The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  It wasn’t until dusk on the third day, when the sea had finally settled to some sort of calm, that they approached Norway.

  Two dark dots in the sky. At first he thought it was birds, but then realised it was two German planes in the distance. Henshels. ‘Look,’ he said to Karl.

  Karl looked up, shielding his eyes as they came close and circled. He was remarkably unconcerned. ‘Nothing to worry about. We’ll just look like a fishing boat that’s got a bit far out from the coast.’

  Jørgen glanced around the deck. It did look just like a fishing boat. All the weapons were well out of sight, and they continued to chug in a north east direction, pushing along at about seven knots. Although Karl brushed it off, planes were a bad sign, and made Jørgen nervous. It must be obvious they hadn’t come from the Nazi side of the ocean. He checked his gun, sealed in its waterproof pouch, and felt for his papers in his specially-made waterproof inside pocket. Couldn’t be too careful. He repeated the telephone number of his contact, Dr Moen, in his head. Best try to remember it.

  He ordered Lars to steer for the sound, as the darkness fell, keeping the engine tonking at low speed. The Norwegian coast, like a thin black line, seeped into view. They wouldn’t land until full dark, though.

  He took out a torch and squinted at the map for the co-ordinates of the small island of Radøy where they were to pick up the injured agent, Nils. He hoped Astrid would be waiting there too. What would it be like to see her again? His stomach lurched as he remembered Morag, and her disappointed expression when he left without searching her out. Below them the water poured by, deep and slick like black oil.

  Karl suddenly appeared at his side. ‘What’s that?’ he pointed.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That! Looks like Germans.’ He seemed genuinely shocked.

  Damn. The grey silhouette of a German patrol boat. Right in their path. Jørgen ran to the bow for a better look, with Karl staggering after him as the boat pitched and rolled. Those planes must have been reconnaissance planes after all.

  They couldn’t risk sailing past the German boat in case the Nazis decided to search them. Jørgen glanced down at the crates on the deck. If the Germans searched under the fish, they’d find enough gelignite to blow up a town. Not to mention priming charges, fuses and grenades. ‘We’ll have to make landfall somewhere else,’ he said, peering at the patrol boat through his binoculars.

  ‘No,’ Karl said, his tone brooking no argument. ‘We have to keep to our course. To the landing point we agreed.’

  The landing point. Astrid. Jørgen weighed it up. He suddenly realised what changing course would mean. It would be a disaster for Astrid if they changed the pick-up point. Not only had she already made her way more than fifty miles across country, and then more from Ålesund, but now they’d be asking her to go even further.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lars shouted from the wheelhouse, seeing them both staring into the murky distance.

  ‘Patrol boat,’ Jørgen said.

  ‘Shall I turn about?’ Lars asked.

  ‘No,’ Karl insisted. ‘We’re just a fishing boat. They won’t bother us, I’m sure.’

  ‘A fishing boat full of arms and explosives,’ Lars said, coming over to join them. ‘Too risky. I vote we put out to sea again.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. We have to land where we agreed,’ Karl argued. His jaw was clenched, and he looked like he might punch Lars.

  Jørgen baulked. But he didn’t see an alternative. It would be madness to risk the lives of the men on board. Harcourt had trusted him to do the right thing.

  ‘Skipper?’ Lars had backed away from Karl who was glaring openly at him.

  ‘Yes. Too big a risk. Turn about.’ Jørgen forced the answer from his lips.

  Lars hurried away and the boat veered sharpish, making a flume of wash. Karl let out an expletive. Within a few minutes the coast faded from sight.

  Jørgen shook his head in frustration. Astrid was over there somewhere waiting, and now they were going past. A sick feeling made him lean over the rails and stare glumly into the heaving water. She’d have many more miles to walk, and he pitied the poor child caught up in all this. He took a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to try further up the coast,’ he said, aiming for briskness. ‘Karl, go to the cabin, tell Dag to try pick up a signal and radio a message to Milorg.’

  Karl was staring back towards the patrol ship, his mouth in a hard line, but finally he went.

  Jørgen went over to the wheelhouse to plot new co-ordinates. Lars brought the map over and they pored over it together, looking for somewhere not too far off course. ‘Here,’ Lars said, pointing. ‘It’s a small community, fishermen mostly. I’ve heard talk of it. Let’s hope Dag gets through on the radio, or they have a post office where we can send a message.’

  They spent another hour out of sight of land, before attempting to head to shore, but as the Vidar drew closer to the coast again, the grey hulk and antennae of an enormous German warship stiffened the hairs on the back of Jørgen’s neck. This was unlike anything he’d seen on previous trips; every time they tried to land they were stymied. The Germans had certainly stepped up the defences since he last came over.

  He was forced to turn the boat westwards, back out to sea, giving the warship a wide berth. Several hours later they steered for a small bay, Stortlfjord, where they hoped there were no German boats. Thank goodness Karl was still below, and nowhere in sight to object. He looked like he was about to punch Lars the last time they’d changed course.

  Mountains rose behind the small collection of log houses gathered round the bay as they cut the engine so they could drift slowly in. Near the jetty more fishing boats like their own bobbed on the water.

  Arriving well before dawn, their appearance brought out the local fishermen, who were unused to seeing strange boats in their waters and gathered on the shore in the gloom.

  ‘Where’s Karl got to?’ Lars said, seeing his sleeping place empty.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Jørgen said. ‘Still below, I think. I’ll go tell him to get ready to disembark.’ He found him in the cabin, head down over the wireless operating equipment, tapping away. ‘Where’s Dag? What the hell are you doing?’

  Karl’s eyes flared in surprise. ‘Keep your hair on. Thought I’d see if we could pick up a signal from Milorg to tell them we’ve changed landing point.’

  ‘Where’s Dag? You know no-one but Dag’s allowed to use the radio. You’re only allowed to make radio contact except under specific conditions; that’s what the regulations are for. It’s risky unless you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Dag wasn’t here, so I thought I’d better try. Relax. I couldn’t get through, anyway.’

  ‘Crap. Don’t try it on with me, Karl. I saw you tapping in morse. The Germans could pick up our signal and intercept it.’

  ‘Testing, that’s all.’ Karl kept his cool eyes on him, until Jørgen was forced to look away.

  ‘Leave it to Dag, okay?’ Jørgen had the uncomfortable feeling he’d lost some kind of battle, but he had no time to ponder it because Lars burst in through the door.

  ‘That war boat. It’s onto us!’ he said.

  ‘War boat?’ Karl said. ‘What war boat?’

  Jørgen didn’t reply. He shot to his feet and leapt to the door. Lars must be mistaken.

  Karl was right behind him. ‘Shit,’ he said, plunging back inside the cabin.

  Jørgen let him go, he’d got too many other things to worry about. Towards the harbour mouth, children were running excitedly towards the end of the spit. He squinted into the grey mist of the early morning light. The lumbering warship he’d seen by the coast was just coming in, manoeuvring slowly in the narrow channel. They hadn’t escaped the notice of the patrol boat after all.

  There was no way out. They’d probably search them, and the minute they did, they’d find the cargo, know who they were, and they’d all be dead meat. There’d be troops on that ship too. What should he do?

  ‘Get the dinghy r
eady,’ he yelled to Lars and Johan who were staring transfixed at the hulk that was even now blocking their escape, and moving inexorably closer. Where was Dag? He couldn’t see him anywhere.

  No time. Jørgen grabbed the plans and their papers and began stuffing them in the boiler. They’d have to destroy everything, or it would put the agent they were rescuing and the whole operation at risk, not to mention Astrid and her refugees. ‘Johan, search the cabin, see if you can find Dag. And get anything that might be useful to the Germans and burn it.’ Johan’s vacant-eyed panic glued him to the deck. ‘Go on, man!’

  A quick glance to the stern. As he did, his fingers caught a flame in the boiler and he withdrew his hand with a gasp. The warship was growing closer. There wasn’t time. Soon they’d be overrun by the German navy. He was going to lose the Vidar. He had to get the men off. But there was no way he’d let their ammunition go to the Germans.

  Better to give the enemy something else to think about. An idea was forming.

  He ran to the bow to find Lars preparing the dinghy. ‘It’s no use. We’ll have to blow her,’ Jørgen said. ‘Get the others and get them ready. If we time it right, we’ll blast a hole in the warship, and sink her.’

  He grabbed more packs of ammunition in their watertight skins and thrust them into his pockets, and zipped them. Everywhere men were running, passing on the plan. With fumbling fingers, Jørgen helped Lars to lay a fuse. Others were doing the same. Every second the warship grew larger and more ominous until now they could see men on deck.

  ‘Where the hell’s Karl?’ Lars yelled.

  ‘Still below,’ Jørgen said. The minute he said it, he knew. Something was very wrong. A million possibilities fled through his mind. The image of him tapping away in morse. The way he’d appeared first of all in the mountain hut. And Dag was still missing.

  ‘Leave him!’ Jørgen yelled. ‘There’s no time.’

  But just at that moment Karl appeared out of the cabin, and Johan grabbed him by the arm. Before Jørgen could stop him, Johan was garbling hurried instructions at Karl, ‘Get off! The boat’s going to blow!’

  Karl’s face drained of colour. ‘Stop!’ He ran over to where Jørgen and Lars were finishing laying the second fuse. ‘No.’ Karl grabbed his sleeve to yank him away.

  Jørgen tried to shake him off, but Karl’s face held a cold determination.

  ‘First fuse is lit!’ Johan yelled. ‘Launch the dinghy.’

  ‘Run!’ Lars shouted.

  Karl ran towards the dinghy. Jørgen lit the fuse and scurried after him, in a half-crouch.

  A blast of machine gun fire from the warship. It came directly at them. There was no doubt at all that they were the target and the Germans meant business.

  Jørgen dived for the ground. The first round caught Johan in its crossfire. He fell immediately. Sven followed in the next burst, toppling over into the icy water.

  Karl stared back at the warship as if he couldn’t believe it. Then his face seemed to clear and he scrambled to free the dinghy from its moorings. With one accord Jørgen, Karl and Lars heaved the dinghy over the side and almost fell into it. They began to row like crazy towards the shore, Jørgen and Karl rowing, Lars baling. A voice shouted in German through a loudhailer, but the gunfire kept coming and they kept on rowing.

  The dinghy suddenly bucked as a huge wave swamped them, followed by a deep rumble then an ear-splitting bang. Jørgen ducked; covered his head. A splatter of debris rained down — chunks of engine, shards of the wheelhouse, lantern glass and twisted metal. Behind him, burning hatch covers and flaming oil barrels lit up the black water like torches. He glanced back.

  Damn. The warship was still intact. Their boat, the Vidar, listed, engulfed in flames.

  She’d blown too early. His plan had failed. The disappointment hit him like a punch.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Lars said, cowering, his hands over his head as more splinters of wood rained down.

  ‘Row,’ shouted Jørgen, coming to his senses.

  Panic mismatched their strokes and the water had a thin skin of ice. It made it hard going. The warship meanwhile had spotted the dinghy, and renewed its attack, a burst of staccato machine gun fire. The water seethed and jumped as if full of angry fish.

  Water poured into the bottom of the dinghy. Lars slumped and fell, one arm flopping into the water.

  ‘No use,’ Karl shouted. ‘Lars’s been hit.’

  They rowed on but it was obvious the boat would soon be underwater.

  ‘Jump!’ Karl yelled. With one accord, they leapt into the water, just as another burst of fire strafed the boat.

  Jørgen couldn’t think, just swam for all he was worth towards the nearest shore. He and Karl were towing the dinghy with Lars inside. The water was so cold his arms would hardly move, and he splashed frantically, feet churning as soon as they hit the stony bottom. He pushed ice floes aside with his bare hands, desperate to get to shore.

  Another burst of fire peppered them with spray. Lars and the dinghy disappeared under the water in a cascade of water and blood. Jørgen floundered after him, but when he tried to drag the dinghy it was sinking fast.

  ‘He’s dead. You have to leave him,’ Karl shouted.

  Jørgen stood a moment in the shallows, looking at Lars, who was slumped back in the floating remains of the dinghy, arms dangling. He was absolutely still, eyes staring, his chest a mass of sodden red. Jørgen let the rope go. He hadn’t the strength to pull the boat up anyway. He emerged panting and gasping for breath, but managed to stagger, slipping and sliding to the shelter of some rocks.

  Karl was shouting at him, ‘Come on!’

  A few more rounds of fire spattered into the shore, but the warship couldn’t get close enough through the shallow water and the shots fell short.

  ‘They’ll not get into the harbour; their draft’s too deep,’ Karl said, hauling Jørgen by one arm. ‘Move, whilst we’ve got a start.’

  ‘I can’t feel my feet.’

  ‘Come on, or we’ll bloody freeze to death,’ Karl said. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Up,’ Jørgen gasped. ‘Towards those trees.’

  They scrambled up the slope, wet boots skidding on the snow and ice. Everything ached with cold. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t process any of it. He just needed to get dry, and soon. They’d die of hypothermia out here. He glanced back. His heart jerked. ‘We’ve got company.’

  Somehow the Germans had managed to launch a tender and get men off the ship and they were heading up the hill behind them. About eight men in uniform. The sight made Jørgen light-headed. He paused, breathless, near the summit to try get his pistol from its waterproof pouch, but his fingers were too cold to unzip the pouch.

  One of the men aimed a rifle at them but the shot went wide.

  ‘They don’t seem to want to take prisoners,’ Karl said through gritted teeth. He’d got his gun loaded and tried to pick off the first man of the first group of five that were gaining on them, but his hands were so unsteady it missed.

  ‘No!’ Jørgen yelled. ‘Keep moving. Our only chance is to outrun them, if they gain distance on us, we’re goners.’

  They floundered from one hill to the next. Jørgen had no real idea of where they were going, he was just hoping to lose the men on their tail. A quick look back. The German warship was a huge grey island in the shallow water, the sky above it a haze of smoke. Debris and a slick of burning engine oil was all that was left of the Vidar.

  Men were still climbing after them, like black flies against the white.

  Uphill, they got ahead, until the Germans dropped back to just dots in the landscape. The next time they looked they were gone, but already the gloom was bringing cold and flurries of snow.

  They stopped for a few moments to slap each other to try to bring the blood back to their frozen legs. Both were too cold to string together a coherent sentence. They staggered through the worsening weather, grateful it was covering their tracks. After a half hour they crested a hill in a blizzard and
almost tumbled down hill until they saw another cove, where the dim silhouette of a group of farmhouses hugged the shore.

  Without speaking, they held each other up whilst they tottered to the nearest and hammered on the door. A woman in a pinafore and cardigan opened the door and backed away.

  ‘Norwegian,’ Jørgen managed, almost falling indoors. ‘Help us.’

  She hurried away to fetch her husband who from the sound of splashing water, was in the back having a wash.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, rubbing his arms with a towel. ‘We heard the explosion, and shots from across the bay. If the Germans find you here we’ll all be finished. I’ve a daughter to think of.’

  ‘Please,’ Karl said, his charm exhausted. ‘Just a few hours, to get warm and dry, then we’ll be on our way.’

  The woman looked pleadingly at her husband. ‘We have to, Thom. Or who will we be? Nazis like them.’

  The last word was said with such venom, that the man sighed. ‘You can have some of my clothes, and my son’s. Then you must go, okay? I can’t risk you here. The Germans have already been here once before, a few days ago, looking for someone. They searched every house. Marte, get them some dry things.’

  The woman disappeared through another door while Jørgen and Karl crowded to the fire and slumped before it. The fire was small and smoky, and hardly made any difference to his frozen limbs. His feet were so cold he couldn’t feel them at all.

  ‘Telephone,’ Karl stuttered. ‘Have you a telephone?’

  ‘No. The nearest is in Stortlefjord, a box down on the corner by the post office.’

  The blonde daughter of about twelve appeared from her room, curious to see what was going on. But she was shy, and soon followed her mother into the bedroom, where he could hear them talking in low voices.

  After a few minutes, Marte gestured them into a room where there were clothes laid out on the quilt; vests and shirts, two worn felted pullovers. She threw Karl the towel her husband had been using a few moments ago. ‘There’s no trousers; we can’t spare them,’ she said, ‘but there are dry socks. Give me your trousers and boots, and I’ll put them by the fire.’