Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Even as Smith watched the door of the hut opened, letting out a band of yellow light like a torch’s beam. It sprang out across the road into the forest and spilled over Smith and Merrick. They froze.

  Two men came out of the hut and the door closed behind them. The murmur of voices came faintly on the cold air as the three men, now outside the hut, talked. Then the original sentry went back to the hut with one of the two newcomers, leaving the other to take his place on the road. The door opened and closed, the band of light splashing across the road and wiped out again. Smith and Merrick had witnessed the changing of the guard by an NCO.

  They moved on. Smith turned his head on his shoulder and saw that the marine marching a dozen yards in his rear was following again. The whole column was in motion.

  Then they rounded a bend in the road and now anyone on it would no longer be in sight of the sentry. Merrick led on to the road again and trod once more at its edge. Smith waited there, waved the next marine — Corporal Lugg — on and when he had passed saw Wilf Collins, Buckley and Kelso coming up. Smith beckoned them and then strode off after Lugg.

  Now they were back on the road again the long file shook out into its original formation. So when they approached the side road on their left all four of them were trailing Merrick and Lugg. The cook said in a hoarse whisper, “That’s the road up to the hospital.” They were still fifty yards away and saw a car pull out of the side road. They froze again but it turned away from them, swung around the next corner and disappeared. They went on again and passed the road leading to the hospital. There were streets of houses now to their right and ahead where the road they were on widened. And here it forked, one branch going on, the other swinging to the left. Wilf Collins nodded towards the latter, “That’s it. The school’s down there — ‘bout a coupla hundred yards.”

  Merrick turned and asked Smith, “Close up, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Now they were entering on the period of greatest risk. The road leading down to the school was empty. Smith could see the building behind its fence at the end of it. There was a light showing in the school and others in the houses to the right, but no streetlights. The left side of the road was shadowed by the trees that overhung it — growing in the hospital grounds? The shadows offered some cover as the column moved forward again, all on that left side of the road and with only a few feet between each man and the next.

  Smith halted when only the width of the road separated him from the gates of the school. These were closed but they were made of slatted timber and he could see through to the yard beyond. A sentry stood inside the gate. The main door set in the face of the building was closed and a car stood in front of it. He whispered to Wilf Collins, “I can’t see any other sentries?”

  The cook breathed in his ear, “T’other one’s round the back. That door at the front — there’s a passage inside it that runs right through to another door at the rear. Sentry wanders up and down behind the house. We could see him at it from our window. Couldn’t open the bastard anyway, though. They’d welded it shut.”

  And inside that front door, on the right, was the guardroom. Collins had told Smith earlier that he thought there were about eight or ten soldiers altogether, with an NCO. Smith’s little group outnumbered them, but first they had to get inside. He said, “They’ve strung barbed wire along the top of the fence.”

  The fence itself was barely six feet high and slatted timber, like the gates, no obstacle for an agile marine. But now the wire, running on metal supports, added a further two feet of height and a crucial hazard.

  Collins whispered, “That weren’t there before. They’ve just done that since we got out.”

  And because he and Ted Smethurst had escaped. Before it would have been comparatively easy for Lugg or Phillips to have quietly rolled over the fence and stolen up on the sentry inside the gate. Not now. Smith swore under his breath. He was conscious of Merrick close behind him, waiting for orders. And the others, doubtless uneasy now at this delay. They were exposed here. If he sent Lugg or Phillips to try to scale the fence and the man was caught on the wire…An attempt to break in by main force might succeed but there would be shooting, men killed and wounded. They would then be faced with a fighting retreat for half a mile, carrying the wounded, before they reached the doubtful safety of the boats. He would not risk men’s lives in that way.

  Should he abandon the enterprise after having come this far?

  Sarah sat in the only chair and Kurt Larsen stood under the high window. Hauptsturm-führer Gerhard Fritsch waited by the door, restlessly shifting from one foot to the other. He had driven the Mercedes there with Kurt in the passenger seat beside him. They had gone first to the hospital, where Kurt had visited the wounded transferred from Brandenburg. He had gone to make sure they were being well treated, because their ship was about to sail. He had also wanted to go with Fritsch on this trip on account of the girl. Fritsch had talked as he swung the car through the streets of the little town because he was nervous. Kurt had answered in monosyllables or not at all. He knew more about Fritsch now and did not want to betray his feelings.

  But now it was he who said, “We’re taking you out of this hole.” He looked around with distaste at the bare little room, little more than a cupboard.

  Fritsch put in, “I told you it might not be for long.” He inspected the room in his turn and went on, “But anyway, it is good enough. There are worse places. You must ask Mai Wising to tell you about them.”

  Sarah ignored him and answered Kurt, “Thank you.”

  Kurt’s anger that had simmered for weeks, born of his outrage at what he had learned of Fritsch, boiled over. He forgot Fritsch was an officer in another service with the power of life and death. He rapped out the knowledge that enraged him: “About that lady — Frau Rösing. Before we sailed on this operation I had a week’s leave. I made some enquiries.” He had had to be discreet; asking questions about concentration camp prisoners could lead to the questioner being arrested for ‘interrogation’. “Frau Wising and her child died on Christmas Day. The child of malnutrition and pneumonia. The mother took her own life.”

  Sarah stared at him, a part of her mind rejecting what he had told her as too horrible to be true. But she knew it was. And Fritsch had lied to her from the beginning, from that first interview aboard Altmark. He had known then that Mai Rösing was dead.

  Kurt said, “So you don’t have to give in to blackmail on that score.”

  “Shut your mouth! You’ve said enough!” Now Fritsch was angry, his fears forgotten for a moment. His narrowed eyes shifted to Sarah and he threatened her, “You’ll still do as you’re told if you know what’s good for you. We know a few tricks to make the stubborn ones cooperate and you will. And if the Rösing bitch and her whelp have gone I can soon find a replacement. You have other friends,” and he shot a malevolent glance at Kurt, “whose loyalty to the State may be found to be suspect.”

  Kurt recognised that threat to himself and knew it was real. He had said too much, should have waited until he could tell the girl on her own. While he was on his ship and under Moehle’s protection he was safe, but once back in Germany Fritsch would have the power of the Gestapo behind him. But that realisation only fanned the flame of Kurt’s anger.

  Fritsch threw open the door, “Let’s get out of here.” He reached out and gripped Sarah’s arm, dragged her out into the passage. Then Kurt’s fist smashed onto his forearm and he grunted with pain and let the girl go. She fell back against the wall and Kurt held her overcoat, helped her into it, then picked up her case.

  He took her arm, but gently, and said, “Come.” They started along the passage.

  Sarah walked with her head up, shaken and furious, hating Fritsch. Mai and her baby … She asked stiffly, “Where are you taking me?”

  Fritsch answered from behind her, rubbing the muscle that Kurt had numbed, “To Berlin.” There was triumph in his voice.

  Kurt said, “You’re going aboard my ship, Bran
denburg. He won’t touch you there.” But afterwards?

  They passed the guardroom, Fritsch waving a hand at the Unterfeldwebel inside, and then were out in the cold night air. Fritsch said, “We sail within the hour.” He had come to Narvik confident that the Wehrmacht would overrun Norway, but now he had seen two of Bonte’s destroyers sunk in Narvik harbour and three more so badly damaged they were unfit to fight an action. Bonte himself was dead and what was left of his flotilla was now commanded by Kommodore Bey. And outside the mouth of Narvik fjord cruised a fleet of the Royal Navy.

  Suddenly it seemed the invasion might fail. Fritsch had learned that Brandenburg had received orders to return to Kiel. He had gone to her captain and showed him a letter of authority signed by Himmler and given to him before he left Germany. He had demanded passage for himself and his prisoner as business of the State. Moehle had reluctantly agreed.

  Fritsch slid in behind the wheel of the Mercedes, started the engine and sat with fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel as Kurt opened the rear door. He helped Sarah in and passed her the suitcase before taking the front passenger seat. As Kurt closed the door Fritsch let in the clutch and the Mercedes shot forward, turned tightly then headed for the gate. Sarah held on to the seat in front of her as the car rocked under the acceleration. She saw the sentry swinging the gate wide and then they were through and still accelerating as Fritsch gunned the car up the road.

  He was running in fear for his life and Sarah was going with him.

  16

  Smith saw the three figures emerge from the school and go to the car. He spoke rapidly to Merrick and Corporal Lugg standing close behind him, his head half turned on his shoulder to throw the low-voiced orders at them but eyes still on the school. Then the sentry started to open the gate and Smith reached back a hand to tap Lugg on the shoulder, “Go!”

  The tall, heavy-shouldered Corporal crossed the road, running lightly and keeping the right-hand gatepost between him and the sentry. He stopped in the slender cover of that gatepost — the gate was hinged on the other post — and stayed pressed up against it. The car swerved out of the gateway and turned to race away up the road towards the town. The sentry pulled the gate around to close it and was almost at the post when Lugg slipped around it. He took the sentry by the throat with one hand while the other jabbed a bayonet’s point under the man’s chin, forcing back his head.

  Smith was already running, Merrick and the rest chasing him. They shoved through the gate and ran past Lugg who was walking his man backwards to the door of the school. Smith was first through that door, seeing the empty passage stretching away before him, kicking open the door of the guardroom on the right and going in with the big Colt.45 pointed. He stopped with the muzzle of it only a foot from the face of the Unterfeldwebel. Then the room was filling with marines, backing the startled soldiers against the wall while their NCO sat very still with hands splayed on his desk in front of him. He stared down the muzzle of the pistol and swallowed again and again.

  Smith left him to the marines. He turned and Buckley, standing close behind him, moved quickly out of the way to let him pass. In the passage he met two marines bringing in the sentry from the rear of the building. He looked as dazed as his counterpart from the front gate, now being pushed into the guardroom by Lugg. Smith asked, “Any trouble?”

  One of the marines shook his head, “No, sir! We opened the back door nice and quiet and there he was, only a few yards away and with his back to us, stamping his feet to keep warm. So he never heard us till we were right on top of him.”

  “Very good. Put him with the others.”

  Now Merrick emerged, with men coming out of doors along the passage behind him. The doors had been smashed open by the boots or rifle-butts of the marines. The men crowding out into the passage were dressed in a mixture of overcoats, well-worn serge suits, overalls — whatever they had been wearing or able to grab when they were captured.

  Merrick said, “I told ‘em to keep quiet, sir. No cheering or bloody nonsense of that sort.”

  Collins, at Smith’s shoulder, said, “What abaht the bit o’ stuff?”

  Smith turned to look at him, “You mean a woman? A prisoner here? British?”

  The cook shrugged. “She was a prisoner, but she had a room of her own somewhere. We never got to talk to her — only saw her at the other end o’ the yard when we was let out to stretch our legs t’other night — but we thought she was English. She looked like one of our gals, but I suppose she might ha’ been Norwegian.”

  Smith’s eyes searched the crowd and he asked, “Did you find the young woman that Mr Collins says was here?” Merrick answered, “No, sir.”

  Wilf Collins muttered at Smith’s shoulder, “That’s our skipper.”

  He stood at the front of the men, a man in his fifties, burly and greying, red-faced. He introduced himself, “Harry Bentall, Master. I heard what you said about the lass. I don’t know her nationality. She was blonde, twenty or maybe a bit older, good-looking girl.”

  Collins nodded emphatic agreement, “A cracker. Not tall, mebbe five-two or three. But she stands very straight, looked down her nose at them guards.”

  Now he and Bentall were both nodding. The skipper said, “I think they’ve moved her. Only a few minutes ago I heard her voice out in the passage and then the front door opening. She was with somebody, one man or two, and they were talking German — the lass as well, I mean. We thought she might be British, but now I don’t know.”

  Could that be Sarah? But —

  Ben Kelso came from the guardroom. “I’ve talked to the sergeant or whatever he is in there. He says the woman has gone. I asked who she was but he says, he didn’t know.” He finished apologetically, “That’s all I can manage, sir.”

  Smith said, “Thank you.” If the woman was his daughter then he had watched her driven away. Sarah had passed within a score of yards of where he stood in the shadows.

  He looked around him, then lifted his voice, “Wrap up the guards and we’ll be on our way.” He strode to the front door while Merrick and his marines set to work. They herded the former guards into one of the rooms from which the prisoners had come and locked the door. Then they hauled desks and chairs out of other rooms and piled them in the passage, blocking that door.

  Meanwhile Smith had opened the front door a crack and was peering out at the gate across the yard. It was shut — the last man in had done that. As the seconds ticked by and the crashing of furniture lessened then ceased he saw no one in the road outside. Then Merrick said at his back, “Ready, sir.”

  Smith turned and spoke to the merchant seamen filling the passage. They were whispering excitedly among themselves and shuffling their feet, eager to be gone from this prison. But his voice cracked harsh and urgent, silencing them: “You’ve been told to keep quiet. When we leave here you do exactly as you’re told and quickly. We can’t wait for stragglers.” They looked into the ice-blue eyes in the thin face and were still, breath held. Then he said, “Come on!” He threw the door wide, ran across the yard and they surged after him.

  Already the marines had shaken out into a loose screen surrounding the escaped prisoners. Merrick and a pair of marines were only a pace behind Smith. With them came Buckley and Kelso, Wilf Collins puffing between them. They checked for a moment as Merrick swung back the gate, then Smith was out in the road. When he saw the car he shouted, “March!”

  It was a black saloon and had turned into the road, coming from the town, and was running down towards the school. It braked when the driver saw the hurrying crowd of men crossing ahead of him, armed soldiers escorting them. The car skidded on the snow and stopped broadside across the road. A window wound down on the passenger’s side and a man leaned out his head, an arm and a shoulder. He wore the soft-topped cap with a small peak and silver eagle of the mountain infantry.

  Smith thought, An officer. Come to inspect the guard and make sure they’re alert? He kept up the bluff and bellowed, “Achtung!” Then he saluted,
looking the officer full in the face. He was still aware from the corner of his eye that Merrick and the marines were marching as he had ordered, rifles shouldered and arms swinging. He could hear Ben Kelso cursing softly.

  The officer stared at them, uncertain for a long few seconds, only a score of yards away but too far for Lugg to attack with his bayonet, too close for the officer to be fooled. Smith did not want shooting but now he saw the blank face under the cap take on outraged life. The arm was withdrawn into the car and the shoulder shrugged furiously. Smith knew he was wrestling a pistol from its holster. Meanwhile the car reversed, starting to turn to go back the way it had come. The hand came out of the window holding the pistol and Smith lifted the Colt.45 and fired three times.

  The shots cracked loudly but flat, without echo, muffled by the snow and the cold air. A tyre collapsed on the car and it skidded again. Smith did not know where the other two shots went but the hand holding the pistol jerked back into the car, the head with it. The engine was revving and the wheels spinning on the snow, then they found traction and the car fled back along the road, rear end sliding sideways as it took the corner at speed and then was lost to sight.

  Smith said, “Blast! That’ll wake ‘em up.” He broke into a run again.

  Merrick said beside him, “You couldn’t do anything else, sir. He’d have hit somebody for sure. He couldn’t miss a crowd like this and we don’t want to have to cope with casualties.”

  Smith knew that was true, had known it when he opened fire; as he knew now that they would be hunted.

  He glanced behind him and slowed to a trot. He could not run all the way back to the boats, nor could the prisoners he had rescued, several of them men older than himself. Wilf Collins was ten years younger but already he was dragging his feet and rocking in his stride. They passed the side road leading to the hospital, saw no one and trotted on. They did not take to the forest until Merrick prompted, “Coming to that block in a minute, sir.”