by Alan Evans
Smith was aware of it but raised a hand in acknowledgment, saving his breath. He turned off the road into the trees, slowed to a walk and motioned to Merrick to take the lead. Merrick took it, had been fretting for it and muttered to himself under his breath, “I should have been here as soon as we broke out. You’ve got more guts than sense sometimes — sir.”
Smith glanced over his shoulder and saw the ragged column of rescuers and rescued winding through the trees behind him and Buckley close on his heels. In place of the soft drumming of boots on the snow-packed road there was the crunch as they compressed untrodden snow and the low crackle of dead wood underfoot. Could that be heard on the road where the guard stood? It had not sounded so loud when he had led his little group in. But now there were three times as many feet and instead of picking their way cautiously, they were hurrying.
He faced forward again as Merrick held up his hand. Smith did the same and heard the rustle of the column die away as it halted, but he went on to stand by Merrick. The lieutenant pointed. There was the guard hut but now there were four soldiers on the road outside it, all peering into the forest. Smith thought he could see others at the windows, thrown open — there was no reflection from glass. The men on the road seemed to stare straight at Smith.
Merrick whispered, “I don’t know if they’ve seen anything or maybe heard us, sir. We’re making a hell of a row.” The tall figure of Lugg showed on his right now, another marine on his other side.
Smith answered, “The shots will have brought them out. We can’t help making a noise now. We haven’t the time to go quietly.” They were in a race, and if they lost it they would be dead or prisoners again.
There came a yell from the road, a challenge or a warning but unintelligible. Then a shot cracked out and Smith heard the bullet rip through the branches close overhead. He told Lugg, “Fire!” The rifle blasted close by his ear, one-two-three quick shots as the corporal worked the bolt. One of the guards on the road fell and the others ran back into the hut for cover, dragging him by his arms.
Smith shouted at Merrick, “Get ‘em moving! At the double! Tell ‘em to keep as low as they can but to run like hell!” Because there was no time to wriggle cautiously around the guard-post making use of cover. They would have to rely on the trees and the darkness. And that darkness would be total now for the guards; every time one fired the muzzle-flash from his Mauser carbine would destroy the night vision of all of them for minutes on end.
That worked two ways. Smith found himself groping from tree to tree as he followed Lugg, just a tall blur in the night as he ran forward again. But every dozen strides he would halt and throw a rapid shot at the guard hut. When Smith turned his head he saw the flashes where other marines were doing the same. That served to keep the guards’ heads down. There was little firing coming from the hut in that first minute or two. After that it intensified but by then Smith had left the guard post behind him, the trees thinned ahead and suddenly he and Lugg were out on the road again. They had passed the post and a curve in the road hid them from the guards in the hut.
Buckley and Kelso came out of the trees then, followed by two marines and the first of the merchant seamen. Smith waved them on and told Lugg, “Keep going! Quick march!” And to Kelso, “Take the lead with Lugg! All the way to the shore and call in the boats!”
“Sir!” Kelso panted away after Lugg, now striding rapidly up the road. He was obeying Smith’s order to “Quick march”, given because few of the seamen would be able to run at the double for long.
He called to them as they trotted past, “Did anyone fall? Look at the people with you — is anyone missing?” No one answered but some shook their heads and Wilf Collins was one of them. He was with the last of the crew to come out of the forest, trotting along beside his skipper, Harry Bentall. He had looked to be one of the oldest men and now he slowed his shuffling trot to a walk to match the others ahead of him, wheezing and gasping.
Merrick came last of all with four marines. Smith told him, “Kelso has the lead, taking them down to the boats. We’ll bring up the rear. Did you see any stragglers or wounded?”
The lean Merrick, sweating despite the cold, answered, “No, sir.” Then they started after the tail-end of the strung-out column, darkness hiding the head of it. That was when Smith found Buckley had hung back and was trotting along with him. There was still scattered firing behind them as the guards in the hut fired at fancied targets. And there was another sound from the direction of the town behind them, that of engines being gunned.
Merrick glanced at Smith, “Sounds like trucks coming up the road after us, sir.”
Smith nodded and pointed at the next curve in the grey ribbon of the road, “We’ll wait there.” And at that curve they took cover in the trees, the marines throwing themselves down in the snow, rifles pointing back the way they had come. They did not have long to wait.
The first truck swayed around the last bend in the road, just over a hundred yards away, and Smith ordered, “Fire!” The six rifles fired as one and at that range they could not miss. The leading truck snaked on the slippery surface as the driver braked. Then it slid, or was driven, off the road and into the forest with a crackling of snapped branches and a flurry of snow shaken down. The second truck was only a few yards behind the first, followed its wild career but finished in the trees on the other side of the road.
Both of them now had some cover in the forest. Men could be glimpsed jumping from them but made poor targets. The marines fired at them but Smith did not see any fall. Then the return fire came at them, snarling past or kicking bark from the trees, cutting twigs to fall on them. Smith was prone as the others now. He did not fire the Colt because at that range he knew he would be lucky to hit a truck, let alone any of the men hidden in the forest and only marked by the prickling flames of their carbines. And not only carbines. There were several sub-machine-guns chattering in short bursts. His little holding party here was heavily outnumbered and outgunned, could not hope to survive for more than a minute or two.
Head turning, he watched those orange tongues. So when Merrick looked over at Smith he was ready and anticipated the lieutenant. “Yes, they’re outflanking us. Take two men and pull back to the next bend.” He waited as Merrick and his two men wriggled away into the trees. Once well into their cover they rose and went on in a crouching run then merged into the darkness. Buckley and the two marines still with him fired rapidly and steadily while continuously shifting their positions so that the enemy could not fix exactly where they were, nor how many faced him.
Smith counted to ten then shouted, “Fall back!” He started back through the trees, wriggling on his belly, but making sure that Buckley and the two marines were with him. Then they were up and going at a blundering, crouching, swerving trot through the darkness between the tall trunks as the bullets from the carbines clipped twigs from the branches over their heads.
In a hundred yards they came up with Merrick and his men, passed through the staggered line of their prone figures, dark against the snow, and ran on. The little hill lifted ahead and then they were climbing its gentle slope. A voice challenged out of the darkness of the crest, “Who goes there?”
Smith panted the password, “Cassandra.” The ground levelled off under his feet and he slowed to a walk, halted when he saw Sergeant Phillips rising out of that darkness almost at his feet.
Phillips reported, “Mr Kelso and the rest have gone down to the beach, sir. The boats are in.”
“Very good. Hold here until you •get the signal from Mr Merrick or myself, then get down to the boats as quick as you can. Understood?”
He saw Phillips’ teeth show white in a grin as he answered, “You bet, sir!”
Smith went on across the top of the hill, Buckley and the two marines still at his back. He heard Phillips challenge again, and the answer, “Cassandra!” That was Merrick and his men, forced to pull back already. That meant they had been in danger of being outflanked and their pursuers were mov
ing very fast. And how many? There had been two trucks and he guessed at thirty men. He had tried to count the muzzle flashes back there in the forest and he’d made it about thirty. And some of them were armed with sub-machine-guns, that cancelled out the fire-power of the two Brens with Sergeant Phillips. Smith broke into a run down the far side of the little hill. He had to get his men and the rescued prisoners into the boats and away. Quickly.
He heard the Brens come into action then, stuttering away behind him. The firing had built on itself and now was incessant, the racket seeming to echo all around him as he ran through the deeper darkness under the scattered trees. He stubbed his toe, staggered and fell. His head cracked on a root or rock and for a second the trees danced and circled him, then they were still.
Buckley’s hand clamped on his arm but Smith slapped it away and he pushed himself up. He snarled, “I’m all right, damn you!”. He ran on, legs shaky now and he had to wipe blood from one eye. It ran down from his head and it felt like the wound he had taken at the boarding of Altmark had been torn open again.
But the trees were thinning and then he was out on the road that ran along the shore, crossing it. Marines were sprawled on the far side behind their rifles, watching the forest, and Ben Kelso was on the beach beyond. Smith saw Per Kosskull’s boat with its bow drawn up on the shingle at the water’s edge, but not the two launches. But as he came up to Kelso, Ben told him, “I’ve got all the prisoners aboard the two launches and sent ‘em away. They’re lying off and waiting for us.” He stopped, leaned forward to stare at Smith’s bloody forehead and face and then started to ask, “Are you wounded —”
Smith cut him off, “No! Just bumped my head! Now get aboard!” He fumbled in his pocket, found the whistle and set it to his lips. He blew three shrill blasts, paused and blew three more. He heard the signal repeated from in the forest and knew that was Merrick. A minute later he trotted out of the forest with his two marines and came to Smith. He cast his eye, head turning, over the men lying by the road and then those with him, counting. Then he reported, “All present, sir. Except Phillips and his gang, of course.” He cocked his head on one side, listening. The Brens had ceased their stuttering. He said, “Sounds like he’s on his way now.”
Smith said, “Kelso’s aboard. Send your men down to the boat.” They filed past him down to the water’s edge, until only he and Merrick — and Buckley — were left on the beach by the road. Smith watched the trees in front of him. The firing had eased, become sporadic. But the firefly sparks of flame were either side of him now. That firing out on the flanks had to come from the mountain troops, shooting at shadows but closing in. Where was Phillips?
The marines came out of the trees in a shuffling group. Two of them carried the Brens while Phillips and the third carried the fourth between them, holding his arms across their shoulders, his head down on his chest and his legs dragging. As they crossed the road Phillips gasped, “He went arse over tip as we came down the hill — breathing all right but he’s out.”
Smith said drily, “He’s not the only one to have done that.”
Phillips glanced over his shoulder. “They seem to be all around us, sir.”
“Take him aboard! Give them a hand!” Smith shoved at Merrick and Buckley and they grabbed at the man’s legs and lifted them. Then with the four of them now sharing the weight they broke into a trot as they carried him down to the boat. Smith swept one last look around from right to left and as he did so saw three figures flitting pale between the trees on that left flank. He realised they were white-clad mountain troops even as one of them fired and he saw the lick of flame and heard the rip of the bullet past his ear.
They would use the men going down to the boat as targets, pick them off at will. He had brought his little force and the rescued prisoners this far without loss. Now they were threatened at this last by a handful of the enemy. Who held his daughter. He had hoped to find her this night and that hope had been dashed.
He ran at them, raging, lifting the big Colt.45 and squeezing at the trigger. They were firing at him and he heard again the ripping of air close by his head. He felt a tearing burn along the side of his jaw as if a steel-knuckled fist had swiped him. He was almost at the first of the trees when he saw one of them fall, then another. The third was right in front of him, working the bolt of his carbine frantically, lifting it. Then Smith was on him as the foot-long flame leapt from the barrel. He felt that sear his neck like the friction burn from a rope snatched tight. He pulled the trigger of the Colt but nothing happened. He had fired off the magazine and it was empty. So he used the two-and-a-half-pound steel weight of the pistol like a club to strike back and forth at the head within a yard of his own. He saw blood fly and the man fall away but he hit him again as he went down.
He stood over the three of them, taking gulping breaths, peering around him into the trees but seeing no one. He became conscious of voices yelling, turned and saw Buckley pounding towards him through the shingle, Merrick and Phillips coming after him. All of them were shouting to him to come back to the boat. He could only make out a word here and there because the Brens were firing from the boat, hosing the top of the hill with tracer. But he knew they were shouting at him to go back. It made sense.
He went with them, all silent now and hurrying. He climbed in over the bow last of all, stepped between the two marines prostrate behind the Bren guns on the roof of the cabin and jumped down into the well. Per Kosskull’s boat went astern and the Brens hammered again, now sweeping the trees at the back of the shore as the Mauser carbines opened up from there, and silencing them again. Donnelly spun the wheel, the boat turned and surged away. The shore receded, then was lost to sight.
Smith took the empty magazine out of the Colt and shoved in another taken from his pocket. He holstered the pistol and then had nothing to do with his hands to hide their shaking. He jammed them in his pockets.
Brandenburg’s launch slid in to the foot of the accommodation ladder hanging against her side. Kurt Larsen helped Sarah onto the ladder and preceded her as they climbed. A seaman carrying her suitcase brought up the rear and Fritsch was left to make his own way. As they all reached the deck Kurt pointed him towards the officer and party on duty at the head of the ladder. “They’re expecting you. They’ll find you a berth.” But Fritsch had to step aside and wait because the officer and his men were busy. The accommodation ladder was being hoisted inboard, the launch being hooked on preparatory to following it. He stood watching the work and scowling.
As Kurt led Sarah away he said with grim satisfaction, “He’s not exactly a welcome guest.” He took her to a cabin and set her suitcase down by the narrow bunk. One corner of his mouth lifted in what was half grin, half humorous grimace. “It’s not palatial but I think you’ll find it more comfortable than the hole you were in.”
“Thank you.” Sarah glanced around the little box of a cabin. “I had one like this when I was last aboard, before you transferred me to Altmark.” And before Fritsch had recognised her and taken her for his own prisoner. She found a smile for Kurt and still stood very straight.
He said, “I apologise for Fritsch. He is without honour.”
Sarah said flatly, “He is a monster. And he threatened you.”
Kurt said contemptuously, “He’s full of wind. He can’t touch me.” He hoped that was true but doubted it. His temper and his fondness for this girl had led him to set his career and maybe his life at risk by defying Fritsch.
But Sarah believed him and said with relief, “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to come to harm because of me.” They had been happy together in the days of peace and she had been fond of him, though no more than that.
They felt the deck rock gently beneath their feet. Brandenburg’s engines were turning over. She asked, “Are we sailing already?”
Kurt nodded, “We’re getting under way.” He hesitated a moment because she was. an enemy alien, a prisoner, but then he decided there was no harm in her knowing. He said, “Our ca
ptain is moving the ship down the fjord, an hour’s steaming nearer the sea. It’s too late to try to slip through the British blockade tonight. Tomorrow night we’ll sail as soon as it gets dark and have all the hours of darkness to cover our passage. We may be glad of that extra hour before we’re through.”
Sarah challenged him, “You may not get through.”
“It’s possible we may be seen and exchange fire,” he conceded, “but we won’t be stopped. The ships that are big enough to fight us are too slow and the ones that can catch us we can deal with. But the night will be our ally and will hide us as we slip away.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure if I were you.”
Kurt grinned at that, “I’m not over-confident.” He thought that there was one particular cruiser that had bedevilled Brandenburg for months now, and said seriously, “You can always get a nasty surprise at sea.”
He stepped back to the doorway and indicated the curtain hanging there. “As when you were aboard before, there’s no door but I’ll close this and it will give you privacy. But don’t try to wander; there’s a sentry outside. Goodnight.”
Sarah answered, “Goodnight.” As the curtain was drawn across she sat down on the edge of the bunk. Brandenburg’s engines were beating more rapidly now, the rocking motion more pronounced as she worked up speed. And Sarah knew that every turn of the screws was taking her nearer Germany. Once there she would do as Fritsch said or …
They were out in the Ofotfjord and Per Kosskull’s boat had the lead now, the two launches following in line astern. Smith stood beside Donnelly at the wheel, his arms resting on the roof of the cabin, peering ahead. The two Bren gunners were now in the well behind him but their places on the cabin roof had been taken by the two seamen acting as lookouts. And Smith had told them crisply, “Keep a sharp lookout! We’re not out of the wood yet!” Nor would they be for some hours.
