Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  The question was rhetorical. They watched in silence as the lorry vanished along the road. What was below them could be diabolical, could change the course of the war if Adolf Hitler was able to send pilotless aircraft across the air corridors to hit Britain. One of the main shortages on both sides was pilots and aircrew generally; if that could be overcome by mechanical means, the effect would be tremendous and victory for the Allies could begin to look hopeless.

  Rennie brought up his glasses again to study the lie of the land around the base buildings. The base itself consisted of four large reinforced-concrete, dome-shaped strongpoints while the perimeter fence was constructed of heavy stakes and much barbed wire. Over the compound was the weird thrust of the mountain as reported by the Resistance, completely covering and protecting the place from above. The mountainside itself impacted against the rear of the base, forming in effect its back wall. No attack would be possible from there.

  Suddenly, the floodlights went out. The darkness, by contrast, was intense. It took some minutes for Rennie fully to night-accustom his vision again. When he had done so he said, ‘I’m going out for a recce. I want to get the feel of the defence. I have the impression there’s complacency around. This could be a walkover.’

  He moved out, taking it slow, the hammer of his heavy service revolver drawn back. So intense was the darkness beneath the mountain canopy that he was lost to sight within some fifteen seconds. Then there was a sudden explosion and a spread of white light, brief but vicious light in which the hidden men saw the earth around Rennie erupt in a shower of debris as a mine went up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The heavy German units were not far off to the south now, steaming north at their maximum speed with the swastika-dominated naval ensigns of Hitler’s Germany flying from the mastheads: the battle-cruiser Scharnhorst, 32,000 tons, wearing the flag of the Commander-in-Chief, West, and the heavy cruiser Admiral Hipper of 13,900 tons. Scharnhorst carried a main armament of nine 11-inch guns, Hipper carried eight 8-inch in four turrets. They steamed now through increasing seas, with water tumbling back along the fo’c’sles from the stems, their turrets spray-drenched as the bows bit hard into the foam. The ships’ companies were reasonably satisfied with their war performance to date, those of Scharnhorst in particular. During the afternoon the Admiral had delivered a pep-talk over the internal broadcasting system, reminding all hands of past victories: the so-glorious sinking of the British Armed Merchant Cruiser Rawalpindi as far back as 23 November 1939 the pop-gunned Rawalpindi had been despatched in fourteen minutes flat. In April of the following year, Scharnhorst had been prominent in the protection of the German armies landing in Norway, during which time she had bravely evaded the heavy guns of the British battle-cruiser Renown when a convenient rain squall had intervened. On 8 June she had sunk the tanker Oil Pioneer, the trawler Juniper and the great troopship Orama, the latter unfortunately returning to home waters empty; and on the same day she had encountered the British aircraft-carrier Glorious, wonderfully filled with RAF Gladiators and Hurricanes recently flown on during the British evacuation of Narvik, escorted by two destroyers. Scharnhorst had sunk the lot. Unluckily a torpedo had hit her, but not too seriously, and, whilst repairing in Trondheim, a sitting duck for the unfair British, she had been savagely attacked by Skuas from the Ark Royal, which had caused a 500-lb bomb to fall upon her; amusingly, this bomb had failed to explode, which proved that God loved the Scharnhorst and the British were inept idiots.

  Now both the Scharnhorst and the Hipper were about to add more lustre: Rear-Admiral Vian’s force was to be annihilated along with the Castle Bay believed to be lurking with nefarious intent in one of Norway’s northern fjords.

  ‘Heil, Hitler,’ the Admiral intoned into the microphone as he finished. ‘Deutschland über alles!’

  ***

  Rennie had perhaps been over-confident; now he was dead. Without hesitation one of the company commanders, Captain Mason, had run out to his assistance. Mason brought the body in: there was little left from the waist down but strips of flesh and shattered bone and bloodied tatters of uniform. After the explosion there had been a strange silence from the base, an apparently nil reaction, but this was obviously not going to last. Mason, now in command of the operation, decided to go straight into the assault. The advantage of surprise had gone now, but to withdraw was not to be thought of, and nothing could be gained by a tactical delay.

  Someone asked, ‘What about the minefield?’

  ‘Pray,’ Mason answered tersely. ‘And don’t touch the ground more than you can help! Keep together in column to narrow the spearhead of the attack.’

  He ran out. There was no purpose now in trying to surround the base even if such had been possible through the minefield. As it was the narrowed advance would mean that a path might be cut by the men in the van, who would be the first sufferers in the interest of those behind. After Mason the whole commando force dashed from the trees, heading for the roadway. Cameron and the naval party went with them. Cameron was trying not to think about what might happen every time a foot hit the ground. The only thing to do was to run, run, run as more mines went up. The night became hideous with the explosions and cries from the wounded men. Debris flew; Cameron was bruised and battered by the upflung earth and stones. Beside him the RSM, all parade-ground varnish gone now that he was in action, trod on a mine and fell screaming. As he fell his elbow took another of the buried devices: his blood spattered over Cameron. The force ran like the wind and still there was no apparent response from the enemy. But it was not delayed much longer: the explosions died away as the commandos, or what was left of them, reached the roadway, came clear of the minefield and neared the main gate. Then there was a sputter of fire that swept right through them.

  Mason called, ‘Down!’

  They went flat on their stomachs, breathing hard. Cameron’s party had kept with him, in a compact group on the left flank of the commandos, where, as it had turned out, the minefield was thin. As the bullets swept over their inert bodies, Cameron became aware of someone creeping out from the main body, squirming forward across the open ground towards the perimeter fence as the machine-gun fire continued. There was still no light: the floods remained dead for some reason or other. A couple of minutes later there was an explosion at the perimeter, followed by cries of agony. In the brief light Cameron had seen a man running back: he had probably thrown a grenade. Then the floodlights came on, cruelly: the light showed up a concrete pill-box at the southern perimeter of the base, now in action with its heavy gun. The running man—it was Mason, Cameron saw—was caught by a shell and went down in a mangled heap while the shell sped on to explode on the side of the mountain. The gun fired again. The commandos turned their automatic weapons on the floodlight bulbs. They went out. Then there was a shout, a rallying cry.

  ‘Come on, follow me!’

  An officer got to his feet and ran for the gate. He didn’t get far: a beam of light had pencilled across now from the power-boat at the jetty, and Cameron saw the officer crumple. He saw something else: the power-boat carried some effective-looking armament, close-range stuff. A moment later it went into action. Rennie had said earlier that the job could be a walk-over; now the whole force looked like being slaughtered. But something had come within Cameron’s particular competence and he reached out a hand to Ricketts.

  ‘That power-boat.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The attention’ll be off it. It’s not far to swim. We’ll go out and take it over. Pass the word, all right?’

  ‘Right!’ Ricketts passed the word on. The Naval party began to edge towards the water. Cameron made contact with Petty Officer Harbin.

  ‘We make for the after part of the boat,’ he said, ‘and get inboard fast.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Petty Officer Harbin wiped a hand across his face. ‘How about a bit of a diversion, sir? A couple of hands to head for’ard—’

  ‘Engage the attention of the crew—right, goo
d idea! You take charge for’ard, then. I’ll take the after part.’ Cameron glanced round at the Naval ratings. ‘All set? Off we go... and try not to make too much kerfuffle.’

  They slid over the bank into the fjord: it was ice-cold, as it had been in the early hours back in the entry channel. Using a back stroke, doing their best to keep revolvers and rifles clear of the water, they headed as fast as possible for the power-boat, which was sending streams of tracer across: the curve of the fire could be seen, biting into the shore-bound commandos, adding to the fire from the base, murderous and sustained. So far, at any rate, no one had noticed the swimmers. When they were some twenty yards from the jetty, Cameron saw Harbin taking his two seamen over to the right and heading for the power-boat’s bows. With the others Cameron continued on course for the boat’s stern, taking a wide arc so as to minimize the chances of being seen too soon. Farther out, he turned to head in towards the jetty and the assault on the boat’s crew, whose whole attention was on the fighting ashore.

  As his party neared the stern, Petty Officer Harbin was seen to be climbing on to the jetty, carrying his rifle. He wasn’t spotted by the Germans at once: he brought up his rifle and fired point-blank at the gunners on the powerboat. There was a sharp cry and a body crashed over the side. Harbin and his two hands doubled forward and leapt aboard, and as they did so Cameron’s party reached the stern and clambered over the gunwale.

  It was all over within half a minute, and no casualties sustained by the boarding-party. Petty Officer Harbin and two gunnery rates took over the close-range weapons and swung them off the commandos and on to the base and the gate, where steel-helmeted German troops were kneeling in cover and sweeping the commandos with their fire. In the beam from the small searchlight Cameron watched the German defenders take the weight of the close-range weapons, take it full and shatteringly as the Naval gunners wove the barrels right and left in an enfilading stream. Within moments the Germans had broken ranks and were running hell for leather towards what seemed to be a funk-hole, an entry into one of the dome-shaped concrete structures. There was a savage cheer from the commandos as they came off their stomachs and closed the abandoned gateway. They could bring it off yet, always provided they could penetrate the buildings. Given time, the sappers would have the means to do that.

  But time, after all, was not on the British side. In the next few moments Cameron heard the sound of many vehicles moving fast along the roadway to the north. At once, he ordered the searchlight to be turned off. From the subsequent darkness an officer’s voice hailed him.

  ‘Tower-boat, there!’

  Cameron called, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Reinforcements coming in by the sound of it. Stand by to take a party aboard, then bugger off somewhere. It’s going to be up to you, now.’

  Cameron waited, his heart thumping like gunfire. Within the next half-minute he heard men running along the jetty; they jumped aboard and Cameron saw that they were the sappers, carrying their explosives and charges, all the wherewithal to blow the base. A sergeant, speaking breathlessly in a Canadian accent, said, ‘We’ve been ordered to join you, sir.’ He jerked a thumb back towards the shore. ‘Those poor sods have had it, I reckon... but they’re staying put to give us a chance.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We live to fight another day.’ The sergeant paused. ‘The orders are get to hell out fast. Best do just that.’

  Cameron wasted no more time. As the convoy of military vehicles screamed to a stop on the shore and the firing started again, he passed the orders to take the power-boat astern off the jetty and fade into the darkness of the fjord.

  ***

  Another Most Immediate cypher had been received aboard the Castle Bay, with the groups badly garbled as before. The message, which was again from C-in-C Home Fleet, appeared to indicate that Vian’s force was under orders to close in to cover the entry to Vest Hammarfjord and if necessary to engage the enemy at sea. In the meantime the orders for Forbes were changed. The Castle Bay was to remain in the outer fjord until further orders: Forbes’ discretion to move at will had been negatived.

  ‘That solves one of my problems, Pilot,’ he said. It’s one decision I shan’t have to make! But it does raise certain speculations, all the same, doesn’t it?’

  Beddows lifted an eyebrow. ‘I don’t follow, sir.’

  Forbes said, ‘What if the Germans make the entrance before Vian gets there?’

  ‘They’ll enter, I suppose. Yes, I get the point, sir.’ Beddows blew out his cheeks. ‘It’ll be a nice, easy case of hail and farewell, won’t it? Just one salvo...’

  ‘Preparations,’ Forbes said quietly, ‘must be made in advance. First, the confidential books and coding and cyphering tables.’

  ‘Destruction?’

  ‘Not just yet. We may need them. But Pay’ll have to get ‘em ready to be bunged in the incinerator.’

  Beddows said gloomily, ‘The whole ruddy ship’ll be one big incinerator, won’t it?’

  Not necessarily. Scharnhorst and Hipper may not open on us. They’ll have the codes and cyphers in mind just as much as I have. What I mean is, they may decide to send boarding-parties, with the guns held back as the big threat. We still wouldn’t have a hope, Pilot.’ Forbes paced the bridge, his mouth hard. The next day could bring the end for them all; and the Castle Bay was his ship. The responsibility for her loss would weigh heavily. He was the Captain; the ship and captain were one and indivisible by Naval and Merchant Service tradition. Forbes was tradition minded; his father and grandfather before him had been master mariners, both of them trained in the old days of sail, driving their square-riggers down through the South Atlantic for the seething, wind-torn passage of Cape Horn and up into the Pacific before dropping down to Australia for wool. The sea lay deep in the family. And everyone aboard a ship depended for his life on the Captain’s judgment. Surrender was a dirty word; yet a captain’s responsibility must include at least a consideration of it. If the Scharnhorst and the Hipper entered the outer fjord, it was all up with them. All up with them whatever happened... better perhaps to ensure that his ship’s company lived rather than to put up a totally useless fight to the death. He would not be blamed in the circumstances. But it was not something he would discuss with any of his officers. It would not be fair, it would not be right.

  It had to be his decision alone.

  ***

  By now the final, horrible slaughter had come. Cameron heard the Nazi troops piling out of the lorries as he brought the boat off the jetty with two seamen below keeping their rifles in the back of the German engine mechanic. The enemy, by the sound of it, had arrived in strength and were pinning the commando force down between themselves and the face of the mountain. Cameron heard sustained, heavy firing: probably 98K carbines backed by 7.92mm MG34s mounted on tripods and capable of a high rate of fire. But the guns were not being directed towards the power-boat and Cameron wondered whether it hadn’t even been noticed. There was some advantage in maintaining his anonymity, and he kept his own close-range weapons silent as he swept astern. Alongside him, the sapper sergeant gave support to the withholding of fire. He said, ‘The officer’s idea was for us to slip away without being seen. He knew the score... and he’s giving us the chance like I said. He reckoned we might find another way of mounting an attack once the panic’s died down.’

  Cameron said, ‘Some hope!’

  ‘We’ve got the bloody charges, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes. But no support troops, unless whoever’s co now can withdraw some of them into the mountains. As for us, once daylight comes, we’re going to be like a sore thumb. We wouldn’t have a chance, that’s obvious.’

  The sergeant said no more; he shrugged. It was in the hands of the Navy now. The powerboat headed away fast, out towards the centre of the fjord. Cameron’s mind was in something of a whirl: the whole thing had landed on him fair and square and he had to make some quick decisions. Undoubtedly it could be said that the operation was already a total fail
ure and he had been handed the possible means of saving the Naval party and at least some of the troops; it wouldn’t be too difficult to navigate the powerboat back along the channel, re-embark aboard the Castle Bay and advise the Captain to take the ship out to sea before the Germans mounted an attack on her in land-locked waters. Maybe that was his duty now; but there was an obstinacy in him that was telling him the job couldn’t be left to fizzle out. There was a sense of obligation towards the many men who had died already in the attempt...

  But what could he possibly hope to do?

  There was one thing in his favour: he still believed that the reinforcements hadn’t been aware of the presence of the power-boat at the jetty and were certainly unaware that it had been taken by the British. No doubt it would not be long before they were informed by the base staff that a boat had been there; but they would still not necessarily be aware that it was in British hands. That just might give him a little time.

  He racked his brains: how was he best to use that time, brief as it must be?

  He looked around as the power-boat, moving ahead at slow speed so as to reduce her wake, which might be spotted, came well clear of the fjord’s western bank. So far as he could see there were no other craft moving. Vest Hammarfjord was not large as Norwegian fjords went; away in the distance to the east Cameron could see a twinkle of lights, with more to the south village settlements, as he had already noted from the Admiralty ‘Pilot’. But there was no knowing who was Resistance and who was with Quisling—there might be help available or he might put their collective heads into a Nazi noose. And in any case, what help could he expect?

  Beside Cameron, Petty Officer Harbin asked, ‘What do we do, sir? Go in again when the Jerries have pissed off?’

  ‘They’ll have left men behind to reinforce the base,’ Cameron said.