On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1)

by Anthony Molloy

  The Oberjager, bobbed his head, clicked his heels and turning smartly away checked for the reassuring presence of the hip flask.

  * * *

  The Mentor was all knowing…all seeing. Hadn’t he prophesied exactly what the prey would do. The other had arrived exactly as he had foretold. He travelled on foot, the Mentor had made sure of that when he had the vehicles destroyed. He slowed at the bend, as it had been decreed he would, the snake must now ensure that the man died in the way ordained by his Mentor.

  It smelt the man’s fear as he died, as he wriggled pathetically in the last long embrace. The fear was strong, rank, acrid; he sucked it deep into his lungs. It gave him strength… it made him one with his Mentor. There would be no reinforcements for the others now, but the snake had one more kill, at a hut in the forest….

  * * *

  ‘Eddy’

  Grant had a moment of doubt, by now the German destroyer, for that matter the whole occupied coastline, must know of the captured E-boats. Try to bluff it out or not?…It might buy Crosswall-Brown some time, some breathing space: it might not. Without taking the binoculars from his eyes he shouted, “Middy! the youngster appeared alongside him, oilskin shining like black oil. “Make to Jerry, We have a captured enemy Schnellboote. Others are in the area. Last known position Latitude 64 degrees north Longitude nine degrees east’… Get that off quickly, and then…” he paused, the moment he had dreaded, since that last leave, had now arrived, “Signal the ‘Dirty Four’… ‘Act independently… Engage the enemy…” Something caught in his throat. He swallowed quickly. “Add, ‘God’s speed’. “ Fighting to keep his voice steady he bent to the wheelhouse voice pipe. “Come to port, steer west twenty north. Full ahead all engines.”

  * * *

  The snake could see the hut now as he slid steadily nearer through the misty half-light before dawn. When the light came he would take another. It would be his last task, the last of the commands, for a moment he felt confusion, were they the commands of the Mentor or of the other called Bushel. It mattered not for it knew it was what the Mentor wanted.

  It heard the sound of men in whispered conversation. The snake stretched its long body forward, turned towards the sound, a half smile on its face as it tasted the air with a wet tongue. Here he would take only one, the head one. It would remove the head like a chicken and leave the body to die in its own juices. Something laughed quietly.

  The snake had known the head-prey would be here even if the other called Bushel hadn’t; a testimony to the superiority of the snake over the other. It had to stop himself from chuckling, the Mentor did not like noise…noise was the enemy of the hunter. It grinned, half sneer, half revulsion at man’s inadequacy, its head extended, tongue licking at its stained teeth. A devil’s face, sick with sin. It would wait…wait until the prey was ready, ripe…it would be soon. The striped-blackened face with the mad yellow eyes merged silently back into the dense foliage.

  * * *

  It had fallen quiet as Bushel had expected. Jerry would be re-positioning, waiting for first light, readying for the off, what he would have done in the same circumstances.

  There wouldn’t have been more than fifty Germans in those three half-tracks. No one would have survived the mining of that first vehicle that would leave thirty… maybe more….but then they had accounted for a few since…less than thirty then. If ‘Snake’ had survived to do his bit there would be no reinforcements. Thirty…It was still enough to take this place if they knew their stuff … if their officers were still alive.

  * * *

  Marine Blake, unseen, watched Oberjager Hofmann and his men removing their skis. Another five or ten yards and they would have been in the perfect position, in amongst the first of the explosives. As it was they had stopped too far back. He would have to be patient. They would have to come nearer, plenty of time. They looked like experienced soldiers, judging by their kit, possibly Alpine Troops. He had trained with their sort in Norway before the war. He knew how good they had to be… they wouldn’t be squadies on skis. About fifteen as far as he could see, though it was difficult to tell exactly. He eased the safety on the Bren and checked the sights for snow.

  By the time he looked back they were spreading out and had begun to move forward. He gave one quick burst on the Bren… Brrrr! They were good, inside one second there was nobody there. He’d got one for definite, maybe another wounded, he could hear groaning.

  He reached out to his right and pushed down on the first plunger. The explosion was muffled by the snow…disappointing, anticlimactic even, but the effects weren’t. Men flew out from behind trees. He guessed five…six, somersaulting through the air like rag dolls, dead before they hit the snow.

  Angry orange tongues flickered back from the trees as the troops returned fire. As he’d hoped his earlier short burst had gone undetected, the fire was erratic, random, a gut-scared reaction. They had no idea where he was… and he had no plans to enlighten them…yet.

  * * *

  M.T.B.34

  Crosswall-Brown’s signalman struggled to read the message from Grant’s boat; it was directed towards the enemy destroyer, not towards them, a mere loom of light.

  “Enemy destroyer has challenged the ‘Eddy’, sir. She replied, I think she asked if the destroyer had sighted something or the other, but I couldn’t be sure… ‘Eddy’ signalling us now sir…reads…’Act independently… Engage the enemy…God’s Speed’.”

  Crosswall-Brown yelled above the roar of the engines. “Hoist Battle Ensigns… Stand by torpedo tubes…Stand by depth charges. Guns hold your fire until my order. “Helmsman! Starboard wheel…” he leant quickly over the compass, “Steer east twenty south!”

  Crosswall-Brown looked down at his hands, they had been shaking badly, now they had stopped, it was always like that. He’d be all right now. He had always known he was more afraid of being afraid then of anything else.

  “Middy we’ll go in… close range… torpedoes first then depth charges,” he yelled, “Signalman make to enemy destroyer, “Enemy astern of you… am attacking.”

  They bounced in, the roar of the aero engines mounting to a screaming crescendo; twenty knots… twenty-five knots. She began to punch into each wave like a prize-fighter at a punch bag. Thirty knots. She wouldn’t take much more… not in this sea. The range was closing at a colossal sixty knots. They were hurtling towards each other at a mile a minute. His beloved ‘Dirty Four’ was banging across the sea’s surface like a skipping stone, great spurts of water jetting from her wooden sides each time she hit solid water. He loved this boat! He wished he’d had time to circle round, come in from windward. Then she would have flown across the surface like an albatross. Suddenly he remembered one of Barr’s saying ‘War affords very few luxuries, time isn’t one of them.’

  He wiped his binoculars dry on the towel hanging damp around his neck and, choosing his moment carefully, peered at the enemy warship. Time for one quick look and then the spray drenched them again. Time enough to see the barrels were training in his direction. He looked astern, they were hard to miss, the spray they displaced as their full weight smacked into each wave, shone with a luminance better than any flare.

  “Enemy vessel signalling, ‘Veer away… or I will… fire.”

  He wiped quickly at the glasses, snatched another look. He was looking straight down the barrels of the destroyer. He felt like a man about to commit suicide. He been in action before, many times, but not like this. This was different. This was no dead-end decision, devoid of choice. He had time to turn and run, time to think of the consequences if he didn’t. The crew had no choice, another ‘luxury’ not afforded. So this was bravery; this selfish unthinking madness. He shut out the thought. He’d become good at that at least. Another quick look, she’d turned broadside on, he could see her entire length. Suddenly the destroyer disappeared, obliterated by smoke and stabbing flame. A full broadside was on its way.

  He bawled, “Come to port two points!” and then above t
he roar of salvo crashing by, “Torpedomen… Ready torpedoes... Standby… Standby…The bow steadied like a training gun. “Launch!…Launch!…Launch!” Immediately there was a flash of liquid silver light and two ghostly shapes shot forward into the soaring bow wave.

  “We’re going round her stern…Stand by depth charges. Set shallow.”

  The swerving, leaping, vulnerable M.T.B. shot down the destroyer’s port side. Close in, too fast for the main armament to follow. The cannon on the destroyer’s bridge opened up, rounds of deadly 20 mil bullets, kicking water, chased the sprinting grey form. The destroyer was swinging now, under full helm, towards the torpedo’s glittering moonlit tracks; swinging to present the smallest target possible to the thousand pounds of high explosive hurtling towards her.

  Abruptly the bridge began to shake to a well remembered, inescapable beat. The destroyer’s cannon had found the range, punching quick holes through the wooden structure, they drilled their way forward, scattering splinters and men as they went. They penetrated the flimsy bridge screen as if it were paper, lifting Crosswall-Brown off his feet with consummate ease. The impact threw him the width of his bridge. His hurtling body crashed through the thick glass, smacked into the starboard machine gun’s smoking barrel and dropped at the feet of the young and horrified gunner.

  On what was left of the bridge, an appalled midshipman, now in sole command of thirty knots of careering metal stood in catatonic shock. The enemy’s stern reared to port and he screamed, “Hard aport… launch depth charge!”

  The careering battered M.T.B. took the corner like a greyhound on a racetrack bend. A wall of foaming water enveloped her as she bounced across the destroyer’s foaming wake.

  The depth charge was sucked into the foam-mountain, as if it had never been. The men on the destroyer’s bridge knew nothing of the deadly drum as it disappeared quickly into their wake. A second later the sea astern inflated, ballooned into a green hill by the high explosive, it burst, detonated, lifting the destroyer’s stern, high, into the evening sky.

  Trembling from the huge blast, she lost way, staggering to a halt like a wounded deer, instantly she began to settle by the stern; her head rising slowly in the air, rearing in one last graceful, dying gesture. Frantic men were jumping into the sea, spewing from her bowels in an endless stream, her warm lifeblood chilled in the icy cold of the sea.

  The M.T.B. sped on into the dawn, steady on a course to intercept her consort, the blood of her young commanding officer washing crimson from her scuppers.

  * * *

  Dawn 27th May 1940

  Bushel heard the German’s dawn attack going in on the left flank and waited to receive his own. He had called the Norwegians in from the right and sent them below; at least they would be safe… Here they come … white figures, moving from tree to tree, criss-crossing his front. Well trained all right… but his training was better…white overalls too clean against the pine needle covered snow, for instance; big mistake.

  He was sure they knew roughly where he was, no point in trying to conceal that now. He fired a long sweeping burst and saw at least four fall backwards… not forwards. The rest had gone, disappeared. He ducked away from the firing slit, just in time, the return fire chipped viciously at the thick logs, sending splinters of pine flying about him. He waited patiently while they crawled for the tree cover… about now… he gripped the handle… pushed down hard, the explosion echoed back from the mountain, it acted like a switch, the firing stopped and he snatched a quick look. A haze of smoke obscuring the site wafted gently away… two men hung from the lower branches of one pine, swinging like string puppets. He thought he saw three others in piles of dirty snow. He gave a quick burst at a running figure and saw him topple, bow- backed and screaming.

  A lull then he heard shouted commands...they would be orders to go back rather than forward, in either case…time to duck. The expected covering fire was heavy… that MG42 again.

  * * *

  Oberjager Hofmann had no idea where this third firing position was, they had moved to out-flank the first two only to be attacked from a third that had remained quiet. The English only played by the rules when it suited them.

  Sieg had his hands full judging by the explosions on the left flank. Where were the reinforcements? He raised his head quickly above the cover and took a quick look round. A ditch to his right seemed to run forward, if he sent a section down there they would at least get a different angle on things and maybe spot this arschloch wherever he was. They might even outflank him.

  * * *

  They had found the ditch; Blake had seen the heads bobbing, like targets at a fairground stall. They were still way out, along the far sector, still in the tree line. Bushel knew his stuff all right…he’d predicted their every move so far. Blake waited for a count of twenty, took another quick look and pushed down hard on the hand generator, a ripple of explosions shot along the ditch. He bobbed up …huge amounts of soil was erupting from the drainage ditch, spraying into the air… earth fountains… and three bodies… two landed clear of the ditch the other toppled on its edge, gave up the ghost and slowly slid back in. Nine-ish down seven-ish to go.

  * * *

  Jager Leutnant Sieg knew the whole thing was falling apart, no reinforcements, massive explosions to his front and on his right flank. He reached behind for his binoculars, his elbow touched something soft…It moved, he swung round expecting to see one of his men. Nothing, his eyes dropped to the level of his waist Crouched on the floor at his side was a figure, green face hideously striped in black, yellow teeth, mad eyes. He recoiled in horror, uttering a strangled cry. The figure uncoiled in a sinewy leap, reaching up, grabbing for his throat. In a reflex, born of repulsion, he hit out with the binoculars and made contact. The figure fell back; Sieg threw a kick, a swinging pile driver, with all of his fourteen stone behind it. Abruptly a knife flickered up in front of the swinging leg stabbing deep between his legs. Sieg’s kick never made contact; his leg snapped back in another reflex jerk, he lost balance falling back. He looked down, from between his legs blood was gushing from the severed artery. He felt cold…everything was cold, only the blood was warm. The figure had gone… slipped away into the darker recesses of the room. He could hear quiet laughter coming in short bursts, like the hissing of a snake. He was floating, drifting in a sea of numbing pain; he rose…floated, drifted and rose into the blackness and that one distant light beckoning…

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  A Seed of Doubt

  Morning Watch, 27th May, 1940.

  Every rivet on the ‘Nishga’ seemed to be vibrating with the strain as she fought to keep up with her swifter consorts.

  Barr had retired to his sea cabin; he laid fully clothed, except for his salt stained duffel coat and dog-eared sea boots. He had dozed off for a few minutes when he heard the lid lifting on the bridge voice pipe; after eight months of war that was all it took.

  “Yes?” he asked quickly before the bridge could say a word or worse, sound the hated bell.

  “Captain, sir?” It was Grey, his voice echoing eerily in the confines of the metal pipe, “Signal from Flag, I’m afraid.”

  Barr breathed in resignedly, “Read it, please.”

  “Time 0435. ‘Nishga’ repeated Admiral Ramsey. Message reads ‘Enemy cruiser sighted. Position four degrees two minutes east, fifty two degrees ten minutes north … course south twenty east… speed twenty-five knots. Intercept and delay until re-enforced’…Message ends.

  In the dark of his cabin Barr pulled a face, “I’ll be right up.”

  He thundered up the bridge ladder, his heavy boots rattling the metal treads. The fresh damp air blew the cobwebs of sleep away.

  The destroyer was lifting to the long swell rolling rhythmically in from astern. He made for the chart table and the muffled figure of Grey bent over the wind-rippled chart.

  “Morning, sir…She’s here, west of Amsterdam, steaming south, out to interfere with the evacuation?”

/>   “I should say almost certainly, and we’re here?” Barr pointed.

  “Yes, sir and that’s an interception course,” he pointed to pencilled calculations on the chart margin.

  “Very good, Number One… Acknowledge the signal and come round onto the new course.” He tapped a gloved finger on the chart margin, his mind racing. “We’ll go to Action Stations in one hour, inform Hogg and Kendel.” He looked back down at the chart while Grey moved to the array of voice pipes on the bridge screen “Bridge, Wheelhouse.”

  “Wheelhouse.” replied the helmsman.

  “Port twenty… steer south thirty east”. He lifted another lid while he listened to the wheel order being repeated. He pressed the bell, a signalman below answered. “This is the bridge, “Make to Flag, Proceeding in accordance with your 0435 stroke 28 stroke 5.”

  * * *

  The Action Station Alarm brought the watch below stumbling bleary-eyed to join their mates already closed up. Grey stood by the voice pipes acknowledging each of the closing up reports as they came in. A quarter sea corkscrewed the racing warship.

  “Coxswain on the wheel!”… “Depth Charge Crews closed up”…”Short range weapons closed up”…he checked them off one by one until satisfied he turned to Barr and saluted, “Ship at Action Stations, sir.”

  “Very good, Number One,” Barr handed him a sheet of paper, “These are my intentions when we flush out the enemy cruiser… have it sent to the ‘Ethel’ and the ‘Dirty Five’ by lamp. Keep the copy for yourself, in case.You’ll see Hogg’s E-boat is to go ahead of us, so as to be in a position to attack the cruiser from landward. With luck, the enemy’s attention will be on us and the M.T.B. and Hogg’s ‘Ethel’ will go undetected, especially against the mass of the land. I intend to hold that attention long enough for him to get into a good firing position. We will be attacking from seaward. Should Jerry sight Hogg there’s a good chance he’ll be fooled into believing her to be on his side and coming to his aid. It may give us an edge…it may not.”