On the Edge of Darkness

by Anthony Molloy

  At the change of the watch Lieutenant Grey came up onto the bridge to relieve the First Lieutenant.

  Barr was back in his bridge chair following a short, but welcome, spell below. He was the only seaman officer who kept no set watches but his standing order, that he should be informed of any sightings day or night, meant he got very little rest. As a consequence of his own order he found it more convenient to doze in the bridge chair than to struggle into foul weather clothing and come up onto the bridge every time there was a sighting.

  He stared out at the horizon as he waited for the usual exchanges between the incoming and outgoing officers to end.

  “Number One, before you go below for your well-earned, I’d like a word, if I may.”

  “Certainly sir… I not in trouble, I trust.”

  Barr smiled through his stubble, “No, no, everything’s fine, you’re doing a great job” he paused his eyes automatically searching the horizon as he assembled his thoughts.

  “Do you remember the other day, when we were leaving harbour; the day we boarded the E-boat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it occurred to me how we were completely relying on those lights the marines were putting out for us. That made me think how Jerry must be doing exactly the same thing; all along this coast…relying on their lights I mean. Now…Just supposing the lights they were relying were not in the right place. What if we were to move them inland?”

  Grant frowned, “You mean…like the wreckers on the coast of Cornwall in the eighteen-century?”

  “That’s it, precisely. Of course we have no idea when the enemy convoys are coming at the moment. What we need is recognisance. I see a role here for the E-boat. A crew, led by you and the German speaking Midshipman, what’s-his-name, as your second…”

  “Hogg, sir.”

  “What? Yes… yes… Hogg, that’s the chap.” Barr was in full swing now, Grant couldn’t remember when he had seen him this animated, he was speaking faster and faster thinking on his feet. “He’s a reliable chap…speaks good German, as you said yourself…You could scout along the coast. Take a couple of marines with you. Watch out for lights marking rocks, headlands, shallows, that sort of thing.

  Ideally you’d be after full convoys supplying northern Norway, rather than empty ones returning. They’d be sailing north, that means…” he walked over to the chart with Grant following. “You’ll be looking for somewhere like… “His gloved finger moved to a headland on the chart.” …this… of course it’s only an example, you’ll be better placed, on the spot, to choose exactly where. I mean look at this its runs east west and looks as if it would prove a formidable hazard at the best of times, but on a dark night, or a foggy one…Once you have chosen your site… move back along the coast south and find your convoy, get back to your headland at a rate of knots, ahead of the slower target, land your marines, they move the light inland.” He paused, leaning back, suddenly aware of the ache in his back and the sudden sapping tiredness.

  As Grant remained silent Barr felt obliged to offer some encouragement, thinking perhaps he was lukewarm to the idea. “I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character. I think you’ve got what it takes to make this sort of thing work.… At your age I would have given anything for an opportunity like this. Your own command, more or less independent it’s only temporary at the moment, of course, but, make good and I’m sure it can be made permanent. What do you think?

  “I’m flattered sir… It’s all a bit sudden…After all I’ve only held this appointment for a month… at this rate. I’ll be in charge of the war by the end of the year”

  Barr laughed out loud, a rare event, taking Grant by surprise.

  “One step at a time, Number One, one step at a time. I’ll speak to Grey he can act as First Lieutenant in your absence. That’s settled then! I’ll get the writer to get something down on paper and then we’ll discuss it in more detail. In the meantime you can draw up a list of your requirements, crew members that sort of thing”

  * * *

  “You got some of my best men here Number One! He ran a finger down the list… Petty Officer Stone! Leading Seaman O’Neill!…Hmm! Macdonald, well, you’re welcome to him; the man’s a load of trouble; always in fights, ashore, on board, it seems to make little difference to him. The man’s an annoyance. I see him, on defaulters, more than any other man on this ship, with the possible exception of your leading hand.”

  “He knows his job inside out, sir… used to be a Chief Stoker on a carrier”

  “I know, that’s what I mean. Been demoted twice since then… always through the same thing, drunken brawls, in my judgement not a suitable candidate for a small boat.”

  “As you said yourself, sir, It’s an independent command, I’ll need the skills of these men, it’ll be no use to me having a nice chap who doesn’t know a wheel- spanner from a grease-nipple…I could change him for your Chief Stoker?”

  “No, you bloody well can’t… He threw the list of names across his desk at Grant with a grin. Approved!...With reservations.”

  Chapter 5

  Operation Daphne du Maurier

  Norwegian coast, Saturday, 2200 hours, 20th April, 1940.

  The E-boat’s engines snarled into life, the sound echoing back from the cliffs. A seaman on the tiny fo’c’s’le slipped the painter and the craft moved slowly out into the deserted Inlet.

  Grant jammed his borrowed German cap down tight around his ears as the wind snatched angrily. He hoped he’d remembered everything, there would be no chance of supplies for a few days; a week even. He had to admit to just a touch of apprehension. He hadn’t been his own boss for some time, not since before the war. The yacht-skippering job in the Med in the spring of thirty-seven. Halcyon days indeed; with a struggle he forced his mind back to the job in hand.

  “Slow ahead, steer south by west, belay that steer one nine oh. Blast! His first order! He would have to get used to these confounded giro compasses. Now where was he, he ran through the list in his mind for the umpteenth time. He had carried out an inventory of the E-boat’s equipment; they were well supplied. He had the light checked, nice job the ‘Nishga’s’ Chief ‘Lecky’ had made converting the portable signal lamp. They could now adjust the flashing sequence to mimic any shore side light. What’s more two men could manage it easily.

  “Starboard ten”…The two marines had their kit stowed below in the boat’s tiny magazine, too small, by far for the extra gear they had on board.

  Interestingly, among the equipment onboard the captured boat they’d discovered three of Jerry’s new magnetic mines. German mines were more reliable than their British equivalent and had been for some time. In fact it had been a Hertz horned-mine that the British had copied to produce their first contact mine in the last do.

  “Midships… Steer east…” These magnetic mines were deadly things; six foot long… they were the first he’d seen. He remembered when Jerry had first used them, blowing the old ‘Gypsy’ in half in Harwich Harbour and then of course the ‘Belfast’. He’d seen firsthand the damage just one had done to her hull. It would be a sweet revenge if the opportunity to use them on Jerry came up this trip.

  He snatched a quick look at the compass. “Starboard ten… steer north,”

  Darker shadows, the islands protecting the entrance, scrolled across the bow as the boat turned broadside on to a stiff westerly and began to roll like a drunken man.

  * * *

  Corporal Bushel’s cork-blackened face turned slowly towards Stilson. He was checking to see if he was still there and closed up; too bloody easy to get separated when it was this dark.

  It was Stilson who carried the fifty pound lamp strapped to his back. They were moving at a snail’s pace, checking beneath each foot before letting it take their full body weight. In the darkness, this close to the enemy it was the only way to move. He eased a twig away with the side of one boot.

  They had spent nearly an hour moving past the cliff-
top sentry post, time they could ill-afford if they were to reach the lighthouse before first light. He turned slowly to look in the direction of the enemy position; it was barely twelve yards away. Almost past it; about two hours of darkness left. Another two hours and they would have to lie up whether they had reached their target or not.

  Grant and his ‘new toy’ might return as early as sunset tonight. They needed to know the ins and outs of the target by then. They just had to be in place by dawn.

  Time and the cold were his main worries. The Germans used pretty low-grade troops for garrison duties... Suddenly, to his left, a loud voice broke the silence. Thick guttural German accompanied by the sound of boots skidding on icy rock.

  He sank slowly to the rock floor gesturing for Stilson to do the same. His hand inched towards his knife. The man was moving directly towards them. A second voice, full of banter, rose mockingly from the guard post.

  ‘Voice One’ replied with a short and sharp. “Arschloch!”

  Bushel’s hand reached the hilt, gradually, inch by inch; he eased the knife from its greased sheaf. ‘Voice One’ stopped. The sound of leather and the rustle of clothes now only yards away.

  ‘Voice One’ farted, a ripping rolling sound that drew a cheer from the enemy position, more mocking words from ‘Voice Two’ a cloying smell filled the Englishmen’s nostrils.

  The crouching man was barely three yards from the two marines. Luckily he was in a hurry; the freezing night did not lend itself to things leisurely, especially when it involved exposing vast quantities of tender German flesh.

  ‘Voice One’ pulled at his trousers, Bushel could hear teeth chattering as the man turned his back and hurriedly retraced his steps.

  * * *

  It had been seven long hours since the German sentry had pulled up his trousers; seven long, cold hours in which they had moved unseen past the post and carefully circled the darkened lighthouse.

  They were now in position to the south of the target. They lay under a snow-covered ground sheet, their chilled bodies wrapped in down sleeping bags. Stilson dozed while his corporal watched. Their heavy packs were hidden under the sheet behind them in a hollow in the ground. To their right a rock rose steep and sheer against the grey morning light casting a faint, but welcome, shadow over their position. This wasn’t an ideal spot, too bloody cold for a start, but it would have to do in such a barren bleak-white landscape.

  Something moved by the target. He eased the sheet up a touch. Someone had opened the lighthouse door. A man, heavily wrapped against the cold, emerged from the building. He was making his way to the pile of snow-dusted wood to the right of the door. Bushel checked his watch; the last load of wood had lasted him two hours. The man turned and walked back towards the unlocked door; Bushel slowly lowered the flap of the groundsheet.

  Darkness came quickly, no lingering twilight like further south. Bushel nudged Stilson and folded back the groundsheet…Darkness…and a chance to get the circulation moving in cramped frozen limbs.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Grant signalled for slow ahead and took the E-boat in a gradual slow turn that took them around the island putting it between them and the convoy.

  There were seven ships in all, including the escort, heading in just the right direction; it all looked perfect.

  He waited until the convoy disappeared from sight, behind the looming bulk of the island then he leant to the voice pipe and ordered full ahead. The E-boat’s bow rose sharply and she planed across the water like the true thoroughbred she was, her powerful engines quickly taking her up to her top speed. At thirty knots the eight-knot convoy’s position was soon hull down below the horizon.

  They had spent some time watching the German lighthouse, timing the sequence of the light, studying the courses steered by passing ships and the areas they avoided noting both on the chart. Grant was acutely aware of the possibility of minefields.

  “She certainly can move, Mr Hogg.”

  “Yes, sir.” called the diminutive Midshipman, ducking as a sheet of ice cold spray hissed across the fo’c’s’le and hit the bridge windscreen with a noise like frying fat. “Quite exhilarating if a trifle damp, don’t you think, sir?”

  Grant smiled in the darkness, he had come to know and like this youngster over the last few days. “What part of the country do you come from Mr Hogg?”

  “West Country sir, mother has a place there, I was away at school when the war started.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Wellington, sir.”

  “So you had planned to join the service anyway?”

  “That was the idea sir; most of the chaps join the forces from there. But…well after my father died, mother thought I should take over, run the estate. She sort of stood in for me while I finished my schooling. But the war changed all that. And you sir, where do you hail from?”

  “Originally the south coast, my father has a boat yard at Yarmouth. He repairs coastal stuff for the ‘Andrew’ now. But… well…I sort of drifted around a bit… bit of yacht minding… bit of coastal work before that, got my ticket working colliers out of Newcastle… Hang on…” he placed a cautionary hand on the Midshipman’s shoulder, “that’s sounds like the mines moving about.”

  A dull thump sounded from aft as the boat slammed into another wave. “See Petty Officer Stone; get him to check the lashing.”

  Grant turned back, leant heavily on the vibrating windscreen and checked his watch, he hoped he had allowed enough time; the whole thing relied on good timing. He had carefully gone through each phase of the operation. It seemed to work on paper…but then so did the Pools, that didn’t mean you were guaranteed a prize.

  * * *

  Grant ordered slow ahead and peered into the night. Somewhere out there, the rocky headland waited but he could see no sign of it; nothing. The conditions were perfect for his purpose but made navigation damn difficult. A light flashed, a loom of ghostly silver sky dead ahead.

  “Stop engines!”

  They had no time to search for the target, his dead reckoning had to be right first time; every second that convoy was getting closer.

  “Lookout! Any sign of the land?”

  The lookout snatched a quick look through his powerful binoculars before replying, “Nothing in sight yet sir.”

  He inched the boat in another cable towards the unseen shore. Were his tired eyes playing tricks or was that something.

  “Lookout, bridge… There’s the headland, sir… fine on the port bow.”

  “Very good… Signalman…standby…O’Neill, stand by to gun the engines.”

  * * *

  The roar of the E-boats’ engines shattered the quiet night. As the noise died away, German voices could be heard raising the alarm, cursing as they stumbled over each other in a rush to their stations.

  The gun emplacement’s searchlight stabbed out a sword of light, cutting through the dark, straight to the source of the alarm, pinning the E-boat to its watery backdrop like a grey moth to its mounting. In the harsh light every detail stood out even the broad grin on the face of the E-boat’s skipper as he lifted his cap in a sardonic salute.

  “Damn Kriegsmarine, playing silly buggers,” said the searchlight operator while at the same time he admired the fine lines of the boat caught in the beam.

  A hundred yards away, to the north, Bushel heard the engines and, averting his eyes from the blinding light that followed, checked his watch. The Navy would have to wait a bit, another thirty minutes. According to his calculations that would be when light house keeper would run out of wood for his fire...

  Or could it be keepers, they had only seen one man, the same man, during a day’s careful watch, a soldier in his mid forties. There could be others; the tightly closed shutters had kept that piece of information from them. Only one man had been relieved at eight that morning, but there was no telling what rota system they worked. To find that out for certain would have taken several days of clandestine o
bservations; time they just didn’t have.

  He placed a hand on Stilson’s shoulder, gaining his attention he pointed to the lighthouse and drew a gloved forefinger across his own throat. Even in the dark he saw the flicker in the unblinking grey eyes. Excitement? Possibly but there was something else, something he had noticed before, something that made him uneasy. A hint of pleasurable anticipation, it was more intense than that… madness? He couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, it was only there for a split second, but it was there all right and it would bear watching.

  * * *

  There was no light from the building, no noise, no sign of life as Stilson drew close to the woodpile, his slow, careful and silent movements eerily imitating those of his mentor. He slid pass the stock of wood, paused momentarily by the plank door, listening, his tongue flickering over blue-cold lips. Then his dim shadow slipped into the dark recesses beside the door.

  * * *

  Bushel had moved his position. He was now between the sentry post and the lighthouse. Nothing left to chance, that was his saying and it had served him well so far. Cover every eventuality and you’d done all you could, the rest was the luck of the draw.

  Twice, during the day, the fat NCO from the sentry post had crossed the three hundred yards to the lighthouse. If it happened again he wanted to be in a position to ensure it would be a one way trip.

  From where he lay he could see both the path to his right and the lighthouse to his left. He settled down, hidden by his white ground sheet.

  * * *

  The lighthouse keeper was in a hurry. He’d put off going out into the cold to the last possible moment he had fallen asleep in the dying warmth of the fire. Now it was barely alight, urgently in need of more wood, not much time, the convoy was due at eight, he had to put the light on at seven, and he hadn’t prepared his supper yet. He reached for his greatcoat, cursing his own stupidity; he hastily banged an old lidded pipe out on the stove’s cast iron lid.