Storm Force to Narvik: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 1

by Alexander Fullerton

  “Submarine reconnaissance. We’ve a number of extra patrols out, in the Skagerrak and Kattegat. And—talking of submarines—Max Horton’s quite sure they’re on the point of invading.”

  Max Horton was the vice-admiral commanding the Submarine Service.

  “Denmark as well as Norway. He’s convinced it’s imminent.”

  “Their Lordships disagree?”

  “It’s a matter of how one evaluates and interprets the Intelligence reports. You’ve got to allow the Admiralty the fact there’ve been literally months of false rumours: they’ve been conditioned against crying wolf. Personally I’ll admit to bias, because as a submariner and an admirer of Max I’d tend to see it his way. And I don’t have the entire picture; I’m without any real base there now, just a sort of temporary hanger-on putting an ear to whatever’s audible.”

  Hugh Everard looked surprised. “I thought you were setting up a new section to do with convoy planning and Board of Trade liaison, Wishart?”

  “That was the case when Nick wrote to you, sir. But there’s been a change. We’re all a bit at sixes and sevens, just now. And my own days with dry feet are strictly numbered.”

  “Sea job?”

  “Mediterranean, is all I know. Andrew Cunningham’s asked for me, apparently.”

  “Has he indeed.” Hugh sat back smiling. “I’d say that sounded very promising.”

  “Can’t think of a man I’d sooner work for.”Wishart watched his guest helping himself to buckling. “And Italy’ll be joining in against us shortly, soon as Mussolini feels convinced the Germans have got us licked.” The dish came round to his side; he told the waiter, “We’ll have some thin brown bread and butter with this, please.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Wishart said quietly, “It does mean I’m less well placed than I’d like to be from the point of view of assisting you, sir.”

  “Obviously. I’m sorry—if I’d known—”

  “No, I’d like to help … But the snags are the same irrespective of what my job is, of course. Frankly—”

  “My age.”

  “Well, yes. Even for convoy commodores—”

  “I did hear that Eric Fullerton has got himself back to sea?”

  “But—with respect, he’s not sixty-nine years old.”

  “Not quite. But that, Wishart, is simply a statistic. What they should ask themselves is can this fellow do the job? And I’m as fit as many other men ten or fifteen years my junior. I am, damn it!” He pushed the bread-and-butter plate across the table. “Eric, of course, had Dorothy pulling strings for him.”

  “Oh now, that’s hardly—”

  Wishart checked whatever protest he’d been about to make. Dorothy Fullerton was Jackie Fisher’s daughter. He’d forgotten, for a moment, the story of Hugh Everard’s treatment at Fisher’s hands, treatment that had pushed him out of the Navy a few years before the 1914 war. There was a follow-up story too—again, retailed by Nick—of history repeating itself in 1919. Not Fisher’s doing, this second time; Fisher by then had been out of it, an old sick man with only a year to live. But—Wishart wondered, studying his guest with interest as well as sympathy—was Hugh Everard a disappointed, bitter man? It had never occurred to him before: but wouldn’t it be surprising in all the circumstances if he were not?

  There was no doubt he’d had a rotten deal. Two rotten deals. And no doubt that his nephew, Nick, was now the centrepiece of his life. Knowing this, the prospect of telling him now about what must have been a murderously one-sided action in that North Sea gale only a few hours ago … Wishart admitted to himself, All right: I am a coward …

  The mind shied away, turned to another difficult but less positively hateful problem. This notion Sir Hugh had of getting to sea as a commodore of Atlantic convoys. Quite a number of retired admirals were being recalled in that capacity, certainly; and as likely as not Hugh Everard was as fit as many younger ones. But the line had to be drawn somewhere, and an even worse snag was that he’d been ashore since 1920.

  “Something the matter, Wishart?”

  “I was—thinking around this problem—”

  “Some difficulty you haven’t mentioned?”

  Only a little thing like your nephew being dead …

  “None that wouldn’t have occurred to you, sir?”

  “I’ve no ties, you know. No old woman to worry about me!”

  Hugh Everard had been married once: before the first war, so Nick had told him. He’d been divorced not long after he’d left the Service. Wishart had expressed surprise: all those years, and all the women who surely would have been only too ready to fall for the good-looking, distinguished admiral with the famous name? Nick had said something about Hugh having had his reasons: there was an impression of there being one woman, one particular and unnameable woman, with whom his uncle had been in love for years and who wouldn’t or couldn’t marry him.

  Someone else’s wife?

  Sir Hugh put down his knife and fork. “Very good.” He looked at Wishart. “You’re thinking of the length of time I’ve been retired, I suppose.”

  “It’s—a factor that’s bound to be considered.”

  “I retired four years ago, Wishart.”

  “Four?”

  “From an active directorship of Vickers. I have never been out of touch with naval matters. On occasion I have even been to sea. I dare say I could tell you a thing or two about modern warship design, equipment, weaponry, what-have-you.”

  Wishart nodded. “It’s a good point. But it might be argued that seagoing experience, command experience—”

  “Wishart.” Hugh Everard beckoned to him to lean closer across the table. He whispered, “As they say in the vernacular—balls …” Wishart sat back, chuckling. Sir Hugh asked him, “Anyway, is command at sea so very much changed from my day? If so, in what respect?”

  “Well, we now have Asdics—”

  “Which virtually any retired officer would have to learn something about. They sent Nick on some course, didn’t they?” Wishart nodded. “What else is new?”

  Quite a lot was new. But it was all detail. The basics were the same. Wishart surrendered the point.

  “When one thinks about it—darned little.”

  “Exactly!” A finger pointed at him. “And look here. Even if the technical changes were far greater than they are, it’s quite irrelevant. A convoy commodore’s job is to organise his convoy as it were domestically, internally. It doesn’t overlap with the job of the escort commander— that’s another kettle of fish. The commodore has to jolly his merchant skippers along, get ‘em to understand the scheme of things and then play to the rules. More like being chairman of a company—in a slightly unsteady boardroom, eh?” He pointed at his own chest. “I have all the qualifications and experience that’s needed. What’s more, Wishart my boy, I shall damn well do it!”

  “Good. And to whatever extent I can help I’ll certainly—”

  “No, no.” Sir Hugh swivelled round to contemplate the steak-and-kidney. “Thank you, but I’ve plagued you enough. Only got on to you because of what Nick told me, that it was in your new department. Since it’s not your part-of-ship at all, however—” he was helping himself to the pie, and sniffing like a Bisto Kid at the aroma which he’d released from its crust—”since you’re making a move that’s entirely in the right direction and which I’m truly delighted for your sake to hear about—” he put the tools down in the pie-dish—”no, I’m grateful for what you’ve already tried to do, but I don’t want you going to any further trouble.”

  “It’s absolutely no—”

  “I’m considering my own interests, really. It’s results I’m after, and I’ll attack on a different front now—when I’ve thought it out … This does smell good!”

  “Let’s hope it is. Thank you, waiter.” He reached for the wine bottle. “Now then …”

  When the vegetables had been dispensed and the waiter had finally moved off, Hugh came back to the subject of Norway
.

  “You said ‘the balloon’s gone up.’ And ‘there’s a flap on.’ Mind telling me what it’s about?”

  “Well …” The essential thing was, not to know about this morning’s action. There was no reason why one should have known. And Sir Hugh would hear soon enough; to keep one’s mouth shut now wouldn’t be doing him any harm … “Well, for some days—couple of weeks, I suppose—rumours of a German plan to invade Norway and Denmark have been getting stronger and louder. Personally I—well, there is no doubt that they’ve been contemplating it off and on. For instance, they were right on the point of launching an invasion when we and the French were making noises about going through Norway to help the Finns. Then when the Finns chucked their hands in, of course, we shelved our plans and we think Hitler did something similar with his.”

  Russia had attacked Finland, without declaration of war, on 30 November—about four months ago. They’d expected to make a quick and easy meal of it, but the Finns fought back magnificently; in fact they fought the Soviets to a standstill. Then in February, just two months ago, a new Soviet offensive opened—better-trained troops in enormous strength, and massed artillery; and while Britain and France were still making plans to send men and supplies through Narvik and over the mountain railway to Lulea on the Gulf of Bothnia, Finland capitulated, on 12 March.

  “Vian’s rescue of our chaps from the Altmark may have been another factor. They’ve certainly used it as an excuse—violation of neutrality by us, for heaven’s sake … Anyway, we’ve been getting reports of ships assembling and embarking troops, and yesterday we were hearing of fleet movements northwards out of Kiel and Wilhelmshaven. So finally the Admiralty’s taking notice.” He glanced round again: nobody else was listening to him. He told Sir Hugh, “The Home Fleet’s sailed. Cleared Scapa yesterday evening.”

  “Deploying where? On the Norwegian coast?”

  “Well—no. The C-in-C seems to be staying out in the deep field. I’d—” he nodded—”as you suggest, or assumed—I’d be more inclined to put the whole lot in the slips.”

  “But that could be a terrible mistake, Wishart. Even if Horton’s right and the Hun’s going into Norway, he might well try to kill two birds with one stone—invade behind an offshore covering force which would then pass on out to the North Atlantic. Eh?”

  A break-out by German heavy ships was the danger which had kept Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet stuck in the wastes of Scapa Flow twenty-something years ago. And it was the same thing now. The sea-lanes to and from North America and the tanker routes from the Gulf, supply and trooping convoys to the Middle and Far East and Australia—the whole strategy of Britain’s war depended on keeping the Germans boxed in and those lifelines intact.

  “Of course, you’re absolutely right, sir. And for Sir Charles Forbes it’s a ticklish dilemma, I imagine. But it seems to me that if the Germans get the Norwegian ports our job in maintaining any sort of blockade is going to be twice as difficult. In fact that’s probably what they want that coast for—as well as safeguarding their iron-ore supplies, which is just about as vital, if not more so … But Trondheim, for instance, as a base— even just for U-boats?” He spread his hands. “My bet is, it’s going to happen. While we’re covering the Iceland-Faroes Gap and our War Cabinet’s murmuring ‘After you, Adolf …?’”

  “If I were in Forbes’s shoes, I’d stay well out to sea. I’d send cruisers and destroyers inshore, and keep the battlefleet’s options open until the last minute … But—in general terms, what we need is Winston at the top. I mean, as Prime Minister.”

  Wishart smiled into his glass. He murmured, glancing up, “That move wouldn’t be at all unwelcome in the Admiralty.”

  “Ah.” Hugh Everard nodded. “Interfering again, is he?”

  By “again,” he was harking back to Churchill’s stint as First Lord of the Admiralty in 1914 and ‘15. He was back in the same job now that he’d had then as a young man—a very young man who’d driven Jackie Fisher, a very old man, half out of his mind and into snarling retirement and senility.

  Wishart said quietly, “He wants to row every boat himself. Despite a tendency to catch crabs.” He shrugged. “Talking out of turn, of course. And I agree, he’d make a terrific PM. A bit of hard drive at the top is just what the country needs: instead of a wet flannel. And Winston might not have time, then, to play sailors …” Wishart snapped his fingers, as a thought struck him: “Sir Hugh—about this ambition of yours to get to sea—”

  “Winston?”

  “If you had him on your side—and you probably would have, because what he’ll go for every time is positive action—”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed.” Hugh Everard frowned, considering the idea.

  Wishart put in, “I’m sure he’d see you, if—”

  “I dare say. I dare say … But—you’ll think I’m daft, I suppose, but— frankly, I don’t like to ask a favour of a politician. They’re not safe hands to let oneself get into. Even if one might be prepared to believe that Winston’s a cut above the others …” He shook his head. “I had some experience of politicians, at one time.”

  “In 1919?”

  “Oh.” The blue eyes sharpened. “Did Nick tell you about it?”

  Wishart nodded. “In confidence, of course.”

  “Even in confidence, I’m—surprised.”

  “Nick and I are close friends, Sir Hugh.”

  Are: or were?

  “I’ll give your suggestion a bit of thought, Wishart.” He poked with his fork. “This pie’s as good as I’ve ever had here.”

  “You’ve had a good few meals in the place, I imagine, over the years?”

  “For a non-member, probably too many.” He watched Wishart topping up their glasses. “I’ve belonged to Boodle’s since the year dot, you see. Nick uses it too. And like me, when he left the Navy he didn’t feel inclined to—so to speak, to hang around the fringes.”

  “I can understand that.” Nick had said much the same thing, he remembered. He thought of something else that would help to keep the conversation on safe ground … “I meant to ask you—Nick’s son, your great-nephew—any news of him?”

  “Yes. He’s away at sea now, but he came to visit me a couple of months ago. You know he joined on the lower deck?” Wishart nodded. Sir Hugh went on, “He was in Portsmouth barracks then. Pleasant lad. Plenty of fire in him—very like his father, you see. Just as damn pigheaded, anyway. And there’s a Russian streak in this one, too! What a mixture!”

  “A Russian Everard in square rig. Ye Gods!”

  They both laughed. Wishart added, “Nick told me he was trying to push him into becoming a CW candidate, and not getting much response.”

  “CW” stood for Commissions and Warrants. A CW candidate was a sailor marked as potentially suitable for commissioned rank after a probationary period at sea on the lower deck. But you couldn’t be forced to accept a candidacy if you didn’t want it. Hugh Everard muttered, “Nick would be wiser to let the boy reach his own decisions. He isn’t the sort to be pushed.”

  Wishart was glancing back over his shoulder, trying to contact their waiter. The boy sounded like a chip off the old block, he thought.

  “What about the other one, the baby half-brother who went to Dartmouth?”

  “You mean Jack.”

  Nick’s stepmother, Sarah, had surprised everyone by producing a son in 1919. She’d been only thirty-one then, but Nick’s father, Sir John, had been a lot older; they’d been married since 1912 and if they’d ever thought of starting a new family there had certainly been no such expectations in more recent years. And it had not been a happy marriage. But Nick, returning from his Black Sea adventures in 1920 and bringing with him his Russian countess wife, was introduced to a year-old half-brother— who at an early age had opted for a career in the Royal Navy and was now just twenty-one and a lieutenant.

  Hugh had joined his host in the attempt to catch the waiter. What they were after was a Stilton which had passed by earlier on. Hugh said,
“Jack’s done very well, from all I hear. And keen as mustard, apparently. But—” he shook his head—”even with 25 years dividing ‘em, you wouldn’t imagine he could be Nick’s brother. Or half-brother either.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “C-class cruiser, refitting up north. He wants to specialise as a navigator, when he’s eligible for the Dryad course.” Hugh had spotted the Stilton, and it was coming this way; some people at a table beyond this one were obviously waiting for it. He told Wishart, “Coming up on your quarter. Now.”

  “Waiter—we’ll have some of that, please.”

  “Well done!”

  “Good scouting did it.” He gestured to the waiter, who pushed his trolley up beside Sir Hugh. Presently, as the trolley squeaked away on its interrupted journey, he asked, “The OD—Nick’s son—”

  “Paul.”

  “Yes, Paul. You said he’s at sea now?”

  “First ship. Hoste.”

  “Is he, by golly!”

  Hoste was one of the Second Destroyer Flotilla, who were at this moment somewhere up near Narvik with Renown. And with the Second Flotilla on this operation were several other destroyers, including Intent.

  Sir Hugh, with an eyebrow cocked, was waiting for an explanation of that “By golly.”

  Wishart told him, cautiously, about the covering force for the minelaying operations, Admiral Whitworth with the battlecruiser and destroyers screening her. Then he stumbled to a halt: faced with the problem of mentioning or not mentioning Nick’s ship. And suddenly the dam burst in his mind: it was impossible to sit here and not tell him …

  “There’s something—a subject—which I’ve been trying to avoid, sir. Largely because we’ve had only disjointed signals and no confirmation— we don’t know for sure at all, but—well, this morning, roughly off Trondheim—”

  “Hoste?”

  He shook his head. “Intent.”

  The older man’s flinch was so quickly controlled that if you hadn’t been face to face with him and only three feet away you might not have noticed it.