“That was Zirkenbach; wouldn’t you know it? He asked for the searchlights and the Major indulged him.”
“Marvellous. I loved the way the aeroplanes kept diving on the little boats.”
“Dummy attacks.”
“Goodness! Would they be able to sink them if it was real?”
“Kneipe says he and his other S boat skippers can dodge any air attack; but then, you know Kneipe: he’s a typical breezy sailor who always thinks the Navy can perform any miracle. But even he admits that slow assault craft wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Suppose the British made an attack supported by aeroplanes?”
“That would need a carrier: which they certainly wouldn’t want to risk on a trivial target like Olafsund.”
“Trivial?” She pretended to bridle. “Thank you very much! That is a fine thing to say to a lady who was born and bred here.”
He put an arm around her. “No insult intended.” They kissed and once again he had to pant for a few seconds before he could speak. “But one could hardly call one small factory, a hydro-electric plant and a few boats important, could one?”
“They are important to us who live here.”
“Sure. But of what account are they to the enemy? I don’t see any raids here. If they did attempt one, it would be by a very small force that would try to sneak in in very small boats; not even powered boats, but using oars or paddles. More’s the pity: we’d all welcome a bit of fun.”
“But if the British didn’t use aeroplanes, there would be no fun for you.”
“Don’t you believe it: I’d point my Flak down at the water and blast the enemy out of it before ever old Scherer was even awake to what was happening.”
He laughed at the prospect and the mental image of a bout of indignation shaking the stolid Hauptmann Scherer. She shared his amusement.
“You do like to torment the poor man, don’t you.”
“What are we doing wasting time on that fat dolt? Let’s go to bed, Gro.”
“Don’t you want a glass of aquavit?”
“Let us get our priorities right: a drink comes second.”
She twinkled at him, sighed in mock reproof and engulfed him once more with her prehensile mouth.
Hofstein, in wonder and admiration, told himself that if she clamped her lips to the ceiling, she would be able to hang from there with no trouble at all.
*
Taggart had assembled his troop in the large hut made of two Nissens end-to-end which was used for lectures and, when free, as a recreation room. He stood on a table, while his two officers sat beside it, facing the men.
“It’s a bind for you not knowing the exact location of our target; security: you won’t be told until we have actually put to sea. But I can tell you in detail about how we are going to get there and what we are going to do.
“We’ll be taken to the target area in a decent, steady, and, as far as possible, quite comfortable ship, as you have seen for yourselves. That should be good news for those of us who get seasick on wet grass.” He waited for the rumble of amusement to subside. “You’ll be glad to hear that we’ll be escorted by two destroyers and a corvette; which will be adequate to cope with U boats and air attack.
“When we transfer to the assault boats, this troop will have the key task to perform.” He could sense the quickening interest, there was a rustle as men sat forward as though not wanting to miss anything he said.
“We have to make a sea passage of a little over two miles before we reach the cliff we’re going to climb. There is a hazard on the way: Island One.” He pointed to it on a chalk diagram on the blackboard. “We must not allow ourselves to be heard or seen. Once we’re safely past it, we shall have this bend between the island and us. We can therefore use the rocket launchers for the climbing ropes without worry.
“We then have to go like hell across this steep hillside, here, to this point. As you can see, that is the top of the north cliff, near Island Two, which we were originally going to climb.
“Now, this is where the cleverest part of the plan comes in. So far, nobody will have done anything, except for B Troop. Once we have reached this point, which, as you can see, is a quarter of the way between the cliff near Island Two and the hydro-electric plant, the rest of the commando goes into action.
“The first thing is the assault on Island One, to put the guns there out of action. I can see Corporal Fysshe-Smith looking even more sceptical than usual. Are you wondering, Corporal, what is so clever about that?”
“No, sir.” This was a declaration in a tone of injured innocence.
“Yes, you were.”
Fysshe-Smith grinned, but said nothing.
“The answer is, that the attack on all three islands will be synchronised. Thus, even though something may go wrong and result in Island One being assaulted before the other two, the defenders will have no clue to the fact that B Troop is on the outskirts of the town or that there are more troops almost as far forward, virtually at Islands Two and Three, already.
“So, it doesn’t matter even if something goes badly wrong and the attack on Island One is a bit of a balls-up; if the garrison there isn’t taken by surprise. There can even be a hell of a fight there, with every sort of noise and with gun flashes, flares and even a searchlight added to the din. The enemy will still think that this is the start of a raid and that the whole attacking force is still three miles away, trying to get a foothold on the first island.
“But… we can’t afford to make even a minor balls-up. We have to be absolutely silent and invisible and make sure that we reach our first objective, the cliff we have to climb, and then our second objective, this point, on the town side of Island Two, without anyone knowing it. If we are spotted at any stage of our approach, the success of the whole operation will be put in danger.”
He stopped and looked at his audience, picking out a man here and there to meet his eyes directly. “Is that clear to everyone? This is a subtle and intelligent plan of attack, because it calls for a basic deception of the enemy. But, on that deception, rests swift success or an unnecessarily long battle… or, perish the thought, failure.
“Failure is a word that is unknown in The Commandos, so we are left with two possibilities: a short fight or a long one. I don’t know about you, but I know which I prefer.”
The troop found relief from the growing tension that had reached its climax, in a sudden outburst of laughter. It was not the sort of laughter that greeted a stage comedian; it had a wry note and there was restlessness and excitement in it.
It was a healthy sound, Taggart told himself. It was the reaction of men who were eager to get to grips with their assigned task. It was confident; in fact, most importantly, self-confident. The word invincible occurred to him; and he threw the parade open to questions and discussion with as warm an inward glow as though he had just taken the first successful step towards the seduction of a new girl friend.
*
“There y’are, Fishy; what did I tell you? Two destroyers and a corvette, all to ourselves. And a bloody great liner to take us First Class…” Udall drifted into a grinning silence.
“You take it from me, Bert, we’ll be jammed in like steerage passengers. And the boat’ll be no liner: more likely some battered old cargo boat, not meant to carry human beings at all. We’ll be crammed into stinking, airless holds. We’ll never see Prince Of Denmark again: that was eyewash.”
Sergeant Major Duff put his spoke in. They were in one of the poky little pubs, few and far between, within a two-mile walk of the castle. He bought three pints of bitter to lessen the sting of what he was about to say. “You feeling all right, Fishy?”
Fysshe-Smith’s bright eyes fixed on Duff’s. “Why?”
“Because you sound so bloody miserable. Not windy, are you?”
Fysshe-Smith looked angry. “Was I windy in France, Sar’ Major? Or the Texel raid? Or the French raid?”
“I don’t know, Fishy. You didn’t show it, but I don�
�t know what you felt. All I know is how you behaved: which was bloody first-class. I’ll tell you this: there were times when I was windy, bloody windy, but I hope I didn’t show it, either.”
“Me, an’ all,” said Udall.
“Then why are you picking on me now?” Fysshe-Smith demanded.
“I’m not picking on you. I’m just worried in case something is worrying you. You don’t usually bellyache like this. You’re an awful binder, but you don’t usually sound so sour about it.”
Fysshe-Smith smiled sheepishly. “It’s the waiting that gets me, Wally.” They were old enough pre-war friends for him to use the sergeant major’s first name discreetly. “It’s like before we went into the Maginot Line and knew a week before. Once we got there and did the first patrol, it was O.K. It was O.K. on the other raids, too: quick in and out, no long journey to get there. I wish we could be flown there, instead of a long drag by sea.”
“Not more than I do, Fishy!” Duff rolled his eyes up and rubbed his belly.
The other two laughed.
“I’d forgotten about your seasickness,’ Fysshe-Smith said.
“I wish I could. So cheer up, it’s going to be worse for me than for you, and I’m not binding.”
“I should hope not,” said Fysshe-Smith with dignity. “It would not befit your rank.”
“Stop talking posh,” Udall told him, “It’s your round.”
Fysshe-Smith went to fetch the thin wartime beer, but in his mind was still the image of cold grey sea, infested by U boats and long-range bombers; Focke Wulf Kondors, Heinkel 111s, Blohm and Voss BV138 flying boats: all, he felt sure, seeking just such a force as 100 Commando, its transport and its escort.
He leaned over the counter to the craggy wife of the dour landlord, in an effort to charm her. “You can’t spare three whiskies, I suppose, Mistress MacKay?”
She gave him her vinegary look. “Aye. We have whusky, Corporal. This is no’ your south of the border, d’ye ken. You’ll be wanting large ones, no doubt?”
Fysshe-Smith nodded. She might be impervious to his winsome ways and a dry old baggage to boot – and wouldn’t he like to – but he couldn’t fault her sales technique.
*
Commanding officer and his second-in-command in conference. The scene: the C.O’s office. Their demeanour was grave, in contrast with the insouciance that both affected with such aplomb and dash.
“It seems we have absolutely no means of finding out, Hugh.”
“But, Colonel, if the place is mined, Taggart’s going to be the first to go: you know how he leads his troop: from ten yards in front.”
“And – literally – bang goes our carefully planned surprise. The first mine to be trodden on will bring Jerry down on A Troop before they’re halfway to the power station. And that will mean a hell of a battle through the town to get up to the shelf.”
“There’s one chance, Colonel. The chap from the Norwegian Resistance who’s going to R.V. with A Troop should know if the approach to the power station has been mined.”
“Fair comment: but it takes for granted that our Norwegian friend won’t be prevented from keeping the rendezvous; and that, anyway, he has actually seen mines being laid. If he only thinks there’s a minefield there, it will be useless: it would hold Tarrant up while the troop searches for them. And we simply haven’t the time to spare. Once A Troop get beyond their second objective, they must go hell for leather straight into the attack on the power station.”
“Have you asked for the information?”
“As you know, there’s no transmitter there. And I didn’t want to ask for the information until the last possible moment, in case the signal was intercepted and the code broken: it would warn Jerry of where our attack is coming from; which in turn would give away the fact that we’re going up the ‘unscalable’ cliff.”
“And you haven’t revealed the date and time of Halberd, yet?”
“No. I did intend to ask for the guide to have the gen on the minefield ready for Tarrant, just before we sail. I did not intend to signal the date and time until twelve hours before.”
“Cutting it a bit fine, Colonel. What about twenty-four hours’ warning?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I’m afraid it will have to be. I don’t want to be over-cautious and give our friends there too little time. As it is, though, I’m chary of asking for the information about mines to be obtained, so far in advance.”
“It’s worth it, to avert a disaster.”
“That’s the only consideration that forced my hand. Same with the other: I’ll give twenty-four hours. I’ll send the signal about mines straight away. Damn nuisance the Norwegian Resistance hasn’t got a transmitter there yet. Have to be a very powerful one, anyway, to get a signal over those mountains and all the way to Shetland.”
*
Hofstein saw two motor cyclists roar past, followed by a camouflaged Opel saloon. Behind the driver, he saw a lieutenant of the Military Police, whom he knew; with a black-hatted Gestapo man at his side.
Hofstein’s attention was diverted from the gun post he was inspecting. He watched the outriders and the car turn into a road he knew well. He saw them stop outside the house in which he had spent so many passionate hours; the last time, only the previous night. A cold bitter sensation cramped his guts. He was aware of gunners’ smirking faces as they looked from the ill-fated house to him and back again. He felt his cheeks reddening and hot.
He tried to carry on with the practice alert, but had to tell the crew to stand down for ten minutes. He could not take his eyes off the gate through which he had so often gone with affection and anticipation.
Gro came out, her head hanging, her face pale. He had never seen her look anything but flushed with health and jollity. She was as white as blotting paper now.
The motor cycles and the car made a U-turn and sped past him. He turned his head to follow them, hoping that she would look up and see him; yet fearing it and wishing she would not. But she sat with bowed head. He saw the tears shining on her plump cheeks and her teeth biting that luscious and familiar lower lip.
The M.P. officer had carried a small case as he followed Gro and the Gestapo man down the path. Hofstein guessed its contents: he had attended his quota of security lectures and heard how enemy agents were equipped with radio receivers.
He was angry at her deception, but sad; and afraid: afraid for himself and of the interrogation to which he must be subjected within an hour or two.
Kirsten heard the rifle volley at dawn the next morning, after a sleepless night. She heard the long burst of Schmeisser fire immediately after the first firing squad, as the other squad, with machine pistols, executed the ten women and ten men hostages. She saw the mayor driven slowly through the town in an open scout car, to the prison.
She knew that it would be many days before Redlich came to see her again.
Chapter Eight
An hour before midnight on a moonless night 100 Commando boarded H.M.S. Prince Of Denmark. It was cold at that hour and time of year in the north-west of Scotland. A stiff breeze blew from the Atlantic.
The route to Norway would take the ship west of the Orkneys and Shetlands and she would not turn towards her landfall, making a dogleg, until 24 hours after sailing. For 48 hours she would be exposed to submarine attack; and, during the long hours between first and last light on the second day, to air reconnaissance and attack.
Taggart left the stuffy little cabin he had to share with Dempster and Gowland as soon as he had dumped his kit on one of the lower bunks. The three of them went up on deck to watch the last troop come aboard: Heavy Weapons, with six Vickers machine-guns and four three-inch mortars. As no vehicles were being taken, the drivers and driver/mechanics were to form part of the weapons teams; thus more than the standard number of machine-guns and mortars could be carried.
“Sheer luxury.” There was no need for Taggart to enlarge on his comment: the others understood what had prompted it. “We could lay seige
to the place for a week, with all that ironmongery.”
“If we had enough ammo,” Gowland said.
“Pity the Navy can’t come along and plaster the place.” Dempster sounded about as regretful as though he were deploring the lack of an ashtray. He had not taken long to develop the commando’s distinctive style and was, on the surface, as casual as any Beauchamp-Ballantrae or Abberly.
Not even the corvette on her own dared venture up the narrow fjord to bombard the town: even the comparatively modest artillery defences would make the cramped stretch of water a death trap.
“Bloody awful noise, George: I don’t think I could stand all that din, bouncing off the sides of the fjord. I’m all for a spot of silent stealth.”
The other two laughed. Gowland said “You’re feeling a bit embarrassed about all this firepower as it is, aren’t you, Rodney?”
They couldn’t see Taggart’s grin, but heard the amusement in his tone: “Well, I am rather more used to just a few light weapons, Bill, old boy.” He had, without seeking it, fallen into the role of 100 Commando’s most seasoned veteran of small-scale raids; on which the knife and garotte, the revolver or pistol, the Tommy and Sten gun and rifle were the only arms.
They surveyed the scene in silence for a while, then Taggart spoke again. “It’s those blasted Number Eighteen sets that I’m a bit worried about. It’s all very well for Signals to say they’ll carry five miles; but mountains do freakish things to radio: and if the Colonel can’t pick up our signal when we’re in position, and the attacks aren’t co-ordinated, the whole essence of the battle plan goes up the spout.”
“I’m a believer in the essential cussedness of all mechanical contrivances, Rodney: in which I include wireless. The sets will work O.K. out of sheer perversity. You’ll see: the mountains will bounce the transmissions off, not blanket them.” Dempster sounded cheerful.
“Hope you’re right, George. I wish we had at least one professional signaller in the troop. The training Udall’s had was pretty rough-and-ready.”
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