Dark Full of Enemies

by Jordan M. Poss

  He laughed, and Petersen looked at him.

  “Caught myself worrying about landing in occupied territory in broad daylight.” He looked out the wheelhouse window. “Don’t have to worry too much about that.”

  “No,” Petersen said.

  After a moment, Petersen leaned away from the bulkhead and pulled on his peacoat, still sodden and until then steaming on a peg. “I have to see to my boat.” McKay nodded, and Petersen went out.

  “I appreciate you picking us up,” McKay said to Jørgen. “Especially since it’s such a long haul.”

  “No problem,” Jørgen said. His English was more heavily accented than his brother’s, but at this rate already more colloquial.

  McKay sat, silent again. He was no good at smalltalk of any kind, and decided to give it up. He had much to say, but could hardly collect his thoughts. He at least felt normal again. The numbness, the wind, and the final shock of dropping toward the sea had had a druglike effect he had only felt in combat before. Everything had become horribly clear and sharp, but simultaneously confusing. He imagined the brain, drowning in adrenaline, had opened his senses to everything while making no provision for sorting the detail. Now, his brain fatigued, he had the blessing of distraction. He mostly watched the ice melt from the men’s eyebrows and caps. And he wondered, in one of his first coherent thoughts, why the Norwegians had been so late.

  He could think of troubling possibilities. Not the time to ask, he thought, and wished he had more coffee.

  6

  The sea calmed an hour later. McKay climbed down from the wheelhouse to check on Stallings. Snow still fell, lightly, and the wind had slackened. The storm had lasted just long enough to threaten the mission. Friction, he thought, and entered the cabin.

  Stallings sat at a small table in the dim light. Graves and the Finn leaned against the walls of one corner, and two of Petersen’s crew—one sitting at the table with Stallings, the other standing by the door—crowded the room, too. There was a fog in the cabin—every one of them was smoking, and their clothes steamed in the heavy warmth. The funk was thick. McKay came in and pulled the door shut behind him. He looked at Stallings.

  Stallings gave him his drunken grin. He had been like this at Clemson, returning to the barracks after weekends of corn liquor and the women of out-of-the-way towns. McKay had hoped bringing him into their mountaineering circle would keep him out of trouble. It had, for a while. But there had been no moonshine, this time, and he had seen concussions before.

  “How you doing, Grove?”

  “My head’s killing me.”

  “You whacked it pretty good.”

  “Say what?”

  Graves shifted in the corner. McKay looked at him. Graves said, “He doesn’t remember.”

  Stallings looked at him. “Remember what?”

  The Norwegian at the table gave McKay his chair and he sat. “When we got aboard this boat? You hit your head?”

  “Well, that’d explain it.”

  McKay looked at the crewmen. “Which one of y’all is the doctor?”

  The Norwegians looked at each other. One said, “English…”

  McKay tried German. The same one who had spoken had a little German, and said that while neither of them was a doctor, properly speaking, they had both helped with wounds and injuries in the past. They had even patched up Petersen before, but the second Norwegian gave him a dark look and he stopped talking. “I did what I could,” he said.

  “Thank you,” McKay said.

  They nodded, stubbed out their cigarettes in an empty tin can, and left the cabin. When they had gone, McKay looked at Graves and Ollila.

  “What happened?”

  Graves was at a loss. Ollila lowered his cigarette, said, “He slipped,” and replaced the smoke.

  “I figured. I mean how did it happen?”

  “I hit my head?”

  “Yes. I’m asking how it happened.”

  “Damned if I know. Hurts like hell though. You sure this ain’t a hangover?”

  “Graves?”

  Graves stubbed out his own cigarette and resettled against the wall. The boards creaked. “It happened too quickly, really, but he didn’t grab on when he made to leap aboard. Struck his head on the gunwales. I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right. It happens. I’m just trying to figure out how bad it is.”

  “It fucking hurts—”

  “Shut up, Grove.”

  “All right, all right. Goddam.”

  McKay looked at the table and gathered himself. “Where’d you hit your head?”

  “Feels like I hit the whole thing.” He ran his fingers, gingerly, over his scalp and stopped over his left ear. “Got a good pumpknot coming up right here.”

  McKay stood and inspected it. He had Graves and Ollila wave the smoke away from the single bulb in the cabin so he could see better, but even then he had to take out his crook-necked flashlight. The knot was one of the biggest he had ever seen. His mother would have compared it to a goose egg. The skin had been broken in several places by the boat’s gunwale and his head, from the crown to the joining of jaw, ear, and neck, was blood-crusted.

  “Lot of bleeding,” McKay said.

  “Aye, sir,” Graves said. “I’m afraid we reopened some of those cuts when he took off his cap.”

  “Bled like a stuck pig,” Stallings said.

  “You know that ain’t true,” McKay said.

  “Had to put in five stitches, sir,” Graves said. “At least he held still for it.”

  McKay looked at Stallings. “You’ll live.” He stood and leaned against a bulkhead. “This don’t change anything, of course. You’ll have a headache for days but you should be fine. Fine enough to deliver the radio and give some pointers to the Norwegians, anyway. And of course this don’t alter the primary objective in the least. We’ll work on that more when we arrive, in about twelve hours. We’re lucky we transferred everything in that weather with only a pumpknot to cry about.”

  “Aye, sir,” Graves said, and Ollila nodded. Stallings grinned.

  “Just take aspirin if you need it. You can have mine if you run out.”

  “What I could use is a drink.”

  “Hell, no. Drink water. As much as you can stomach. Graves?”

  “Sir.”

  “Make sure no well-meaning soul gives him any liquor.”

  “Aye, sir,” Graves said.

  “Get some rest if you can. I’ll be around.”

  He stepped out of the cabin into the dark and cold. He had considered telling them to check their weapons and gear—again—but they would have to move everything up from the hold and, in the dim light and cramped space of the cabin, he could imagine some small, important item going missing and not noticed until later—a firing pin, a detonator, a box of ammo. And with the German navy plying the Norwegian coast—especially the Vestfjorden, the great open bight between the outlying isles of Lofoten and the mainland—in force, if they were stopped and searched, and some chance lost item lay in the cabin awaiting discovery... He shook his head. Consider the possibilities, assess and calculate, but don’t fret. Fretting gets you killed some other way.

  Now even the snow had abated, and the sky loomed solid black overhead. The chill felt good after the cabin, and McKay stood a moment at the rail and watched the sea slip by.

  “You admire the view?”

  McKay turned. Petersen stood behind him, waving the fire from a matchstick and puffing a bowl of pipe tobacco to life. The tiny cup of fire lit his face in the dark.

  McKay laughed. “The cabin was stuffy.”

  “You like the cold.”

  “Most of the time.”

  Petersen approached the rail and stood. His pipe now properly going, he trailed thin clouds of pleasant-smelling smoke behind him as they sailed. A peacoat, a beard, a pipe—McKay smiled to himself. Petersen was every sea captain that had ever sailed across painting, novel, or film.

  “We may have something to see in a mo
ment,” Petersen said. “You were to arrive off Eggum, that way,” he pointed meaninglessly into the dark, “but did not. That, sir, is why we could not find you.”

  “You didn’t send the signal until you were several hours late.”

  Petersen said nothing for a moment, and the only sound was the unhurried tunk-tunk of the engine belowdecks. “I’m taking us through Lofoten, through the Sundklakkstraumen, a strait between two of the islands.”

  “And that’ll bring us into the Vestfjorden?”

  Petersen looked at him and nodded. “How well do you know Norway?”

  “Mostly through history books—the sagas, Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla and everything. I studied it some. I couldn’t help admiring the name of your boat.”

  Petersen grunted and pipesmoke billowed around him. “This was my father’s boat. He named it after Hardrada. A greedy opportunist who got himself killed and destroyed his kingdom. All because Norway wasn’t enough—he wanted England, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Like I said—it was my father’s boat.”

  “Well, my sympathies were always with the Saxons at Stamford Bridge, anyway.”

  Petersen looked at him again. To McKay’s surprise, he thought he saw a brief smile. Petersen smothered it again with his heavy-browed glare and looked back out to sea and pointed, “Look.”

  The moon, small and waning, had come out from behind the clouds for the first time in days, and the sea lay dim and silver-pointed in its light. Above that, and to McKay’s astonishment, high and dark, stood mountains. From the darkness had appeared a steep-walled channel between the crags of Lofoten.

  “Beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes,” McKay said.

  “The other Americans did not get such a view. There was no storm, but the cloud had obscured everything.”

  “Other Americans?”

  Petersen did not reply. He stood rigid, staring at the water.

  “What other Americans?”

  Petersen tapped his pipe empty against the rail and turned to walk away. “Step out for the air from time to time, and you may see the lights.”

  “The Northern Lights? The aurora?”

  “Yes.”

  Before McKay could ask again about the other Americans, Petersen walked forward, to where his crew labored at something in the moonlight. McKay remained at the rail. Petersen, he thought, was going to be hard to figure out.

  He became suddenly aware that he was cold, and decided to return to the wheelhouse soon. He would talk to the younger Petersen, or to Petersen himself again. The man had answered the question of his lateness, if unsatisfactorily, but McKay wanted to know more—about the dam, the situation in the Narvik area, and especially about these “other Americans.” He wondered, but stopped his imagination before it could hatch too many stories to worry about. He stayed at the rail a few minutes longer, and lit a cigarette. He watched the mountains turn slowly against the night sky, and thought of home. It’s good to see you, he thought.

  They passed into the Vestfjorden and bore east-northeast. Narvik lay miles inland from the sea on Ofotfjord, a long, deep cut in the craggy shore. What little Norwegian McKay knew came to him by way of Old Norse, the language of the Vikings, whose cargo-laden ships called knorrs sought out sheltered bays called viks. Narvik, the knorr-vik—well-named. It lay in a perfect spot for shipping, on broad, deep, and calm waters, with almost no tidal action but with ready access to the sea. That had been one reason it had remained the last redoubt of the British and Norwegians at the beginning of the war. Now British and German hulls together lined the black depths of the bay.

  McKay thought of Iron Bottom Sound, off the north coast of Guadalcanal. From Edson’s Ridge he had watched the Japanese Navy plying its waters, the US Navy contesting, and seen more than one ship from both sides sunk. The flotillas moved to and fro and left burning oil slicks and pillars of smoke behind. By the time the US Navy drove the Japanese out and covered the waters with friendly ships he lay in hospital on another island.

  Commander Treat had been right—the German Navy owned the Norwegian coast, and Narvik was one of its most important ports. They had fought for it and won it and their navy there remained purposeful and alert. He and Howarth had talked about the German battleships at Altafjord, even farther north, and he knew the Germans patrolled the south, Bergen and Oslo and the straits between Norway and Denmark, just as heavily. Lying between the two extremes, Narvik got all traffic coming and going.

  Back outside after an hour or so in the wheelhouse, McKay rubbed his temples.

  He needed to see the dam. They could only properly prepare with accurate intelligence, and while the files, photos, and discussions had been helpful as raw material, he had learned to trust nothing more than his own eyes. What were the new buildings at the dam barracks? Whom did they house? What kind of garrison? How and when did they patrol? They still had several hours to go before reaching Narvik, but as soon as they disembarked and had safely hidden to prepare for the raid, he would need to get to the dam.

  He looked back out over the water. At least they were attacking a target on land. He wondered, idly, whether Norwegian had a word like landlubber.

  He checked on Stallings again and talked a few minutes. Graves and Ollila sat asleep in chairs at the table. Stallings was awake and listless. He stared at the surface of the table or at his thumbs as he twiddled. He whistled tuneless songs. McKay had seen him like this before—hung over—and told him to get some sleep.

  “It’s not that I cain’t sleep,” Stallings said, “I just don’t feel like it.”

  McKay fished his copy of Thucydides out and put it on the table. “Read something.”

  “Your solution to everything.”

  “Well, if it don’t make up for your goofing off at Clemson, it should put you to sleep.”

  Stallings laughed, but it had taken him a little too long to react. McKay glanced at the lump in Stallings’s hair and wondered.

  “I figure I’ll sleep if I sleep. I don’t much like this boat, anyway. I couldn’t never sleep on the boat before Sicily, neither. Especially the night before.”

  McKay watched him. “Didn’t y’all land at night?”

  Stallings twiddled. “Yeah.”

  “Had to be a long time to be up, and right before a landing, too.”

  “Hell of a note, ain’t it? Yeah, we was all geared up and ready to go and standing on deck while the Navy shelled the beach. Looked just like fireworks. But—oh, you’ve done it, too. I don’t have to tell you.”

  McKay waited. After a while, Stallings said, “Ya feel naked with all that lead in the air, coming and going. Then it don’t get any better once you’re on the beach. I didn’t feel safe not once the whole time we were there.”

  “That just shows you’ve got common sense.”

  Stallings smiled to himself and kept twiddling. McKay stood.

  “I mean it—get some rest. You know what it’s like trying to fight without sleep. And if you’re worried about falling asleep and not waking up after hitting your head like that, forget it. That’s a crock.”

  Stallings saluted without looking up, said, “Yes, sir,” and McKay laughed as he stepped out on deck.

  He looked for Petersen, first in the wheelhouse and then on deck. Jørgen still stood at the wheel and grunted when McKay asked where his brother was. In the bow, a few of the crew sat busy with rope and nets. He did not bother asking them.

  He found Petersen in the engine room. The door down to the machine stood open and light and the hollow hammer sound flooded out. McKay looked in. A short ladder slanted down to the low room, and there Petersen and one of his crew hunched together in the yellow glare of another bulb, watching the engine. McKay climbed down. The compartment was so cramped that McKay stayed half bunched on the ladder as he watched. Petersen glanced up at him and then returned to the engine. After a moment, the other man pointed into the machine and muttered in Norwegian. Petersen said something. McKay leaned f
orward to look and the man threw up a hand and shouted. McKay started.

  Petersen glanced up again, started to speak, and stopped. He watched McKay a moment, said above the noise, “Stay out of the light, please,” and bent back to the work.

  McKay blinked. He noticed first that his heart was racing, and then realized that he had a fist up and an arm cocked, and the other hand was at his pistol belt. He cleared his throat and loosened himself, unbunched his arm from the shoulder down, reshaped a hand from his fist, and settled himself against the ladder. He shook his head and thought of the Australian.

  He had been reading in the pub and had not heard the Aussie speak to him. He had not heard, and the Aussie had taken offense. He wanted to know what kind of a uniform that was, and now he wanted to know what kind of a uniform that was and if all of you lot were so bloody rude. He had grabbed McKay’s shoulder. Thucydides slapped shut on the bar at the same moment that McKay punched the man in the temple. The pub fell silent instantly, quickly enough for the sound of the man cracking facefirst into the floor to have the air to itself.

  McKay wondered if he were losing it.

  He shook his head again and looked at Petersen, whom he caught giving him another glance. The two men stared on into the workings of the machine, and McKay climbed back up the ladder. He came back with his flashlight, stepped into the light, and handed it to Petersen when the men looked up.

  “I’ll be on deck when you’re done with it,” he said.

  Petersen came to him ten minutes later. McKay leaned against the cabin bulkhead, looking forward past the working crew and across the water into the dark. Petersen handed him the flashlight.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “We had a—there was a knock in the engine.”

  McKay listened to the tonk-tonk-tonk of the boat again. It reminded him of a Disney cartoon he had seen, with industrious dwarfs dig-dig-digging in a mine. “You can hear an out-of-place knock in all of that?”