Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  He told her, “Bergsund and Heimen are small affairs.

  Grundmann tells me he was only put in there to cut across north-south communications, cause disruption and panic and divert any Norwegian troops here in the north. But Narvik is a major port and he says Dietl’s Mountain Division is there. So we’re going to Narvik. If we have to talk to any Norwegians you tell them you’re English and I’m Dutch. I’m an engineer with a job to do up there for the iron ore company and I’m giving you a lift. You’ve been staying with some relatives in Heimen but now you’re going home. Understood?”

  Sarah nodded. He had not asked for her agreement because he knew she had to give it. That last reference to “going home” had been a taunt. There were more to come.

  There was no direct road to Narvik. Roads in that part of Norway were non-existent or bad but Fritsch had driven over this one several times before. He had always taken Sarah with him. He made good time despite the snow that swept around them every few minutes to cut visibility down to thirty yards or less. The beams of the bulbous headlights bounced back yellow from that whiteness that rushed at the screen. But the two-door saloon sat down on the snow-shrouded road and stuck to its slippery surface like glue, with only an occasional slither and drift as the tyres lost traction.

  They only stopped when the road ended in another small town on the shore of another fjord. Fritsch drove down to the quayside and said, “That’s luck. Hansen only puts in here once a week.” He pointed at the little coaster tied up to the quay. Sarah had seen her here on some of those previous outings with Fritsch and had met Hansen, her captain.

  She met him again now. Fritsch hustled her aboard the ship and then roused Hansen from his bunk. He came out blinking and only half-awake. He was pot-bellied, unshaven and bleary-eyed, dressed in a grubby singlet and pyjama trousers. Fritsch looked at him with disdain but followed Hansen into his office to talk to him there while Sarah was left in the little saloon. They came out only minutes later and Fritsch was sliding his wallet back into his pocket. He sat by Sarah as the ship woke around them, the now hastily-dressed Hansen bawling at his crew. Fritsch said, “We’ll soon be at sea. Our friend Hansen has a cargo aboard he has to take to Narvik anyway. He’d decided to postpone the trip now war has broken out up here and let the ship’s owners take the loss, but I’ve persuaded him to go.”

  Sarah said, “You bought him.”

  Fritsch laughed. “Not exactly. He’s a follower of Quisling and so are all his crew.”

  Sarah asked, puzzled, “Quisling?”

  “A Norwegian who’s a friend of the Führer. Yesterday he went on Oslo radio to say he is now Prime Minister of Norway. So you see, all I had to do was ease Hansen along a little. As you know, I’ve put myself out these last few weeks to get him on my side. You never can tell who will be useful.” His mood became more triumphant, his gloating more suggestive. Sarah knew she was going to have to pay for Mai Rösing’s life. She did not answer him, tried not to listen.

  They sailed soon afterwards, the Mercedes lashed to the deck of the little steamer. She hugged the coast in the hope of avoiding British patrols and in the beginning the night also hid her. Then when the day came it was sunless and dark, one snow squall following another, all giving her cover. She made good her ten knots and in the early evening chugged into the harbour of Narvik where it lay below the surrounding mountains.

  There were nine German destroyers in the harbour but of these two had been sunk, only their upperworks showing above the water. Three more were badly damaged, one of them tied up to the Post pier. Fritsch gaped at the destruction and did not laugh now. He was nervous and bad-tempered, shouted at the seamen as they used the ship’s derricks to swing the Mercedes onto the quay, then he shoved Sarah into the passenger seat.

  There was a reception committee on the quay, men of Dietl’s Mountain Division in white smocks and over-trousers. They passed him through and gave him directions. He drove along the side of the harbour then turned to wind through the streets, swinging left when he came to the town square. He crossed a bridge over the railway that brought the iron ore from Sweden then held on until they came to the outskirts of the town. There he turned in through an open gate in a high wooden fence. The building it enclosed stood in a yard, was substantial and many-windowed. Sarah thought it looked like a school. Fritsch steered the Mercedes across the yard, pulled up before the front door and took Sarah by the arm to hustle her inside. He had discarded the trench-coat now and wore his SS cap with the death’s head badge. The sentry at the door saluted the uniform and let them through.

  Inside was a long corridor and a room opening on the right. It held a half-dozen lounging, white-clad soldiers and an Unterfeldwebel sitting behind a desk. He jumped to his feet when he saw Fritsch’s rank and bawled at the others to come to attention. Fritsch flipped him. a casual salute and they talked. At one point the Unterfeldwebel glanced at the watch on his wrist and gave an order that sent most of the soldiers out of the room, shrugging their rifles onto their shoulders by the slings and eying Sarah as they passed. She stared straight ahead, ignoring them. Soon afterwards there was a rumble of voices in the corridor outside and the trampling of feet.

  But then Fritsch turned to her and said curtly. “They have room for you here. I’m sure you will be comfortable. Your host will see to that.” He nodded at the Unterfeldwebel. “He tells me that Diet! has his headquarters in the Grand Hotel and I will find a room there. I will look in on you every day. Now…” He pulled on his gloves. “I will leave you to it. I understand this is the evening exercise period. One of your escorts will go with you but that is just a formality, of course.” Because Mai Rösing bound Sarah to him. But the escort was there in case she lost her nerve and tried to escape. Sarah knew this.

  She followed him out of the room, two of the soldiers going with her. One of them took her case from the car and carried it into the school. The other pointed to the yard and she walked where he directed her.

  Fritsch was still in the black mood that had descended on him when he saw the destroyers in the harbour. He climbed into the Mercedes and did not spare a glance for her as he drove away. The gate was closed now and the sentry who had been on duty on the door was now stationed there. He opened the gate to let the Mercedes out, then shut it again.

  Sarah walked back and forth at one end of the yard, hands deep in the pockets of her coat, her head up and blonde mane flying in the wind. It was good to be out in the air and away from Fritsch. She obeyed the orders of the escort but did not speak a word in reply, though she spoke German as well as he. She looked through him or over his head.

  A group of men strolled in a loose circle at the other end of the yard, figures vague in the gathering dusk and some fifty yards away. She concluded they were more prisoners, like herself, because soldiers stood around them. And that, she decided, was why the gate of the yard was closed — so that no prisoner would be tempted to make a dash for liberty. But the fence, surely that could be scaled. It stood some six feet high and an active man could haul himself over it in a second. But for a slightly built girl with an escort treading at her heels…? No.

  Both the prisoners and the soldiers kept turning their heads to stare in her direction. She looked away, embarrassed.

  She had only been walking for a few minutes when the men started shouting. She turned and saw a tall young man lash out at one of the soldiers and suddenly the yard was a mass of surging, shouting men, flying fists and rifle-butts. Her escort bawled something and ran her towards the door. Before she reached it she heard the crack! of a rifle being fired and saw the crowd stilled. It had been a shot fired into the air, no one had fallen. But then she was inside the corridor, being hustled along it and thrust into a small room at the end of it. The door slammed behind her and a key turned.

  The only furniture in the room was a table and an upright chair. Two blankets had been thrown onto the table and her case lay on the floor. There was one window, narrow and set high near the ceiling.
She climbed onto the table and peered out, only to see another yard at the back of the building and another sentry pacing there. She tested the window but found the metal frame had been welded into place to make the room a prison cell. She got down from the table, sat on the chair and stared up at the window helplessly, trying not to remember Fritsch’s barely veiled threats and gloating.

  Smith went below to the sickbay before noon. He talked to the burly Kilmartin, the young surgeon, and then to those wounded who could hear and understand him. Kilmartin told him, “Most of them should be all right, but young Williams … “ He shook his head in anger and bitterness. “I’ve done all I can for him.”

  Sammy Williams, the young signalman who had been at Smith’s side at Bergsund and Heimen, lay unconscious. He had lost both legs, was chalk-white and scarcely breathing. Smith took his hand gently and spoke to him but got no reply.

  The other wounded were still in shock or with mouths clamped shut against the pain of their torn bodies. Smith thought that this was only a part of the price to be paid for stopping Hitler. The politicians could have done that more cheaply years ago but instead had chosen peace at any price. This was it.

  He talked to them, awkward words of thanks and encouragement, and they managed to grin and joke. Then he left them, climbed to the deck and took his Prayer Book from the waiting Buckley. He read the service for the burial of the dead and watched as the canvas-wrapped bodies were committed to the deep. They buried young Sammy Williams later that day.

  An hour into the afternoon watch Cassandra made her rendezvous with the transports and the destroyer. The blizzard lay astern of her as a black bar along the horizon, but here the snow had ceased and a pale sun peeped intermittently through gaps in the low cloud. For a minute or two Cassandra ran alongside the destroyer, close enough for the two captains to talk by loudhailer.

  Smith listened to the voice, metallic but clear and high. It came across the narrow strip of sea, that was churned into foam between the hulls: “Forbes and the Home Fleet have joined up with Whitworth in Renown and they’re patrolling off Narvik.” That was good news. Admiral Forbes was Commander-in-Chief of the Home Fleet and that was a powerful concentration.

  “Whitworth chased Scharnhorst and Gneisenau the day before yesterday but they got away from him. Combination of speed and bad weather.” Smith scowled. “Jerry is in Narvik and has landed troops and occupied the town!” That was as Smith had expected after Trondheim, but more bad news nonetheless.

  Now the destroyer’s captain came up with better news but with a sting in the tail: “Warburton-Lee took his flotilla into the fjord yesterday morning. He lost two of his ships but sank two of theirs and shot the hell out of the others he found in there. Then he sank an ammunition ship on the way out. But Warburton-Lee was killed.” And that last was the worst news of all.

  The destroyer set out for home, escorting the two transports. The men from Hornet lined the rails of the Wilhelmina to cheer and Miller, their captain, waved his cap from her bridge. Ellis saluted from the bridge of the Ailsa Grange while his soldiers cheered from her deck and Woodman held up both arms, thumbs up.

  Before Ellis and Woodman had gone back to the Ailsa Grange the major had spoken privately with Smith in a corner of Cassandra’s bridge. “I may have been impatient and short-tempered this last day or two. If so, I apologise.” Smith thought, May? And grinned at him.

  Ellis took that as forgiveness and went on with relief, “To tell you the truth, this job was very important to me. I’d been twice passed over for promotion. It was bad luck on the colonel, breaking his leg but it gave me a chance. At the same time, I was afraid I’d make a muck of it. As it is, we’ve pulled it off. Due to you, really, but some of the glory will rub off on me as the senior soldier.” It was his turn to grin at Smith. “We both know how it is. So thank you.” He held out his hand and Smith shook it.

  Then a minute or two later Woodman came to the bridge and said impulsively, “I wish I was going with you, sir.”

  Smith, startled, said drily, “You might well have regretted it. And your orders attach you to Major Ellis. He may need you yet. But thank you for your efforts. You did a good job.” Then as the young man went down into the boat to take him to the Ailsa Grange, Smith thought, Thank you for the vote of confidence.

  Now Ben Kelso said glumly, “We should have kept that lad.”

  Galloway agreed, “He’s a first-class interpreter.”

  Smith, standing at the salute at the front of the bridge in acknowledgment of the cheers, said straight-faced, “Yes, but he’s a little too conventional. He lacks Ben’s dash and ability to improvise. I’m looking forward to hearing him again.”

  That brought laughter from the bridge behind him and Ben Kelso muttered into his beard, “Buggered if I am.”

  Smith took Cassandra north. The reaction that always seized him when the fighting was done had come soon after Brandenburg had been left somewhere astern. It had wracked him but had gone some two hours before, so now his gloved hands rested on the arms of his chair and were not rammed into the pockets of his bridge-coat to hide their shaking. But he knew there was more action to come. Instinct warned him and logic confirmed that instinct; enemy destroyers could not be left undisturbed in Narvik.

  Midnight had come and gone. Cassandra had made her second rendezvous, this time with Admiral Forbes’ Fleet blockading Narvik, and now she was on patrol in the Vestfjord that led to the port and was ten miles wide at this point. In the afternoon and evening watches Smith had snatched a few hours of precious sleep in his sea cabin at the back of the bridge. Now he was back in his chair. There were only occasional flurries of snow now but the night was pitch black under an overcast sky.

  “Ship Green Four-Oh!” That was the starboard lookout’s hoarse call.

  Smith lifted his glasses and stared out over the starboard bow, thought he saw a blurred shadow in the night but then lost it. “Anybody else see it?” And when no one answered: “Lookout! D’you still see her? Course? Speed?”

  “Don’t see her now, sir. Couldn’t say about her course and speed. Maybe about the same as ours. Looked like a cruiser, but I only saw her for a couple o’ seconds…”

  He paused, hesitating, and Smith prompted, “Go on.”

  “Might have been imagination, sir, but I thought she had the look of Brandenburg.”

  Smith thought it might well have been imagination, a result of stretched nerves and recent actions and sightings, Brandenburg seeming to haunt them, but … He ordered, “Starboard ten.” Because he, too, had thought the ship was Brandenburg. He picked up the telephone as Cassandra’s head came around. Her crew were already at action stations but now he spoke to Sandy Faulknor in the director tower above the bridge, “We may be on the trail of Brandenburg.”

  Brandenburg’s port side lookout had reported to the bridge, “Ship port quarter!”

  Moehle looked for the vessel but did not see it. “Anyone?”

  Kurt Larsen answered, “No, sir.” And the lookout had lost sight of the ship now.

  Moehle had been prepared to meet British ships in these waters but he did not want a fight now. He held to his course. He had embarked Grundmann’s five wounded men at Bergsund. They were below in the sickbay and Brandenburg’s surgeon believed all of them would recover. Moehle was now headed for Narvik because his orders were to join the destroyers in Narvik fjord. He did not like those orders because he believed he could be taking Brandenburg into a trap. He knew the destroyers in there needed any help he could give them but in his opinion they should have been pulled out forty-eight hours ago, before the British destroyers led by Warburton-Lee had struck. They had not and had been badly mauled as a consequence. It might be too late for any of them now.

  Smith and all the other searching eyes aboard Cassandra did not see Brandenburg again that night but there was another sighting. This one proved to be no more than an open boat with a mast and a lug sail. It appeared suddenly out of the darkness, and close. The sail wa
s bellied out by the wind that drove the boat seaward like a train, with the outflow from the fjord helping it on. Harry Vincent, who had the watch, yelled, “Just look at her! Making better’n ten knots!”

  Seconds after they sighted her the boat swung into the wind and hung there, sail shivering, as Cassandra rushed down on it. Then Smith stopped her to windward to make a lee and let her drift down to the boat. He thought, They’re ready to turn and run.

  There were two men in the boat. One, wrapped in a tarpaulin, was huddled in the stern. He was tending the tiller and the sheet, using both now to keep the boat’s head to wind. The other man was bailing wearily but stopped when Cassandra hung above him. He cupped his hands to make a funnel and bawled through them, “Is that the Navy?”

  Harry grumbled, “What the hell does he think we are? The Isle of Wight ferry?” But then he answered, booming through the loudhailer, “Yes! Are you British?” Because all of them on the bridge had expected the men in the boat to be Norwegian.

  But then the reply came from the man in the stern of the boat, a thick Yorkshire accent, “Aye! And bloody glad to see ye!”

  They had to be lifted from the boat, seamen from Cassandra climbing down a scrambling net hung over her side to put a line around each of the two men. They staggered and weaved when they stood on the ship’s deck. Smith talked to them in his sea cabin with Galloway listening in. The faces of both were drawn and stubbled, their eyes slitted with exhaustion. As Cassandra got under way again Smith asked, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  The one who had bailed wore a bedraggled overcoat, a scarf knotted at his throat and a chequered tweed cap pulled down tight on his head so it would not blow away on the wind. He peered out at Smith from under its peak but it was the Yorkshireman from the sternsheets, still wearing the tarpaulin like a cloak, who answered, “Ted Smethurst, seaman in the old John Hopkins.” He jerked his thumb at the other, “Wilf Collins here, he was the cook.”

  He paused as a steward entered and thrust steaming mugs at them. They muttered their thanks, cuddled the mugs in clasped hands and sucked greedily at the thick brown cocoa. Then Ted Smethurst licked his lips and went on, “Our ship was lying in Narvik, loading iron ore, when Jerry came in. That was the day afore yesterday, first thing in the morning. They took us all ashore and locked us up in a school, officers in one classroom, the rest of us crammed in the others. The windows were welded shut and there were sentries outside but they let us out for exercise first thing in t’morning and then late on. They marched the whole crew of us out into the yard last neet, just as it were gettin’ dark. One o’ the Jerries used his rifle to shove a big Scotch lad —”