Dark Full of Enemies

by Jordan M. Poss

  It had taken them twelve hours or more to reach Narvik from the Viking. Treat had agreed to sail into the Vestfjorden to meet them, but they could still count on a nine hour run to meet the sub. They would have to go almost immediately, and that meant talking to Petersen again, immediately.

  McKay rubbed his eyes and shook his head. It was now 0715. He would find no sleep.

  He left his Thompson with the team in the basement as they stripped and cleaned their weapons again. He went again into Petersen’s house. Petersen sat at the kitchen table, finishing a plate of sausage and hard black bread. McKay sat across from him and waited. Petersen did not look up.

  “I was out of line,” McKay said.

  Petersen broke a piece from his roll and chewed it. Scales of crust showered the plate and table, caught and hung in his beard. “Is that how they say it in your army? Out of line?”

  McKay suppressed the instinctive reply—I’m a Marine—and said, “Yes.”

  Petersen nodded. He tried the term. “‘Out of line.’ A good image. I think Jørgen would approve. He believes everything is ordered by God, from before time, to the letter. Everything, even the evil of the Nazis.”

  “God ain’t got nothing—He has nothing to do with the Nazis. I can tell you that.”

  Petersen waved a hand. “You may argue with Jørgen. I long ago gave up on God. I merely comment on being ‘out of line,’ you see. But then—you outrank me. It is I who am out of line, no?”

  “I can’t make you do anything.”

  Petersen finally looked at him. “Can’t you?”

  “Your cooperation is voluntary. But I’m here under orders.”

  Petersen looked back at his bread and broke it again. “Yes, under orders. Under orders from men who don’t—give a damn about us here, about Norwegians in Norway, being killed by the Nazis for nothing.”

  McKay understood. He understood as well what had happened the night he saw the Colonel and the Major. The dam was someone’s pet project—Commander Bagwell maybe, or someone else behind a desk somewhere. They had sent Keener and lost him and his team, and determined to try again, despite the reinforcement of the dam, the alertness of the guards, the thinness of any possibility that they might make it. The Colonel had refused, or at least balked. Bagwell—or whatever limey goon was behind it—had pulled rank. And so they sent McKay.

  They were bad chess players, McKay thought, and remembered every game he had ever lost to Keener in the Clemson barracks. They had revealed their purpose, what they were after, and had decided to keep trying to get it anyway.

  He understood. There were men further up the ladder than he who worshiped at the altar of special operations. He had known them since before the war, the type of men who had wanted a Marine version of the British Commandos and then used them to plug gaps in the line in a war of attrition. Even Churchill, whom he admired, had spent most of the war flinging tiny groups of specialists against impossible targets, barely inconveniencing the enemy, whittling at them.

  Some had found success—he had heard of some, even if many remained secret. And every little bit, every shaving cut away…

  “It’s not for nothing,” McKay said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “We have to beat them. Can’t beat them without fighting.”

  Petersen turned his bread over in his hand, looking idly. “You can fight without us. No one cares about us here.”

  Achilles in his tent, McKay thought. “You do.”

  Petersen’s hand shook. “That is why I do not want any longer to fight.” On the last word he crushed the last of his loaf. Crumbs sifted through his fingers.

  McKay waited a moment. “You going to let the Nazis keep doing this?”

  “It is what they do.”

  “And mad dogs bite people. You’re not going to put it down?”

  “What?”

  “Kill it.”

  “Someone else will do so.”

  “Maybe. But it’s bitten you, your people.”

  “You are speaking of revenge.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  Petersen dropped the lump of bread and rubbed his forehead. He said nothing.

  “There are evil people in the world,” McKay said, and left it at that. His head swam. He was not much for philosophy, had avoided it in his medieval work. He thought a moment—of the Canal, of the massed charges on Edson’s Ridge, of a dark full of enemies spilling itself over him and his Marines, what those enemies had done every chance they got. He blinked and felt tired.

  Petersen still sat with his head down, silent.

  “Revenge or not,” McKay said, “and whether you make it or not, you do the right thing for the ones that will make it. I know better than to think you don’t give a damn about beating the Nazis. I know better. Before I did this, I fought in the Pacific. Islands nobody cared about, places that might as well have not had names. Before that, I came from a place nobody cared about. Stallings too. Back up in the mountains, in the South, the lowest of the low. But that’s where wars are won, by people doing things it doesn’t seem makes a damn but of difference. And who’ll beat them if not us, nobodies fighting and dying in places nobody cares about? You do enough of it, and eventually, well...”

  McKay stood. He felt dizzy for a moment, but held steady. His eyes burned. He looked at Petersen, who sat still and silent at the table.

  “As soon as my team is ready we’re going for the dam, with you or without you.”

  He left the house and closed the door behind him.

  In the basement they had almost finished giving the weapons their final cleaning. McKay inspected his Thompson—which Stallings had cleaned, and well—and cleaned his own Hi-Power. He took out the Welrod and cleaned and inspected it, then checked his knives for rust. They all stood prepared, in their uniforms and white snow gear, white woolen toboggans, their thick gloves stuffed into their belts. Ollila already had ragged white burlap wrapped loose around his rifle’s forestock and his ghillie suit rolled and tied at the top of his shoulders.

  It was time to plan.

  He sketched a map of the dam, the barracks on both sides, the rail bridge, tunnel, and below the ridges flanking the fjord, the headquarters camp for the entire dam complex.

  “It’s a good ten miles up the fjord to the dam,” McKay said, “and we’re on the wrong side of the fjord. We landed on the western side for our reconnaissance and I think that’s our best approach.”

  “So we’re going?” Stallings said.

  McKay looked at him. “Yes, we’re going.”

  “The Norwegians gonna help us?”

  “Can’t plan on it,” McKay said.

  A long silence, and then, “Shit.”

  “Can it.” He tried to move on. He tapped the pencil on the map and looked from face to face. Stallings and Graves looked at the map, waiting for his next point. Ollila looked at him. He knew what Petersen’s refusal meant. Whether they succeeded or not, the Viking would depart in less than a day, and they had no ride to the Vestfjorden, not without abandoning their mission altogether. They would be left behind.

  McKay moved on before that could occur to the others. He pointed at the western side of the dam, where the concrete command post and main barracks stood. “These are the barracks for the garrison at the dam. There are more at the HQ camp down here, by the railroad tracks.”

  “How far off?” Graves said.

  “Half a mile, three quarters—uphill.”

  Graves raised his eyebrows.

  “On the western side, the side we scouted, the side we have to get to, is another set of barracks. New ones. Looks like they house the crew and some of the equipment for an E-boat, docked here—” he struck a tiny rectangle in the fjord below the dam “—covering the water approaches to the dam.”

  Stallings swore, quieter this time. Graves said, “If I may, sir, how did you lot get so close?”

  “The crew seems to have been taking the evening off. We have no idea when they usually pat
rol the fjord, or if they do at all. They could be a floating gun platform, just there to defend the dam from anything they can bring 20-millimeter fire down on.”

  “With luck, they could be gone when we get there? Out on patrol?”

  “Don’t count on it. Now, patrols—” He tapped his pencil against the dam. “Four guards on top of the dam itself. Two walking circuits of the western barracks’ perimeter fence. At least two doing the same on the eastern side, by the concrete command post. It was harder to see back there. There’s also a guard tower on each side, but they don’t look like they got spotlights. During our recon we only saw the guards change once. They’re taking at least three-hour shifts. When we infiltrate, we’ll wait for a guard change, give them half an hour to get bored, and then move in.”

  He outlined the ideal plan, sneaking past the headquarters camp to infiltrate from the west, through the E-boat barracks, into the shaft leading to the galleries within the dam, setting the explosives, timed, and escaping before detection.

  “We all know that won’t happen.”

  From the ideal plan he spun others. In case they could not cross the fjord, they would march overland to the rail bridge, cross, and execute the plan. In case they were detected before arriving at the dam—if by civilians, they would shoo them away in German, if by the Germans, they would shoot their way out and scatter. They could count on no protection from Petersen. If detected during the raid, during their escape, or at virtually any other time, they would shoot their way out—or attempt to—and scatter.

  They would insert themselves into the middle of several dangers. Once on the ridge from which McKay had scouted the dam, or down among the E-boat barracks, they would have the guards on patrol, the rest of the garrison in their barracks, the E-boat at its dock and its crew in barracks they would have to walk past to reach their target. And, to their backs, the might of the headquarters camp. McKay did not underestimate the Germans. If they received a distress call from the dam’s garrison, they may have to run uphill in snow for almost a mile to reach them, but they would gear up and do so within fifteen minutes. Ten, even.

  The hammer and the anvil were already in contact. McKay was trying to slip in between them.

  They discussed further contingencies, and then McKay went man by man, delegating.

  “Ollila, we’ll split your load of explosives and bring them into the camp ourselves. You find good places on the ridge to cover us if we need it.”

  Ollila nodded, nonchalant, a boy told to play right field this game. “Yes, sir.”

  “Graves, you and I go down to the inspection gallery in the middle of the dam. You set the explosives and I’ll help however you need me to.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Graves went over the explosives.

  “We have one-hundred eighty pounds of explosive 808, bally stout Nobel stuff. I wish to use every bit of it inside the dam.”

  “Damn,” Stallings said.

  “Clever,” Graves said. “With respect, Captain, you’ve indicated you’ve little head for numbers, and we haven’t much idea of the thickness of concrete we’ll try to blast through, so I’d rather not take chances. Cracking the dam and puffing some smoke up Jerry’s arse won’t win the war.”

  They laughed. McKay said, “Fine. What else?”

  “You had a look at the entrances to the galleries, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Metal doors and posts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. You’ll remember this lot, sir.” Graves produced the small tin of thermite he had shown McKay in London. “We have plenty to worry us without Jerry walking in on us while we’re mining the dam. While I do my infernal work, take this and apply it to the hinges and sides of the doors. Just a smidgen, mind. I’ll show you how, but applied correctly you can weld the bloody door shut. If we do the same as we leave the dam, even should we be captured, they’ll not get the doors unsealed before the explosive has gone off.”

  “Outstanding,” McKay said, impressed. “What else?”

  “I’d like to have a go at the rail bridge, sir.”

  McKay thought. “If you don’t synchronize the timers right, the bridge could tip off the Germans to check the dam.”

  “No timer for that, sir—pressure plate. Plant the explosive higher up the support but put the trigger, if you will, where the water burst from the dam will press two wires together for a circuit. I’ve got the lot, all I need to make it, but don’t know who’d mine the bridge and if we should spare the explosive.”

  “All right—don’t worry about it. We’re here for the dam.”

  “Right, sir. Bloody shame, though.”

  That brought him to Stallings. McKay looked close at him. He sat comfortably, looking at the hand-drawn map. He did not look sickly, disconcerted, or even nervous. McKay thought that a good sign but refused to let himself hope.

  “How you feeling, Grove?”

  “You’re worried about my head, ain’t you?”

  McKay did not bother nodding.

  “I’m fine, dammit. I’m fucking sorry I hit my head, but I asked to be here and I wanna do my part.”

  McKay lowered his head to hide his grin. “All right. You come in with me and Graves. When we go down into the dam, you stay topside in the building. Anything goes wrong, lead them a merry chase. And if they catch you, say you were alone. It’ll stop them—maybe thirty seconds.”

  Graves laughed without humor. Stallings said nothing. Thirty seconds, McKay knew, was a long time in combat.

  Petersen walked in. McKay had not even heard him on the stairs or turning the doorknob. The door simply swung open and Petersen stood at his shoulder. He seemed not to notice the four half-drawn pistols.

  McKay stood and holstered his Browning. He waited. He would let Petersen speak first. The ice wind blew in from the darkness outside as Petersen stood staring down at the card table, the map, without seeing either. He looked at McKay.

  “We will help you,” he said.

  McKay’s whole chest seemed to clear and loosen and open up with relief. He took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Jørgen is out gathering our men. We can bring five, perhaps six. You will know when they arrive, and there is no asking for more once the ones who come have come.”

  McKay nodded again. “We won’t have time anyway. Thank you.”

  Petersen did not acknowledge McKay’s thanks, but turned his eyes again to the table and glowered at the map.

  “You will wear uniforms.”

  McKay pulled back his jacket. Green twill showed underneath. “We had planned on it anyway. If this goes south, we want to be the only ones affected.”

  Petersen nodded.

  “What do I need to know?”

  McKay did not know why Petersen had changed his mind and did not much care. He would wonder about it later, on the long voyage home—if that day came—and after getting some sleep—if he could. For now, he had to go through his plan again, incorporating six or more Norwegians.

  God had nothing to do with the Nazis, he was sure, but if he had anything to do with the Allies, this was it.

  McKay asked about weapons. Petersen said they would carry a mixture of Allied arms dropped to the Resistance farther south and weapons captured from the Germans. They had rifles, a few submachine guns, and a Bren light machine gun. McKay had not counted on that kind of supporting fire—it would be welcome. He asked about ammunition. Limited, Petersen said, but enough for a short fight before running for home. Explosives? Even more limited, but they could have what the men brought with them. Graves might get his go at the bridge after all.

  McKay went through the plan again. Infiltration from above, scaling the shortest cliff near the eastern barracks, moving through the barracks to the dam, and so forth.

  Petersen indicated the western side of the fjord on the map, the trail leading from the headquarters camp up and over the ridge to the dam.

  “My men will be here, on the heights. If the Germans send r
einforcements up the path, we can block them there. If you are fired upon at the dam, we can give you cover until you get to us, and then we can disappear into the darkness.”

  “What about your boat?”

  “Magnus is taking down the placard with the name now,” Petersen said. “I never liked it, you know.”

  McKay smiled. “Yeah, so you said.”

  “We must leave a man with the boat, of course. Jørgen is skilled, and I want one Petersen to live through this war. He will bring us to the place where we landed tonight, and then wait within sight of the dam. If all goes well, he will collect us again where we landed. If not, he can escape and save himself, or come to the wharf below the dam and collect those of us he can.”

  McKay thought about that. “We’d have to do something about that E-boat.”

  “Kill the crew.”

  McKay thought about that as well. Any situation that involved killing everyone in the eastern barracks would probably have gotten the team killed long before.

  “That’s one possibility.”

  They prepared further, wending through the plan and its thicket of outcomes several times. The reinforcements and transport heartened McKay, but he would not allow himself optimism. He knew something would go wrong. Something always did—friction, elementary Clausewitz. And the plan had grown with the addition of the Norwegians. They had at least six more men to move into position above the dam and then remove, possibly—probably—under fire. Most importantly, they now had a chance at escape, of reaching the sub. If they survived the mission.

  They gathered their gear and moved upstairs into the house. They sat in the darkened parlor near the front door and waited for Jørgen and the others. It was cold in the house but McKay cracked the door open anyway—he did not want frost-jammed weapons. Petersen brought them bread and salt pork, which they ate with a C-ration.

  McKay consumed his food—dextrose first, then the sugar cubes and all of his hardtack, chocolate last. He took the pouch of coffee grounds and put it in his chest pocket to chew on later. Then he sat leaning against the wall in the dark. His eyes ached, as if he had exercised his eyelids. His throat and chest felt empty and, after the meal, his stomach too full. He waited for the sugars of his meal to kick in. Sleep sought him. How long had he been awake? Since the Viking? At least since the voyage into Grettisstad. He thought he had slept briefly in the basement, but could not remember. They had emerged from the submarine into night and it had remained night ever since. At least on the Canal the day had come, every morning, a scenery change to distract from the exhaustion.