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

by Alexander Fullerton

  I prompted, “When you joined up with the convoy off Cape Kanin, QP 16 consisted of twenty-six empty ships plus the AA ship you’d brought up with you, and the escort comprised your five fleets, plus Foremost and the trawler, whose name for the moment …”

  “Northern Glow?”

  “Yes. And two sweepers. Barra, and—Duncansby?”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “And the commodore was Insole again.”

  Trench nodded. “He flew from Vaenga to Archangel in a Catalina and installed himself and his staff in a ship called the Lord Charles. She was one of the two we lost to U-boats, and he went down with her, poor old bugger. U-boats were my main concern, when we were heading north. I was worried for the Bayleaf, the oiler Nick Everard had salted away for us up in the ice. She was coming down to meet us in the vicinity of Bear Island, and we were getting reports of U-boats mustering to form a patrol-line there. She had only the trawler Arctic Prince to look after her, and her oil was extremely important to us. A lot of eggs in that one basket, you see.” He frowned. “But the most delicate egg of all was the one in Foremost. I stationed her at the rear of the convoy, after we’d made the rendezvous and fuelled and settled down. She and the trawler, Northern Glow. I had my five destroyers spread across the van, one sweeper each side, and the merchantmen in seven columns, four to a column—with one empty billet after the Soviet oiler left us. Centre column was led by the commodore and tailed by the Berkeley. We had good, solid cloud at low level, and although we had aircraft on the radar screens often enough and quite a few times heard them overhead, they didn’t find us. Well—there were a couple of half-hearted attacks by eighty-eights on the second or third day, which did us no harm—just happened to stumble on us by accident, lost us again at dusk, and by morning the cloud was thick again … I suppose we were lucky. But I knew we had U-boats waiting for us.”

  He’d let his pipe go out. He paused now, putting a match to it. The sleight-of-hand was as impressive as before. I remembered him telling me, at our previous meeting, that to inquisitive strangers his story was that he’d had that arm bitten off by a giant mink. He glanced at me as he flicked the matchstick towards the fire.

  “I had a very strong ambition indeed to get that convoy home intact. One always did hope and try to, of course, you could say this was one’s raison d’être; but in practical terms one knew how the odds lay—certainly with the Murmansk runs. Down in the Atlantic, in quieter periods and then later when we’d broken the back of the U-boat threat, we did bring a very high proportion of convoys through unscathed. But we were at the climactic point of that Atlantic battle, just at the time we’re talking about. In fact we were about to turn the tables very decisively, but for those few weeks it was—a close-run thing. And—here’s what I was going to say—since it’s states of mind and so on that interest you, my determination to get QP 16 through without loss was all the stronger for the notion that it was Nick Everard’s convoy, that I had it as you might say on trust from him. And by that time he was talking all sorts of gobbledegook, didn’t know where he was or why, or recognise anyone, or remember anything he was told for more than a few seconds—so Cramphorn told me, over TBS.”

  “He’d come out of his coma, then.”

  “Yes, he had, but he was ga-ga. I mean his mind was wandering. Cramphorn said this was to be expected, and he hoped memory and mental processes generally would return to normal quite rapidly. But it could take months; and the worst possibility of all was permanent brain damage. The very idea of this—for Nick Everard of all people …”

  “He’d sooner have been dead.”

  Trench looked at me. Silent, for a moment. Then: “I was also concerned for his wife. There was a certain horror in the idea of bringing home a man who mightn’t recognise her, or make sense … I was—I suppose the word’s involved. I was a devotee of his, you see. I still am.” He fell silent, staring into the fire so absorbedly that he might have been reading the answer to his own question in it. I was assuming that such a question would be in his mind, just as it was in mine.

  “Where was I?”

  “Heading north towards Bear Island.”

  “Yes. Thanking my lucky stars for the cloud-cover and praying for it to last. Rather counting on it lasting, in fact, at any rate until we ran into foul weather, which was enough to ground the Luftwaffe anyway. The one threat to us, as I saw it then, was the U-boat line ahead of us.”

  “You never suspected there might be a surface threat?”

  “Well, I’d been given reason not to!”

  Paul asked Ozzie Steep, “If he’s still unconscious, how can anyone know he’s OK?”

  “Cox’n says things like pulse-rate and temperature are all right by the book. He followed the instructions precisely—despite some nasty moments, one frightful panic-stations—and—well, he cut it out, and it all looked like the book said it should. He’s keeping him drugged now because otherwise he’d be in pain, he says.”

  “When he comes round, tell him we’re all delighted. And give CPO Bird our thanks and congratulations, would you?”

  “Right.” Steep asked, “How’s your first lieutenant?”

  “He’s fine. Going off watch, about to crash his swede.” Gimber was staring back at him, from a range of about three feet. Lank, blue-black beard, complexion greyish white. Jazz Lanchberry was in the first lieutenant’s seat, and he was due for relief as well—by Brazier, who at this moment was making tea. Paul intended to spend the next hour checking insulations, but tea would be the first thing. They’d had corned beef hash for lunch, broken up in the gluepot and mushed with beans in it, but it had been very salty and everyone had a thirst although Gimber, who’d been duty cook, denied having added any. Paul told Steep, “Nice easy ride now. Even up top. Low swell, is all.”

  “Yes, the improvement’s well timed.” Steep sounded perfectly normal now, Paul thought. “Will you guff-through at six?”

  “If we decide to, I’ll let you know. Otherwise we’ll stay down until dark.”

  Until it was time to surface, release the umbilical cord and set off to cross the minefield. Setter had made her landfall accurately during the night and was now paddling in towards the slipping position.

  “That list still at five degrees?”

  “Yes. It needn’t worry us, I hope.” Ditching some stores and shifting some engine-room gear had reduced the angle by one degree. A lot of work for very small results, but if it made her any easier to handle they might be glad of it later. Paul said, “All right, Ozzie. Give us a call at sunset.”

  “Right.” But he seemed disposed to chat. “That panic-stations in the middle of Dick’s operation—Christ almighty, he started coming-to, right in the middle of it, when the cox’n had both hands inside his gut! So Colbey here—you know Colbey, telegraphist?”

  The grey-headed one. “Yes. What?”

  “Cox’n had Number One as his theatre sister, as you might say, and Colbey as anaesthetist. Chloroform, on a pad. He moved like lightning, sloshed a lot more on, nearly asphyxiated himself and Bird as well!”

  “I’d sooner have this job than that one.”

  “Who wouldn’t!”

  Hanging up, it occurred to him that if Eaton died now, MacGregor wouldn’t let the news out. He’d veto bad news, just as Paul himself had kept from Gimber the news about X-ll and X-9. Gimber had been told now: he’d taken it in silence, abstractedly—Paul had guessed that he’d been seeing it, guessing at those last few minutes, the shape of the catastrophe you’d always known was on the cards. He’d told him about X-8 too, of course, so that only five boats would be crossing the mines tonight, out of the original eight. And without X-11, X-12 would be the only one using Rognsund, the narrower of the two approach fjords.

  “Here, skipper.” Brazier handed Paul a mug of the tea he’d been brewing. He put another within reach of Gimber, and leant over to pass one to Lanchberry.

  Gimber swallowed some tea. His eyes, fastening on Brazier, loo
ked like mud-holes. “What did you put in this? French letters?”

  Brazier nodded. “Been saving ’em for you.”

  Lanchberry growled, “You’re a dirty bastard, you are.”

  Brazier was shifting his bulk into a less cramped position. “Discipline’s gone to pot already, skipper, did you notice?”

  He was chattier than usual. He’d actually spoken several times without being spoken to; for the Bomber, this was the equivalent of anyone else having hysterics. There was a tension in them all, which they were trying to hide, or ignore. Nobody was looking more than they had to at Louis Gimber, either. Despite the rest he’d had in the last day or so, he seemed like a creature from some other world: you could sense his own awareness of the gulf between himself and them, and his resentment of it.

  “You ready, Bomber?”

  “Why not, indeed.”

  It was a gymnastic feat, Jazz edging out and Brazier having to make room for him but still be close enough to get into the seat quickly as soon as it was empty. There were trimming adjustments to be made as the weights shifted, and the hydroplanes couldn’t be left untended. Brazier’s size and strength were fine for his own specialised job of diver, but less so for acrobatics in confined spaces. Lanchberry made the change-round possible, doubling himself around the back of the seat: Brazier told him, “Quite handy, being a herring-gutted greaser, sometimes.”

  Gimber offered, from five or six feet for’ard, “Want to toss for the battery cover, Jazz?”

  Lanchberry shook his head. He’d persuaded an amateur barber in Setter’s crew to tidy him up, before they’d made the change-over, and the sides and back of it had literally been shaved. He said, “I’m not bothered. Better off aft, in fact.” On top of the fuel tank in the engine space, he meant, with his feet protruding through the opening in the after bulkhead. Gimber repeated, “I’m quite prepared to toss for it.”

  “Too bleedin’ late, old son.” Lanchberry was crawling aft. “I’m ’ere.”

  Paul had put them into two watches—himself and Brazier, and Gimber with Lanchberry—each pair on watch for two hours at a time, and the two on watch could take turns at the controls and on maintenance chores. For the next two hours it would be himself and the Bomber working while Lanchberry and Gimber rested.

  Brazier had the trim-pump lever pushed forward, shifting ballast to the for’ard tank to compensate for his own move and for the ERA having moved further aft.

  Paul glanced for’ard. “While you’re there, Louis, pass me the bucket and a swab?”

  Gimber grunted, as he turned himself around. The bucket clattered. He complained, “Some lazy sod didn’t wring this thing out. Here …”

  “Thanks.” On his knees, reaching for it. “You could have four hours off now, instead of two—if you like, Louis. I’m not tired at all.”

  “Nor am I. Thanks all the same.”

  “OK. Change your mind if you want to.”

  “Look.” Gimber stared at him. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t need— don’t want—any bloody privileges. I’m perfectly all right.”

  “If you say so, Louis.”

  “You wanted a first lieutenant, you’ve got one. Huh?”

  Paul returned the angry stare. “Absolutely.” He pointed. “And first lieutenants don’t argue with their skippers. So get your head down. I’m not offering privileges, anyway, I simply want you fit and rested.”

  “All right.” Gimber nodded: framed in the doorway of the W and D. “One thing, though. With only five boats going in now, couldn’t we all go in through Stjernsund?”

  Stjernsund, the passage between Stjernoy and the mainland, was the most direct approach to Altenfjord, and it averaged about three miles in width. Rognsund, which was to be X-12’s route, was no more than two miles wide at any point, and had a much narrower bottleneck about halfway through. The reason this back-door approach had been allocated to X-11 and X-12—in fact to whichever boats were ordered to attack Lützow, and they’d turned out to be Paul’s and Vicary’s—was that with eight midgets all entering at more or less the same time, sending the whole lot through one channel might have increased the chances of detection. And in fact Stjernsund, being the main entrance and the one normally used by the German battle group, might be more closely guarded and patrolled. This might outweigh the hazards of the narrower passage.

  “It’s a toss-up.” He told Gimber, “We may be better off than the others, for all anyone can tell. Besides, there’s the timing factor.”

  Gimber hadn’t taken that in. But he was on the defensive, unwilling to admit it. Paul remembered that he hadn’t been briefed as operational crew, only for the passage … Behind him he heard Brazier mumble, “About right … Let’s hope.” Stopping the pump, he added, “Give or take a cupful.” He was talking to himself about the trim; and he’d need to make another small adjustment to it shortly, when Gimber went through to the sleeping pallet. Paul explained to him, “Our target’s closer than the others. But we have to start off together because we all need this same tide and moon. High tide soon after sunset for instance, so that we’ll float over the top of the mines.”

  It was a longer route, through Rognsund. Lützow was in Langfjord, which led off from the top end of Altenfjord, whereas Tirpitz and Scharnhorst were right at the bottom, in Kafjord. The difference was about fifteen miles, and the plan was geared to the ideal of a synchronised attack, all three targets being hit at about the same time.

  Gimber nodded. “I remember now.” He turned again, to crawl though into the for’ard compartment. Paul squeezed out the swab, and stood up, only slightly stooped because at this point the dome gave added head-room, to dry the deckhead around the hatch and periscopes.

  Gimber’s state of mind worried him. So—slightly—did the fact that Rognsund was much shallower than Stjernsund. If you were caught in Rognsund you’d have a lot less water to hide in.

  Brazier said quietly, “They were shut up in this for more than a week. And in rotten weather, plus sickness, must’ve been bloody awful. Have to make allowances, I’d think.”

  “You’re right, Bomber.”

  Lanchberry muttered from somewhere near the after bulkhead, “He’ll settle down. Give ’im time, you’ll see.”

  “Get some zizz now, Jazz.”

  “Aye aye.”

  Brazier muttered, “Sounds quite hopeful for old Dick.”

  Drops of deckhead moisture dislodged by the swab, spattered down on Paul. The condensation had a sickly smell and taste, like sweat.

  “Well, that’s terrific!”

  X-12 was at sixty feet, but Setter was up at thirty, her periscope depth. It was now just after sunset, and MacGregor was taking a look around. Or had been—he was on the other end of the telephone now, and he’d just told Paul that Dick Eaton was conscious and quite comfortable—except for pain when he moved, which according to the coxswain’s medical handbook was par for the course.

  Paul put his hand over the phone, and told the others. They’d all had some sleep, and they were at their diving stations, waiting for the sunset surfacing. MacGregor said, “Bird did a good job on him, it seems.”

  Paul thought this was the truth. He didn’t think MacGregor could have lied so convincingly, not even for the sake of this crew’s peace of mind. MacGregor was telling him now, “We’ll stay down until nineteen-thirty. I want it good and dark. All right?”

  He agreed. There was plenty of time in hand. He told them as he hung up, “Seven-thirty now. MacGregor reckons it won’t be dark enough until then.”

  The only comment came from Gimber. “Don’t know about anyone else, but personally I’ll be glad to get on with it.”

  You wanted not only the next stage over, but to have the whole thing done. You wanted to have it finished—targets destroyed, and the X-craft out of the fjords, making their separate rendezvous with the parent submarines. And when you’d got to that point, you’d still be looking ahead—to getting home to Loch Cairnbawn: then London, and Jane …


  Daydreams. But the thought of Jane took his eyes back to Gimber— who looked about ten years older than he had a week ago. A shave and a hot bath would have made a difference, certainly, but the change was deeper than that. You could see it looking at you out of those dark holes in his head. Paul had decided, thinking about it during the afternoon, that most of the trouble might be Gimber’s self-consciousness—being on guard against inadequacies in his own performance, and sensitivity to others’ view of him. As Brazier had pointed out, you were dealing with a man who’d virtually been in solitary confinement.

  He said casually, “It’s astonishing how well you’ve come through it, Louis.”

  “Huh?”

  Head twisting sideways: muddy eyes narrowed, suspicious. The blue-black beard gleamed with the moisture in it.

  “Well, my God, you’ve been shut up in this tub for a week, and apart from growing that repulsive face-fungus you don’t seem to have been affected by it. To be honest, I was worried whether you’d be in good enough shape.”

  Gimber blinked at him. Determined not to be fooled. Which sent the mind off at a tangent—the question of whether in another area he had been … Jazz Lanchberry helped, then, with a beautifully timed mutter of, “’Ear, ’ear.” And Brazier boomed from the W and D, “He’s not just a pretty face, is old Louis!” They were all laughing then; Paul felt as if the sky had lifted by about a mile.

  Setter rose into the dark off shore night at exactly seven-thirty. A few minutes later Paul was on X-12’s casing with the induction pipe up and opened: he called down, “Main motor half ahead.” Setter was lying stopped, sternto, rolling sluggishly to the swell, and men were already climbing down the sides of her bridge and mustering on the after casing. Four of them— one would be the second coxswain. He called down the pipe, “Steer three degrees to port.” Aiming her at Setter’s stern. The midget was moving ahead now, driven by her electric motor, plunging and soaring as the long swells ran under her. He called down again, “Steady as you go!” On Setter’s casing they were already taking in the slack of the heavy Manilla tow; it was much easier to get it in yard by yard as the gap closed than to have a big, heavy bight of it to drag in later. There was no question of just letting it go, having it dangle, 200 yards of tough rope on the loose so MacGregor couldn’t move his screws for fear of having them fouled.