by Alan Evans
Woodman listened again as the man spoke and the woman at his side nodded and put in a word here and there. When they were silent again Woodman said, “They say when the German soldiers came the officer dressed in his uniform. Then he took her away in his car. That was about an hour before midnight. They don’t know where he’s taken her.”
13
Smith had no time to grieve or rage. Grundmann would be racing back to Heimen with his motorized transport now, as fast as he could on the snow-covered roads. He could arrive at any minute.
So Smith hastened back to the house that held the cargo. The air in the village stank of cordite fumes and the smoke that rolled across it from the blazing timbers of the house that still burned. Cassandra lay out in the fjord, a furred grey silhouette seen intermittently between flurries of snow. The wind moaned in up the fjord from the sea and the men’s voices came through it thinly as they worked. They sounded cheerful, still excited by this action. Water rose in a darkly glittering column higher than the quay as the second of the German guns was shoved over to sink in the fjord and join the first. That was by Smith’s orders.
At the house he found the two marines guarding the door leading to the cargo, their rifles held across their chests at the high port. Ellis, the Norwegian Major Vigeland and his men crowded around it. Smith pushed through them and the sentries stepped aside. He passed into the room and Vigeland tried to follow but the marines barred his way.
Smith said, “All right, let those officers in.” And to Vigeland, “Major Ellis was sent with me to embark this cargo.”
The marines edged aside again and Vigeland and Ellis joined Smith, who now used his torch. Its beam lit the dusty interior and the stack of small boxes filling the centre of the floor. The boxes were wooden, their lids screwed down and bound round with wire that was fastened with a lead seal. Smith measured them with his eye and estimated each was about fifteen inches long by six inches wide and six deep. The stack was four feet high, four feet wide and about nine feet long. He counted: 440 boxes. He lifted one an inch or two then set it back in its place. He guessed its weight at half a hundredweight, a heavy half-hundredweight.
He turned on Vigeland and asked him, voice dry but lowered so only Ellis and Vigeland could hear, “Machine tools?”
Vigeland shook his head and murmured, “Gold. There are two ingots in each box, sir. Eleven tons altogether, making about three million pounds in sterling.”
Ellis breathed, “Three million…I” And stopped there, eyes starting out of his head as he stared at the stack of boxes.
Smith nodded his acknowledgment at Vigeland, “Thank you.” So that was it. The Norwegian government was shipping its gold reserves out of the country before the Wehrmacht could seize them. This consignment was just a part of those reserves, evacuated early from Oslo.
Eight hundred and eighty ingots. Three million pounds. He worked out some rough sums in his head: One box would buy a dozen comfortable houses or fifty brand new motor cars. It would pay the wages of the two marine sentries at the present rate for the next fifty years. The whole pile of boxes would have bought for Hitler ten destroyers or U-boats, or two cruisers like Brandenburg.
But not now.
And it was clear why he had been ordered to risk his ship and his men, Ellis his soldiers. How many lives might ten U-boats have taken? One had sunk the battleship Royal Oak in Scapa Flow with the loss of a thousand men only a few months ago. U-boats had sunk so much shipping in 1917 that Britain was almost starved into submission.
He took a breath and remembered: Brandenburg — where was she?
Smith turned his back on the bullion and told Ellis, “Transfer it to the ship. Put every man on it you can spare and every box is to be guarded every inch of the way.” He shoved through the Norwegian soldiers still packed shoulder to shoulder in the hallway and so out of the house, Vigeland following him. There he ordered Sammy Williams to send a signal by his flickering lamp to Galloway, to expect the “cargo” of 440 boxes that was to be locked away below and kept under guard. Then he faced Vigeland. “I’ll give you a receipt. What are you going to do? I can find room for you and your men and see you are landed in a British port eventually.”
The Major shook his head. “We lost our battle but the war goes on. We will go into the forest and find other units of our army, then carry on the fight.”
Woodman translated the terms of the receipt for Smith who signed for 440 sealed boxes. He thought of the oddity of the setting for this business transaction involving a fortune in gold. The receipt was signed by torchlight and was soiled and crumpled already from the grubby fingers that had handled it. The bucket-chain had abandoned its hopeless attempt to fight the fire, and the leaping flames from the burning house lit the scene, painted it in shifting, lurid colours.
A hundred or more soldiers obeying the shouted orders of Ellis were carrying the bullion down to the boats for transfer to Cassandra, leaning back under the weight of the boxes held in their arms. They piled the boxes in whichever of the three launches lay alongside the quay — they were running a shuttle service out to Cassandra — then ran back to the house for more. Sniper fire crackled on the outskirts of the village and there were bodies and blood on the snow. Little Appleby’s thin face was smeared with dirt, black against the pallor of his skin, his eyes large. Dobson’s skinny figure hovered close behind him. Smith thought, Sticking to him like glue. And both of them sticking to Smith. Buckley’s big figure loomed at his back.
They followed him as he strode quickly down to the quay. He halted there and from that position supervised the withdrawal of the landing force. Williams used his lamp again and again as signals winked between ship and shore. Ellis and his soldiers went back to Cassandra, leaving only Merrick’s marines in a thin screen holding positions around the outskirts of the village. Smith’s head was cocked on one side now, listening. He saw Appleby watching him and asked, “Hear anything?”
Appleby nodded, “Yes, sir. It sounds like engines.”
“And getting louder, closer. I think we’re going to have company soon.” And to Merrick, “All right, bring out your men now.”
Merrick’s whistle shrilled and the marines came floundering and sliding through the snow. They dropped down into the boats one by one, Merrick counting them, with the stocky Sergeant Phillips bouncing down last of all. The rumble of the labouring engines of the trucks was loud now as Merrick reported, “That’s the lot, sir!”
The three launches chugged out into the fjord and now only Smith and his little party of Appleby, Dobson and Sammy Williams, the signalman, stood on the quay. The snow had thickened again and hid Cassandra so they seemed to be on their own. Dobson and Sammy exchanged uneasy glances and Appleby watched Smith. The first truck came swaying out of the forest a quarter-mile away. It ground to a halt and men spilt out of the back of it. They scattered to form a skirmishing line, dropped down into the snow and a rifle cracked, spurted flame. Smith did not hear the passage of the bullet, guessed that it had been fired hurriedly and high but he ordered, “Into the boat!”
Appleby and the others needed no urging as more bullets whined overhead or ricocheted droning from the stone surface of the quay. They jumped down into Per Kosskull’s boat and Smith followed them. He stood, looking back as the boat surged away from the quay, balancing against the heel and pitch of it. He saw other trucks come out of the forest, lurching and sliding on the rutted, frozen road. They pulled up alongside the first and disgorged more soldiers. The trucks and the men would have made a fine target for Sandy Faulknor’s guns but the snow hid one from the other.
A solitary tall figure stalked to the centre of the line of prone riflemen and halted there, staring after the boat. Smith thought that would be Grundmann and that he would be asking questions as to how Heimen had been taken and his captured bullion snatched from him. But not for long.
Smith wondered if Vigeland and his men had succeeded in slipping away into the forest, or had they been captured again? But n
ow the rifle-fire ceased as the shore astern was hidden by the snow driving thickly on the wind and instead Cassandra loomed ahead. He saw that her boats had been hoisted inboard and those from the Ailsa Grange taken in tow astern. Only his boat was left. It ran in alongside and Smith jumped for the ladder dangling and bumping against the steel side as the cruiser rolled gently under the pressure of the wind. He climbed it and thence to the bridge where he found Galloway, obviously relieved at sight of him.
Galloway reported, poker-faced, “The — cargo — is locked away below and under guard, sir.”
“Very good.” Smith thought wrily that now they were just keeping up appearances. Galloway, like every other man aboard, would have a very good idea of the nature of that cargo in the small boxes that weighed so heavily.
He asked, “What about that shell that hit us?”
“Pretty small stuff, sir. 40 millimetre, I think. It made a dent in the shield of ‘A’ gun but that’s all.”
Smith swung up into his chair. “We’ll get under way.” Grundmann would not wait in Heimen for a long inquest into its capture by Smith, nor for the rest of his force to come up on foot. He would call out those troops that had retreated into the forest and cram into his trucks as many men as they would hold. Then he would start down the road to Bergsund. He would find it a long haul because that snow-bound road would be worse now. A lot more snow had fallen since Grundmann had driven out of Bergsund five or six hours ago. But the sooner Smith and Cassandra were back at that port, the better.
Buckley came to the bridge, bringing coffee and sandwiches for him. Smith realised he was bitterly cold and his exertions had exhausted him. He reached for the food but first told Galloway, “I want everyone fed, but the ship’s company first.” The soldiers would have to wait. Now the fighting ashore was over they were just passengers again, but the men of Cassandra might be in action soon. Now he chewed hungrily and gulped down the coffee.
Below on the mess desk Jackman paused by Dobson where he sat at a crowded table. Both were red-eyed from lack of sleep, grimy and stank of smoke. Dobson had a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He looked up from it, found Jackman’s cold eye on him and said defensively, “Just having me breakfast.”
Jackman nodded and growled, “You’ve earned it. I’ve talked to that big bastard, Buckley. You did all right.”
And Dobson saw he meant it. As Jackman strode away one of the other men crammed around the table asked, “What was that about?”
Dobson opened his mouth — now was the time to start rehearsing his speech for the pub when he got home — but then he said only, “Dunno. Pass the sauce.”
Smith saw nothing of Grundmann’s lorries, little of the shore as Cassandra crept back along the buoyed channel through the snow and darkness. Per Kosskull’s boat led the way, with Olsen and Woodman aboard, Chivers in command. The dawn came sunless, the night sky turning dirty grey and pendulous clouds hanging over the fjord. Cassandra slid along a tunnel through that greyness that was floored with a dull-green glassy surface scattered with the blue-white plates of floating ice.
At Bergsund they heard the faint crackle of rifle-fire from the port and saw the red pin-pricks of the muzzle-flashes in the night. But the firing was intermittent and came from the holding company left by Ellis, and the Germans driven out of the port, shooting at each other. Grundmann had not yet arrived.
“Signals, sir.”
Smith took the two flimsies and read the first, passed it to Galloway. No reinforcements could be sent to Bergsund nor could he receive any air support. The port was not to be held after all. Ellis and his battalion were to return home in the Ailsa Grange.
He thought that the High Command was having to recast its plans hurriedly now that Hitler had stolen a march on them by invading Norway.
The signal went on to order him to embark in the Ailsa Grange the cargo Hornet had been sent for — if he had got it. Then he was to rendezvous north of Bergsund with a destroyer returning from the force blockading the Vestfjord, outside of Narvik, to Scapa Flow. She would escort the transport home. Cassandra would then proceed to join that force off Narvik.
Galloway speculated, “To support operations up there? A landing and then a campaign to drive Jerry out?”
Smith thought that sounded logical but he did not like it. “We’ve no air cover. If they’ve secured all the major airfields, as I suspect, we won’t be able to support a campaign.”
Galloway said sceptically, proud of Cassandra’s gunners, “I wouldn’t say we would be helpless if attacked from the air, sir.”
Smith showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Not helpless, but without our own air cover, vulnerable.” He passed the second signal to Galloway. “Gurkha’s been sunk by air attack.” She was a Tribal Class destroyer like Cossack.
Galloway was silent a moment, then took a breath and answered, “I see, sir. Point taken.”
Smith ordered, “Send to those soldiers by lamp: ‘Prepare to re-embark. I am sending boats.’ And tell Ailsa Grange and Wilhelmina: ‘Prepare to get under way.’”
The company Ellis had left ashore was not fighting off an attack but it would be when Grundmann arrived. It was better to get those men off now when it would be comparatively easy for them to disengage. And as it seemed the German commander at Heimen had radioed to Grundmann the news of the arrival of Cassandra, then it was possible he had also called for help from further afield. A German naval force might appear off Bergsund at any time now. Cassandra and her consorts must not be caught in there.
He spoke to Sandy Faulknor up in the director above the bridge. “Be ready to cover the soldiers pulling out of Bergsund. There may be an enemy force on the road.”
Within the hour the last of the soldiers had come off hollow-eyed from the action in sodden, filthy khaki. The wooden boxes of bullion captured at Heimen had been transferred from Cassandra to the Ailsa Grange and were now locked in her hold and under guard. She was hoisting in her boats and the Wilhelmina was also getting under way. Then a lookout reported, “Trucks on the road, sir!”
Smith saw them emerging from the forest, slipping and sliding on the snow. He ordered, “Open fire.” His warning to Sandy Faulknor bore fruit and the guns, laid on the road and ready, fired only seconds later. The trucks skidded to a halt as the bursting shells threw up snow and dirt around them. They reversed, wheels spinning and spraying muddy slush, back into the shelter of the trees. All save one that was hit, stayed tilted where it had fetched up at the roadside and now began to burn.
Under the trees Oberst Klaus Grundmann climbed stiffly down from his Kübelwagen and snapped at the driver of the squat, jeep-like vehicle, “Wait!” He was narrow-eyed and weary after forty-eight hours of work and action with only a few minutes of snatched sleep. He was also angry. Two of his companies had been savaged at Bergsund and Heimen and the bullion that had fallen into his hands had been torn from his grasp. He showed none of this, however, was still the cool, professional officer as he forced his legs to carry him creakily but briskly back to the wireless truck halted further down the column of vehicles. He reached in over the tailboard, grabbed a signal pad and wrote on it then slapped it in the hand of the signaller seated at the wireless in the back of the truck. “Send that.”
The signal came to Moehle on the bridge of Brandenburg. He scanned the sheet and passed it to Paul Brunner. “Grundmann says the Tommis have pulled out of Bergsund: a cruiser and two transports, one of them the Wilhelmina.”
His Executive Officer swore and said bitterly, “I hoped we’d catch that damned cruiser inside.”
Moehle grinned at him, “You still think it’s the same cruiser that’s haunted us for months? I hope you’re right, because that’s one ghost I’d like to lay and now, at last, we can do it. She’s clear of the fjord but we’re faster than she is and she won’t run anyway. Her captain will stay and try to protect the transports and the soldiers. So all we have to do is sight her.”
But Kurt Larsen wondered, Will it be t
hat simple?
Cassandra, with all her guns manned and Smith in his high chair on the bridge, led out the little force from Bergsund. The Ailsa Grange followed her, then the Wilhelmina with Miller in command and his men from Hornet standing guard over the transport’s crew battened down below. It was full day now as the three ships steamed out of the fjord but the sun was still hidden behind that low, black cloud cover and there was little light. Lookouts strained their eyes; visibility was barely five to six miles. A leaden swell faded through the grey of distance to merge with the sullen, pendulous dark blue sky.
Smith gave his orders, Cassandra’s searchlight flashing the signals, its shutter clattering as the signalman worked it. The ships turned north, settling on a course to take them to the rendezvous with the destroyer coming down from Narvik. They steamed in line abreast, the Wilhelmina taking the inshore station with Cassandra to seaward and the Ailsa Grange between them. He saw that done then closed his eyes and was asleep at once.
He dozed fitfully, uneasily, the tight hold on his mind now relaxed so that his dreams were of his daughter, some of them pictures of her laughing but others nightmares of her in the hands of the enemy. He groaned in his sleep and came half-awake time and time again, aware of the cold grey sea and figures on the bridge before his eyes shut again. Galloway and Harry Vincent heard those muffled cries of agony and exchanged worried glances.
He was finally dragged from his sleep by the voices that bellowed, half a dozen sighting her at the same instant, “Ship port bow!” His eyes snapped open, focused and he set his glasses to them. He recognised the ship before Galloway got over his hesitation and said, “It’s Brandenburg, sir!” She had just shoved out of the greyness some five to six miles ahead of Cassandra and to port and seaward.
