‘They will if La Baronne Noire learns of it through French sources,’ Gussy remarked pessimistically.
Next second there was a blinding flash as a bomb fell on some sheds fifty yards from the wharf’s edge. There were shouts and yells as the men ran for cover and flung themselves flat. Another bomb—another—and another came down, all within a radius of a hundred yards, and when the din of the explosions ceased they could hear the screams and moaning of the wounded.
When Gregory cautiously got to his knees he found Gussy beside him but they had lost the Corporal in the confusion.
‘Come on,’ said Gregory; ‘any damned boat’ll do; it’s no good staying here to be murdered.’ As he spoke he swung himself down into a motor-launch that was bobbing at the wharf’s edge, already half-full of soldiers, and stretched up a hand to help the still partially-disabled Gussy in after him.
More men scrambled down until the boat was packed, then the naval petty-officer who was at the tiller gave the order to cast off and the launch cautiously nosed its way out among the other craft.
Even during those few minutes three more sticks of bombs had dropped, this time on the town, and lurid flames leapt up from the shattered buildings. Overhead there was a horrid, irregular droning as the Boche planes circled above their targets, and before the launch was thirty feet from the jetty it suddenly seemed almost to leap out of the water. Another salvo had been dropped plumb on the embarking troops.
The fires that had been started now lit an incredible scene of horror and confusion. Some of the boats, with their human cargoes, had been blown to fragments; others had capsized, having been thrown right over on their keels by the huge waterspouts that the exploding bombs had sent up, and others, again, partially damaged, were now sinking. Scores of men were struggling in the water, yelling for help, and as they were hauled aboard the undamaged craft their clothes dripped red from the blood of their dismembered comrades.
The overloaded launch shot forward again; the naval petty-officer steering it with what seemed miraculous skill, between other boats and wreckage, to get away from the wharf which was now a roaring furnace. Out in the fjord the ships had switched on their searchlights and were replying with their antiaircraft guns. The whole sky was like a firework display of bursting shells and sweeping arcs of light; but wave after wave of German planes still came over, launching their bombs upon the town, the ships and the wharf with equal persistence.
Just before they reached the destroyer for which they were heading there was a slight lull and Gregory said to Gussy: ‘This is no ordinary raid; it’s Fifth Column stuff; the Germans have been tipped off about the evacuation and they’ve sent up every plane they’ve got that’s capable of getting off the Norwegian airports.’
‘That’s it,’ Gussy agreed, pulling his long moustache. ‘I only hope it’ll be a lesson to our people to take a stronger line with the Fifth Columnists we’ve got at home.’
The destroyer on to which they were taken was soon crowded with troops, but it did not put to sea, as its boats were needed to carry more British and French troops off from the wharf to the transports which were further down the fjord. The sailors who were not manning the anti-aircraft guns or the boats had turned themselves into nurses and were tending the wounded to whom all the available below-deck accommodation upon the destroyer was turned over; so the unwounded had to remain on deck in spite of the bitter cold.
By the light of the burning houses, the bursting shells, the parachute-flares and the searchlights the scene was now lit nearly as brightly as if it were day, so even distant groups of figures could often be made out quite clearly. From their position on the deck near the stern of the ship Gregory and Gussy could see that all attempt to embark guns, vehicles and material had now ceased. The men were just jumping off the burning wharf into the first boats that could take them, but there was no pushing and no panic, in spite of the frightful gruelling that they were receiving, so evidently they were abandoning their equipment under orders.
For an hour or more Gregory assisted by passing ammunition for an anti-aircraft gun. The work kept him warm and gave him the satisfaction of feeling that he was helping in the uneven fight against the enemy. But they were firing at such a rate that the ammunition gave out, after which he could only crouch, shivering, behind a ventilator.
At last the short, terrible night was over and the grey light of dawn began to dim the searchlights and the flash of the explosions. Some of the transports were already moving down the fjord and at about half-past four the destroyer hoisted in her boats and followed; but the evacuation was by no means over. Gregory knew that the troops which had been coming off in the past few hours were only recently-arrived reinforcements; few of them had even been outside Andalsnes, let alone seen any of the fighting. It would be days before all the troops that could be saved from the Gudbrandsdal Valley débâcle could be got back and embarked; and now that the Germans knew what was happening they could be trusted to see to it that not a shipload escaped without its quota of casualties.
The seamen cooks had been working without cessation, boiling great cauldrons of tea lashed with rum for the cold and exhausted soldiers, and as the destroyer steamed out of Andalsnes Gregory managed to procure two mugs of the piping-hot brew for Gussy and himself. When he got back from the queue he saw that they had rounded the bend of the fjord but the position of the town was still marked by a dense pall of black smoke that hung over it. With chattering teeth they gulped down the welcome tea but they had not yet seen the last of the enemy. As the convoy formed up in the broader waters a flight of bombers roared over and one small steamer nearby received a direct hit on its stern, which caused it suddenly to list to port, then turn right over.
The convoy hove-to and boats were lowered to rescue the survivors who were floundering about in the ice-cold water. Before the boats were well away the German bombers turned and came hurtling down again. The ships had long since run out of anti-aircraft ammunition, so they were virtually defenceless except for the Bren and Lewis guns with which some of the soldiers opened fire. As Gregory watched, one plane burst into flames and, turning over, pitched headlong into the fjord. A sudden cheer went up, but it wavered out into a groan as the other planes drowned it in a hellish tattoo, deliberately machine-gunning the survivors from the capsized troopship and the boats that were setting off to their rescue.
With muttered curses and half-choked by the intensity of their bitter fury the spectators stood there impotent to help their comrades but vowing vengeance in their hearts. More dripping, wounded and exhausted men were dragged on to the already crowded decks of the destroyer and she proceeded on her way.
By the time they reached the open sea the men had sorted themselves out a little. A number of those who had fallen in the water were now in borrowed clothes lent to them by the sailors; others had stripped and stood shivering in their greatcoats while their uniforms were being dried in the boiler-rooms. Every one of the sailors had given up his bedding, under which, and a number of tarpaulins, the troops sheltered as best they could from the bitter wind and the salt spray that was now flying over the bow of the ship. Many of them were seasick and the long day and night that followed seemed like a timeless span of unending misery.
At midday on the Tuesday they put in to a Northern port and the heterogeneous collection of French and British troops, some with uniforms, some without, hollow-eyed, stubble-chinned and incredibly weary, crawled ashore to the reception stations on the docks that had been made ready for them.
As civilians with special passes Gregory and Gussy were allowed out of the dock at once, and an hour later they were on a train for London. Gregory had secured a paper, and before settling down in his corner to sleep he glanced at the front page; a short news item caught his eye and he began to laugh uproariously.
Three neatly-dressed business men and a spick-and-span officer, who shared the carriage with them, and had eyed the two bedraggled strangers with considerable misgiving, glanced up dis
approvingly.
‘What is it?’ Gussy asked, as his friend continued to laugh almost hysterically.
Gregory controlled his shouts of mirth and spoke with sudden intense bitterness. ‘Two days ago a German was caught with a camera in a forbidden area on the South Coast. The magistrate fined him twenty shillings and let him go. Is Sir John Anderson a traitor or a lunatic; or is it just that nobody has yet told him that for eight months Britain has been at war with the most formidable, unscrupulous and merciless horde of fanatic-ridden brutes that have ever blackened the pages of history?’
12
‘Seek Out and Destroy the Enemy’
For the next three days Gregory kicked his heels in London. Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust was away on some special business and not returning until the Saturday.
After his long absence he found London surprisingly unchanged. The sandbags were still there but there was no other evidence of war and it was considerably fuller than it had been when he had left it at the end of the previous October. The people were as well clad as ever; nine out of ten of the West End shops were still open and doing good business, so that the gaps among them were hardly noticeable. In the clubs where he lunched everybody was quite cheerful, although some of the officers to whom he talked were a little perturbed about the situation in Norway. An American journalist had apparently blown the gaff during the previous week in a sensational article which had been given a prominent place in the United States Press. He stated that the British had been cut off at Lillehammer and that while the Germans were complete masters of the air and showed splendid initiative, the British, as usual, were quite inadequately equipped for the most modern type of warfare.
As yet nobody knew that the Allies had actually been thrown out on their ear and were now evacuating as fast as they could go, but Gregory kept that to himself, since he was every bit as good at keeping his mouth shut when it might do harm to open it as he was at stating his opinion with fearless disregard to consequences when he thought that a good purpose could be served by so doing.
Apart from the feeling that Britain had had a bit of a setback in her Norwegian campaign, everybody was still full of complacent optimism. They took it for granted that Hitler would either have to attack the Maginot Line and lose a million men to no purpose, or quietly submit to being strangled by the Blockade.
Gregory was not prepared to make any predictions upon Hitler’s next move, but of one thing he was quite convinced—Hitler had no intention of fading from the scene through sheer inanition, although it seemed highly probable that the British Government might do so.
On the afternoon of Saturday, May the 4th, his faithful henchman, Rudd, whom his safe return had made as happy as a sand-boy, took a telephone message that Sir Pellinore was back and would be happy if Gregory could dine with him that night. When he got in Gregory rang up to say that he would be there; and 8.15 found him, lean, bronzed and very fit-looking after his few days’ rest, at 99, Carlton House Terrace.
When he was not actively at war himself he believed in ignoring to the best of his ability any war that might be in progress, so, according to his peace-time custom, he had donned an admirably-cut, double-breasted dinner-jacket, and no one who saw him could possibly have associated him with the filthy, bloodstained vagabond who had crossed the North Sea in a destroyer five days before.
As Gregory was ushered into the great library on the first floor, which in daytime had such a lovely view over St. James’s Park, the elderly baronet came striding forward from the fireplace and placed both his huge hands on his visitor’s shoulders. Sir Pellinore measured six feet three in his socks and from his great height he stood for a moment looking down on Gregory; then he boomed:
‘Well, you young rascal, so you’ve got sick of gallivanting about the Continent at last, eh? Dining and wining and womanising in Berlin and Helsinki and Oslo, and five months overdue from that mission I sent you on. But, damme, I’m pleased to see you.’
‘It seems to have escaped your memory that I’ve done a few other little jobs on my own account since then,’ said Gregory mildly.
‘I know, I know.’ Sir Pellinore brushed up his great while cavalry moustache as he strode over to a side-table, where he proceeded to pour out two handsome rations of old, bone-dry Manzanilla sherry. ‘The way you bluffed Hermann Goering into sending you to Finland was an epic, and that German programme for world conquest that you got us was worth its weight in hundred-pound bank-notes. But after that I suppose you felt that you had earned a holiday and went to Norway for some fishing.’
‘That’s it,’ Gregory grinned. ‘I had good sport, too; only, instead of salmon, I was after water-rats.’
‘So I gathered. And if only the Government had acted on your information we wouldn’t be in our present ghastly mess. But what have you been up to since the invasion?’
‘Oh, I saved King Haakon’s life several times and pottered round a bit, generally.’
‘Ha, that sounds interesting. Tell me about it.’
‘I will later on, but first of all what about Erika? I’ve been worrying myself silly as to whether she succeeded in reaching Holland and managed to get in touch with you.’
Sir Pellinore’s bright-blue eyes twinkled. ‘She’s safe enough. I think I ought to break it to you gently, though. You’ve got a rival, Gregory, my boy.’
‘Eh? Say that again,’ said Gregory.
‘Yes. After all, you can’t expect to leave a lovely woman like that trailing about Europe all on her own without anyone to hold her hand or tuck her up at nights. I will say you’re a good picker, though, and she’s worth six of that Hungarian witch that you produced some years ago; although Sabine was admittedly an eyeful.’
A slow smile broke over Gregory’s face. ‘You old rogue! You’ve seen her, then?’
‘Yes. Where d’you think I’ve been these last three days while you’ve been sleeping your head off in London? That young woman of yours has a pretty taste in food, too. We dined last night at the Fillet de Sole in Brussels.’
‘How was she?’
‘As pink as a peach and as plump as a partridge. And we were getting on famously. Great pity I had to fly home this morning—great pity. Another few days and we’d have got to the tucking up stage.’
Gregory helped himself to another glass of the bone-dry sherry as he laughed: ‘At your age? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’
‘What’s age got to do with it?’ Sir Pellinore ran a large hand over his fine head of white hair, ‘A woman’s as old as she looks and a man’s as old as he feels. Don’t be deceived by that rot in Debrett that says I’ll never see seventy again. I’m somewhere in the early thirties.’
‘My arithmetic must be at fault, then. I had an idea that way back in the ‘eighties you had already acquired a reputation for having an eye for a horse or a pretty woman and an infinite capacity for vintage port.’
‘Ha, you’re jealous, eh? That’s what makes you dig up that old story. Not a word of truth in it, either. Everyone knows that I’ve lived a life of simple rectitude within my modest means.’
‘I might be able to manage a life of simple rectitude myself if I had your income,’ murmured Gregory, ‘What is it now—eighty-thousand a year?—or have you touched the hundred-thousand mark?’
‘There you are! Jealous again of my little successes in the city. But jealousy won’t get you anywhere. You know you won’t be able to keep that young woman of yours for a week if only we can manage to get her over here.’
‘I wish to God you could,’ said Gregory seriously.
‘So do I.’ Sir Pellinore stopped his chaffing. ‘She’s being very useful to us, but I’ve always held that it’s wrong to flog a willing mare. After the many services she has rendered she ought to be brought out of danger for a few months at least, but she’s got a bee in her bonnet about its not being right to accept the hospitality of Britain while we’re at war with her country. I did my damnedest to persuade her to take a rest but I couldn’t budge he
r an inch.’
At that moment the elderly butler announced dinner, so they went downstairs, where Gregory found that the war did not, so far, appear to have in the least affected the magnificent kitchen maintained by his plutocratic host. Over the rich, well-chosen meal he told Sir Pellinore of his adventures in Norway and gave him a much more detailed account of the time that he had spent in Germany, Finland and Russia than he had been able to send from Leningrad in the long letter that he had despatched via the Consul there and the Moscow Embassy Bag. The magnum of Louis Roederer 1920 that they drank had lost the exuberance of its youth, but mellowed to the flavour that only age can give, and was perfection from never having been moved out of Sir Pellinore’s cellar since the day it had been laid down. They had finished it and were already on the old brandy by the time Gregory came to the end of his recital and, after a short pause, remarked: ‘Well, how goes the war?’
‘It doesn’t go,’ replied Sir Pellinore glumly. ‘The Government is dying on its feet and for months past it’s been dead from the neck up.’
Gregory swivelled the old brandy thoughtfully round the very thin, medium-sized, balloon-shaped glass and smelt its rich ethers appreciatively. ‘So I rather gathered from the people I’ve met in the last few days. It seems that the Socialists and the more energetic Conservative back-benchers are getting a bit fed up with Chamberlain.’
‘Chamberlain,’ boomed the baronet, ‘was right about Munich—right every time. We wouldn’t have stood a dog’s chance against Hitler if we’d gone to war with him then. Chamberlain was clever enough to trick him into giving us a year to rearm, and in spite of the innumerable things that should have been done and yet were not done, at least the groundwork was laid which saved Britain from immediate and probably irremediable defeat. Whatever may happen to Chamberlain now, when history comes to be written he will assume his rightful place as a great and far-seeing Prime Minister who had the courage to accept the odium for having made Britain eat humble pie over the surrender of Czechoslovakia so that she might have a chance to save herself.’
The Black Baroness Page 19
