The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  They decided not to wake MacGregor, as there was nothing urgent about it and in any case he was due for a shake at 0200. Massingbird put the signal in the clip and turned in again; he seemed to have an unlimited capacity for sleep. Paul went to the wireless office and buzzed X-12; he’d intended to give this news to Gimber, but Ozzie Steep answered and said the skipper had his head down.

  “Resting up for stage two, sir. I wish you’d let me take Dick’s place.”

  “You’ve been under the weather, Ozzie. That’s the only reason. It’s bad enough having to take Louis, after a week cooped up already, but what you’ve been through’s something else again. I just can’t take chances—not ones I don’t have to take.”

  Steep said yes, Gimber had explained all that … “But the fact is, I’m now as good as new. I mean, really.”

  “I know how you feel, Ozzie. Dick’s fed up too. But the decision’s been taken, so let’s leave it … How’s the list, still the same?”

  “Yes. Six degrees exactly, still. I’ve got used to it, now.”

  “No trimming problems?”

  “Not since we lightened her to compensate for the flooded buoyancy chamber.”

  There was a copper strip between each side-cargo and the X-craft’s hull. When you dropped them—by turning a wheel on each side—the strip was detached and this flooded the side-cargo’s buoyancy chambers so that it lost its neutral buoyancy and sank to the bottom. This one must have lost some of its buoyancy already, and this was giving X-12 her list.

  “D’you think she’ll handle all right, in the fjords?”

  “No indication that she won’t. Apart from the problems you’ll have there anyway.”

  The problems would be from variations in salinity and therefore water density, arising from freshwater patches where streams or mountain ice entered the salt-water fjords.

  “What other defects d’you have?”

  “Defects?”

  Paul frowned at the telephone. “Yes, Ozzie. Defects.”

  “Oh. Sorry …” As if he was waking up. Gimber had been right, Paul thought. Steep said, “We had that leak on the periscope again, but Trigger fixed it. Twice. He had some trouble with the heads hull-valve too— didn’t you, Trigger, when I was …”

  “Ozzie, put Trigger on now, would you?”

  “Right.”

  “Setter’ll! be diving at about a quarter past. You’ll get some comfort then.”

  “We’ll be ready for it. Here’s the mechanical genius.”

  “Hi, skipper!”

  Defects, it turned out, had been only minor. The periscope-gland leak was a nuisance and would be likely to recur, and the list was something that one would have to cope with, one way or another. The head’s outlet valve had been only a temporary problem, which had been cleared by a lot of blowing. Towne and Steep were now hard at work to get on top of the problems of condensation.

  “We’ll have her on the top line for you, don’t worry.” “That’s fine, Trigger. See you this evening.”

  Back in Setter’s wardroom he found MacGregor at the table drinking kye. He asked, pointing at the signal log, “This makes no odds to you, of course.”

  “None, sir. Doesn’t tell us anything about Lützow or Scharnhorst. Very nice for the three who’ve been given Tirpitz, of course.”

  It was quite a coincidence the main target of the operation was to have her teeth drawn, so to speak, right in the period chosen for the attack. Almost too much of a coincidence, that the enemy should have picked on that stage of moon and tide—and let the news out?

  The dream—Jane, and her red carpet?

  He told himself, Ridiculous …

  Eaton groaned as he rolled over on the bunk. MacGregor, about to go up to the bridge for a look round before he dived her, stopped, staring at the blanket-wrapped figure. Paul could sense his anxiety. In the interests of Operation Source the decision to get the crew-change done with before anything else was surely right; but if the delay cost Eaton his life …

  It wasn’t a good day for CPO Bird, either.

  Setter was in trim at sixty feet by 0230. And X-12 surfaced for her routine ventilation at six. The midget simply planed up against the pull of the tow, spent a quarter of an hour bouncing about on the surface, while the upward tugging at her stern affected Setter’s trim making it hard work for the control room watchkeepers, and then planed down again.

  At eleven in the forenoon, since this was Sunday, MacGregor conducted a short religious service in the control room. He included a special prayer for X-craft crews, for the success of the operation and a safe return; Paul, head bowed and eyes on the toes of his own plimsol shoes, with Brazier’s on one side and Lanchberry’s on the other, couldn’t remember ever knowingly being prayed for before. He wondered how God would see it. After all, they were preparing to take four tons of high-explosive and plant it under a crowd of people who had no idea what was coming to them, and not all of whom could be entirely villainous. The strategic requirement was obvious, the Germans were not in Norway to help old ladies cross the streets, and equally plain was the inevitability of fighting this entirely defensive war; but if the Almighty was primarily concerned with the souls of men, might he take a different view? This occupied Paul’s thoughts for the next minute or two; when he surfaced he was hearing the end of another special prayer, for Dick Eaton’s recovery. In MacGregor’s place, he thought, he’d have said one for the coxswain, too. But praying was done with: they were singing Eternal Father Strong to Save.

  It was a restless day, more than restful.

  Louis Gimber took X-12 up for another breather at noon. He told Paul after he’d dived her again that the weather was improving, wind and sea moderating; if this trend continued, tonight’s change-over should present no problems.

  X-12 was still carrying her list of six degrees to port.

  “Will you guff-through again at six, Louis? Or stretch it for the extra hour or so?” Because they’d be surfacing for the crew-change soon after seven.

  “Might as well stay down. The air’s perfectly OK after six hours, now nobody’s being sick. Condensation gets heavier, but what’s one hour?”

  “All right. When the time comes we’ll do it in two boat-trips. Jazz and I in the first one, and the boat brings Ozzie and Trigger back here, then the Bomber can be wafted over on his own. You getting plenty of rest, I hope?”

  “Hell, yes. It’s bloody luxury, down here.”

  Old Louis was feeling sorry for himself … But the words and tone must have jarred in his own ears too. He added, “I’ve had as much sleep as I can take. Tell you the truth, quite looking forward to seeing your repulsive faces this evening … How’s Eaton?”

  Setter broke surface at 1920 and X-12 materialised 200 yards astern of her a few minutes later. It was about half to three-quarters dark. The rolling as Setter wallowed up had seemed to give the lie to Gimber’s theory of improving sea conditions, but as she rose to full buoyancy one realised that wind and sea had eased. MacGregor manoeuvred his submarine to put her to wind-ward of the midget, both to provide a lee and so that the rubber boat could be floated down by wind-power.

  Leading Seaman Hallet, second coxswain, and two sailors came up with the boat and a coil of hemp line, and climbed down on to the fore casing, to the gundeck where there’d be room to inflate the boat. MacGregor called down the voicepipe, “Ask Lieutenant Everard and his crew to come up.”

  Without binoculars, X-12 was only a black smudge in a patch of white: she wasn’t in sight all the time, and as one’s eyes adapted to the darkness the figure of Louis Gimber on her casing could be made out, apparently riding the waves.

  Hallet called, “Boat’s ready, sir!”

  “Very good.” MacGregor turned to Paul and the others. “It’s been a pleasure having you on board. Good luck now, all of you.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality, sir.” They shook hands. This wasn’t quite a final farewell, as there’d be telephone contacts between now and slipping time
tomorrow night. Paul and Lanchberry climbed down the rungs and cutaway footholds to the cat-walk, and around it to the gundeck. Hallet saw them coming: he and his assistants had already launched the boat and were holding it alongside.

  “Trip round the ’arbour, sir, ’alf a tanner?”

  “Worth every penny … Go on, Jazz.”

  Lanchberry climbed down. When the boat had steadied again, Paul followed, with a heaving-line coiled over his shoulder. The casing party wished them luck and began paying out the hemp securing line. All that was necessary was for the boat to drift along the lie of the tow-rope—which was where the wind would take it anyway. Within a few minutes the X-craft loomed up ahead—narrow, bow-on, sawing up and down on its tether. Gimber was standing, holding on to the induction pipe and now ready for Paul’s line; he’d also have an infrared torch tied to his belt for signalling to MacGregor—for instance, to tell them to stop paying out any more hemp. Paul waited until only a few yards separated them before he tossed his line, lobbing its weighted Turk’s Head high over that plunging, end-on black shape. He saw Gimber’s arm reaching for it: then Lanchberry bawled, “Owzat?” A minute later Gimber was hauling them alongside—bumping, the boat tilting dangerously, Paul finally scrambling up and crouching in cold wave-tops to hold it alongside—Jazz out too, and steadying the boat’s other end. Gimber had the hatch open and figures emerging—Towne first, slithering down into the boat with shouts of “Wotcher, Jazz!” and “Best of British, mates!” Ozzie, close behind him, contrastingly silent.

  “All set?”

  “Let her go!”

  Gimber flashed his torch at Setter’s bridge, signalling for the boat to be hauled back. Lanchberry meanwhile sliding feet-first into the hatch, Paul close on top of him. A glimpse of Gimber’s pale face and black beard, face screwed up against the weather, a face like a Halloween mask lit by the glow thrown up through the hatch. Inside now, in the small, yellowish-lit cavern that was X-12’s belly. He’d forgotten how small: Jonah might have had more elbow-room. But at first sight it didn’t look bad—considering this tub had been dragged through a thousand miles of rough sea, inhabited by three men for—however long it was … Jazz was on his helmsman’s seat, checking over the controls surrounding it. Paul called up the pipe, “Louis, I’ll look after the trim until you’ve dived her, OK?”

  It seemed tactful, as well as practical. Gimber shouted down, “Make yourselves at home!”

  Lanchberry got off his seat, crawled for’ard into the W and D. Looking around, checking the gear, inspecting this and that. Examining the hatch for seepage. X-12 was hurling herself around like an unbroken colt on a lunging-rein. Paul making his own inspection at this stage by eye; he needed to stay close under the hatch in case Gimber wanted help. He tried—since it was one of the things within reach—the starboardside viewing port. There was one each side, a thick glass window set in the pressure-hull at head-height, with external steel shutters that could be opened or closed from inside. He slid this one open as a first step in a preliminary check on moving parts; during the next twenty-four hours, before finally parting from Setter, he meant to test every single fitting and piece of equipment. Through the uncovered port there was nothing to be seen except breaking sea, white explosions and the rush of foam along her flank: he cranked the shutter closed again, and he was checking on the portside one when Gimber yelled down, “Boat’s alongside Setter. I can see the Bomber getting in.”

  There’d be about five or ten minutes to wait, then. Despite the roll, the list to port was easily discernible: the transverse bubble centred itself on six degrees right of centre instead of on the centre mark. Paul decided that another job for tomorrow, the last day in tow, would be to work out what stores might now be superfluous and ditch them to lighten her. Most of the consumable stores, cans of food and drink, were carried on the port side, and every pound of weight removed from there would help.

  “Boat’s on its way. Looks like there’s an elephant in it!”

  Lanchberry smiling his sardonic smile as he passed, crouching double, on his way aft. Using the interval for a very quick inspection. Paul stayed where he was: the boat with Brazier in it had to be getting fairly close now, to explain that shout from Gimber, a wolf-cry into the wind. If there’d been an answer it wasn’t audible. He had to squeeze aside to let Jazz get past again, the ERA returning to his helmsman’s seat just as the dinghy thumped alongside and Brazier hauled his bulk aboard.

  Colossal legs in wet trousers descended through the hatch, in a pattering shower of spray. “Hi, skipper. OK, are we?”

  “No problems yet.” Gimber dropped inside and pulled the hatch shut, reached up to wrench the handwheel round and secure it. Paul was moving to the first lieutenant’s seat, to let him dive her before he himself assumed command, but Gimber grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

  “That’s my job. Thanks all the same.”

  X-12’s bow soared, crashed down … Paul checking that Lanchberry had shut the valve on the induction pipe. Gimber confirmed, as he slid into what had been Ozzie’s seat, “She’s shut off for diving.”

  “Thank you.” He had to wait for about two minutes, until the tow had got under way again, on course and battering through the waves. Looking round, seeing Gimber’s back view—shaggy and spray-soaked but relaxed, waiting for the order to dive—and Jazz Lanchberry’s crewcut head and square shoulders over the back of the helmsman’s seat, Bomber Brazier peering from the W and D like some great St Bernard in a kennel … The telephone buzzed, and he answered it.

  “Yes. Diving now.” He hung it up. “Open main vents. Sixty feet.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  . . .

  I asked Tommy Trench, “How was it QP 16 set out from Russia before the X-craft boys had done their stuff? Wasn’t the idea that Tirpitz and Co. would be knocked out before you sailed?”

  He nodded. “That had been the intention. Not that I knew it at the time. We were supposed to wait for some damn thing—that’s all—but not even Nick Everard had been told about X-craft. He didn’t even know his own son was in it.”

  Now in his seventies, Trench was a stooped, gaunt man, with more bone to him than flesh. He still did a full day’s work though—seven days a week, he’d told me—and his grey hair was thick, a lot bushier than he’d have worn it in his service days. This was Captain Thomas Trench, DSO and Bar, DSC, RN (Retd)—in corduroys and a patched tweed jacket, the left sleeve of it empty, pinned into a pocket. I’d run him to earth on his mink farm in Norfolk. It was the second time we’d met; the first had been in London about eight years before, when he’d helped me with detail of Nick Everard’s adventures on the Norwegian coast in 1940. And I do have reason for going behind the scenes, as it were, at this stage. First because, approaching the end of a story in nine episodes covering more than a quarter of a century, I think a change of perspective may give a more realistic view of the climax and its aftermath; and more particularly because when I’d last consulted him, and we’d touched briefly on these later events, he’d offered, “When the time comes, look me up. I may be inclined by then to give you the real facts of it.”

  Over the years he’d kept his mouth shut whenever he’d been invited to comment on his action in defence of convoy QP 16. I doubt if anyone else had ever suspected there might be “real” facts behind the known ones, and I only knew of such a possibility myself because of that half-promise he’d made.

  He’d been lighting a pipe—managing the job one-handed with a dexterity that had to be seen to be appreciated—but he had it going now and he continued with his answer to my question about the convoy’s departure from North Russia.

  “At the time, all I knew was they were keeping us waiting—which I didn’t go much on, mostly because I wanted to get Nick Everard into a proper hospital as soon as possible—and then suddenly came this order to sail. ‘With all dispatch’—meaning ‘Get a bloody move on’—after what seemed to me a quite unnecessary delay. This was a signal from Admiralty, of course. Lat
er it transpired that the reason behind it had been a Norwegian report of Tirpitz having her gun-barrels changed, and some other incapacitating thing. London assumed this meant she wouldn’t leave Altenfjord whatever temptation might be offered. The change of gunbarrels, incidentally, was because she’d worn them out bombarding Spitzbergen a week or so before—the only time she ever used them in anger, as it happened. Net result was our lords and masters decided it behoved us to scram out of the Barents Sea while the going was good.”

  “Which in the event it was not.”

  I added that the report from the Norwegian resistance group, about Tirpitz, had been signalled to the X-craft force as well, as an indication to them that at least their major target would be there when they arrived.

  Trench stared out of the window, puffing smoke. He mused, “I’ve often wondered who actually drafted those signals. I mean the ones with ‘From Admiralty’ in the address heading. I’ve asked myself how long such characters would have been left gibbering around that august building before people in white coats came for them.”

  I laughed, but he didn’t crack a smile. He said, “Those Norwegians were extraordinary, you know.” He glanced at me, and nodded. “Well, of course, you do know … The really sad thing about it is one of ’em was caught, some weeks after the X-craft attack, by the Gestapo. Did you know that?”

  I let him tell me, anyway.

  “They tortured him, in Gestapo headquarters in Tromso. He jumped out of an upstairs window and killed himself, having told them bugger-all despite having had all his fingernails pulled out. I’d say chaps like that were the bravest of the brave, wouldn’t you?”

  I admitted I agreed entirely.

  “Rasmussen, his name was. Karl Rasmussen.” Trench shook his grey head. “If they haven’t put up a statue to him by now, they ought to have their nails pulled out … What else d’you want to know about my convoy?”

  The truth was that I knew most of it; I had the facts from the official history and from papers in the Naval Historical Branch of the Ministry of Defence and in the Public Record Office. But there was some new angle he’d hinted at.