Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  “This one. She wasn’t there before and I don’t know what she’s doing there now, but she doesn’t belong to Leka. Probably got blown there in a storm or dropped by seagulls.” He slapped Cole on the arm and announced merrily: “You’ve got yourself a mystery, sonny, and a big one she is. I never heard of islands sailing about, but there’s a first time for everything. Now I’m going back to bed and if you send that big walrus to wake me I’ll rip off his mustache and use it to polish my boots.” He made his way to the door and brushed past Markley. “Oh,” he said, stopping. “It was a fucking pleasure meeting you, too.”

  “By God, sir,” Markley said, after he left, “that man deserves a good thrashing.”

  Cole looked over the photographs. “I need to get to Leuchars.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  “I need to get up to Leuchars. I’ve got to see for myself.”

  “You’ve lost me, sir.”

  “What the hell is so special about Leka Island and why has this island”—he stabbed the photograph with his finger—“suddenly appeared? Can you get me up there?”

  Cole watched as Markley carefully prepared his response. “Harry Hamilton will have my head and my ratings if you go flying off without orders and me aiding and abetting. Sir.”

  “Markley?”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “You just get me up there and I’ll take full responsibility. You don’t need to know why.”

  “Too right, I don’t need to know why, sir. If you take an old sailor’s advice you’ll stay put.”

  Cole remained silent, watching the petty officer’s resolve melt. “I’ll do it, sir. God bless my soul, I’ll do it, but if this ends badly for you, and it’s for certain it will, we never spoke of it.”

  Cole smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Why don’t you take what’s left in the bottle?”

  “Small comfort that’ll be, sir. It’s nearly all gone and by my own hand.”

  Chapter 9

  The Tirpitz Pier, Kriegsmarine Base at Witt, 22 July 1941

  Admiral Doenitz watched the last of the twelve U-boats disappear in the distance, a strange tableau of peace in the constant din of the active naval base. Captain Godt, his chief of staff, stood next to him, towering over the short admiral.

  “What do you think of Raeder’s scheme?” Doenitz asked Godt over the clatter of a passing fleet tug.

  Godt noted his superior’s use of the word scheme instead of plan. It could mean nothing or it could be a sign of the admiral’s dislike and distrust of the whole project.

  “I think that we have a very good chance of dealing the English a crippling blow,” Godt said. He watched Doenitz nod and then followed him as the admiral clasped his hands behind his back and walked along the pier in thought.

  “Yes. Yes,” he said as if his answer were not a part of a conversation but of ideas swirling within him. Godt dropped back a pace, watching Doenitz.

  Raeder’s plan was simplicity itself. Sea Lion would dash from Leka Island, up the Kattegat, through the Korsfjord, and meet her supply and escort vessels at Grimstadfjord. There she would reprovision and refuel. No one during the meeting had brought up Bismarck. It was thought that one of her fatal decisions had been not to top off her tanks before proceeding into the North Atlantic. Of course, this view was delivered in hindsight, after her battered corpse had begun rusting on the bottom of the North Atlantic.

  From Grimstadfjord to Hjeltefjord, Raeder’s staff officer had explained easily, his pointer gliding smoothly over the map between Fjellsund and Norway, accompanied by three destroyers and a fleet tanker.

  At this point Doenitz had turned and pinned the Luftwaffe staff officer with a questioning glance. The implication was obvious: what was the air cover?

  “Four Condors and a squadron of FW 190s are at your disposal,” he had replied. “We will clear the skies of enemy planes so that Sea Lion and her flotilla will remain undetected.”

  Again Bismarck was on everyone’s mind. She had been caught on the high seas and denied air cover because she was out of range of the Luftwaffe. And unlike the other powers, Germany had no operational aircraft carriers.

  Godt nearly jumped out of his skin when a steam whistle shrieked overhead. He looked up to find himself next to a huge crane. It rumbled slowly down a pair of glistening railway tracks, shrieking a warning as it did. Then he noticed that Doenitz was gone and he looked around frantically.

  “Godt?” The voice came from behind him. Godt turned to see Doenitz looking at him quizzically.

  “Where were you going?” the admiral asked, standing at the edge of the wharf.

  Godt realized that he had walked past Doenitz, lost in his own thoughts. “Your pardon, Admiral,” he said. “I was thinking.”

  “Indeed,” Doenitz said. “So was I. We have a very good chance, Godt. Our chance with this operation is as good as any I’ve seen. That big brute of Raeder’s might just bully its way past any opposition to Prince of Wales. With her speed and firepower it will be no contest. If … if everything goes as it should.” Then Godt was surprised to see Doenitz smile as if the little admiral held a secret, something so cherished that he would not divulge it to anyone. Godt knew that Doenitz often left things unspoken, or revealed things in such a cryptic manner that it was difficult to determine what the admiral really meant. “If not,” Doenitz continued with the idea, “we still may achieve a great victory. If a limited one.”

  “Admiral?”

  “U-boats, Godt,” Doenitz said. “They shall be where they are supposed to be, doing exactly what they were assigned. If everything goes as it should,” he repeated, “then our submariners will taste blood. We are, after all, concerned with our U-boats, are we not, Godt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes,” the little admiral said. “No one can doubt our loyalty. No one can point at us and say that we failed in our mission. Regardless of what transpires.”

  Godt understood perfectly. Raeder might fail, the Kriegsmarine might fail—but Doenitz and his U-boats would triumph. So this was not merely war—it was politics. The enemy was never just the enemy—they could be one’s companion in an undisclosed strategy. Godt was suddenly very happy that he was insulated from such game playing by Doenitz. He would never be as adept as Doenitz would, in a game where losing could just as easily mean execution as dismissal.

  “I believe that this is the first time that I’ve ever increased by one-quarter my U-boat force without adding another U-boat,” Doenitz said, chuckling. “Well, enough of this. We shall wait to hear from Goliath. Our boat’s first messages should give us the first indications of the mission’s success.”

  Cole watched the copilot make his way back along the pitching Dakota transport with a thermos and tin cup. He handed the cup to Cole and shouted over the roar of the engines, “Hold it out away from you, Yank. Wouldn’t want to see you scald your balls.”

  Cole did as he was told, trying to push himself farther back into the tattered canvas and aluminum frame seat that he’d occupied for nearly five hours.

  The copilot pinned himself into position by spreading his feet and wrapping his fingers around an overhead rib.

  “Probably just lukewarm by now, but it might take the chill out,” the copilot said as most of the liquid managed to spill into the cup. The plane bounced and a glob of tea landed on Cole’s hand. He jerked back in anticipation of heat, but the tea was nearly ice cold.

  “How far to Leuchars?” he asked.

  “Damned if I know. This bloody Scottish soup. If it isn’t the winds it’s the clouds. If it’s not the clouds it’s the rain. Bill there”—he motioned toward the cabin with the thermos—“just aims the plane north and off we go. When he gets tired, he lets me take over, and when I get lost, I wake him up.”

  “Hell of a way to run a railroad.”

  “Isn’t it though? Do you play golf ?”

  “What?”

  “Golf ? Sport of kings and such.”


  “I thought horse racing was the sport of kings,” Cole said.

  “Not in this bloody country it’s not. Golf’s the thing. St. Andrews. Not a stone’s throw from Leuchars. Oldest golf course in the world, I’m told.”

  “I don’t know,” Cole said. “I never played the game.”

  “Nor have I. Well, enough chitchat. I’d best see if Bill needs me. Shall I leave the thermos with you?”

  “No, thanks,” Cole said, wiping his hands on the stained overalls given to him before he boarded the airplane.

  Three hours later they landed in a driving rain at what Cole hoped was Leuchars. When the plane taxied to a hard stand and a lorry pulled alongside to unload the cargo, Cole was sure enough to unbuckle his seat belt, move to the rear of the aircraft, and unlatch the door. He grasped the handle and opened it slowly to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hand. A ground crewman took it from him with a nod and attached it to the holdback on the body of the aircraft.

  Clamping his cap on his head with one hand, he shouted, “Where’s the base commander?”

  The crewman said something that was lost to the wind but pointed in the direction of a Quonset hut. It took only a few minutes of explaining to an affable colonel to allow Cole access to the crew of N-for-Nancy. Cole did not mention his plan to fly over Leka Island to the base commander. He was sure that if he had, the ready smile would have disappeared in a flash.

  Cole found the crew of N-for-Nancy in the half of a Quonset hut that served as a base recreation club and social area. Off-duty crews were scattered around the few tables in the room, while several men clustered at the bar talking quietly. Four men were playing darts—N-for-Nancy’s crew.

  Cole removed his topcoat and cap, set his briefcase on a chair next to an unoccupied table, and straightened his tie. “Gentlemen,” he said to the four. “My name is Lieutenant Jordan Cole, United States Naval Reserve. I’m attached to the Royal Navy, Photographic Analysis Division.”

  One of the men stopped in midthrow and turned slowly. “Photographs? You aren’t the chap who’s been sending us over that despicable little island, are you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Bunny Walker turned to his crew. “Gentlemen, here is a rare privilege. We can put to use all of those oaths that we’ve been muttering.” Bunny threw the dart. It embedded itself deeply in the bull’s-eye. “Old King Cole, is it?”

  “It beats Yank,” Cole said, instantly taking a dislike to the pilot.

  “Well, I’m Pilot-Sergeant Douglas Walker, otherwise known as Bunny. I’m responsible for this randy bunch, which is proving more difficult each day. Especially with trips over Leka Island.”

  “I can appreciate that. I’ve seen the After Action Reports.”

  “Words on paper,” Peter said, picking up a dart and taking his position. “Come up with us some time and see what it’s really like.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  The crew exchanged glances.

  “Explain yourself, King,” Bunny said.

  “Let me show you something,” Cole said, leading them over to an empty table. He removed the Leka Island photographs from his briefcase and laid them out on the table. “This is Leka Island,” he began unnecessarily, used to briefing high-ranking Royal Navy officers who kept glancing at their watches, impatiently awaiting dinner.

  “Too right it is,” Peter said.

  “We’ve seen it, King,” Bunny said dryly. “But don’t let that stop you.”

  “Okay,” Cole said, “I get the picture. You don’t like me coming up here to tell you what to do. But haven’t you been a little curious about why the Krauts don’t want you anywhere near Leka Island?”

  “There’s a war on, old boy,” Peter said. “That should suffice.”

  But Bunny’s curiosity was aroused. “What are you getting at?”

  Cole pushed the other photographs to one side to expose the image that the Norwegian had seen. He told the RAF crew what he had been told. The men moved in closer.

  Johnny, his tunic unbuttoned, with a drink in his hand, spoke first. “Now, isn’t that bloody interesting? Does that Norwegian chap know what he’s talking about?”

  “I think so,” Cole said. “That’s why I came up here and why I want to go to Leka Island.”

  Prentice looked at Bunny. “What do you think, Skipper?”

  Bunny took Johnny’s glass out of his hand and downed a healthy portion. He handed it back to the dismayed gunner before speaking. “You know, King, we just don’t go out on these little jaunts when it suits us. We generally wait until someone issues orders.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. He was willing to listen until he could figure out Walker and his crew. What he hoped was that they were the sort of men who would take a chance on him.

  Bunny reached for Johnny’s glass again, but the gunner jerked it out of his reach. “With all due respect, get your own bloody drink, Bunny.”

  Cole knew that Walker was studying him, trying to determine what kind of man he was, and if he really knew what he was talking about. Neither man spoke for a moment.

  “Prentice, be a good lad and fetch me a whiskey and soda,” Bunny said.

  “Righto, Skipper.”

  “Show me that island again,” he said to Cole.

  “Here,” Cole said, tapping the photograph. “I estimate it to be about a thousand feet long, maybe two hundred wide. It’s difficult to say.”

  Prentice handed Bunny his drink. “You know, King, my erks are patching up poor old N-for-Nancy from the last go-round. We were treated a bit roughly… .”

  “‘A bit roughly,’ he says,” Peter said. “We threw out everything but Prentice to keep her aloft.”

  “Pay no mind to Peter,” Bunny said. “He’s half Welsh and inclined to gloominess. I should not be all that keen to go back up there because some bloke has some funny ideas about what he thinks he sees.”

  “I’m tired of taking your photographs,” Johnny said, signaling a steward for a refill.

  “Good,” Cole said. “Because there won’t be any photographs this time. They don’t tell us anything. I need to go down on the deck.”

  “Are you daft?” Peter said. “We’re in a Hudson IV, not a Mossie. Go get some RAF chaps who haven’t been exiled to Coastal Command. We value our lives a bit more than you seem to.”

  “Peter,” Bunny said.

  “The man’s mad, Bunny. Out we go again and this time with a crazy Yank and an open invitation for the Germans to shoot us down. I’ll do my duty, but no one said, ‘Peter, you’re to go out and commit suicide.’” The bomb aimer/navigator set his glass heavily on the table, covering the mysterious island on the grainy photograph. “I’m going to sack out. Don’t bother me until this bloody war is over.”

  “Well?” Bunny said to Cole after Peter left.

  “It’s the only way to find out,” Cole said with certainty. “We’ve got to get in low. Make two passes and out again.”

  “Johnny?”

  The gunner moved Peter’s glass. “They won’t be expecting us like that. We can hug the waves.” He wiped the condensation off the photograph. “Can we go in at night and use flares? Better that way. Less likely to be spotted on our approach.”

  “King?” Bunny said.

  “That might work. One pass for flares and one for a look-see.”

  “Prentice?”

  “A bit dicey all the way round, isn’t it, Skipper? I mean considering the last time. Still, if we have to go in, I’d like less of a chance for those bastards to see us. Night is fine with me.”

  Bunny nodded in thought. “Johnny? Run over and find out when the erks will have N-for-Nancy ready, will you?”

  “Right, Bunny.”

  “What about Peter?” Cole asked. “I don’t think he’s sold yet.”

  “Peter’s just being Peter,” Bunny said. He looked Cole up and down. “How much do you weigh? Fourteen stone, I should say.”

  “Weigh? One hundred and eighty pounds,
I think. Why?”

  “You’ll need a flight suit. It gets very cold over the Kattegat.”

  Chapter 10

  Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands, 23 July 1941

  Hardy had had his dream last night. His dream—the one that he knew would follow him forever, as the images of the Second Night were seared in his mind. Everyone aboard Firedancer knew about the Second Night. Convoy HBX 328 out of Halifax. The first night had been quiet, a cold black frigid following sea with a canopy of brilliant stars scattered thickly in an equally black sky. The first night had been a lark although they carried close to three hundred tons of ice, disfiguring Firedancer’s deck and superstructure. The extra burden meant being topside was nearly impossible and being on the bridge was barely endurable, and Firedancer handled like a drunken whore, staggering from port to starboard. Still, it was quiet, if uncomfortable.

  The Second Night was when the U-boats had struck. In his dream he was on the bridge, alone, but somehow that never seemed odd. In reality it was crowded with signalmen and lookouts and Number One, and they all saw what he saw. They all heard what he heard. Ships exploding in the night, the harsh plaintive screams of steam whistles, the faint rumble of cargo breaking loose within the bowels of ships sliding into the depths.

  He was alone on the bridge and he heard the frantic radio calls coming in, cries for help, captains begging him to come to their rescue. In the dream he thought how odd it was that he was the only escort. Shouldn’t there have been others? Surely there were others? But he was alone on the bridge and Firedancer alone with the convoy. She raced about the dying ships, trying desperately to find and sink the U-boats, but they were phantoms. Meanwhile, ship after ship disappeared.

  Now, in his dream, Land was there and the others and Hardy gave the order: “Port thirty.” He gave the order because the asdic operator had made a U-boat contact off the port beam.

  Port thirty.

  The helmsman repeated the order as he was told and turned the wheel and Firedancer’s bow swung in response.

  “Rudder amidships,” Hardy had said.

  “Rudder amidships, aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman replied and then confirmed that he had done as ordered by saying, “Rudder amidships.” Even in the heat of battle it was all very professional and calm without a single indication that this was anything but a superbly executed maneuver.