by Alan Evans
They saw — and were seen. Flames spurted in the dark tunnels under the trees, shells howled over the ship and there was a crash! from forward. Galloway cursed and Smith said, “They’re expecting us so the company Grundmann left at Bergsund must somehow have got a warning through to here.” And whoever commanded here — Grundmann? Smith thought not, hoped not — but whoever commanded here, knowing there was no motor transport at Bergsund, had sited his guns to repel an attack from the fjord. But had he expected only boats and was Cassandra a horrible surprise?
Either way, this would not be easy. Smith opened his mouth again to order Cassandra’s guns to open fire then shut it again as the snow swept in thickly on the wind once more, and the village was blotted out of his sight. Instead he told Galloway, “Tell Sandy to be ready to return fire instantly when the enemy can be seen.” Sandy Faulknor, the Gunnery Officer up in the director control tower, would be as blind as the rest of them at this moment. “When we’re ashore I’ll send orders by Williams.” Then he went down to the fishing boat again.
This time he ordered the boats to stay together, the launches continuing to tow the others. The enemy could not see them. So as Buckley steered Per Kosskull’s boat shorewards through the snow the three launches, one of them from the Ailsa Grange and the others from Cassandra, were lined out abreast on the port side. The pulling boats from the cruiser and the transport, soldiers hunched on their thwarts, were towed astern of the launches. Smith knew Merrick was in the launch next alongside, Ellis in one of the others.
Briefly, for just minutes, they moved in a near-silent, white-enclosed world with the only sound the throb of the engines of the launches and Kosskull’s boat. Then the snow thinned ahead of them, the shore showed dark and shadowy at first but a second later hardened into sharp images. There was a stone quay and beyond it houses and buildings, scattered or grouped but few in number. The quay was lined with stacks of sawn timber awaiting a ship. The tide, nearly at the full, now lapped barely three feet below the quay.
The silence was shattered as the enemy guns hammered furiously. There were two of them, hauled in under the shelter of the trees at the forest’s edge. They were quick-firing anti-aircraft pieces but the boats were too close to shore now. The guns could not depress far enough to lay on them and the 40mm. shells whined uselessly overhead. Small arms fire cracked and rattled from riflemen and machine-gunners hidden in houses and buildings. The Bren guns mounted in the bows of the launches and Smith’s boat fired in return but only for seconds. Then the boats slid in under the cover of the quay and the firing died away.
The two marines in the bow were first out of the boat, jumping up onto the quay. Carrying the Bren and the spare ammunition, they raced for cover among the stacks of timber. But Smith was next and close behind them as the firing burst out again. It struck sparks from the stonework of the quay and bit splinters out of the timber as he threw himself panting into its shelter.
Appleby saw him go and found he was following, breath sobbing as he scrambled onto the quay, crouching almost double as he ran to join Smith. As he left the boat he called for Dobson and Williams: “Come on!” The squeak was lost in the din of firing but they went shudderingly after him anyway.
Smith saw them arrive, then Pettersen with Woodman and finally Buckley. When he saw Smith peering out over the top of the timber he puffed worriedly, “Keep your head down, sir!”
“Shut up! You sound like a bloody old woman!” Smith snapped, on edge, feeling a huge, fragile target. But he had to know what was going on. He had already seen Merrick dash across the quay only a score of yards away to the left with a crowd of his marines after him. And beyond him and further left still by another twenty or thirty yards, Ellis had charged ashore at the head of his men. All of them had taken cover among the stacks of timber and they were opening fire. But now Smith had to see what terrors lay ahead of them all so his head was lifted cautiously above the timber.
Like Bergsund, the village had been built in a clearing cut out of the forest that now stood back some two hundred yards from the quay. The two guns under the trees were still silent, this time because they were under a hail of fire from the marines and soldiers among the stacks of timber. The guns’ crews were either dead or gone into cover. In front of the trees ran a belt of open ground, snow-covered and dotted with clumps of low scrub. Then, closer, were the houses and buildings of the village and firing still came from these. They were themselves torn by the fusillades from the quayside.
Between the stacked timber and the houses lay the road. The snow covering its surface was flattened, rutted and dirtied where the wheels of trucks had churned it up. Smith thought, Grundmann’s trucks? The road disappeared into the forest on either hand, to Smith’s left to meander along the side of the fjord back to Bergsund, to his right to join the main road inland running north and south. There was no motor transport parked among the houses or on the quay.
Smith gulped down a breath of relief. Grundmann had shown himself to be an energetic commander, had not been content to sit at Bergsund but had driven on to Heimen. Smith had judged he would not rest there, either, and was now proved right. He had gambled that the village would only be comparatively lightly held, that he would not have to attempt a landing in the face of Grundmann’s entire force of more than a thousand men and their artillery. If he had been wrong the landing would still have succeeded in the end, Cassandra’s guns would have seen to that, but the bloodshed…He shied away from the thought.
Pettersen was tugging at his sleeve and pointing. Smith looked in that direction and saw, to the right of the straggling row of houses, one that was bigger but only single-storeyed, that stood on its own. Pettersen shouted above the din of firing and Woodman bellowed, “He says his trucks were parked there! They’ve gone! And that house was empty so Major Vigeland requisitioned it for quarters for him and his men! The soldiers were in there!”
And where was the cargo of machine tools? Smith shouted, “Mr Merrick!” He saw the marine’s face turn towards him and in his turn pointed to the house standing alone. Merrick lifted a hand in acknowledgment then turned to Sergeant Phillips beside him, giving rapid orders, finger jabbing in his turn as he told Phillips what he wanted done. Smith’s gaze lifted to the soldiers further along the quay as their firing built up so that it battered at the ears. At that same instant he saw a group of them break from the shelter of the timber piled at that far end of the quay. Under the cover of the firing they ran across the road and disappeared among the farthest houses. Then he heard the thump! of exploding grenades.
Merrick seized on that moment and charged out into the open, half of his marines with him. The dozen sheltering with Smith had already seen Merrick’s hand-signal to them and now ran around the end of the stacked timber to join him. Phillips and the rest were left to continue the main attack.
Smith went with Merrick and his marines, crouching and swerving, floundering and skidding through the snow as they did. He saw from the corners of his eyes that Buckley was at his right shoulder, Appleby at his left and the rest streaming behind them. Again they reminded him of — what? But again he could not remember.
The stabbing flames of muzzle-flashes licked out from the windows of the house and he heard the clap! as a rifle round cracked past his head. But then Merrick and his marines were swarming around the house, lobbing grenades through the front windows and kicking at the door. The grenades exploded in succession, with the rapid regularity of a ticking clock. There was shouting from inside the house but no more firing. A hand showed at one window, waving what looked to be a blanket. Was that meant to signal a surrender? Now rifles were thrown out of the windows to fall into the snow.
Smith leant beside the front door, catching his breath. Buckley, Appleby and the rest fetched up close to him. Now, at last, he remembered: they reminded him of children clustered around their mother’s skirts. He grinned at them, then turned his attention to the house again.
The front door had swung open under the
battering from the boots of the marines. Now Merrick led them in — cautiously. Smith followed, peering into the gloom of the house and fumbling for the torch in his pocket. The beam of another lanced out and danced around the narrow hallway then swept on to the rooms opening out on either side. Smith made out Merrick’s tall, ramrod figure against the glow of it. The marine was holding the torch out left-handed and at arm’s length from his side, away from his body. That was in case some enemy fired at the torch. He held his pistol in his right hand, its muzzle twitching to follow the beam of the torch.
There were Wehrmacht soldiers in both those front rooms, half a dozen in each of them backed against the wall with their hands held high. One lay on the floor, moaning. Another, that had taken the full blast of an exploding grenade, sprawled still and horribly dead. Blankets and packs littered the floor around them. A table in one corner held mess-tins, bread and sausage. The soldiers had obviously been quartered there — as had Major Vigeland and his men.
Smith remembered Pettersen at his back but Merrick was calling orders to his marines: “Look after that wounded man! Get the others outside!” Then he ventured deeper into the house and Smith went with him.
There were two more rooms, the doors of both of them locked. The marines kicked in one of them and they saw the room beyond it crowded with Norwegian soldiers. Their leader stood at the head of them, facing the door. He was a tall, heavy man, his hair cropped short and his eyes narrowed against the glare of the torchlight. Pettersen went to him, shoving past Smith, and the pair clasped hands.
Smith thought: Major Vigeland. He swept the beam of his torch around the room, the cone of light flitting over the pale faces that were nervous, blank or relieved. There were about a dozen of them and theft-blankets also still lay on the floor. They marked where the men had slept, slotted into the room like sardines into a tin. He saw that the room had been made into a rough prison. Planks had been nailed over the outside of the only window and then crisscrossed by barbed wire.
He turned back to Vigeland and Pettersen and said shortly, “I command. Where is the cargo to be embarked?”
Vigeland answered in accented English, “It was in the four trucks outside, under guard.”
Smith said, “There are no trucks outside.”
Vigeland winced as if struck and then ground out through clenched teeth, “Then the thieves have stolen the — cargo.”
Smith noted that hesitation and he did not believe the statement. Grundmann had taken the trucks to carry some of his men and so increase the mobility of his force. He would not burden his motor transport with eleven tons of — machine tools? He still thought the question mark — or of any other loot.
But Vigeland was going on, “They came out of the trees in the night and caught my sentries not ready. Two were guarding the trucks and one was outside the house of the German officer. They were caught before they could use their weapons or raise the alarm. Grundmann’s men must have been watching from the trees for a time, seeing where the sentries were posted and marking this house where the rest of us were sleeping.” He finished bitterly, angrily, “They took this place without firing a shot.”
Smith read between the lines: Grundmann’s men, those sent ahead from Bergsund on foot and the others following in trucks, had met short of Heimen. Then they had waited, watched and picked their time to strike. But…
He asked, “What German officer is this? What is he doing here?”
Vigeland shrugged. “I do not know. I found him here. I understand he came here with a woman about a month ago. They are in a house at the other end of the village.”
Smith took that in with a breath of hope. He was aware that there was still firing outside, though distantly now. The trampling of the marines’ boots filled the house and from close behind him came the sound of hammering and splintering woodwork. Then he saw Vigeland watching him, curious, and Smith said forcefully, “No blame attaches to you. On the information you had, there wasn’t an enemy within a hundred miles of you, let alone at Bergsund. And any defence you might have attempted would have been a waste of your men’s lives. I shall say so in my report.” Against odds of a hundred to one and artillery, it would have been suicidal for Vigeland to resist.
Merrick called from the hallway, “I think you should see this, sir.”
Smith went to him and found the sound of splintering woodwork explained. The marines had forced the locked door of the last room and it was shoved wide and hung crookedly on its hinges. The beam of Merrick’s torch shone into the room beyond and lit a stack of small wooden boxes. The stack was the size of a large table. Machine tools?
He ordered Merrick, “Leave a corporal and one man on guard here. Nobody enters but me. Make that clear.”
“Sir.” Merrick looked puzzled, as well he might.
Smith turned and found himself face to face with Vigeland, told him, “I think we’ve found your cargo.”
The tall Norwegian nodded, “Yes. Yes!” He beamed with relief at seeing his charge restored — and because Smith had promised to absolve him of any blame for its loss and that of Heimen?
The house at the end of the village…But first: Smith pointed a finger at Dobson, “Find Major Ellis and tell him I would like his report as soon as possible. Tell him I will be working my way through the village.”
Dobson swallowed unhappily, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Aye, aye, sir!” He turned, hesitated, then plunged out into the open ground again, heading back to the stacks of timber lined along the quay.
Vigeland was trying to edge past Smith into the room where the cargo was held. Smith stepped in front of him and said, “I would like you to wait here for me. My marines have orders not to admit anyone. I will return as soon as I can and then we will conclude our business.”
Vigeland was ready to argue but then saw something in Smith’s face that stopped him. He reluctantly agreed and Smith went on his hurried way.
He strode through the village, his little party trailing him. Dobson rejoined, breathless from running through the clogging snow but managing to grin now the firing had ceased. Ellis was with him, smoke-grimed and filthy as all of them were from the action, come to report: “The place is ours, sir.”
He said his soldiers had got in among the houses at the far end of the village and rolled up the defences from there. The marines under Sergeant Phillips had started from the other end and in a matter of minutes the defenders had filtered away into the forest. They had retreated deeper into it as they were pursued. The guns were abandoned. Bodies lay as if tossed carelessly aside in the clearing between houses and forest, some in grey-green, some in khaki. In the night all of them looked like splashes of dried blood scattered on the trampled snow.
Now there was silence except for the occasional crack! of a shot in the middle distance, flat and muffled by the trees and snow.
Smith told Ellis, “We’ve got your cargo.”
Now the major looked relieved, partly because of that cargo, but also because of the success of the landing and the few casualties. Some of his men were digging graves for the dead and carrying wounded down to the boats but there were mercifully few of either. Smith thought one was too many.
He went through the buildings, stores and houses, all with shattered windows and bullet-splintered timbers. One house had caught fire and a bucket-chain of Ellis’s soldiers were trying but failing to douse the flames. The chain stretched up from the fjord and there were only five buckets. Buckley growled, “Might as well piss on it.”
Smith apologised to the people he found and they told him through Woodman: “It seems Grundmann got here about three hours ago, sir. He just walked in. Then he left one company here, took some of his men and guns northward in trucks, and the rest marched south. All was quiet after that until about ten minutes before we arrived. One soldier staggered out of the forest on the road from Bergsund, yelling to wake the dead. Then all the soldiers here turned out and trained the guns round to bear on the fjord.”
Then, liste
ning to one glowering man: “This chap, sir, says Jerry had a wireless set up in his house. They turfed him out of the front room to put it in there. He’s still bloody annoyed about it.”
Smith nodded. So the company left at Bergsund had not held a wireless set or been able to tap the telephone wire to Heimen further up the road after Lugg had cut it. They had sent a runner and he had done well to get here before Cassandra, ploughing his way along a snow-covered road. But the wireless here would have passed on the news to Grundmann that Cassandra was at Heimen. He would be on his way back now.
Smith was a tangle of emotions now: grief for the dead, rage at the stupidity of this campaign because Hitler had out-manoeuvred the Allies — and anxiety warring with hope. At every encounter with a villager he had asked the same question. Woodman had shown his surprise when he first put it, but caught Smith’s eye and translated it without expression. All those asked said a young woman was staying with a German officer in the big house at the end of the village, though none of them had been able to speak to her. The officer had forbidden it. But several thought she was British.
Smith kept to a steady pace though he wanted to run. When at last they came to the house Woodman put the same question to the couple who lived there and translated their answer: “They say the girl spoke English to them but only the odd word or two, like ‘Good morning’. It seems this German officer they all keep talking about was with her. They didn’t like him. He came as a civilian but they knew what he really was. He was pleasant enough at first, wanting to board with them and he was paying well. But then he became arrogant. He did most of the talking and gave the orders. He wouldn’t let the girl talk to them or them to her. He told them it wasn’t allowed. When the people around here heard that Jerry had invaded they confined him to the house, but the girl stayed with him…”
