‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Forbes turned away, then hesitated. Smiling, he asked, ‘How do you feel about the job in Norway, laddie?’
‘All right, sir.’
‘Good!’ Forbes waved a hand around. ‘It’ll be rather like this, I imagine. Bloody awful country to fight in, but there we are. Know how I feel?’
‘No, sir?’
Forbes gave a grimace and said, ‘I feel what I am: five hundred miles nor’-west of the Shetlands! A far cry from Southampton and the idyllic days of peace!’
He went into his cabin. Fifteen minutes later his coxswain was speeding him across the anchorage, and soon after that the shrilling of the boatswain’s calls came across the water as he was piped aboard the flagship.
***
Many more signals had been exchanged after the initial one from the Flag—mostly signals to and from the Naval Officer in Charge ashore. All Cambridge survivors were to be landed together with all the Germans from the Wuppertal. Boats would be sent off for them and for the Castle Bay’s more seriously wounded casualties; there would be a full supply of stretchers as required by the Medical Officer for the cot cases; these would all be hospitalized in makeshift accommodation until they could be sent to a British port, which would be as soon as transport was available. During the afternoon lighters would come out with stores and equipment—no mention was made of inflatable dinghies but it was not hard for the First Lieutenant to read them into the signals. Castle Bay would refuel to capacity from an Admiralty oiler arriving in convoy after dark. And when Forbes returned from the flagship he informed the First Lieutenant that the commando contingent would be brought off after the fuelling was finished.
‘They’ll come off in landing-craft,’ he said. ‘We’ll use both ladders in the interest of speed. The convoy leaves the anchorage at 0400.’ Echoing the Navigating Officer’s earlier words to Cameron, he added, ‘We take station as arse-end Charlie.’
‘Keeping up the deception to the finish, sir?’
‘That’s it, Number One, that’s it! Are you all ready to bed down the troops?’
The First Lieutenant nodded. ‘All ready, sir. Hard-lying won’t be the word, but they’ll be fitted in to the last man if it means having them as a deck cargo!’
‘Poor buggers,’ Forbes said with feeling. ‘You’d better warn the Buffer,’ he added in reference to the Chief Boatswain’s Mate, ‘to have hoses and squeegees ready—they’ll be seasick to a man! The weather reports aren’t too good, I’m afraid.’ He turned away. ‘Send Cameron up, please, Number One.’
Fifty-odd inflatable dinghies were brought aboard from the lighters that afternoon and stowed below decks wherever they could be fitted in: the Castle Bay’s peacetime cargo holds were no longer available, converted now into messdecks and magazines, gunner’s stores and many other things necessary to a ship of war. After dark and the arrival of the Fleet oiler, Forbes took his ship alongside and the oil-fuel lines were connected up. When the operation was completed, he went back to his anchorage and the ship’s company stood by to receive the troops. Right on time the landing-craft came out, four of them, just visible in the darkness; there was no moon, but as always over water there was a faint loom of light, a not quite total dark. The troops embarked in a silence broken only by the rattle of arms and equipment and the occasional half-stifled oath as men missed their footing on the ladders. First aboard was the Lieutenant-Colonel commanding the operation. He looked around for a moment, eyebrows raised, then smiled as the First Lieutenant stepped forward.
‘Glad to have you aboard, sir,’ Number One said. ‘The Captain sends his apologies—he’s remaining on the bridge—’
‘Understandable.’
‘I’ll have you taken up.’ The First Lieutenant gestured to the gangway messenger, and the commando officer followed the seaman to the bridge. Hovering on the upper deck was Mr Hanrahan, ready to take over the explosives from the sappers and stow them in his magazines. He looked with suspicion at the soldiers: they would have their own ideas on explosives, no doubt, and these might not accord with naval ideas, but he meant to be the boss whatever. He identified a major of the Royal Canadian Engineers and bustled forward.
‘Would you be the officer in charge of the explosives party?’ he asked.
‘Right, I am—’
‘I’m Mr Hanrahan, Gunner.’ He stressed the mister: he was something more than the equivalent of a regimental sergeant-major. ‘I’ll take over your materials at the derrick if you don’t mind, sir. Just till we reach our destination.’
‘Okay,’ the major said: the Canadian accent was strong. ‘I’m easy.’
‘Then just bring your troops along o’ me,’ Mr Hanrahan said with relief, and turned about. He clicked his tongue a little as heavy boots bashed hell out of the wooden decks, but that was more the Buffer’s concern than his, of course. The embarkation continued and soon the Castle Bay was crammed to capacity, looking more like an army camp than a warship. Khaki filled every possible space and blue was scarcely to be seen. On the bridge Forbes had a welcoming word with the commando Colonel and said there would be a conference during the next day as conditions permitted. In the meantime the Colonel was welcome to his cabin; he himself would remain on the bridge throughout the night and doss down when possible in the chartroom. He watched the Colonel going down the ladder: he was little more than middle twenties at a guess, and he could be going to his death.... In Forbes’ view the army had much the worst of the war; aboard a ship you had your comforts around you, at least. A warm bunk when you could get to it, regular hot meals except when action or the weather dictated otherwise, drinks in the wardroom at duty-free prices, one penny for a gin, twopence for whisky, sixpence for three-star brandy and cigarettes at sixpence for twenty. So to some extent with the RAF. Always a nice clean airfield mess to go back to... when they were around at all, that was. The RAF wasn’t too popular with either of the other two services... death stared all active servicemen in the face from time to time, but Forbes reckoned that the stare was directed at the soldiers more often than others, and this operation would be no exception. His mind went back to his visit to the flagship: Vian had appeared confident, but Forbes had detected an unease behind the sure speech and manner, as though the Admiral felt that the War Cabinet was taking an unjustifiable risk to wipe out what was in effect a pig in a poke. It was as though he’d feared a touch of the Churchills: Winston’s impetuosity had got the better of his judgement and the War Cabinet had been bulldozed. When Forbes had mentioned his fear that the U-boat attack on the Castle Bay might have meant a security leak, Vian had remained silent for a moment, eyes searching Forbes’ face closely, then, in his coldly clipped and rather autocratic voice, had said that such was always to be taken into account but that he, personally, believed the security to have been watertight throughout.
‘If I’m wrong,’ he’d said, ‘it’s going to be a nasty job. But I’m sure you know that, Commander.’
Forbes did; standing now on his bridge and looking down at the embarkation taking place without benefit of yard-arm groups or any other light, he could see in his mind’s eye the solid wall of fire from the enemy that would meet any expected assault on Vest Hammarfjord.
He heard the approach of the First Lieutenant, and turned. ‘Yes, Number One?’
‘Embarkation complete, sir. All men bedded down for the night.’
Forbes gave a tired smile. ‘Tucked ‘em up, have you?’
‘Metaphorically, sir, I suppose I have.’
Forbes rubbed at his eyes: now he could snatch a few hours’ sleep—his watch showed midnight, a little after. He was about to speak when a voice came from just forward of the bridge, down on the fore well-deck, a voice raised in song:
‘Kiss me good-night, sergeant-major,
Tuck me in my little wooden bed...’
Suddenly Forbes’ overstretched nerves reacted. He snapped, ‘Tell that bloody man to put a sock in it, Number One!’
The First Lieu
tenant leaned over the fore guardrail of the bridge, but already the song had ceased, whether of the singer’s own volition or that of an NCO wasn’t clear. Forbes felt a twinge of remorse. It hadn’t really mattered all that much and within the next few days the man could be cold and’ dead. He must keep his reactions in check: captains at sea needed cool heads.
He told the Officer of the Watch he was going to the chartroom.
***
At 0330 hours the Castle Bay went to stations for leaving harbour and the Lieutenant-Commander (E) reported the engines ready to turn over. Forbes, back on the bridge, ordered the cable to be shortened-in. Soon a shaded light from the Fleet flagship’s compass platform flicked out a brief signal: the final word from the Vice-Admiral in Victorious to weigh and proceed in execution of previous orders. On the heels of the executive signal the aircraft-carrier began to move out, sliding slowly through the darkness of the anchorage to make the turn for the open sea. Two destroyers, her own personal screen, moved busily ahead of her to take up their stations. Behind came the merchant ships of the convoy carrying much-needed arms and supplies to the Russian armies opposing Hitler’s march for Moscow; after them the Suffolk and the Devonshire to take station on the beam; after them again the cruisers of Rear-Admiral Vian’s force with their escorting destroyers, which would take station on the convoy’s quarter to port and starboard, acting as rearguard on the Castle Bay as well as on the convoy proper.
Forbes said, ‘Weigh anchor, Number One.’
The First Lieutenant passed the order to the fo’c’sle: the anchor was drawn home to the ship and left at the waterline in case of need in the inshore waters. Forbes stepped to the gyro repeater. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘Number One, as soon as special sea dutymen are fallen out, the ship goes to second degree of readiness. If we go to action stations, I want all army personnel off the upper deck. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
Forbes gripped the binnacle hard, a prey once again to morbid thoughts and his nerves. He didn’t like the projection of his mind... but that was nonsense, of course it was—they would go in and win, and may God direct Cameron’s navigational skills aright when they were off Vest Hammarfjord! In a hard voice he called down the voice-pipe:
‘Engine to slow ahead, wheel fifteen degrees to port.’
The screw thrashed the water; the head came round. They were away.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Forbes had forecast, the weather proved unkind. The convoy steered north into the Denmark Strait, executing a turn to starboard once the ships were past the northernmost tip of Iceland, thence heading north-easterly until such time as they would alter to the east to come between Spitzbergen and Bear Island. By the time the off-watch hands had been piped to breakfast, the Castle Bay was into the Arctic Circle with a strong northerly gale sweeping down from the polar ice, a wind that took the ships on the beam and made conditions highly uncomfortable. The convoy was a fast one and at its sixteen knots could expect to pass Bear Island within four days of departure from Hvalfjord; but before that the Castle Bay would have detached for Vest Hammarfjord with Vian’s force also detaching to proceed in company for a while before again parting to cover them distantly to the south and west.
During the forenoon, the Captain spoke to the ship’s company over the tannoy, putting all hands in the picture as to Operation Forestay, although by this time the embarked troops had largely done the job for him. In the petty officers’ mess the Buffer, Chief Petty Officer Tanner, commented on the orders to Petty Officer Telegraphist Blackman.
‘Wonder what this unidentified bloody dump is, Blackie?’
Blackman sniffed. ‘Could be anything.’
‘Well, that’s helpful. You blokes usually have all the buzzes.’
Not this time, Buff. I reckon what the skipper said is right. No one knows.’
The Buffer scratched his head. ‘Then isn’t it a bit daft, to go in and blow it up, just like that?’
‘Skipper knows what he’s doing, so does whoever initiated the order in the first place. Or we have to suppose he does, anyway.’ Petty Officer Telegraphist Blackman reached for his cap after a glance at his watch and got to his feet to go back to the WIT receiving room. ‘Tell you one thing, though: if I was one of the troops I’d sooner it was a rocky officer navigating me in than a wavy.’
Tanner grinned. ‘Ruddy pongoes won’t know the difference.’ He said this in a lowered voice, for the army sergeants had been accorded the honour of the Pos’ mess and one of them was not far off, looking about the same colour as his battledress and obviously wishing to die. Tanner pondered Blackman’s sentiments: the rockies, as the Royal Naval Reserve officers were known on account of the interlaced pattern of their gold stripes of rank, were the professional reserve, all of them Merchant Service officers and the majority of them master mariners, men who had spent many years at sea all over the world. The Wavy Navy—again the name suggested by the stripe pattern—were the Saturday afternoon sailors, the amateurs whose seafaring experience was mostly limited to what they’d gleaned in the time since joining, and that, in the Buffer’s view, was half a dog watch. But young Cameron, he was different; the buzz had gone round the lower deck, and the Lord knew where it had originated, that Mr Cameron had done unofficial time in trawlers pre-war and that his record in wartime so far had been a good one: among other things, he’d sunk a U-boat almost single-handed—that story had gone round the whole Navy and was well authenticated. Anyway, the skipper was RNR and he wouldn’t choose a dud; and the tannoy message from the skipper had in fact confirmed the trawler bit. Mr Cameron would not be entering Vest Hammarfjord for the first time and that was something.
CPO Tanner, his stand-easy finished, left the mess and went to the upper deck. As he had expected, it was a shambles of sea-sick pongoes, all looking like death warmed up. Tanner had a job to keep his feet from slipping under him. In the enclosed alleyway the stench had been fearful, and by the time Tanner had made the upper deck he felt quite queasy himself. And some of them had no common sense; Tanner roared at a lance-corporal making for the guardrail:
‘Not the bloody wind’ard side, lad! For God’s sake, you must have come down with the last flamin’ shower!’
It was too late; vomit, carried by the wind, blew back in its owner’s face. Some people were born landlubbers.
***
The sea and sky were empty now of the enemy: no Focke-Wulfs, no U-boats, no destroyers, and the information reports broadcast in cypher by the Admiralty indicated nothing moving, or anyway known to be moving, in the vicinity. For the time being, the weather was the only enemy and seamen were accustomed to fighting that battle. Forbes, however, spent most of his time on the bridge; an attack could come at any moment and never mind the reports: the plotters at the Admiralty didn’t know everything, and every second counted when action started. Cameron passed his time in the chartroom with Beddows, committing to memory every possible detail of the approaches to Vest Hammarfjord and comparing them with his own recollections. Naturally, a chart would be taken with the shore party but the approach was to be made in darkness and the showing of a light could be fatal to the operation.
That afternoon the Captain called a 55 conference in the wardroom, which was cleared of all pantry staff and stewards. This conference was attended by the First Lieutenant and all the ship’s officers detailed for the landing, together with all the army officers. Forbes produced the secret orders for Operation Forestay; Colonel Bell had his own copy.
Forbes held up the orders in their file.
‘You’ll all have seen these by now. They leave nothing to chance, you’ll agree.’
There were murmurs of assent.
Forbes said, ‘That is, so far as they go—I think you’ll understand what I mean. Both the Admiralty and the War Office are damn good at producing highly detailed bumph with all manner of alternative plans to suit every state of the weather, for every minute of the work-out, with alternatives if someone trips over h
is feet or develops an appendicitis. Well, I don’t believe things always work out the way the planners say, right?’
‘Dead right,’ the Colonel said, grinning.
‘So for my part I keep an open mind. I don’t disregard the orders, nor shall I fly in the face of them unless they turn out to be damn silly. But I don’t intend to let them fence my mind in or make my reactions to events rigid to the point of insanity. In other words I shall still continue to envisage the other things that can go wrong, the things the planners haven’t envisaged. One of these is that Admiral Vian’s force could find itself withdrawn at short notice. That’s an Admiralty habit, I regret to have to say, but one they don’t care to acknowledge to the extent of allowing for it in the orders. If that should happen—if Vian’s ships should be urgently needed elsewhere—that leaves me in command. Now, I propose of course to accept that overall responsibility but in fact I shall confine myself to the conduct of my own ship and the actual landing and re-embarking of your force, Colonel. I’m no soldier; I’ll not presume to interfere with the purely military part of Operation Forestay. On the other hand, I’m insisting on one thing, and that is, my First Lieutenant is in command of all personnel while the force is waterborne both inward and outward. Understood, Colonel?’
Bell nodded. ‘Yes, that’s fair enough, Captain.’
‘Good. The rest is yours, and it’ll be up to you to decide when the pull-out starts. My chaps’ll be ready.’ Forbes looked down at the file of orders. ‘I’m to be in position for the disembarkation off Svalbard Point in the outer fjord at 2300 hours on the twenty-seventh. I shall be. The Castle Bay will detach from the convoy with Admiral Vian at 1500 hours tomorrow, after which our speed will be our own concern, or anyway Vian’s, and we shall steam at our maximum—I don’t anticipate that the weather will delay us unless the wind strengthens. The inflatable dinghies will be put over the side the moment I stop engines to lie off in the outer fjord, and you’ll proceed inshore soonest possible, when all personnel have embarked. Any questions?’
Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 4