‘Maybe, maybe not, sir. If they don’t know we’re out here they’ll be thinking they’ve nabbed the lot.’
‘It’s possible. But we still haven’t the strength. What do you think, Sergeant?’ he asked the sapper.
Sergeant Horne was adamant. ‘That’s what we came aboard for, right? My lads can blast their way in—no trouble!’
‘In safety?’ Cameron asked. ‘I mean, if you blast the doors, isn’t there a danger you’ll blow the lot—and yourselves with it?’
There was a flash of teeth in the darkness. ‘We came to blow the bloody place. And we knew the risks before we started. We’re Canadians.’ There was a pause. ‘In the words of the song, “We came over for the fighting, not the fun.”’
Cameron grinned back. ‘That’s the RCNVR, isn’t it? “If you ask us who we are, we’re the RCNVR .”’ His voice tailed off, and he stiffened. ‘What’s that?’
‘What, sir?’
‘On the port bow.’ There was a pair of German binoculars on top of a locker in the boat’s cockpit. Cameron took them up and trained them on the bearing. He had seen a faint swirl of water in the darkness; with the aid of the binoculars he made out the loom of another craft, a fishing-boat it looked like, lying now with its engines stopped: the swirl of water had gone.
In a whisper Harbin said, ‘They don’t want to be seen, sir.’
‘It looks that way.’ Cameron, staring through the binoculars, saw the whitish loom of faces in the darkness. ‘If that’s the case, they’re probably not Jerries.’
‘Norwegians?’
‘Yes. I’m going to take a chance, PO. A chance that they’re the Resistance.’
‘I’d watch it if I was you, sir.’
‘We can’t be much worse off. Stand by... if I’m wrong, we open fire on them.’
Harbin moved away, shaking his head a little, and passed whispered orders for the rifles to be ready along the port side of the power-boat. Cameron stopped his engines, then called out in English to the apparent fishermen: ‘Boat ahoy!’
There was silence for something like a minute; then a hoarse voice called back, also in English: ‘British?’
‘Yes,’ Cameron answered. ‘British Navy. Who are you?’
‘Good friends. I shall come alongside.’
‘Right. But you have to prove yourselves. Don’t attempt to board me. I have armed men along the side.’
‘That is only prudent. Now we come.’
An engine started up; the fishing-boat moved in closer, and bumped along the side of the German boat. A big man with a head of thick white hair looked from a small wheelhouse, smiling broadly as he saw the British Naval and military uniforms. ‘You attack the German strongpoint?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘That is just why I come out. It was my Resistance group that sent the message to Winston Churchill. My name is Jakob Nordli.’
‘That means nothing to me. You must produce other proof.’
‘I have none,’ Jakob Nordli said. ‘This must be a matter of trust. I think your attack has failed, yes?’
Cameron took a deep breath. Trust was all very well; it could be foolish and dangerous, yet there was the ring of honesty and they were in deep now in any case. He said, ‘Yes, it’s failed so far—’
‘So far, yes. I am glad you are not too defeatist, Englishman: So far! I, Jakob Nordli, will help to bring success from failure.’
Cameron said, ‘It failed because your people hadn’t warned us about the German minefield.’
‘The minefield... this was only to the north of the base. You—’
‘We had to take it from the north as it turned out. In any case, the information was important. Why didn’t your people pass it on?’
Nordli said, ‘We learned only today that the Nazis had mined the northern perimeter. I am sorry, my friend. It was thought unwise to use the radio again in warning, so near to the time when you British might come in. The Nazis are not fools. And we knew the southern approach was quite safe from mines, since that is where the Nazis exercise their soldiers daily. It is perhaps the fact that they were more expectant of possible attack from the north than from the south, from over the mountains, by our own men of the Resistance, rather than through the water channel from Svalbard Point.’ He added, ‘The southern approach is well covered by fire from the pill-box—and of this we warned your people, Englishman.’
Cameron said. ‘Let’s leave it at that, then.’ This wasn’t the time for inquests. ‘How do you propose to help now?’
‘I shall go to collect men, as quickly as I can. Very many men with efficient guns—you will see. What were you intending to do when you came—blow up the base?’
‘That’s bloody right,’ Sergeant Horne answered before Cameron could speak. ‘We have all the charges we need, still intact.’
‘Aboard your boat?’
‘Right. All ready to go. And we don’t want any more balls-ups.’ Horne’s tone was savage: he was blaming the Norwegian for the loss of so many men. ‘What sort of strength can you muster?’
‘You will see,’ Nordli said again. Now I must be fast. Wait, and I will return.’ He paused. ‘Or better, I think, that you come with me. You would be difficult to find again unless there was an exchange of signals. That would be too dangerous. You will follow?’
Cameron made up his mind. He said, ‘Yes. But if this is a trap, I’ll open fire on your boat immediately I get suspicious.’
There was a laugh. ‘It is not a trap, I promise you, Englishman. A trap would not be necessary. I could have opened fire on your boat from the darkness once you had hailed me, had I been a traitor to Norway like Quisling. In any case, when the morning comes the Nazis would have found you themselves. Now you will follow me, please.’
Cameron heard the Norwegian’s engine start up again; a moment later he got the power-boat under way and moved ahead, keeping close to the fishing-vessel’s stern. They ghosted across the fjord, moving slowly so as to keep the disturbance in the water to a minimum, too slowly for the impatience that gripped Cameron. He looked at his watch: a little after midnight. A whole day had been wasted so far. Forbes wouldn’t wait in the outer fjord forever. Cameron had a hard job to stop himself shouting at Jakob Nordli to get a move on.
The darkness was intense now; it was difficult to keep the fishing-vessel in sight, close ahead though it was. The wake’s small disturbance alone kept Cameron on course. There was a brooding silence broken only by the subdued engine sounds. It was an uncanny situation, being so deep into enemy-held territory with a boat under his sole command, heading for God alone knew where. Tension was gripping the seamen as well as himself; Cameron sensed it in Petty Officer Harbin at his side in the cockpit. Harbin, a three-badge PO and a Fleet Reservist like so many aboard the Castle Bay, had developed a twitch that was making him sniff loudly every thirty seconds, almost spot on, almost as though he were timing it. The armed seamen along the sides were just visible as darker blurs against the water, and they appeared to be motionless, just waiting for the moment when they might be ordered into action. Only the Canadian, Sergeant Horne, seemed totally at ease. He had sat himself down in the after end of the cockpit, where there was a cushioned thwart. He sat back with his hands clasped behind his head, humming a tune, low and flat. It was ‘Roll Along, Covered Wagon’... the tune that had been taken over by the Canadians to fit the words he’d used earlier: ‘we came over for the fighting, not the fun’. Tension brought a stab of anger to Cameron. The sergeant was laughing at him, turning the RCNVR’S signature tune against their British counterparts. Canadians were all very well, but, like the Australians, they were irreverent and suffered from a distinct lack of tact.
The way seemed endless. There was still no moon, nothing to show them where they were in relation to the surrounding land, although the looming mountains could be seen distantly as a heavier line against the night sky.
Petty Officer Harbin went on sniffing.
Cameron snapped suddenly, For
Christ’s sake use a handkerchief!’
‘Sorry, I’m sure, sir.’ Harbin sounded startled and offended, but made no move to bring out a handkerchief.
Cameron, after a moment, said, ‘I’m sorry too, no. I shouldn’t have said that. I hope you’ll accept my apology.’
‘That’s all right, sir. Forget it. It’s getting me down an’ all... moving at dead slow with the bloody Huns all round us. Like a bishop in a brothel with the parishioners lying in wait outside.’
They moved on. It was now 0100, and the job had to be completed by first light.
***
They sensed the proximity of the shore before they saw it. Now the time stood at 0122. A light shone briefly from the wheelhouse of the fishing-boat, and was answered by an equally brief flash from the shore; then Jakob Nordli called back, ‘We have arrived, Englishman. There is a pier. Take your boat alongside it.’
Cameron acknowledged the shout and as a torch came on to show the whereabouts of the small pier he took the power-boat ahead to go alongside. Two Norwegians were handy to take his lines and he was soon secured. There were other craft at the pier—more fishing-vessels, half a dozen of them visible in the torchlight, and beyond the pier was a cluster of small houses. Nordli took his boat in and saw her made fast, then came down from his wheelhouse and approached Cameron. ‘I shall be as quick as I can be,’ he said, ‘but the men have to be collected from other villages. Messengers will be sent.’ He left the pier, striding away into the darkness as the torch was switched off. More waiting, more tension: if anything should go wrong, they were handily placed for capture by either the Nazis or any local Quislings. Cameron kept his armed seamen watching out, all ready to open fire. Nordli’s footsteps could be heard for a while, and when they ceased there was more silence, the silence of the grave it seemed to Cameron’s taut nerves.
After half an hour footsteps were heard again and Jakob Nordli loomed up at the shore end of the pier.
‘They come soon,’ he said as he came up to the power-boat. ‘The Resistance. We have cars and lorries. They will be in Nazi uniforms—you must not be startled.’
‘Thanks for the warning!’ Cameron said. ‘I might have opened fire on them.’
Nordli stood with arms akimbo. ‘The Resistance has been well organized,’ he said. ‘The uniforms were taken from a German supply train going from Kristiansand to Saltdal. There was an ambush... the train ran full into immense rocks, placed where the track curved. All the Nazis were killed either by the crash or by the rifles of the Resistance. It was so easy—too easy! There was satisfaction but little thrill. Perhaps tonight will be different.’
‘Perhaps.’ Cameron hesitated for a moment. These men who were risking their lives should be told what the base appeared to contain. He went on, ‘We got a sight of something interesting, Nordli: a kind of pilotless aircraft, what you might call a flying bomb—that’s our assessment, anyway.’ He described what he had seen aboard the lorry.
‘So!’ The Norwegian caught his breath. ‘That is what is going on... we did not know. The Nazis are swine.’ He said no more; they waited in silence. At last there was the sound of moving vehicles and Nordli said, ‘They come. It will not be long now.’
He moved away along the jetty. Within the next few minutes Cameron heard marching men. The torch came on again and in its light the Norwegians marched on to the little pier, tough-looking men in their German Army uniforms, armed with German 9mm MP4O Schmeissers; some carried the tripod-mounted MG 34s. They embarked without delay aboard the fishing-vessels. There was no time for a count, but Cameron estimated that there were around a hundred and fifty of them. As the last man went aboard, Nordli approached Cameron again.
He asked, ‘When the place is blown up, where will you go, Englishman?’
Cameron said, ‘There were some men injured in a fall of rock, back along the channel. They were brought across the mountain behind the base and left in cover. If they’re still there, I’ll embark them and then navigate back along the entry channel and rejoin my ship.’
‘Using the German boat?’
‘Yes.’
‘As I thought,’ the Norwegian said. ‘You will be willing to take a passenger, perhaps?’
‘Of course. Any of you who want—’
‘Not us. This is our land, our home. We stay to carry on fighting the Nazis until the war is won, as won it will be. No, not us, Englishman! One of your people.’
‘Our people?’ Cameron was surprised.
‘Who?’
Nordli used his own torch and sent a flash towards the shore. Cameron heard light footsteps approaching along the pier, and as the person came nearer he saw that it was a woman. Nordli shone his torch again; she was little more than a girl, petite, dark-haired, dressed in rough fisherfolk’s clothing, slim legs thrust into heavy seaboots. She smiled at Cameron as Nordli explained that the British officer would take her out. She said, ‘Thank you so much.’ The educated English tones were utterly incongruous.
She stepped over the gunwale. Explanations would have to wait, the girl presumably understood the danger she was about to face. Nordli gathered the other Resistance leaders around himself and Cameron on the pier and outlined his ideas for the attack. When the boats were within half a mile of their objective, they would increase speed and go alongside the jetty. The men would jump ashore immediately their boats touched and form up at the end of the jetty in their Nazi uniforms. The deception would help but could not be maintained for long and the attack would be mounted as soon as they were ready. They would double for the gate—it was obvious that there would be no mines between the jetty and the base—and when it was taken they would be in the thick of it as the German garrison emerged from the buildings.
The defenders would be mown down as they came out and when the time was right Horne and his demolition party would go in and set their charges as widespread as possible. A separate party with rifles and grenades was detailed for concealment alongside the roadway to deal with any more lorries bringing troops along the supply road. Added to the attack would be the close-range guns aboard Cameron’s purloined power-boat, plus, he hoped, fire from any of the commandos who might have managed to make their way into the mountains behind.
The plans formulated, Jakob Nordli returned to his vessel and gave the word to proceed. Cameron put his engine astern to come off the pier. There was a hope of success, but time was still one of the enemies.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I take it you do know just what we’re going to do?’ Cameron asked.
‘Yes,’ the girl said. Her voice was quiet and attractive and there was no hint of fear or nerves.
‘You’re not worried?’
‘No. Should I be?’
‘Damn it all,’ Cameron said with a touch of exasperation, ‘it’s not every day a woman joins in an attack on a fortified base, or is it?’
There was a laugh. ‘You’re the Navy, aren’t you? We all rely on the Navy. You’ll bring it off—you’ll see!’
‘Thanks for the confidence,’ Cameron said drily. ‘Just who are you, or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You shouldn’t really. Let’s just say I’m Jane, a FANY who lost her way in the dark. All right?’
Cameron said, ‘All right. I won’t pry.’ FANY-the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—involved a multiplicity of jobs done by women. Drivers for senior officers and government ministers, largely, was their official role; but many found themselves chosen for work as agents with the Special Operations Executive. This, obviously, was ‘Jane’s’ part in the war—liaison, perhaps, with the Norwegian Resistance? No wonder she wasn’t showing any special fear over the business that lay ahead of them! He said, ‘When we approach the base, you’ll go below. There’s a cabin for’ard. Stay there—all right?’
‘I’m under your orders,’ she said. ‘I’ll obey!’
He grinned at her tone, which was faintly mocking. He had an idea she was a year or two older than himself. She went on to say that she hoped not to
be a nuisance; the Germans were after her, she said. She’d overplayed her hand a little and had been rumbled, or believed she had, and she’d been ordered by London to make her way out of Norway. Had she been in France or Belgium there would have been a pick-up organized, but not from north Norway. She was out on a limb, or had been until the Navy had so fortuitously turned up. She would say no more than that, and for his part Cameron kept his word and asked no questions, even personal ones, though he was intrigued by the girl: she didn’t look the sort who went to war, but of course that might well apply to many or even most of the FANYS—he had seen them in their khaki uniforms when on leave in London, and before he’d been made aware of their other functions they’d struck him as mere socialites, young upper-crust women doing a soft war job that allowed them to keep up the peacetime routines of dinners and nightclubs and evening dresses and plenty of boyfriends. Which all went to show that one shouldn’t judge too much by appearances...
‘Light ahead, sir,’ Petty Officer Harbin said suddenly.
Cameron looked: the light was still distant. He believed it to be the floodlights over the base: the shattered bulbs would have been replaced by now. Bringing up his binoculars, he identified it as such. Five miles to go, at a guess: distances over water were always hard to judge in darkness. He looked across at the vessels in company, keeping nicely together as he could tell from their wakes. Peaceful... but soon, all hell was going to be let loose and more men were going to die.
***
The operations room deep in the Admiralty’s bunker by Horse Guards Parade was still thick with cigar smoke but the Prime Minister had gone for some sleep and was lying on his bed in his syren suit, behind twenty feet of steel and concrete. Under the eye of a rear-admiral, a captain and a number of commanders and lieutenant-commanders, ratings of the WRNS moved counters on large charts hung upon the walls. Rear-Admiral Vian’s force was shown in its sector off Norway’s north-west coast, and at intervals a slight shift was made in the position of the Scharnhorst and the Admiral Hipper, an estimation of their northward progress being made by the Admiralty plot.
Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 9