***
In his fuse-shielding role, Mr Hanrahan backed at the rate of a foot every thirty seconds towards the jetty. When he was about half-way between the jetty and the concealed British party he swore and stopped.
The bloody fuse had gone out.
Seawater, or rather fjord water, had penetrated the outer covering. Mr Hanrahan brought out his knife, cut off a little over a foot of fuse and some thirty seconds of his time, struck a match in the lee of his body and relit the fuse. Once again it sputtered nicely and the Gunner resumed his backward motion. Now and again he cast glances over his shoulder towards the base: thanks to the thick darkness he was still totally anonymous. He could see the German sentry clearly enough in the solitary light that was still burning. The man had no suspicions at all; but Mr Hanrahan began to feel uncomfortably exposed as his rump neared the jetty. His luck wasn’t going to hold: it was a sort of inner feeling he had, a nasty conviction of failure. He would go and make a noise, just enough to alert that sentry, something like that—and if he went too bloody close he stood a bloody good chance of being seen anyway, noise or not.
He looked round again.
Forty feet to the jetty, give or take a few. Forty feet for that small spark at the end of the fuse-line to show if he left it and buggered off south. It was much too risky. He had to go with it all the way to the jetty; once the spark had gone that far, it wouldn’t be seen thereafter—the jetty itself would hide it nicely, as planned. There was just one way for him to remain unseen while he got it there: get himself below the level of the shore, below the fjord’s bank.
Mr Hanrahan moved sideways, cautiously, with the fuse.
He set his teeth and lowered himself carefully over into the water. God—it was bloody cold! He shivered, but held the fuse-line clear of the water and just below the hard-packed ground that formed the shore. It was well hidden from the sentry now. Mr Hanrahan swam towards the jetty, somewhat grampus-like but taking great care not to splash. He had reached it and was watching the spark move up the fuse to become lost in the jetty’s supports when the floodlights came on over the base.
Mr Hanrahan, half in the water and half out, clinging to the metal framework, stayed dead still with his heart thumping like a blacksmith’s hammer. He had ten minutes left.
***
Aboard the Castle Bay the minutes were ticking past as well, only no one knew how many were left. Forbes sweated: he was still reluctant to abandon ship. He believed that the explosion of the limpet mine might do no more than blow a hole in the ship and put her flat on the bottom—soundings had shown that he had only eighteen feet of water beneath him. His upper deck would be above water. If that happened he would never take the ship out to sea, of course, but at least he would be able to fire his guns so long as the magazines didn’t flood and he could go down fighting, taking plenty of Germans with him when they came in.
Beddows wanted to abandon. He said, ‘It’s likely the magazines’ll go up, sir. If they do, the casualties will be heavy.’
‘Yes, I realize that, Pilot, but these limpet mines aren’t all that big. I’m pretty sure it’ll just flood us if it goes up. Also, it may be sited well clear of the magazines—a matter of luck, that.’ Forbes rubbed at his eyes: he felt he was too tired to think straight, even to make proper decisions as quickly as he ought. ‘If only that bloody Hun would break! If we knew where it was—’ He broke off, stared at Beddows. ‘What the hell’s that?’
Sounds were coming from below, clanging sounds, possibly from beneath the ship. Beddows said, ‘Another mine?’
‘I doubt it. Could the thing shift, I wonder?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it’s about to go up.’ There was accusation in Beddows’ voice: too late now to abandon and the order should have been given long ago. The sounds continued for a few moments, then stopped. Then they started again. Below, right atop the double-bottom, CPO Tanner heard them more clearly than did Forbes on the bridge, and he went fast for the ladder and grabbed a sound-powered telephone to call the skipper.
‘Tanner here, sir. Noises—’
‘Yes, I’ve heard them. What do you make of it?’
‘Dunno, sir. Must be to do with the mine, sir. That’s all I can say.’
‘Get up top,’ Forbes said down the telephone. ‘Fast!’
‘Yessir. And the Jerry?’
‘Leave him. You’re worth more than he is.’
Forbes slammed the phone down. Below, Tanner wiped his face with his handkerchief and thought briefly about the German. Poor sod—but he’d been about to deprive Mrs Tanner of her breadwinner. Tanner went up more ladders, very fast, to the upper deck. On the bridge, Forbes was about to give further orders when there was a heavy explosion from the port side aft and for a moment brilliant light flared, on the surface of the fjord. Forbes grabbed for a hold of the bridge guardrail. Spray, flung into the air, spattered down over the bridge; small fragments of metal came down with the spray. The explosion had been close enough to the ship to send shock waves clanging through her hull, but there was no perceptible loss of buoyancy or stability nor any other indication of damage. Forbes stared in utter astonishment, looked along the decks below and saw the craning necks along the port side. Then Beddows, behind him, said something in a tone of horror.
Forbes turned. Beddows was staring down at the deck of the bridge.
‘What is it, Pilot?’
Beddows pointed, wordlessly. On the deck was a man’s arm, severed at the elbow but otherwise intact, with the hand clenched around a piece of metal, a ringbolt by the look of it. Round the wrist the identity disc was still in place, a dull red circle. Forbes said, ‘Shouldn’t have worn it there, should he, Pilot. The neck’s the place... so they tell us.’ He was conscious of the absurd inanity of his words but he couldn’t help it. It was becoming a filthy war, all right. He shouldn’t have been so affected by just one more death; but his brain, however weary, was telling him what had happened. He bent and flicked on a pocket torch and read the details on the identity disc: Cpl Savage, John Fredk, C of E, 9 SWB. South Wales Borderers... one of the regiments that had retrained as commandos. They’d been at Narvik and now they were aboard the Castle Bay. Corporal Savage had taken it upon himself, without orders, without even asking permission, to dive down, release the mine, and swim away with it.
Forbes resisted with difficulty a strong urge to bring the German up from the double-bottom and hand him over to the commandos with carte blanche for them to do just as they liked with him.
***
There appeared to be no reason why the Germans should have switched on the floodlights; possibly, Cameron thought, it was at routine intervals and it was just their bad luck that it should have happened while the Gunner was out there. Hanrahan couldn’t get back now; to run out into the open would be suicide and he wouldn’t stand much chance of remaining unseen under those floods if he tried to swim for it, either. And each second was bringing the sputter of the fuse closer to the end of the pipeline and the detonators.
There was nothing else for it now: the Gunner had to be given his chance.
Cameron said, ‘Fire for the floods. Now.’
He lifted his own gun; streams of lead swept towards the big arc lamps and the light over the door. They died; the Germans must have been having quite a time of it, continually replacing bulbs.... After that, they waited, flat on their stomachs, behind what cover they could find from the rough ground as bullets zoomed across from the darkened perimeter, close above their heads. Cameron was unable to see the spark of the fuse: too far, or had it gone out? After a minute or two, he heard the Gunner’s voice.
‘Get the hell out now, Mr Cameron. I’ll be right behind you and the buggers can’t see us.’
‘Right!’ Cameron called back, and scrambled to his feet. The soldiers did likewise. As they belted for the safety of the entry channel, bullets swept down. The Germans were firing blind. But Mr Hanrahan had been wrong that they would remain unseen: a searchlight flickered on, it
s beam wavered for a moment, then came down and steadied.
They were cruelly silhouetted. As they ran on like the wind itself, there was a cry from behind, and Cameron halted to look round. The Gunner was flat on the ground, clearly seen in the searchlight’s beam. Bullets were thudding into his twitching body. Instinctively Cameron started to run back, but was taken in a grip of steel by the commando NCO.
‘No, you don’t. It’s bloody suicide and too bloody late anyway, he’s dead. Don’t linger or you’ll kill us all.’
The NCO was right, however much it grated. They ran on, leaping over the boulders. There didn’t seem to be any pursuit as such; they were still within range of the Germans’ automatic weapons and probably the Jerries were expectant of an attack from the other side and didn’t want to deplete the defence of the base. And in spite of the searchlight, they reached the angle of the shore intact but for a number of wounds, mostly in the fleshy parts, though one of the sappers got it in a knee joint and had to be carried on.
They had just made the corner, and were around it into the channel, when the Gunner’s fuse blew the detonators. As the aviation spirit caught and flashed back into the tanks inside the mountain behind the base, the violence of the explosion seemed to shatter the whole neighbourhood; a wind, a hot wind of near gale force, swept up into the channel itself. The waters of the fjord lay under pyrotechnic brilliance far brighter than the day. They were pock-marked and turbulent as rock flew, punched out by the tremendous force of exploded aviation spirit and the contents of the magazines, including the warheads of the flying bombs themselves. The huge explosions went on and on and on; when they had finished they were replaced by a continuing roaring sound as of the whole mountain behind the base collapsing. Clouds of dust swept across the fjord and into the channel, borne along the still-hot wind.
When the racket lessened a little, they moved back, around the corner, to take a look. There wasn’t much to be seen. The base had vanished as though it had never existed at all, lying beneath a vast pile of shattered rock. The whole front of the mountain had been blown out so far as could be seen, leaving clear sky above where the overhang had been. Over it all flickered red, angry fires, the very fires of hell.
Cameron said in a taut voice, ‘Right, that’s it. Back to the ship now.’
***
They trekked back through the night; the girl had stayed to guide them. Dawn was in the sky as they came down to the shore of Skojafjord. The Castle Bay was there still; and a hail from Cameron brought in a boat to take them off.
Cameron reported to the Captain on the bridge. Forbes listened in silence then said quietly, ‘Very well done, Sub—all of you. It’s bloody rotten about poor old Hanrahan. Hard to have that happen when you think you’ve retired and finished with it all. I happen to know he didn’t want to come back. He wanted some time with his wife and family... but he didn’t let that stop him doing what the service demanded.’
‘No, sir.’ Cameron paused for a moment. ‘What now, sir?’
‘What now, Sub?’ Forbes gave an edgy laugh. ‘What else but take the ship to sea? And no time like the present!’ He turned to Beddows. ‘Cable and side party, Pilot, and special sea dutymen. Remainder of the hands to stay at action stations.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Beddows saluted and left the bridge with the boatswain’s mate. As the pipes began shrilling throughout the ship and echoing off the mountains, Forbes bent to the voice-pipe.
‘Warn the engine-room,’ he said. ‘I shall be getting under way immediately. Tell the Chief Engineer to be ready for very sudden alterations in revolutions.’
He straightened, and glanced at Cameron. ‘You’re tired, Sub.’
‘So are you, sir.’
Forbes smiled. ‘I can’t afford to be. You can. Get below and get some breakfast, then turn in. You’ve done enough.’
Cameron stood his ground. ‘I won’t sleep, sir, and I’ve no appetite for breakfast.’
‘So what are you asking?’
‘I’d like to be on the bridge, sir. We’re two officers short now, with the First Lieutenant and Mr Hanrahan—’
‘Yes. All right, if that’s what you want. I can do with you, I admit. First job: send down to my servant for coffee, hot and strong, and toast and marmalade.’
‘Aye, aye, sir—’
‘For two,’ Forbes said firmly. ‘You’re going to bloody well have some breakfast! No one but a fool fights on an empty stomach.’ He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and handed a rather crushed packet to Cameron.
***
According to Jakob Nordli, they had some sixty-five miles to steam before they would emerge into the open sea off Hjelmsoy Island not far to the westward of the North Cape. If they got as far as that then Nordli and the other Resistance man would leave the ship. Nordli had some good friends in some of the tiny, remote settlements of the far north.
‘What about your families on Vest Hammarfjord?’ Forbes asked.
Nordli shrugged. ‘We fear for them, Captain, we fear very much. I say no more.’
‘Yes—I’m sorry. If ever England’s occupied by the bloody Nazis, I can only hope we’d have as much guts as you.’ Forbes lifted his binoculars and changed the subject. ‘That’s the next fjord ahead now.’
‘Yes. A short but narrow connecting channel.’
‘Then one more fjord after this next one.’
‘Yes. That is where I think the danger will come. The second of the fjords is very wide and open.’
‘So you said. We’ll be ready.’
The Castle Bay moved on, leaving Skojafjord. Forbes nosed the ship at dead slow into the connecting strip of water: there was very little to spare on either hand. As the bows emerged into the next fjord Cameron spotted a grey-painted craft, just becoming visible round a spit of land to the west.
‘Vessel to port, sir,’ he reported. ‘Looks like an MTB.’
‘Warn the guns’ crews,’ Forbes ordered. He thought: here it comes! The ship moved on; Forbes increased speed to half on the telegraph as he came out from the channel’s constriction. The MTB became fully visible, the German naval ensign flaunted at her stern, and the port lookout reported a torpedo trail already in the water.
‘Port fifteen,’ Forbes ordered in a tense voice. ‘All guns that can bear, open fire.’
The 4-inch guns crashed out as the ship turned towards the oncoming torpedo in order to present a smaller target. The shooting was good: a shell took the MTB slap amidships on her starboard side, and she went up as her remaining torpedoes exploded. Debris flew into the air, came down again to dapple the water; the torpedo sped past only a matter of feet from the starboard side of the Castle Bay. Half a minute later, as Forbes put the ship back on course across the fjord, there was another explosion. The torpedo had hit the shoreline. By now there was optimism around; they all felt they were going to get away with it. All except Nordli.
‘There is still one more fjord, Captain,’ he said. ‘That is where I fear the most. And after that, the open sea—and the possibility of the German battle-cruisers.’
Forbes nodded. ‘Well, we’ll just take what comes. I don’t doubt the buggers’ll do all they can to get us after what hit them in Vest Hammarfjord, but we’re not far off now, and the chances are that Admiral Vian’s somewhere out there—and the Home Fleet battleships not far off, too.’
Nordli pursed his lips and gave a gloomy shake of his head. The Nazis were tenacious, whatever else they were. The Castle Bay steamed on, making good speed across the fjord.
Three hours later they were moving across the next and last and were almost standing clear when the menacing sound of aircraft engines was heard approaching from the south.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It had been murder, it had been hell a hundred times over.
Cameron dragged himself through deep waves of giddiness; the boat drifted, thrown this way and that by the waves of a cold sea. Blood was everywhere: over the bodies, over the living, over the thwarts and swilling about
, salt-sodden now, over the bottom boards. The stench of blood and death filled the nostrils. Cameron leaned over the gunwale and was violently sick. Beside him, the girl stirred and moaned. She wasn’t badly hurt: just a glancing bullet across the forehead, from one of the lead-spitting dive-bombers that had made a final run over the Castle Bay as she went down. That spray of lead had just caught the whaler as it made into a tree-lined inlet running off the fjord; after that, the aircraft had left them and flown away to report success to Reichsmarschall Goering.
Cameron found it difficult now to recall the exact sequence of events. At the start, the Stukas had come out of the sun, screaming down on the northern extremity of the fjord where the old Castle Bay, with her screw turned at emergency full ahead, had attempted the last run out for the open sea beyond. One of the Stukas had dropped its load in the water slap behind the poop; after that, the ship lay at the mercy of the Germans, out of control, with both screw and rudder gone. She had drifted on under her own impetus for a while; then more bombs had come down, most of them near misses that had shaken her plates from stem to stern.
Then a machine-gun attack, as though the Germans meant to prolong the agony. Forbes had gone, sliced through by the same burst that had ripped into Beddows and Jakob Nordli. Cameron had survived only by diving head first down the starboard ladder to the Captain’s deck, then down to the main deck. In the next run in, the signalman and the bridge messenger had been killed, together with many of the guns’ crews. Within minutes the close-range weapons were out of action; as men ran to take the places of the dead, they too were met by the stutter of the diving machine-guns. Bodies had lain everywhere, draped across the guns themselves, on the deck, on the ladders until they had fallen away, at the searchlight—just everywhere, grotesque and horrible and pathetic.
The next bomb hit had been on the bridge itself: that took the wheelhouse with it, together with the quartermaster and his helmsmen. After that the fo’c’sle. Cameron had watched Ricketts die as he ran to man one of the few remaining Oerlikons. Ricketts had simply ceased to be, seen for a brief fragment of time spreadeagled like a broken puppet and blackened in the middle of brilliant flame. Fires had broken out below: the ship was a shambles. Then, already down by the stern, she had levelled out after the hit on the fo’c’sle and had begun to sink on a more or less even keel. Earlier, her impetus had carried her in towards the shore, towards the inlet where the final attack had come: Forbes had been so close to his goal of the open sea, had been on the very verge of making the last exit channel. Cameron, seeing that instant decision was vital and that to abandon was the last frail hope of saving anyone at all, had found a petty officer and a handful of seamen and had set about lowering the one boat left undamaged in the attack—a whaler under oars. The proper lowering procedures were overtaken by the sinking action of the ship: in the end the whaler had just floated free and the naval ratings and some soldiers and the girl had piled aboard in the last few minutes before the ship went down. They had nearly succumbed to the vortex—nearly, but not quite. Some desperate pulling got them away just in time, and they were able to hold the boat away from the swirl of water and the clouds of steam as the boiler-room began to flood. Finally, as they made the inlet under a hail of bullets, there had been a massive explosion that had blown the water up into the sky and had hurled parts of the sunken ship in all directions; it had also thrown up the dead and those who had tried to swim away. The fire below decks had presumably reached the magazines and shell handling rooms before they had flooded. When the handful of survivors had pulled themselves together, Cameron, scarcely knowing what he was doing, had taken the whaler out through the short channel into the sea behind Hjelmsoy Island. He had been surprised to find Jane with them; she told him he had come down for her, down to the sick bay, and had made her leave. There had been no one else there; they’d all been up topsides, trying to help the wounded. The doctor had ordered her to remain below.
Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller) Page 16