On the Edge of Darkness

by Anthony Molloy

  The ‘Eskimo’s’ Aldis began to flash once more this time it was directed away from them into the swirling mist astern of her. An answer flashed briefly and then the same light transferred its attentions to them.

  He heard the sound of their signal lamp chattering in reply.

  ‘Flag ship signalling, sir.’

  Barr lowered his glasses and watched as the towering structure of the ‘Warspite emerged gradually like a grey ghost from the folds of the mist. She was unmistakable, with her huge gunnery director, bigger than ‘Nishga’s’ bridge, poised seemingly precariously atop her foremast.

  She was old, nearly thirty years old, if his memory served him right, he had heard how she’d taken fifteen direct hits at the Battle of Jutland but she was still with them. Rightly so, she was magnificent, her designers had her just right, a perfect combination of firepower, speed and armour.

  “‘Captain report to Flag’, sir”

  “Very good, officer of the watch, make the arrangements, if you please. I’ll be below.”

  * * *

  Vice Admiral William ‘Jock’ Whitworth CB, DSO, sat at the end of the wardroom table his snowy head leaning forward as he read a signal. He was approaching his fifty-sixth birthday and already had some considerable claim to fame after seeing off the Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst whilst flying his Flag in the ‘Renown’ earlier that spring. Around him sat the Captains of the other nine destroyers. Barr recognised Sherbrooke of the ‘Cossack’ and nodded greetings.

  The Admiral signed for the signal and, handing it to the Chief Yeoman at his side, waved Barr to the one remaining chair at the highly polished mahogany table.

  “Good to see you, there’s coffee on the side table behind you”

  “I’m fine, thank you, sir.”

  “No? Right then I’ll bring you up to date, if I may. As you probably know we lost the ‘Hunter’’ and the ‘Hardy’ three days ago, besides that we had two other ships badly damaged during the action at Narvik; so your presence will go some way to making up our numbers and will be most welcome.

  Now, according to aerial recognisance Jerry has eight destroyers and two U Boats as well as several merchantmen, all survivors from Wednesday, in Narvik. Our intelligence chaps ashore assure us they are too low on fuel to come out, probably as a result of Wednesday’s action.

  I intend, as they seem somewhat reluctant to come out to play, to take the game to them” He turned and beckoned to a Flag Lieutenant waiting at the back of the compartment who quickly carried forward a wooden easel with a chart of Ofotfjord pinned to it.

  “The old hands with their prior knowledge of the anchorage will take the lead; ‘Cossack’ in the van. I will follow in the ‘Warspite’. Barr your ‘Nishga’ will be our rearguard. I am hoping to take Jerry by surprise but it’s a thirty-mile trip up fjord so it should take us about an hour, if all goes well.

  The ‘Warspite’ will engage Jerry’s shore installations which were, apparently, captured more or less intact from our Norwegian friends. This means they have eight-inch guns and shore-based torpedoes at their disposal. So be ready to receive a warm welcome.

  We have aircraft from the ‘Victorious’ available as air cover so make sure your Gunnery Officers are up to par on aircraft recognition. I don’t want any home goals!

  My Flag Lieutenant will give you your written orders. Address any queries to him. Well, gentleman, we will shortly be having a seat in the front row of history. Good luck and good hunting.”

  * * *

  Barr lowered his glasses; on the beam the Flagship was turning into the wind in order to fly off her Fairy Swordfish. Beyond the destroyer screen was nearing the headland that hid the enemy held harbour from view. His job was to stay close to the flagship as anti-submarine protection and to provide a rearguard.

  “Clear away all guns!”

  “All guns clear!”

  At full speed and in line ahead the van of the destroyers was already sweeping round into the harbour, their Battle Ensigns rippling and snapping at their mastheads. It looked as if the enemy ships had been taken completely by surprise.

  The ‘Cossack’ in the lead engaged a large German destroyer moored to the jetty, the target, at very close range, was hit by her first salvo and oily black smoke began to pour from her shattered fo’c’s’le.

  “All guns closed up and cleared away, communications tested, sir”

  Astern of the ‘Nishga’ a rolling crash with the power of a thousand thunderstorms echoed around the fjord as the ‘Warspite’ opened fire; the broadside, from her fifteen-inch guns, howled overhead and on into the enemy’s positions ashore.

  The ‘Nishga’s’ gunnery control could now see the target.

  “Target enemy destroyers, Green eight seven, range one thousand two hundred yards.”

  Through his glasses Barr could see that the four point sevens of the lead destroyers were doing terrible damage. It looked as though none of the enemy guns were yet in action, although it was difficult to be sure through the thick smoke already drifting out across the town.

  Barr stood at the for’ard screen he could hear the preparations being made for his ‘Nishga’ to join the bombardment.

  “All guns with H.E. Load! Load! Load! Follow TVI.” That was ‘Guns’ ordering all his four point sevens to load with high explosive shells and to follow the director rather than engage the target separately over open sights.

  “Open shutters.”

  He could hear the men in ‘B’ Turret, close up and below the bridge, repeating the orders, clearly and calmly as if they were on exercise rather than about to enter what must be their first major action.

  “Trainer on! Layer on!”

  “Left gun ready! Right gun ready!”

  “Shutters open.’B’ Turret ready!”

  Guns’ voice echoed down from the director above his head. “Permission to open fire”

  Barr leant over the voice pipe, “Permission granted.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth before the blast from the for’ard guns hit the bridge, a flash of light and noise, a whiff of acrid cordite, the whistle of the shells roaring away like express trains and then the yell of the gun captain below. “Reload!”

  Barr had his binoculars raised once more; this time they were focused on the ‘Cossack’ she was taking hit after hit. The size of some of the explosions indicated she was taking punishment from both the shore battery and the smaller guns on the enemy destroyers. Barr could only imagin the damage they must be doing below decks as each eight-inch shell, weighing more two hundredweight tore into her thin unarmoured sides.

  The Navigating Officer called from the compass platform, his binoculars still raised to his eyes, “There’s the battery of eight-inch we were warned about, sir.”

  “Where away?”

  “Green eight oh, compass bearing one oh five.”

  “‘Guns’ shift target. New target the shore battery bearing one oh five magnetic.”

  “All guns Check! Check! Check! Shift target left…”

  There was a flutter of red and white from the ‘Cossacks’ foremast. “Yeoman can you make out what the ‘Cossacks’ flying.”

  The Yeoman at his side yelled above the roar of another broadside, “That’s Foxtrot, sir. She’s disabled.”

  They must have hit her boiler or engine room or perhaps her steering gear. As they watched she veered sharply out of the line and began to lose way drifting downwind towards the north shore, all her guns still blazing.

  Both sides were now doing terrific damage; several of the enemy had cut their moorings and were now under way. The harbour was full of smoke and the din of battle with destroyers weaving and turning, firing their guns and torpedoes over open sights.

  Right ahead a Tribal suddenly appeared from the smoke of the battle. She was drifting helplessly downwind, smoke billowing from her superstructure in an oil-black cloud. Very few of her guns were returning fire.

  “It’s the ‘Punjabi’,
sir,” yelled the Yeoman somehow reading his thoughts. “She’s a sitting duck.”

  Suddenly they heard a huge explosion, Barr swung round just in time to see the ‘Eskimo’ lifted bodily from the water. Oily bellows of smoke quickly hid her from view. When it cleared downwind he could see a huge gaping hole. Her bow had been completely blown off probably by one of the massive shore-based torpedoes.

  Somehow, incredibly, she was managing to stay afloat. He could see men rushing forward across the debris-strewn deck dragging fires hoses to fight the raging fire.

  Across the fjord the ‘Cossack’ was in even worse trouble, hard aground and under fire from the shore.

  The ‘Kimberley’ roared across Barr’s line of sight all her guns blazing away, her Aldis flashing urgently.

  “She’s signalling the Flag,” Barr looked astern as the ‘Warspite’ lamp winked a smoke hazed reply.

  Barr heard the clatter of their own Aldis.

  “From the Flag to us, sir, ‘Give covering fire to the ‘Kimberley’ she is about to take LO3,’… that’s the ‘Cossack’, sir, ‘in tow’.”

  “Full ahead both engines, hard aport… Pilot! Take us close in to where the ‘Cossacks’ aground.”

  “That’s Hankins Point, sir.”

  “Very good. Then take us to Hankins’s Point, with all speed, if you please.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The ‘Nishga’s’ bow swung dizzily across the skyline, first the speeding ‘Kimberly’ appearing in the eyes of the ship and then the beleaguered ‘Cossack’.

  First, the ‘Kimberley’ and then the ‘Nishga’ sped in closer to the shore. They began to draw fire from shore-based mortars, machine guns and even rifles. The bridge crew took hasty shelter behind the screens as rounds winged across the bridge and smacked into the metalwork.

  Barr crouched over the voice pipe array, “Bridge, Director.”

  “Director.”

  “‘Guns’, see what you can do to keep those snipers heads down.”

  * * *

  Wyatt at his station on ‘A’ gun had a clear view of the action in and around the crippled ‘Cossack’. His turret began to turn; all guns had been following the Gunnery Director’s pointer. Now the order came down to fire over open sights and return the fire from the machine guns and snipers arranged before them. He shook his head one hell of a large hammer to crack those nuts ashore.

  Mind you they weren’t the only nuts around, the skipper of the ‘Kimberly’ was right up there with them, going in after the ‘Cossack’ like that! Officers! He never could figure them. ‘A’ gun bucked and shook under him as they fired point blank into the shoreline at one of the tiny targets.

  * * *

  Barr heard the roar from the for’ard turret, tasted the bitter smoke as it flew past the bridge. Raising his head above the parapet he saw the fall of shot only yards from one of the shore-side mortar emplacements. The soldiers manning it scattered, leaving two of their number spread-eagled and still in the blackened snow.

  The ‘Kimberly’ had noticeably slowed; drifting almost lazily into the smoke cloud that, momentarily, hid the ‘Cossack’ from view.

  A lone, helmeted figure up in her bow threw a heaving line into the smoke. A sudden puff of icy wind cleared Barr’s view, blowing the cloud in towards the shore. He caught a glimpse of hurrying figures as the ‘Kimberly’s’ seamen ran the messenger line inboard, working like men possessed.

  The ‘hammer blows’ from the four point sevens were having the desired effect; the sniper fire had died away to the occasional hastily aimed shot. When this did happen, it was answered with a fusillade of machine gun fire from both ships. From what Barr could see the ‘Kimberley’s’ attempts to tow the ‘Cossack’ clear of the rocks wasn’t having the same sort of success. Through his binoculars he could see the hastily rigged towing hawser was bar taut, stretching and then vibrating under the immense strain. The ‘Cossack’ seemed to be stuck fast.

  * * *

  Wyatt wiped his cordite blackened eyes on the rough sleeve of his duffle. He must be seeing things. Two figures were descending the mountain towards the stranded ‘Cossack’ on skis!

  They reached the shoreline, quickly removing their skis they scrabbled across the rocks and up onto her quarterdeck. Through the powerful gun sights Wyatt could see what appeared to be a rolled up German flag. There really were a lot of nutters around today.

  * * *

  Barr removed his battle bowler, wiped at his blackened face with a handkerchief and looked around.

  All the German ships and most of the shore batteries had been silenced and he could see German soldiers ashore retreating under fire from the squadron. It appeared to be over, there was time to take stock of the situation, sunk and damaged ships littered the harbour. He counted eight German destroyers either sunk or ablaze. Amazingly they hadn’t lost any ships sunk, although three, the ‘Cossack’, ‘Eskimo’ and the ‘Punjabi’ were real ‘dockyard jobs’. There could be no rest until those three were under tow or scuttled. It looked as if they would be here for quite some time.

  “Pilot when’s the next high tide.”

  “Around six, sir.”

  “It looks increasingly as if they won’t be able to get the ‘Cossack’ off till then. Stand the men down.”

  “Aye, aye, sir… Defence Stations?”

  “Yes, that will do nicely and give the galley a buzz, will you? Get something hot into the men.” It was funny but he had only just noticed how cold it was.

  As if by magic his steward materialised at his side. “Your coffee, sir.” Incongruously, given the circumstances, Leading Steward Jenkins was balancing a silver pot of coffee and a delicate china cup and saucer on an immaculately polished tray. He could smell the fresh coffee beans and the generous measure of Jerez sherry that laced it. The man was God sent.

  As night fell it brought with it that convenient high tide. They were soon employed in further attempts to re-float ‘Cossack’ clear of rocks. During the first watch she, at last, floated free but, because of shell damage to her fore end, she was only able to go astern.

  With other destroyers fussing around her like protective mother hens, she weaved in and out of the still blazing wrecks of German destroyers and half submerged merchantmen.

  Clear of the fjord, the three crippled ships, under heavy escort, headed west for the shelter of the Lofoten Islands.

  Chapter 2

  A Roving

  The next day the ‘Nishga’ entered Skelfjord; where the damaged ships were already undergoing temporary repairs. Most of those that were present at the battle the night before were there, not one had escaped damage of one sort or the other.

  The ‘Nishga’ herself had no structural damage, but splinter and bullet holes peppered her sides, her upper deck bulkheads and both funnels. With so many damaged ships the harbour had been dubbed ‘Cripple Creek’ by the sailors.

  Shortly after they had dropped anchor, the Bosun’s Mate noticed a motor launch approaching from the direction of the flagship, it was hailed, came alongside and an officer ran up the gangway carrying a buff envelope.

  Within a half-hour of his arrival he had left and Harbour Stations were piped. Even before they had cleared the mouth of the fjord the rumour had circulated throughout the ship that they were under orders for another lone assignment further along the coast.

  Up on the bridge Barr was more than happy with his new assignment. The action at Narvik had been his first fleet action, his first time operating as part of a squadron under the command of an Admiral on a flagship. He was thrilled to have taken part but he preferred detached assignments. Independent action was something skippers would give his eye-teeth for. Free from the restraints that the presence of senior ships imposed and able to make your own decisions. There was even a chance at some prize money.

  * * *

  Once the skipper had officially announced that they would be cruising the west coast of Norway looking fo
r likely targets, the topic of prize money was the only conversation around the tot tables.

  All of the men in the seamen’s mess, indeed in the ship, were professionals; at this stage in the war ‘Hostility Only’ ratings were mostly confined to the smaller ships. So between the eight men sitting around the mess table there was something like fifty years of seagoing experience, even so not one of them had ever been awarded prize money.

  Now if there was something under discussion of which they knew very little, or even nothing at all, it was usually Wyatt who assumed the status of expert and who led any debate.

  “Come on then, you lot, someone must know what share of prize money goes to the ship’s company?”

  He looked around the table; everyone was sitting mouths tight closed looking up at the deck head or down into their tot glasses; except Goddard.

  “Blur?”

  “Erh.. Me? Well, I don’t know” he thought for a moment, “I heard in Nelson’s day they used to get a quarter…” he ventured.

  Wyatt nodded sagely. “And you all know what, say, a freighter’s worth nowadays?” Wyatt looked around the table; Goddard had now taken up a similar posture to the rest but Wilson… “You must know that, Tug?”

  “Well… thousands of pounds, I suppose.”

  Wyatt nodded shrewdly. “That’s right… there you go…so we all stand to get erh … a lot of money.” A murmur of admiration for Wyatt’s profound knowledge of the subject ran through the assembled seaman.

  There was a clatter on the metal ladder as Stubbs arrived from the galley with a fanny of ‘pot-mess’.

  The stew pot on its rubber mat in the centre of the table gradually emptied and they wiped their plates clean with the last of the fresh bread, brought across from the flagship’s bakery.

  O’Neill, ‘Duff Bosun’ for the day went for the afters and placed it in the centre of the table with a flourish. It was, as usual, something under a thick layer of custard. Goddard dished a good helping out to each man and, with the notable exception of Able Seaman Wyatt, they all set to with some gusto.