North Strike

by John Harris

  ‘I’m sure they’d forgive you, Sergeant, if they could see you now.’

  They counted noses and found that nobody was even scratched. ‘Now for the jetty,’ Magnusson said. He glanced at Orjasaeter who nodded.

  ‘I will follow you,’ he said none too willingly.

  Atwood was fidgeting impatiently. ‘Let’s get on with it, sir,’ he urged. ‘Speed’s the thing. They’ll be expecting the car back and if we don’t look slippy, they’ll be asting theirselves what’s ’appened. While they’re watching the car arrive, the rest can nip in and do ’em. P’raps you’ll drive again, sir.’

  Climbing behind the wheel, Magnusson took off the brake and the car began to coast at once down the hill.

  ‘Let’s have the engine, sir,’ Atwood said. ‘They’ll be expecting it, so let ’em ’ave it – large as life and twice as nasty.’

  As Magnusson slipped the car into gear, the engine started.

  ‘Right up to the jetty, sir,’ Atwood said.

  As they stopped, Magnusson heard the squeak of brakes as Orjasaeter’s van stopped further up the hill. A moment later the others were round the car.

  Atwood seemed pleased. ‘Couldn’t be better,’ he said. ‘Will you lead, sir?’

  ‘I’d much prefer you to,’ Magnusson said. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot more about it than I do.’

  As they climbed out of the car and approached the shed at the end of the jetty, the door opened and a dark figure was framed by a glow of light from a lantern. Atwood jabbed with the bayonet and the German gasped and reeled back. Immediately, the rest of them burst in behind him. When Magnusson fought his way past the crowding men, two of the German sailors inside were already standing with their backs to the wall, reaching for the roof as if they hoped to pull themselves off the ground. A third man groped for his rifle and Atwood promptly kicked him in the face as he bent, while one of the Norwegians brought his rifle round with a reassuring clunk. The German sprawled at their feet and, judging by the blood oozing from his nose and ears, Magnusson guessed that he wouldn’t be getting up again.

  ‘Nine rifles, sir,’ Atwood reported. ‘Two light machine-guns and one pistol. You’d better ’ave the pistol. You’re the officer.’

  ‘Much more sense to give it to someone who knows what to do with it,’ Magnusson suggested. ‘I couldn’t hit a pig in a passage.’

  Atwood nodded all brisk military efficiency. ‘In that case, sir,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll keep it meself. Now for the ’ead-quarters. Am I still running the show, sir?’

  ‘Not half you aren’t, Sergeant. Believe me, when we get back, if we get back, I’ll make bloody sure somebody knows about this. You might even get a commission.’

  ‘Don’t fancy one, sir, thank you. I’m all right as I am.’

  There was a faint disdain in Atwood’s voice, the eternal British sergeant, contemptuous of inferiors, kindly but firm towards superiors, believing that the British army was run by its colonels and senior NCOs.

  Boch, the captain of Cuxhaven, was fast asleep when Magnusson touched him on the shoulder. As he woke up and saw Magnusson’s face, his jaw dropped. ‘Mate Magnusson! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Lieutenant-Commander Magnusson.’ The reply came briskly and it was full of pleasure at the German’s amazement. ‘Royal Navy.’

  ‘But you were–!’

  ‘In a sailing ship,’ Magnusson ended. ‘In disguise. Same as you. Now get up.’

  Boch stared at him a moment longer, his blue eyes like chips of ice.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare do anything,’ he said. ‘Like the rest of the English, you are an amateur.’

  ‘Try me and see.’

  Boch decided to, and as he reached for the pistol alongside the bed, Magnusson had the pleasure of bringing down his rifle butt on his head. Boch’s eyes crossed and he flopped back on the pillow.

  ‘That’s the way to do it, sir,’ Atwood approved. ‘Solid bar gold. You can’t bugger about. It’s all or nowt.’

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘All under control sir. There’s enough ammo to sink a ship, a couple of dozen grenades and a torch as big as Blackpool Tower. Two of the Germans is dead. One of the Norwegians did for one. I don’t think ’e enjoyed it – the Norwegian, I mean – and that bloody Pole, Wolszcka, got the other. That bloke’s a proper terror, sir. He moves like a bleedin’ snake. There’s also another with a sore ’ead. Bloody sore, I reckon. One of my lads did for ’im with a rifle butt.’

  While they were talking, Marques came panting into the room with two of the sailors and two of the Norwegians.

  ‘Glad you made it,’ Atwood said. ‘We was running short of men to guard the prisoners.’

  ‘The halt, the blind and the lame will be along in a few minutes,’ Marques grinned. ‘I thought we’d better push along as fast as we could.’

  The timberyard seemed as easy as the guard posts and it was only when they started counting noses again, one dead – Wolszcka again – one with a cracked skull and five prisoners, that it dawned on them that one was missing, and one man was quite sufficient to raise the alarm.

  As they dashed outside, they saw a blur of white against the dark buildings as a man, minus his jacket, bolted up the road towards where he clearly imagined the men at the machine-gun posts waited to be warned.

  Atwood didn’t hesitate. Dropping on one knee, he fired and the figure fell.

  ‘Get him, some of you,’ he said.

  Campbell frowned. ‘That’s torn it,’ he growled.

  ‘Get hold of that torch,’ Magnusson said. ‘Anybody speak German?’

  One of the Norwegian naval officers volunteered.

  ‘Know Morse?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Flash the ship that it was an accident. They’ll be wanting to know what’s happened.’

  A light had appeared aboard Jakka. ‘Get out of sight, the rest of you,’ Magnusson ordered. ‘He looks German. Leave it to him.’

  A signalling lamp flashed, the beam playing on the sheds. At once the Norwegian began to flash back.

  ‘Unfall,’ he signalled. ‘Kein Alarm.’

  They could hear voices coming across the water but there were no further questions and eventually the light on board Jakka went out.

  As silence fell again, four of Atwood’s men appeared from the darkness carrying the limp figure of a man in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘Is the cook,’ Orjasaeter said, and Magnusson was surprised to discover he was still with them.

  ‘You didn’t kill him, Sarge,’ one of the men observed. ‘Only winged him.’ He sounded faintly shocked.

  Four

  They decided to give the men in Jakka and Cuxhaven time to settle down and waited, shivering and nervous, for an hour and a half, until they felt they would all be asleep.

  While they waited, Atwood checked the arms they’d captured.

  ‘Two MG42 light machine-guns, sir,’ he reported. ‘Eighteen rifles. Three Luger pistols. And two boxes of grenades. German types, but I know ’ow to use ’em.’ He pointed towards the dark water. ‘This is where it gets a bit more difficult. Soldiers ain’t so good in boats. Do you ’ave sentries in the Navy?’

  Magnusson smiled. Atwood never missed a trick.

  ‘I dare bet they don’t out there,’ he said. ‘They’re a hundred yards away from where they can be surprised.’ He gestured. ‘Only this time, they will be. We’ll do a cutting out operation. The Navy’s supposed to be good at cutting out.’

  ‘What the ’ell’s cutting out?’ Atwood asked.

  ‘They used to do it a lot in Nelson’s day.’

  ‘Bit before my time, sir.’

  ‘The conditions are the same: a sailing ship that can’t get away, sailors and soldiers in boats to row alongside after dark and capture it. Haven’t you read Hornblower?’

  While they waited, Marques’ party brought in the prisoners from the guard post on the road up the hill. According to Orjasaeter there was a cellar in the house w
here they could lock them in.

  ‘Good,’ Magnusson said. ‘They can stay there till we want ’em. We might even take a selection home with us when we leave. They might be useful to Intelligence.’

  While they were talking, they heard the soft sound of muffled oars and the dinghies from Marsjøen with Willie John and several Norwegians bumped softly against the jetty. As they climbed out, Magnusson was surprised to see Annie with them.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he snapped.

  She looked hurt and answered him with a faint hint of reproach in her voice.

  ‘I came to tell you about the families in Marsjøen,’ she said. ‘They all want to go to England.’

  The tide was high and the stream was slack as they began to row out into the fjord.

  ‘We takin’ Wolszcka, sir?’ Atwood asked.

  ‘Can you handle him?’

  Atwood grinned. ‘I think so, and it’s a pity to spoil his fun. ’E’s a beaut’, proper. ’E’s thoroughly enjoyin’ ’isself. In fact, I’m bloody glad I’m not a German, because I wouldn’t like to meet ’im in the dark. Let’s give ’im ’is ’ead.’

  They had worked out carefully on the table in Boch’s room exactly what each boat was to do. One was to handle Jakka, the rest Cuxhaven, and they had strict instructions to make sure they got every single German.

  ‘Watch those oars,’ Magnusson whispered as they reached midstream. ‘And make sure she doesn’t bump.’

  As they slid alongside Jakka a door in the wheelhouse opened. They were in the shadow of the fishing boat’s hull, and were startled to see one of the Germans, wearing long underwear, appear half-asleep and start to unfasten the front of his underpants as he stood at the side of the ship to relieve himself.

  Reaching up quickly, Magnusson grasped his ankle and heaved. Only a faint cry escaped; then the German dropped into the dinghy, cracking his head on the side as he landed. Someone hit him at once and he was silent.

  ‘Aboard, quick!’ Magnusson said.

  Hoisting themselves up, they paused to listen. ‘Four of you to the forecastle,’ Magnusson said. ‘I’ll look after the cabin aft.’

  There were faint scuffling sounds from forward as he opened the door from which the German had appeared.

  ‘Noch einmal, Hansi,’ a sleepy voice said. ‘Seine Blase ist sehr kleine.’

  For a moment, Magnusson wondered whether to lash out, but he found he couldn’t hit a half-awake man when he was discussing the size of his friend’s bladder. Instead he flashed the torch.

  ‘Ach, die Lampe–!

  Magnusson had a glimpse of blankets being pulled over the man’s head and of a stout body heaving in the bunk. ‘Get up,’ he snapped.

  There was a second’s silence, then the German sat up, his eyes wide. He was fat and unhealthy looking.

  ‘Out!’ Magnusson said. ‘Raus! Schnell!’

  The German lowered a pair of fat legs to the deck; then Magnusson saw one hand reaching under the blankets. Without compunction he swung the rifle and the German rolled off the bunk, groaning. Wrenching the blankets aside, Magnusson saw that what he had been reaching for was not a weapon but what was clearly a much-loved pipe, burned away at the bowl, the stem bound with sail twine.

  Atwood appeared. ‘I’ve left one man forward on guard, sir. No trouble. Let’s get aboard the ship. That one looks as though he won’t argue.’

  No, Magnusson thought, he wouldn’t. But the poor bastard had probably only been thinking that if he were going into a prisoner of war cage he might as well take his pipe with him.

  As they slipped from Jakka to the ship, they saw heads appearing over the taffrail at the opposite side.

  ‘Where do they live, sir?’ Atwood breathed.

  ‘Campbell,’ Magnusson whispered, ‘show ’em the forecastle. Come on, Atwood, the rest’ll be aft.’

  By the time they had finished, they had two more dead Germans – both dispatched by the gleeful Wolszcka – two prisoners on Jakka and twelve on Cuxhaven. One of them was Wolff, Boch’s lieutenant, and his reaction as he saw Magnusson was the same as Boch’s.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Finland is not at war with Germany.’

  ‘Britain is,’ Magnusson said.

  Wolff frowned, then he began to smile. ‘I think you will regret this, my friend,’ he said. ‘You do not realise what you have taken on.’

  He seemed strangely indifferent, and even cocksure, in a way that puzzled Magnusson. Prisoners shouldn’t look as happy as Wolff did. He was still pondering the question when Campbell appeared. He looked excited.

  ‘No wonder this bloody ship could call up the submarines from Narvik to nobble our merchantmen!’ he said. ‘We’ve captured a naval vessel.’ It seemed to have made his day. ‘There are stands for machine-guns,’ he went on. ‘And that’s not all. I think she’s a submarine supply ship. The after hold’s full of torpedoes, and there are lathes and drills forrard. To do repairs at sea that the submarines can’t do themselves. They obviously kept them supplied with food and other things too. There are drums of oil, crates of beer, ammunition, and torpedoes. With warheads, but without firing pistols.’

  ‘We’ll dump ’em when we’ve got a chance. Is there a derrick for them?’

  ‘One over the hatch. Obviously put there for that very job. There’s also a bloody great receiver-transmitter.’

  ‘Right. We’ve still got Willie John. Get him aboard and tell him to have a look at it but to make no transmissions until I tell him to. We might be glad to use it when we get clear of this place.’

  Bundling the prisoners into the fishing boat’s hold and locking the hatch, they started the engine. Then, using the German signalling lamp to light the edge of the jetty, they brought her alongside the quay at the timberyard. By this time the place seemed full of people, and Magnusson realised that half of the male population from Marsjøen had arrived either by dinghy or on foot and that they had been joined by two or three families from Fjållbrakka.

  It was almost daylight when they shoved their prisoners ashore. As they were shepherding them towards the house, the telephone rang, strident in the tense atmosphere. It rang only once; then there was silence and they all stared at each other. After a while, it rang again and there was another silence.

  ‘Party-line,’ Orjasaeter explained. ‘Everybody has their own code.’

  Magnusson’s eyes fell on the German-speaking Norwegian. ‘Answer it,’ he said. ‘Carefully.’

  They followed the Norwegian into the house and watched as he picked up the telephone, holding it as if it were red hot. They could all hear the telephone clattering and they knew that the voice on the other end of the line was German.

  ‘So,’ the Norwegian began uncertainly. ‘Jawohl, Herr Kapitänleutnant. I will inform him.’

  When he put the telephone down, he turned to Magnusson, his face white. ‘That was the captain of the submarine, U49,’ he said. ‘He was telephoning to inform the people from Cuxhaven that they’ve arrived.’

  ‘Arrived where, for God’s sake?’

  ‘At Grude, down the fjord. They were damaged by depth charges at Narvik and they’ve come in to make repairs. They want as much help as can be given.’

  Five

  Magnusson’s heart seemed to have slipped down to his stomach. Their luck had seemed so good for so long he’d been convinced it had changed. But here it was again, the rake handle in the dark, coming up to hit him in the teeth, as he stepped on the head.

  No wonder Wolff hadn’t been worried. He’d known about the submarine, and that was why Cuxhaven was in Marsjøenfjord. Damaged by British action, U49 had radioed and Cuxhaven had broken her voyage south to meet her. Wolff didn’t expect to be a prisoner of war very long. Damaged or not, a submarine was something they were going to find difficult to get round. Even if she were unable to move, she had a gun on her bow and one shell into Cuxhaven would be enough to bring down all her yards.

  Submarines also mounted machi
ne-guns – ever since the war had started the British newspapers had been full of stories of how they machine-gunned merchant seamen as they took to their boats when their ships were sunk. Magnusson hadn’t believed a word of them and he suspected that, apart from a few old ladies in twin sets and pearls, nobody else did either. But truth was always the first victim of war, and even if the Germans didn’t willingly murder torpedoed sailors, they wouldn’t hesitate to use their weapons against Cuxhaven.

  He suddenly felt very tired. The emotions aroused in him by beating up unsuspecting men, bringing rifle butts down on their heads, stabbing and shooting them, was something he hadn’t been trained for. Perhaps when the war had been going a little longer, he might have got used to it like Sergeant Atwood and his men, but for the moment it was all a bit new. And to have done so much and then to discover that yet another obstacle was down the fjord across their path was just too much.

  The Norwegian was still standing by the telephone.

  ‘Did they say when they expected this help?’ Magnusson asked him.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ the Norwegian said. ‘I told him we were having a little trouble down here. I told him we’d send help as soon as we could.’

  Magnusson sighed. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘’Ow about ’aving a go at nobbling the submarine?’ Atwood suggested.

  ‘You’re too enthusiastic by a long way, Sergeant,’ Magnusson said.

  As the Germans filed past him towards the cellar, Wolff smiled.

  ‘I think you have now decided that you have no chance, have you not, Herr Kapitän?’ he said gaily in perfect English. The next second, he was flying down the stairs on his head as Sergeant Atwood hit him between the shoulders with his rifle butt. Magnusson was unmoved. Thank God. he thought, for someone who believed in action and didn’t worry too much about the consequences.