Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Ferrying men in boats from the destroyer would take too long. Smith ordered, “Stand by to go alongside. I’ll lay her bows to and I want a party forrard to take her people inboard.” He edged Cassandra, nets hanging down her side, close to Hornet. He manoeuvred to lay his bow against the destroyer’s waist because her fires were in the fo’c’sle and right aft. It was tricky work in the high sea running and at the back of everyone’s mind was the fear the fire might leap to Cassandra — or Hornet might blow up. Smith knew eyes were on him as he gave his succession of helm and engine orders, heard the unanimous intake of breath on the bridge when a big sea looked set to slam Cassandra into the destroyer and he stopped her just feet short.

  Miller, Hornet’s captain, still stood on his bridge but he was without his cap and his arm was in a sling. The bridge had taken a hit and he was surrounded by the tangled wreckage of compass, voice-pipes and his own chair. Smith spoke to him on the loud hailer, “Can I offer you a lift?”

  Miller used a megaphone to reply because his ship no longer had power for the hailer: “That’s very decent of you. I seem to have a mechanical problem.”

  “Happens in the best of families.” Cassandra now rubbed against the destroyer, fenders hung between them to cushion that rubbing. Kelso was in command there in the bow, harsh-voiced and urgent. He’d got his party of seamen, under Jackman and another petty officer, organised and working efficiently. Lines were thrown over and made fast to hold the two ships together. The men waiting in Hornet’s waist, low in the water now, started clambering up the nets hung against Cassandra’s side to reach the higher fo’c’sle of the cruiser. Smith saw there were soldiers among them, two officers, both wearing holstered revolvers on their belts and packs on their backs.

  Smith called down, “Look out for those soldiers, Mr Kelso.”

  The previously stone-faced, barrel-chested Lieutenant turned and laughed up at Smith, teeth showing white through his beard. “I’ll keep an eye on them, sir!”

  Smith grinned and eased back from the screen into his chair. From the first moment of his return to Cassandra the previous night he had detected a different atmosphere in the ship. Glancing aft, he saw that Per Kosskull’s boat had been squeezed into the waist abaft the cutter. It looked small and fragile. He thought he and Buckley had been very lucky. And there, at the back of the bridge, was Midshipman Appleby. He also looked small and fragile. Smith remembered there was a question mark over Appleby. He would have to do something about the boy.

  Now an officer climbed to Hornet’s shattered bridge, spoke to Miller and he nodded. They both went down to the destroyer’s waist.

  In ten minutes all of Hornet’s crew had transferred, Miller crossing last of all, struggling one-handed up the net with the aid of a big, boiler-suited stoker black with oil. He came to the bridge as Smith completed the orders that backed Cassandra away from the destroyer and turned her to steam away from the wreck. Miller arrived just in time to see his ship lift her stern and slide down into the deep.

  Smith said, “Sorry.”

  Miller grimaced, “Thanks.” His face was pallid under the black stubble from long hours spent on his bridge. He tore his eyes away from the scum of oil and wreckage that marked Hornet’s grave and faced Smith. “I need to talk to you, sir. Urgently and in private. I had orders that I won’t be able to carry out now and I must turn them over to you.”

  “Where were you bound under those orders?”

  “Bergsund.”

  Smith glanced at Vincent and asked, “Pilot?”

  The navigator answered, “Small fishing port by the look of it, sir. It lies about thirty miles south of here.”

  “Thank you. Mister Galloway, she’s all yours. Resume course. Make what speed Ailsa Grange can keep up. Tell her to follow us. She may as well have our protection until we know what’s going on.”

  So ten minutes later three of them were crowded into Smith’s sea cabin abaft the bridge. A girl’s photograph hung above the bunk and a book lay on the pillow: Nevil Shute. They belonged to John Galloway. He had not had time to move them out.

  One of the two soldiers rescued from Hornet was in the cabin at Miller’s request. Major Vivian Ellis was short and chesty, with a red face, bristling moustache and hair to match that showed when he took off his cap. He and Miller sat on the bunk while Smith leaned against the bulkhead. Ellis had a map-case with him and now he took from it a map and spread it on the little folding table.

  As he did so he explained rapidly, “I was second-in-command of the battalion. I took over command when we were embarking and the colonel fell from a ladder and broke his leg.” He shot a glance at Miller, “Right!” He was obviously impatient, urging some action.

  But first Smith asked, “How is the arm?” He nodded at Miller, now with a clean white sling holding the damaged arm, his jacket hung around his shoulders.

  “Fine, thanks. I was blown off the bridge but your chap Kilmartin thinks it’s just a bad sprain. I was damn lucky, really.” His face was as white as the sling.

  Ellis cleared his throat irritably and Miller glanced at him, then turned to Smith with a wry twitch of the lips. “Well, don’t know if you are aware of it, sir — I wasn’t, it was all very hush-hush — but the government have been worried about a German invasion of Norway for some time and they prepared a force to get in first. There were five battalions embarked in four cruisers and three transports. Ailsa Grange was one of them, with Major Ellis’s battalion aboard. Most of the force was to sail when there was clear evidence that Hitler was about to invade Norway. They would occupy Narvik, Trondheim, Stavanger and Bergen before the enemy got to those ports.” Miller paused to ease his arm in its sling.

  He went on, “But Ailsa Grange is slower than the other transports and the cruisers so she sailed early with Admiral Whitworth and his minesweepers. They were to lay mines in the Leads.” Smith nodded; Glowworm had originally been part of that force. Miller saw that nod: “I see you know about that. Well, the Ailsa Grange was to stay with Whitworth off Narvik until the signal came for her to go in. Narvik because that’s the port that Hitler’s iron ore comes from.”

  Smith queried, “Narvik? You said you were bound for Bergsund.”

  Miller said, “Sorry, but I am coming to that. The idea was that if he tried to invade because we’d mined the Leads — and it was expected he would — we would be there to get in first. It was also expected that the rest of the cruisers and transports would be off Stavanger, Bergen and Trondheim by then.” Miller grinned sourly, “But it didn’t turn out that way. Early yesterday Whitworth sighted Scharnhorst and Gneisenau —”

  Smith broke in, startled, “What!” They were battleships.

  “That’s right,” said Miller. “He set off after them and we were left behind. That was when the signal came and it wasn’t the one we’d been waiting for. Hitler had jumped the gun and got into Narvik and Norway first.”

  There was a tap at the door and Smith called, “Come in!”

  A steward entered, tray balanced dexterously on one hand, the flexing wrist keeping the tray level despite Cassandra’s pitching and rolling. He beamed at Smith, “You wanted some coffee, sir.”

  Smith nodded, “Thank you.” He watched as the steward filled two cups from the pot but then said, “Not for me.” The steward’s beam, Kelso’s laugh, the expressions he had seen on Galloway’s and other men’s faces — there was a definite change in the attitude of Cassandra’s crew towards him. Were they simply getting used to him? But what about the overheard charges of womanizing and being an armchair dug-out? Were they making allowances for him now? He didn’t want people making allowances for him.

  But the steward had gone. Miller sipped gratefully at the coffee but Ellis gulped his hurriedly then sat on the edge of his seat, tapping a pencil on the table. Smith prompted again, “Bergsund?”

  Hornet’s young captain took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Smith. “The signal, and another with new orders for myse
lf and Major Ellis. You’ll see they are headed ‘Most Secret’ and are for the eyes of Commanding Officers only, that’s just the three of us. But cutting it short, I was to escort the Ailsa Grange and give Major Ellis any assistance I could. He and his troops are now to be landed at Bergsund to hold that port. But he is also to accept delivery of a cargo that will come down to him from a village inland. I was to load it aboard Hornet and return to Rosyth at once, leaving Major Ellis to hold Bergsund. We had to carry out those orders at all costs. We were on our way to do just that when we ran into this cruiser. We turned to run but I’m afraid the Ailsa Grange is no sprinter. Cassandra was a very welcome sight, sir.”

  Ellis had been shifting impatiently and broke in now: “Captain Smith! It is absolutely essential this mission is now carried out by you and your ship. You can come to no other decision!”

  Smith held up a hand then and his cold eye stopped Ellis. “As you say, this is my ship. And it will be my decision.” Miller smiled faintly but then Smith asked, “What was this cargo? And where is this village?”

  Ellis stood up to jab a finger at the map, “There.” Smith stared at it, hearing Ellis go on, urgent, staccato: “The cargo is described as eleven tons of machine tools. They could be enormously valuable to Hitler’s industry and his war machine if he got hold of them. They’ll be waiting for us there.” And he tapped the map.

  Smith slowly looked up from the map and saw them peering at him curiously. How long had they waited for him as he stood there in silence? For a time the words had not registered but now he concentrated on what Ellis had said because it touched on his duty. He was responsible for the lives of every man aboard this ship and must not risk them wantonly. He had to put personal emotions aside.

  And machine tools? He granted that Ellis was right and they could be valuable to Hitler, but to be brought out ‘at all costs’? That meant putting at risk his ship and the men in her, the Ailsa Grange and the battalion commanded by Ellis. Another eight hundred men. For machine tools?

  And now the responsibility had fallen on his shoulders but the orders were clear and he had no choice.

  He spoke through the voice-pipe to Galloway on the bridge, “John — will you come back here, please.” Then he told Miller and Ellis, “I’ll do it.” He picked out another phrase from the orders and asked, “You maintained wireless silence?”

  “Until we were attacked,” Miller said bitterly. “Then it was pretty obvious we wouldn’t reach Bergsund. I informed Admiralty.”

  Smith wrote on a signal pad. When another rap on the door heralded Galloway, Smith tore off the top sheet and handed it to him. “For Admiralty.” And to be copied to Whitworth, advising them of the loss of Hornet, and that he was proceeding on her mission. “And from then on, wireless silence.” He did not want Cassandra’s wireless transmissions giving away her presence to the enemy. “I’ll tell you all I can about this later.”

  He nodded at the other two, “Mr Galloway will have found you places to sleep. I suggest you get all you can.”

  Galloway led them out of the cabin. Smith followed and went to the bridge. He told Harry Vincent, “Pilot, I want a course for Bergsund. Then see I’m called a half-hour before we make a landfall. I don’t want to be seen from the shore.”

  Sandy Faulknor had the watch and Smith said, “I want that fishing boat made ready.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” A grin accompanied the words and Sandy went on, “Nice to have you back, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Smith wondered again at that grin, and that of Kelso and others. But he went back to his sea cabin and found the girl’s photograph and the book had gone now. There was no longer any sign of Galloway’s occupation. Smith lay down on the bunk and pulled the blanket over him. He knew he would not sleep, had plenty to keep him awake, God knew. But he had forgotten the exhaustion of the past thirty-six hours. Inside of a minute oblivion claimed him.

  Smith laughed, “Not so wet this time!”

  Per Kosskull’s boat eased away from Cassandra’s side. The sky was still lowering, threatening rain or snow but the huge seas of yesterday had gone. He felt rested, wondered that he had slept through the forenoon since altering course for Bergsund, but was glad.

  There was no sight of land. When the mountains some miles inland of Bergsund were sighted from Cassandra’s masthead Smith had turned her back; he did not want to be seen from the shore.

  Buckley was at the wheel of the fishing boat this time and in this quieter weather she was shipping little water. One of the two seamen aboard only had to bail occasionally for a minute or two to keep the well dry. Also in the boat were Ellis, Lieutenant Merrick who commanded the platoon of marines carried by Cassandra, Sergeant Phillips and Corporal Lugg. Phillips and the corporal both carried holstered revolvers and small packs with emergency rations and water. Ellis had thought Cassandra would lead the Ailsa Grange straight into the harbour of Bergsund but Smith had other ideas. He had told the soldier, “If they’re in Trondheim then they could also be in here.”

  Ellis argued, “This is hardly Trondheim — just a few houses and a handful of fishermen working out of the place. And we can’t waste time.”

  But Smith quoted the old saw at him, “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.” And he would not risk his ship needlessly. Ellis sniffed at this caution but held his tongue.

  Cassandra dropped away behind them as she turned away to patrol with the Ailsa Grange and await their return. After a while, as the boat chugged in, the shoreline lifted into view. Off the port bow was the entrance to the harbour of Bergsund and now at Smith’s order Buckley turned the head of the boat towards it. They would soon know what they faced.

  They closed the mouth of the fjord on a diagonal course, the fishing boat puttering from south to north up the coast but gradually edging in towards it. They were within a mile when they passed it. Smith, Ellis, Merrick and Phillips crouched on the narrow strip of the half-deck, only inches wide, that ran along the side of the cabin roof. Nets were piled on the roof and they used these as cover as they peered through binoculars into the fjord. Buckley stood at the wheel in oilskins and all the others were hidden inside the cabin.

  Smith said, “There’s a lookout on the headland to the left.” There were two soldiers on the high ground above the steep fall to the shore. They were seen clearly through the binoculars, outlined on the crest, rifles slung over their shoulders. He thought they would have a field telephone up there though he was too far away to pick out any tell-tale wire. But he could make out the distinctive steel helmets. He said, “German soldiers.”

  Merrick said, “Seen.” Ellis and Phillips muttered agreement then they were all silent. The enemy had got to Bergsund first, as he had to Trondheim and Narvik.

  The port was a little town lying on that left-hand shore of the fjord behind a sea-wall. Coming up from the south at this angle, Smith and the others could see behind the wall to the quay beyond and into a square formed by buildings on the other three sides. Roofs showed behind the square and lifted with the gradient that soon climbed steeply from the fjord. A gun — Smith thought it a light anti-aircraft weapon like a 40mm. Oerlikon — was mounted on the sea-wall.

  The square was busy with soldiers, their trucks parked along one side of it. The barrels of more guns showed, parked here and there among the trucks. A flag with a black cross flew from one of the buildings at the back of the square, confirming German occupation.

  Smith said, “Well, somebody’s home.” It was as he had feared, why he had brought along Sergeant Phillips and Corporal Lugg. There would be work for them now.

  There were other things to see and note. A road apparently ran inland along the side of the fjord, the line of it marked by telegraph poles. It seemed to be narrow and in places cut out of the wooded hillside. The last building on that inland side of town looked like a squat hut. The tiny figure of a sentry stood there.

  A big ship, a transport or a trooper, lay in the fjord outside the harbour. Scrambling nets hung down
her sides and her derricks were at work. They swung cargo nets out of her holds and lowered them to boats waiting alongside. Some of the boats were bigger, sea-going fishing craft. Smith thought that they had been requisitioned from the fishermen of Bergsund. They were being used to carry the bigger items, like guns, to the shore.

  Pulling boats were piled with crates. The water was dotted with the creeping craft, oars swinging, like so many beetles. It was a laborious, time-taking process, presumably forced on the transport’s captain because his ship drew too much water to go alongside the sea-wall or the quay.

  Ellis, momentarily subdued at Smith being proved right in his cautious approach, muttered, “Blast it!” And he would be wondering about the machine tools — as was Smith. His orders had said his cargo would come down to Bergsund. Had it already arrived there? Did the enemy hold it now? And what should Smith do? But he had anticipated this, one of several possible situations, and had a rough plan ready to be polished.

  He told the others now, outlining his intentions in a few short sentences as he peered through the binoculars. They heard him out in silence, busy with their thoughts and not looking at each other, apprehensive.

  One of the men on the headland had gone down on one knee. Using a telephone to report the presence of the fishing boat? Smith said, “We’d better keep an eye on that gun. If they get suspicious they might use us for target practice.”

  So now, uneasily they checked back quickly and frequently to see if that slender barrel had foreshortened as it pointed at them. But soon the quay and the town were lost to sight, hidden by the sea-wall as Per Kosskull’s boat trudged steadily northward across the mouth of the fjord. Smith had seen enough anyway, pictures stamped on his mind. The others scribbled notes, shifting uncomfortably on their damp perch as the sea slopped inboard or cramp locked their muscles. Smith suffered with them but stared at the passing shore, and thought.