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

by Alexander Fullerton

She took it from him. By the time she’d skimmed through it, hardly daring to believe her eyes, he’d left the room. She read the signal again more slowly, making sure that she was understanding it, that it did mean what it seemed to mean. Then she reached for the telephone and asked the Admiralty exchange to connect her with a Hampshire number which Aubrey Wishart had left with her. The telephone was answered by a woman with a strident Hampshire accent.

  “Is Admiral Sir Hugh Everard there, please?”

  “No, he’s not. Who’d that be as wants him?”

  “This is the Admiralty in London. When do you expect—”

  “Why, he’s there, where you are!”

  “You mean he’s visiting the Admiralty?”

  “I’m sure that’s what I said, Missus—”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Virginia Casler rang off, and called down to the porters’ office at the main entrance. The porters were all retired naval men. Yes: Admiral Everard had arrived half an hour ago, with an appointment in Medical.

  “Thank you.” She checked her list of departmental extensions, and got through on an internal line. An SBA confirmed that Admiral Everard was there, waiting for a check-up.

  “May I speak to him, please? This is Third Officer Casler calling on behalf of Rear-Admiral Wishart.”

  “I’ll see if he can come to the phone, Ma’am. May ‘ave stripped off like.”

  “Would that matter terribly?” There was a silence. She added, “I must speak to him. It’s very important to him.”

  Now she had a wait of about a minute. Then: “Admiral Everard here.”

  “This is Third Officer Casler, sir. I was Admiral Wishart’s assistant, but as I think you know he left us yesterday.”

  “I do know, yes. What is it, Miss Casler?”

  “He was anxious that I should contact you if there was any news of your nephew, and—”

  “And you’ve had some?”

  Quick, excited, suddenly a young, strong voice …

  Virginia Casler swallowed, nodding. “Yes. It’s the most marvellous, wonderful—”

  She was going to cry. Not was going to, was crying. She’d felt a bit emotional when she’d read the signal but now suddenly her eyes were full of it and her voice had gone peculiar. She’d had to pause, struggling for control and annoyed with herself, ashamed, but—

  “You are telling me that my nephew is alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “His ship was not sunk?”

  “He’s been doing all the sinking. He’s—”

  Again, it had stuck in her throat. Swallowing, trying not to weep directly into the receiver, thinking, How ridiculous …

  “—been doing the most incredible things, sir. I—oh, I’m sorry, I’m being silly, I—”

  “I think you must be a charming and delightful young woman, Miss Casler. Very far from silly. But it might be easier if we were to meet without a telephone in the way? Perhaps after these chaps in here have finished pushing and pulling me about?”

  “If you’d ring through when you’re free, sir, I could bring this signal—”

  “Signal from Intent.”

  “Yes. If we met down at the main entrance?”

  “You really are most kind. What extension should I ask for?”

  She told him. She added, “It’s—a fantastic signal …”

  She’d just managed to get those words out: then she’d fumbled the receiver into its cradle and started looking for a handkerchief. In the medical section Hugh Everard hung up too, smiling to himself. A young man’s smile … He’d fairly fly through this medical now, he thought: then he’d tear down to meet this little Wren girl, who really did sound quite enchanting: and before long—incredibly—he’d be seeing Nick. Nick who might have been dead and by the grace of God was not: and who’d be bound to have quite a yarn to tell! I must not, Hugh thought, get myself sent off into the Atlantic too damn soon …

  Crouch, leaning over number six tube, jerked his head towards the noise of gunfire up ahead. Banks of carved-up sea peeled away on either side. Way back, even farther back than Intent was, a couple of destroyers were ferreting along the coast. Crouch grumbled to CPO Shaw, the torpedo gunner’s mate, “The boats up front’s ‘ogging all the action. Skipper’ll be spitting blood.”

  Intent was making about 20 knots. Warspite’s maximum was 24, and the other destroyers had chased on at more than 30, so it was hardly surprising that it was distant gunfire they were hearing.

  The TGM ignored Crouch’s remark. He’d turned to glance up at the ensign, whip-cracking from the mizzen gaff. Joss Bartley muttered as he unwrapped a piece of chewing-gum, “About ‘ad our whack down south, ain’t we?”

  “Not in ‘is book we ain’t.” Crouch nodded in the direction of the bridge. “Be ‘alf berserk up there, I reckon. Specially now ‘e’s lost ‘is Sheila.”

  Snow swept across the fjord, and there was a lot of smoke as well as swirling fog-patches.

  “Aircraft approaching astern, sir, green one-seven-oh, angle of sight two-oh!”

  That yell had come from the after lookout on the starboard side. Trench had sprung over to that side of the bridge and he had his glasses trained astern. He told Nick, “Swordfish, sir. About six—eight …”

  From Furious, somewhere off Lofoten. There’d been a signal that they’d be making an attack. Trench amplified,”I think ten aircraft, sir. But they’re in and out of mist and—”

  “All right.”

  Cutting him short … In any circumstances, any frame of mind, it would have been frustrating to be stuck behind the battleship while other destroyers were off the leash and doing proper destroyer work. The action seemed to be going in two directions now, north-westward towards Herjangsfjord and east to Narvik. Nick heard the roar of engines as the Stringbags flew over, heading for the harbour area. You saw them in glimpses, one or two at a time here and there as they appeared and disappeared through cloud and fog.

  Warspite let loose another salvo and its thunder crashed back in echoes from the mountains. The battleship’s turrets were trained to port and on the bow, but it was impossible to know what she was shooting at. A second salvo followed that one: then her guns were at rest again while ahead the intensity of destroyer gunfire thickened. The Swordfish had flown on into the murk ahead and quite possibly some of those explosions could be bomb-bursts. There’d be AA guns in it too. For the moment the snow had stopped. The director telephone squawked: Nick reached for it and Brocklehurst told him, “One Hun’s gone right up Herjangsfjord, sir, with Eskimo chasing him, and there’s a group of three that seem to be making for Rombaksfjord.”

  Nine destroyers up there making hay with them. Avenging Hardy, Hunter, Hoste. Only one out of ten stuck back here where there were no Germans. A corollary to that was that there was no danger to Warspite from this quarter either. Nick looked round for Herrick.

  “Signalman. Make to the admiral, ‘Am I to remain in this station?’”

  He might have forgotten he had Intent sitting here doing nothing when with the action going off in separate directions she could have been making herself useful. It wasn’t likely but he might have … Four Swordfish, low to the water, were struggling to gain height on their way seaward. Warspite’s big guns flamed and roared. Brocklehurst reported, “Enemy destroyer gunfire’s slackening, sir. Almost as if they’re running out of ammo.”

  Herrick was clattering that message out on one of the ten-inch lamps, using a big one to beat the soupy visibility. The Germans might be short of ammunition, Nick thought. They’d have used a lot during the Second Flotilla’s attack on the 10th, and at the end of that battle they’d also lost their ammunition ship. The one with the flames which had risen, according to the BBC, to three thousand feet. May there have been Germans in those flames, he thought. What about Hoste: had she burnt? He wasn’t sure that his informants last night hadn’t known more than they’d told him. Herrick had passed the signal and Nick had seen Warspite’s, flashed “K” acknowledg
ing it. A yeoman of signals would be taking it to the admiral now. From the north-west, Herjangsfjord, came the solid boom of a torpedo hit, and he guessed it would be Eskimo finishing off the one she’d chased up there. He had his glasses trained that way and he heard the clash of the shutter on the lamp as Herrick acknowledged receipt of the admiral’s reply. It had been a very short one by the sound of it.

  “Sir?” He looked round at the killick. Herrick told him unhappily, “From the admiral, sir—’Yes.’”

  Bloody hell …

  “Director—bridge!”

  He answered the telephone. Brocklehurst told him, “One Tribal has been badly hit in Rombaksfjord, sir. Stopped and on fire.”

  Nothing Intent could help with. Intent was wet-nurse to a battleship which was here to look for a cruiser—two cruisers—which almost certainly were not in these fjords. The Germans never did leave their ships in positions where they’d be vulnerable to attack if they could help it, and it was a fair bet that any cruisers they’d had up here—if they’d had any—would be back in German ports by now.

  Director telephone again: “There’s another destroyer, one we haven’t seen before, just coming out of Narvik harbour, sir.”

  Following Warspite, Intent was circling to starboard, leaving Narvik off to port. The battleship’s guns, trained that way, spurted flame and smoke: swallowing to clear his ears from the concussion, Nick saw three—then four—now six destroyers racing towards the newly-emerged enemy. All had their guns firing and the German was surrounded by shell-spouts. And now hits: bursts that blossomed into fires and spread, smoke growing to obscure her … Warspite’s guns were quiet again as Intent obediently fell into place astern of her. Back near the harbour entrance that German destroyer had rolled over, hung for a half-minute on her side then completed the roll and sunk. There was only smoke there now, and the British ships circling off to port and starboard like wheeling cavalry. Beyond, on the shoreline and the harbour’s fringes, shell-bursts had stained the snow in yellow blotches. Warspite’s course was now south-west, and Nick guessed they were going to take a look into the mouth of Skjomenfjord for the mythical cruisers. Glancing back over his ship’s port quarter he saw Cossack plastered under a sudden deluge of German shellfire. Guns from inside the harbour: range point-blank as Cossack had nosed up into the narrow entrance.

  Warspite was going about again, probably to use her crushing firepower on that shore battery. Eskimo had come tearing out of Herjangsfjord and she was turning in towards Rombaksfjord where enemy ships had run for shelter. They wouldn’t find much: Hero, Forester, Bedouin, and Icarus were dashing in after Eskimo. Like a pack of terriers darting around and routing out their quarry. Warspite had already reversed her course, and Nick had to let her pass on her way back towards the harbour before he could put his own helm over to turn astern of her.

  Shell-spouts out of nowhere rose in a tight group on Intent’s bow. The splashes lifted, hung, then disintegrated into a foul-smelling rain which lashed across the bridge as she steamed through the place where the shells had fallen.

  “Destroyer red three-five!”

  The German had appeared from behind the cover of the point: she’d been hiding in that southern fjord.

  “All guns follow director!”

  Clang of the fire-gongs: crash of the four-sevens …

  If Warspite hadn’t gone about when she had, the enemy destroyer would have been well placed for a torpedo attack on her.

  “Port twenty.”

  “Port twenty, sir!”

  Another salvo ripping over, down … Close again. Near-misses like kicks in the ship’s ribs as they thumped down and burst and the splashes sprang, one just clear of the quarter but the others abreast the for’ard tubes and collapsing across the iron deck as the ship swung around. Brocklehurst, with work to do at last, had his guns shooting fast and accurately: his first salvo had gone over but the second lot had hit, a splash of red flame on the side of the German’s bridge and others amidships around his funnels as he too swung away under helm. As Intent turned, heeling hard to starboard, “X” and “Y” guns were out of the fight only for a few seconds.

  Hugh Everard had saved Warspite’s bacon for her at Jutland. Nick said into the voicepipe, “Midships.” Odd, to think of that. She’d had a couple of very expensive face-lifts since then, of course.

  “Torpedoes approaching starboard bow!”

  Quickly down to the pipe again: “Port twenty-five.”

  “Port twenty-five, sir!”

  It was the quickest way to get her round because she’d still been swinging. The fish coming at her now would have been intended for the admiral: hence the German’s own turn to starboard. They were no danger at all to Warspite: Intent, in turning to engage and close the enemy, had put herself right in front of them.

  “A” and “B” guns were silent now, unable to bear as the ship swung her stern towards the enemy and his torpedoes.

  “Midships.”

  “Midships, sir.” “X” and “Y” were still banging away. Cox was aft there, doing Lyte’s job. Nick called down to Jarratt, “Meet her.”

  “Torpedo passing to port, sir!”

  And another track to starboard: the lookouts on that side reported it. Intent had combed the tracks quite neatly. Nick stooped and called down, “Starboard fifteen.” After guns still in action: he’d get “A” and “B” back into it now. The German was circling right around, probably trying to get back into that side fjord. The admiral could hardly expect Intent to paddle along astern of him like some bloody duck and let the bastard go …

  Warspite let rip. Hearing the crashing thunder of it Nick looked that way and saw her turrets trained to starboard as she muscled in on his German …

  She’d hit him. Smothering, annihilating. The destroyer exploded upwards in a gush of flame, smoke, escaping steam. Then all smoke, blackness with fire that shot through it like moving scarlet threads. When it cleared there was only litter on the surface.

  “Midships. Port fifteen.”

  “Port fifteen, sir …”

  “Three hundred revolutions.” He needed a few extra knots, to get back into station on that floating fortress. There’d been flashing, some signal coming over. A reprimand for having left his station?

  “Fifteen of port wheel on, sir!”

  Leading Signalman Herrick reported, “From the admiral, sir —’thank you.’”

  “What the hell for?”

  Chandler suggested, “For getting between him and that German, sir?”

  Nick didn’t even glance at him. He bent to the voicepipe: “Midships.” Warspite had already been well clear, not in any danger. He was angry, pent-up, feeling the tension like a taut wire in his brain, and knowing at the same time that this Hoste business was his own problem, one that he had to face up to on his own, not vent in bad temper on other people. He nodded to Pete Chandler. “You may be right.”

  There was one good thing. After those near-misses he could now discover that his ship had leaking fuel-tanks.

  Six-thirty pm: withdrawing, and still playing follow-my-leader behind the flagship. Steaming westward at 20 knots. In the fjords of northern Norway, not one German ship had been left afloat. Four lay shattered on the top end of Rombaksfjord, one in Herjangsfjord, one off the harbour and one inside it, another in Djupvik Bay. Considering the odds they’d faced, the Germans had put up a good fight. Three British destroyers had been damaged. One of them, Cossack, was aground but would be refloated before long: her wounded had been transferred to Warspite.

  The troops which were supposed to be on their way should have been here now. German troops were pulling out: you could see them, dark snake-like columns winding away across the snow-slopes.

  Broad on the port bow as the ships moved westward towards the narrows, in an estuary which had Ballangen village at its head, an “H” or “I” class destroyer lay close inshore with boats moving between her and the beach. Trench muttered with his glasses on her, “Taking men off
shore, sir. I wonder—” he glanced round quickly as he thought of it— “could be survivors from Hardy and—”

  “It’s—possible.”

  The thought had hit him, explosively, just before it had occurred to Trench. But then a second thought: that there was nothing he could do about it. He’d made one submission in the matter of having to hang around the flagship, and he’d been snubbed for his pains: he didn’t want to try again and have it thought he was behaving like a prima donna, trading on his successes. Besides—personal anxieties were—well, that— personal, and private.

  Fear now, as well as anxiety. He’d been left in doubt too long.

  “Warspite’s flashing!”

  Chandler had bawled it, but Herrick was ahead of him and the lamp had clashed before the navigator had shut his mouth. The first word of the message was “Proceed” … Release, then, finally? Nick put his glasses up, focusing on the destroyer inshore, in that southern inlet. A lot of men were being brought off. Boatloads of them. He couldn’t identify the destroyer.

  Trench had begun to read out the message as the dots and dashes came rippling from Warspite’s signal bridge and Herrick acknowledged each completed word with a single flash.

  “Proceed—Ballangen—and—join—Ivanhoe—embarking—survivors— ex—Hardy—Hoste—also—merchant—navy—personnel—for—transfer—to—oiler—Tonning—stop—You—may—recruit—engine-room— personnel—as—available—and—requisite.”

  He’d read the last part of it for himself, and as it ended he was ready at the voicepipe. “Three-five-oh revolutions!”

  “Three-five-oh revolutions, sir!”

  “Port fifteen.”

  “Port fifteen, sir. Three-five-oh revolutions passed and repeated, sir. Fifteen of port wheel on!”

  Turbine-whine rising as the speed built up and Intent surged forward: bow-wave lifting, lengthening as she swung away south-westward, pitching out across the battleship’s rolling, outspreading wake. Something joyous in that motion and the thrust of speed—as if it came as a relief to the ship herself … Nick called to Trench, “Scrambling nets both sides, Number One. And call away boats’ crews.”