-guns and some smoke bombs none of them much use against aircraft. Everywhere the British move the bombers follow them. They simply destroy every place they stop and the population live in terror of their arrival. Their intentions are excellent but Norway cannot afford allies who have nothing but good intentions. Perhaps we will go with you to England.’

  ‘How soon can you refuel?’ Campbell asked.

  ‘They can’t.’ Orjasaeter, the smaller of the two Norwegians, spoke for the first time. ‘There is no diesel here. The Germans took every drum they could find to Fjållbrakka.’

  ‘Have they got the fishing boats up there?’

  ‘No. They all sailed for the Lofotens when they heard of the invasion. Only Kaare Blystad’s boat, Iversen, was cap

  tured. He refused to hand her over so they shot him with his crew. Five of them. They’ve sent her to Trondheim to have a gun mounted. They’re going to seal off the fjords. She’s due back any time. There’s only one other, Jakka, which is lying alongside the German barque.’

  ‘Barque?’ Magnusson’s head jerked round. ‘What German barque?’

  ‘Cuxhaven.’ Captain Haldursen frowned. ‘I passed her as I came in. I know her well. She’s carrying nitrates again and heading for Kiel.’

  ‘Then what’s she doing here?’

  ‘I think there are technicians aboard,’ Orjasaeter said. ‘I have heard lathes. You don’t need lathes where there is only an auxiliary engine.’

  ‘Where’s Fjållbrakka?’

  Haldursen produced a chart of the fjord and Orjasaeter’s stubby brown hand moved over it. ‘There is nothing there except Jensen’s timberyard. It is four kilometres as the crow flies, eight by the fjord because it curves, perhaps five by the road over the hill.’ His hand moved again. ‘There is another loading station here – at Grude, another fifteen kilometres down the fjord. Then there is nothing. Just the sea. You have only to pass the Island of Otno in the entrance and you are in open water.’

  Magnusson eyed them worriedly. Why was Cuxhaven in Marsjøenfjord? She seemed to be perpetually across their path.

  ‘Are they using her to seal the fjord?’ he asked.

  Orjasaeter shrugged. ‘But they are very thorough,’ he said. ‘Eventually every fishing boat will need a permit, a certified crew list, registration papers and a certificate stamped by German harbourmasters at every port called at in the last three months. In addition, each crewmember will need an identity card and a special permit to enter zones like Trondheim, Narvik and Oslo. There will be lookout posts and control boats for every fjord. Observation and artillery posts are already being established on the high ground.’

  ‘How many of them are there at Fjållbrakka?’

  ‘About forty.’

  ‘Exactly?’

  Orjasaeter did a few mental calculations. ‘Forty-three,’ he said. ‘Two officers, two petty officers and thirty-nine men. I counted them. They’ve taken over the timberyard as headquarters and the ship’s captain sleeps in Jensen’s house with his officers and petty officers. They’ve set up a machine-gun post overlooking the road and the fjord and one covering the jetty. They use Jakka to ferry them to and from the ship.’

  ‘What about the crew?’

  ‘They are living ashore in the timberyard, apart from a few aboard Jakka and a few aboard Cuxhaven.’

  As they became silent again, one of Atwood’s men appeared. He looked about eighteen and very scared. His mouth opened and shut once or twice and Atwood frowned.

  ‘All right, lad!’ he said sharply. ‘Pull yourself together! That’s not the way for a Koyli to be’ave! Get a grip on yourself, do, and make your report proper!’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ the boy said and it occurred to Magnusson that he was probably far more afraid of Atwood than he was of the enemy.

  ‘Now, lad,’ Atwood said. ‘Spit it out!’

  The boy swallowed, stiffened and his face grew red. ‘Germans!’ he exploded. ‘There’s a car coming! It’s already at the top of the bloody hill!’

  Two

&
nbsp; Captain Haldursen extinguished the lamp with a quick movement of his hand and they began to scramble ashore. As they ran along the jetty, Magnusson saw the headlights of a car approaching round the bend of the hill like two vast bright eyes.

  He turned to the Norwegians. ‘Is it the Germans from Fjållbrakka?’

  ‘It must be,’ Orjasaeter said. ‘They commandeered Jensen’s car from the timberyard. And nobody else would come here at this time of night.’

  Haldursen was staring up the hill with fury on his face. ‘They’ll take my boat,’ he said. ‘All my savings, all my father’s savings, my whole life. We haven’t even enough fuel on board to heat a cup of coffee.’

  They pulled him into the shadows as the car swept into the village. It stopped by the end of the jetty and six armed Germans in naval uniform climbed out. One remained by the car, lighting a cigarette as the other five moved along the jetty. They climbed on to the boat, their hands on their weapons, their boots clomping on the boards.

  ‘They will steal Støregutt,’ Haldursen groaned as they vanished below.

  ‘There isn’t a thing we can do,’ Magnusson said. ‘We haven’t any weapons.’

  Atwood coughed. It was an affronted cough. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘We ’ave. Rifles, to be exact. What’s more, we can use ’em. Quietly, too. They ’ave ’eavy butts.’

  As they waited, Annie touched Magnusson’s arm. Staring up the road where she pointed, he saw a small shadowy shape moving towards them under the fringe of the trees. As it drew near, the thin moonlight caught its face.

  ‘It’s the bloody Pole,’ Campbell whispered. ‘What’s the bastard up to?’

  They soon found out. Wolszcka had vanished into the shadows at the end of the jetty and for a long time there was silence as they wondered what he was after. Then they saw him reappear behind the German sailor who was still by the car puffing on his cigarette, his eyes on the silent houses of the village, his rifle leaning against the mudguard.

  There was a glint of steel in the starlight then a low gurgling cry from the German as he slid to the ground alongside the car. As Wolszcka stood over him, they could see the blood on the blade of his knife. The German was lying by the car, his naval cap with its long ribbons beside him, the blood from his throat black against the snow. Annie gasped and turned her face away, nauseated. Wolszcka began to move towards the jetty.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Magnusson breathed. ‘The bastard’s going to take the lot on!’

  As the Polish boy headed towards the boat, he passed within a foot of where Magnusson was crouching. Magnusson acted almost without thinking. Reaching out, one hand went over the Pole’s mouth, the other grabbing the hand with the knife.

  ‘Give me a hand with the bastard!’ he whispered.

  Between them they dragged Wolszcka into the shadows, writhing, fighting and spitting like a wildcat.

  ‘Shut up, you mad sod,’ Campbell hissed, then Magnusson lost his temper and hit the Pole under the jaw.

  ‘’Tis a good footpad, you’d make boy,’ Willie John panted.

  ‘I once separated the chief cook and the fourth engineer,’ Magnusson said. ‘The fourth had a foot-long wrench and the cook had a carving knife.’ He looked at Campbell. ‘Something that doesn’t happen in the real Navy.’ He felt the Pole stir. ‘Anybody understand Polish, for Christ’s sake?’

  Wolszcka was already coming round and, trying him with Finnish, Norwegian and a few scraps of the Baltic languages he’d picked up at sea, Magnusson finally managed to get through to him who they were. As he calmed down he began to mutter softly in Polish and Magnusson slammed a hand over his mouth.

  ‘What the hell are we going to do with the rest of the bastards?’ he said.

  ‘There’s only one thing to do, sir,’ Atwood said briskly. ‘We’ve got to nobble the lot.’

  ‘Five o’ the bastards?’ Willie John gasped.

  What Atwood had said made sense, however. ‘We’ve done for one of ’em already,’ Magnusson said. ‘We’ve got to get the rest now, or they’ll get us.’

  Atwood picked up the dead German’s rifle and handed it to Willie John.

  ‘No shooting, sir, of course,’ he warned.

  Willie John’s heavy face twitched and he regarded the rifle as if he expected it to go off on its own. ‘Then what the hell iss this for, boy?’ he asked.

  ‘You stick it up their nostrils, sir,’ Atwood explained, ‘and tell ’em to be quiet. They’ll not argue with it. People don’t. If you shoot, that lot at this Fall-whatever-it’s-called place might ’ear. It’s a still night and the sound would carry.’ Atwood sounded like somebody who had studied his business. ‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we? If they do argue, you ’it ’em at the side of the ’ead with it. They won’t know whether to laugh or sing theirselves to sleep.’

  Willie John stared at the rifle in his hands, then thrust it back. ‘No’ me, boy,’ he said. ‘Gi’e it to somebody ass bloodthirsty ass yersel’.’

  Atwood looked faintly disgusted but Campbell snatched the weapon. ‘I’ll handle it,’ he said. ‘What about the others?’

  Atwood shrugged. ‘We’ll attend to the rest, sir,’ he said.

  Willie John shuddered and, thrusting his fist into the pocket of the hideous checked windcheater he had bought from the farmer at Djupvik, he fished out a bottle. He was just about to raise it when Magnusson turned on him. ‘Put that away,’ he snapped.

  Willie John gave him a sad, defeated look, shrugged, pushed the bottle back in his pocket, and seemed to vanish into the shadows. Because he guessed that Willie John was having a quick nip in the dark despite him, Magnusson was worried by the thought that he was dealing with men he couldn’t entirely trust. He turned with something like relief to Atwood who at least seemed to know what he was about.

  ‘What have you in mind, Sergeant?’

  Atwood was quite unperturbed. ‘Leave it to me, sir,’ he said.

  He seemed completely in control and Magnusson began to feel easier. ‘One of us had better sit on the Pole,’ he said, ‘or he’ll balls everything up.’ He gave the job to the Norwegian and turned to Atwood. ‘How do we set about it? They’ll know we’re coming the minute we step on board. The boat’ll shift.’

  ‘We’re not going to them, sir,’ Atwood said calmly. ‘They’re coming to us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just get in the shadows, sir. Move when I move.’

  As they vanished into the blackness, Atwood reached through the driver’s window of the car and found the horn button. Pressing it, he played a wild tattoo on it that echoed round the hills, then dived for the shadows at the end of the jetty. The reaction was just as he expected. The five Germans burst out of the boat’s cabin at the run.

  Atwood tripped the first one who fell into the fjord alongside, sending up a sheet of water that was silver in the moonlight. Campbell hit the second with the butt of the rifle. The third went down in the shadows and Magnusson saw three men scuffling in the darkness. The fourth collided with Magnusson himself who kneed him in the groin and, as he doubled up, kneed him again in the face. As he fell, moaning, the scuffle resolved itself into separate panting shapes. There was a whimpering cry and Campbell clambered to his feet.

  ‘That mad bloody Pole,’ he said furiously. ‘He got free! He’s done for him!’

  The Norwegian they’d left to guard the Pole was holding his head, and Wolszcka was grinning and wiping his knife. Annie watched him, her eyes sick-looking.

  The fifth German seemed to have disappeared and they were just looking round for him when they saw him bolt.

  ‘Catch the bastard!’ Atwood snapped. ‘’E’ll give the game away.’

  The German was just passing the shadows by the turn of the road as Atwood raised his rifle and worked the bolt. But before he could pull the trigger a figure stepped out from under the trees. They saw the light flash on the object in its hand and there was the sound of breaking glass as the German went down in a
huddled heap. When they reached him, Willie John was staring mournfully at the neck of a broken bottle he held in his hand.

  ‘A Dhia!’ In his grief he broke into Gaelic. ‘Ma booze!’

  Campbell slapped him on the back and hefted the rifle. ‘Now what?’ he asked.

  Magnusson stared about him. Wolszcka was obviously itching to kill the other Germans but Atwood and the Norwegian were hanging on to his arms, and it suddenly came to him what Wolszcka had done. Loud and clear. When Wolszcka had killed the German sailor by the car, he had started a chain of events that could not now be stopped. There was nothing they could do now but go on.

  He drew a deep breath. ‘We finish what we’ve started,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We do for the Germans at Fjållbrakka, and take over Cuxhaven.’ Magnusson managed a shaky smile. ‘I told you we’d find something that blasted Pole would be good at. This is it. Starting wars.’

  The German who had fallen in the water was still paddling about beneath their feet, making little bleating sounds.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Magnusson snapped. ‘Get that bloody man out, somebody!’

  As they dragged the German ashore and let him sprawl at their feet, gasping and moaning, Wolszcka moved forward, knife in hand. Atwood stepped in front of him, his rifle up.

  ‘Get back, you bastard!’ he said. ‘You’ve done enough damage already!’

  Wolszcka jabbered away at him and Atwood thrust the rifle upwards until the muzzle was at his throat. ‘When I tell you to do something,’ he said, ‘you do it. Quick sharp! Savvy?’

  Whether Wolszcka understood or not, he backed away, and they dragged the two dead men into the shadows and pushed the other Germans ahead of them on to the boat and forced them below.

  Campbell, who had been silent for a while, was having second thoughts. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m no bloody infantryman! I’m a naval officer. Are you sure we can do it? Taking over a ship full of men.’

  ‘We’ve got no option,’ Magnusson snapped. ‘He’s started it. We have to finish it.’