North Strike

by John Harris

  Climbing aboard again, he stood beside Annie as she let in the clutch and the bus began to move, grinding away from the stop, slowly at first but picking up speed all the time. Glancing back, he saw that nobody appeared to be interested least of all the Germans.

  ‘We’ve made it, I think,’ he said.

  They were climbing away from Narvik along the edge of Beisfjord now. Below them the waters lapped at the rocky shores and above them the fir trees obscured the sky.

  ‘We will head south,’ Annie said, looking up. ‘It’s a good road and only snowbound part of the way. We can probably go the whole distance in this. And so far there are no Germans between Narvik and Trondheim.’

  ‘I hope you’re a good driver,’ Magnusson said.

  She gave him a shaky smile. ‘I am a very good driver.’

  Seven

  They reached the farm near Djupvik late in the afternoon, and the whole crowd streamed out to meet them.

  ‘We wondered what the hell it was,’ Campbell said, grinning, his taut, handsome naval face pink with excitement. For the first time since Magnusson had known him he looked relaxed, as though he needed the excitement of war to draw the steely backbone out of him and make him human.

  ‘What’s it for?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going south in it.’

  He described what had happened in Narvik and explained their new plans. ‘We can all get in her,’ he said. ‘We’ve even got food.’

  ‘The radio says British troops are ashore at Namsos, boy,’ Willie John pointed out. He was huddled inside a hideous checked windcheater with enormous pockets for which he had been bargaining with the farmer the whole of the previous day. ‘Yon’s only a hundred and twenty miles away.’

  ‘We shall not have to go all the way to Trondheim then,’ Annie said, her eyes alight. ‘We can join them now at Namsos.’

  They spent the night with everybody who knew anything about internal combustion engines arguing over the intestines of the old bus. They had hidden her in the barn alongside the cattle and, tramping about in the cow dung and the stained straw, they stuffed aboard what little equipment they possessed.

  ‘We should need no more than one night for the journey,’ Annie said. ‘At the most, two. We might even do it in one day if the ferries are running.’

  The following morning, however, when they were hoping to leave, they saw that one of the ancient tyres was flat and had to drive the bus to the nearest level piece of land and jack it up. The big wheel and the primitive tools they found about the farm made the work difficult, and it was well into the afternoon before they had the puncture repaired and the wheel back.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ they promised themselves.

  By this time, it was clear the farmer’s family would be relieved to see the back of them. The food they provided had changed from meat to soup; Magnusson guessed they were finding their presence a strain and even becoming more than a little afraid. The British landing at Narvik had not yet materialised and it was clear the Germans were growing more confident it never would.

  They were still uncertain where to head. The Germans were to the south and the chances of reaching the British in the outer islands seemed very slender. It subdued them all, with the exception of Wolszcka who continued to plan his own private mayhem, his body jerking with nerves as he muttered in incomprehensible Polish.

  According to the radio, the Germans were still searching for the Norwegian king who was sheltering in the tortuous valleys which cut up the country, hiding behind trees like anybody else as German aeroplanes flew low above to use their machine-guns. He clearly had no intention of becoming a puppet of the Germans and had made a proclamation, urging resistance that lifted their hearts. Already, small but bloody actions were being fought by Norwegian troops in the snow-bound woods, but the Germans had aircraft and experience and, despite the Norwegians’ courage, were pushing them slowly deeper and deeper into the forests and the wastes of snow.

  At the last moment the farmer’s two daughters decided to join them, and they loaded the bus with tinned food, water and flatbrød, the wafer-thin cakes made from oats that the farmer’s wife prepared.

  ‘You must take it,’ she insisted. ‘We make a year’s supply in an afternoon. It never spoils and bread baked for a birth is sometimes produced for the wedding.’

  Huddled in a sheepskin coat, Annie was driving, her gloved hands on the wheel, her hair tucked into the red woollen cap she habitually wore.

  She had largely recovered her spirits and managed to smile at Magnusson. ‘It is like going on an excursion,’ she said. ‘We often used to go down to Saltfjord and Marsjøenfjord. It is very beautiful down there. Sometimes, if there was a timber trader leaving, we could get a trip on her. This area and the Baltic are sailing ship sanctuaries. There are little ports with wooden jetties all over Norway, Denmark, Sweden and Finland. The ships used to take pulpwood to Britain or Newfoundland, and brought back fish from the West Indies.’

  The ferries at Bognes and Sommarset were working, though they had to threaten and finally bribe the operators to take them across. The elderly ferrymen, still bewildered by the invasion, were inclined to do nothing until they received instructions, and the arrival of a busload of refugees worried them. With the assistance of Annie and the Norwegian officers, however, they got them moving and crossed to the road that led south to Lillesjøna, where they had heard there were British troops.

  The bus was slower than they’d expected and could only crawl up the hill. At Fauske they heard there were British ships at Bodø, but there was no sign of them in the fjord and they decided that the best thing was to continue on to Lillesjøna. But then they learned that, while the British were certainly in the fjord there, they were only transferring troops to destroyers for Namsos and that both places were being heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe.

  The news stopped them dead in their tracks and they were still trying to decide what to do when the snow came. It started as a menacing cloud in a dirty grey-yellow sky over the flank of the mountains, and seemed nothing more than a cold breath of air out of the north. Then the first gust hit the bus, coming like a demon, and at once the air was full of flying particles of ice and the thickening snow began to plaster the windows.

  As the streaming drift whitened out the horizon, in no time it was impossible to see more than a few yards. Every scrap of glass was coated with snow as fine as dust that penetrated every gap and cranny, clinging to garments when they stopped and climbed out, stinging exposed faces with millions of needle-pointed fragments and hissing against the sides of the bus.

  They managed to find a small wooden hotel with the basic necessities and a village hall where they were allowed to sleep the night, but the news was discouraging. The Germans were nervous and air attacks were being made against anything that moved. The British were sticking to the trees, but the Germans were throwing a ring round Namsos to prevent any forward movement and the town had been reduced to rubble. With the quay wrecked, the Allies were having difficulty getting stores ashore.

  The following morning the snow had stopped, but the roads were appalling, and as they pressed further south beyond the end of the fjord where they had lain near Bodø, they heard that the British Navy had bombarded Narvik; they began to wonder if they’d been wise to head south when perhaps all they need have done was wait on the quay.

  Norwegian troops were also operating north of Narvik, but the Germans were recovering from their disasters and were deployed in strongpoints around the town. Aircraft had landed on the frozen lake about ten miles to the north, bringing personnel and ammunition for a complete mountain battery, while the artillery were experimenting with guns brought ashore from the wrecked destroyers and with elderly cannon from the British merchantmen trapped in the harbour. In the end, with the chances of the British capturing the place diminishing rapidly, they decided to continue south.

  The following day, the expected spring thaw was put back yet again by another heavy snowstorm and, with
steam hissing from under the bonnet, they discovered they had a leaking radiator and had to keep stopping to fill it up with snow which seemed to melt and leak away as fast as they put it in.

  They struggled on for another hour at a speed that wasn’t much above crawling; then, as they began to descend a steep winding road, one of the girls at the back screamed and someone shouted ‘Aeroplanes!’

  Swinging round, Magnusson had a brief glimpse of two grey machines heading towards them, following the slope of the hill, and he saw the snow around the bus leaping in little spurts from the road. As Annie wrenched at the wheel, the bus slithered on the icy surface and, as the aeroplanes shot overhead with a deafening howl of engines, it began to waltz towards the snow-covered grass verge. Magnusson could only watch as Annie fought to regain control. For thirty yards they seemed to gather speed; then, with a final pirouette, the old vehicle struck a stone kilometre marker and rebounded from the hard surface into the trees. Amid the crackling and smashing and splintering of branches and shrubs, it rattled and clattered over the uneven surface down a forty-five degree slope. Snow, flung up from the drifts with the force of explosions, spattered the windows while yelling men and girls tumbled about in the aisle between the seats. Magnusson saw a huge branch, broken off by the wind, pointing towards them and coming nearer by the second. Grabbing Annie from the wheel, he pulled her into his arms and flung himself down. There was a tremendous crash as the windscreen was shattered and the bus impaled on the branch. The engine note rose to a scream and finally died, and all that could be heard was the groaning of springs, querulous cries from among the twisted seats, a steady drip-drip from beneath them, and the hissing of steam.

  Slowly, Magnusson became aware that he was lying on the floor underneath the dashboard. His arms were round Annie and her cheek was against his, icy cold, her blonde hair about his face.

  ‘I think you saved my life,’ she said slowly in a shaky voice and, looking up, he saw the driver’s seat was covered with splinters of glass and that the jagged end of the huge branch had plunged into the padding of the back rest.

  As they struggled free, they knew it was the end of their journey south. Oulu’s ill-luck seemed to be following them. By the grace of God, however, nobody was hurt and they clambered out of the bus, staring at the sky and ready to run for the trees. But the two aeroplanes had vanished as if they had never existed.

  Even as they chattered excitedly, shaken by the disaster but grinning nervously at their escape, the snow started yet again, plastering their clothes and faces while they tried to examine the damage. The branch had stopped the bus dead halfway down the slope, its front wheels lifted from the ground, steam still coming from under the bonnet. Already the snow was coating the windows and roof and beginning to blow through the broken windscreen and build up in little drifts on the seats.

  Standing among the whitened undergrowth, still dazed and shivering from shock, they stared at the wreck. It was bitterly cold and their faces were pinched with the frost. They had no ropes and they were talking only for the sake of talking because they had no hope of freeing the vehicle. Huddled together, a dark mass splashed with colour where the Norwegian woollen scarves, gloves or caps stood out against the sombreness of the scene, they watched as Campbell lay on his stomach trying to see under the engine. Wolszcka was standing by his side, his mad eyes red with rage, screaming some Polish gibberish at him until Campbell sprang up in a fury.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he roared, ‘shut your trap, you stupid Polish baboon, or I’ll shut it up for you!’

  Wolszcka stared at him, uncomprehending; then, as his hand went to the sailor’s knife he wore at his belt, Magnusson pushed them apart. As the Pole turned on him instead, he swung his fist and Wolszcka landed on his back in the snow and was immediately grabbed and disarmed. As he was dragged to his feet, Campbell moved forward.

  Magnusson held him back. ‘Leave it, Campbell’, he snapped. ‘He’s lost his country, his ship, his friends, his home, his family, probably even his wits. He’ll get over it if we give him time.’

  Campbell was clearly not in a forgiving mood. ‘He wasn’t worth plucking out of the drink,’ he growled. ‘We should have chucked him back. Like you do fish.’

  Magnusson sighed. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to be a naval officer. Start behaving like one.’ He turned to the others. ‘Anybody speak Polish?’

  One of the Norwegians indicated that he could and Magnusson turned to him.

  ‘Tell him,’ he said, ‘that nobody wants to fight him. We just want to get him to where he can fight the Germans. But tell him we can’t do that if he persists in fighting us. Tell him we’re sorry for him but if he doesn’t behave himself we’ll truss him up and leave him where the Germans will find him. We need his help and he needs ours.’

  As the Pole listened, the hatred gradually faded from his eyes. Eventually he shrugged off the restraining grips and, moving towards Magnusson, took his hand. Magnusson thought he was going to shake it but instead, to his surprise, the Pole lifted it, bent over and kissed it, jabbering something in Polish.

  ‘He says he will cause no more trouble,’ the Norwegian said. ‘He just wants to kill Germans and will do as you tell him.’

  Turning away, Magnusson found himself face to face with Willie John. The radio officer’s ravaged face was grey with cold and fatigue, the lines deeply etched, his nose bright red. He fished in the voluminous pocket of the windcheater he had acquired and produced a bottle.

  ‘Akvavit,’ he said. ‘’Twill warm ye up, boy.’

  Magnusson took the bottle. ‘I told you I’d throw you overboard with a piece of concrete attached to your feet if I found you with booze again,’ he said.

  ‘We are no’ aboard, boy,’ Willie John said drily. ‘Drink, mon. ’Twill warm ye. Everybody else here hass a bottle. Yon farmer wass gey busy wi’ us while ye were in Narvik.’

  Magnusson shrugged. There was no ship, no longer any reason for their being in Norway. Now wasn’t the time to argue and the drink was a help.

  Campbell appeared alongside him, his features bleak with strain. ‘Hadn’t we better get on with it?’ he said. ‘Somebody’s got to get the bloody bus free.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Magnusson said. ‘You’re wasting your time. It’ll never go again.’

  Campbell turned an angry face towards him. ‘Somebody’s got to do something. Standing about talking love and kisses won’t help us get any further south.’

  ‘We’re not going any further south,’ Magnusson said.

  ‘Which way then, boy?’ Willie John asked. ‘North?’

  ‘No. Not north either.’

  Campbell’s face darkened. ‘Then, for Christ’s sake, which way?’

  Magnusson pointed towards the west. ‘That’s the way,’ he said. ‘All this balls about going to Sweden! For God’s sake, where do we go after Sweden?’

  Willie John gave a small grin. ‘We could sit oot the war in luxury in Stockholm, boy,’ he suggested.

  Magnusson jabbed a finger towards the west. ‘That’s the way.’

  ‘There’s only the sea in that direction,’ Campbell snapped.

  Magnusson nodded. ‘Exactly,’ he said.

  Annie was standing on her own, separate from the rest of them. Her back was to them, and he knew it was because she didn’t wish them to see her tears or the anguish in her face. Moving towards her, he put his hand on her shoulder. She jumped at his touch and swung round. He was about to put his arms round her when, without a word, she flung herself at him, her face against his chest. Lifting her head, she managed a watery smile.

  ‘I think I have ruined everything,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. It was the aeroplanes. And who wants a bus, anyway?’ Magnusson drew a deep breath. ‘How far are we from the sea here?’

  ‘We can’t be more than four kilometres from Marsjøenfjord.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake,’ he said, ‘let’s use it. There are bound to be fishing boats.’
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  She was blinking away the tears. ‘If the weather were good,’ she said, ‘if the spring thaw had come – you would probably be able to see Marsjøen itself through the trees from the slope there. It’s only a small place but it has timber-loading quays where the ships came in.’

  ‘Fishing boats also?’

  She shrugged again. ‘I expect so. Why?’

  He looked at her and grinned. ‘We’re wasting our time,’ he said, ‘trying to get south to Trondheim.’ He gestured into the swirling snow, towards the west. ‘That’s the way we should go. We’re not soldiers. We’re sailors and we have a special ability. The ability to handle ships. For God’s sake, let’s follow our calling and go back to the sea.’

  Eight

  For a long time she stared at him silently, her head up now, her eyes bright, her arms hanging down by her side, the snow in soft little layers on the fringe of blonde hair that had escaped from the red woollen cap. Her cheeks were pink with her exertions and the bite of the wind, and at that moment Magnusson decided she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

  Slowly her mouth curved into a smile. ‘I’m glad I met you, Magnusson,’ she said. ‘You are a good man.’

  Magnusson shrugged. ‘You should see me with my hair cut,’ he said.

  They left the old bus where it was, slowly disappearing under its mantle of snow, and headed down the road as it turned towards the west. After a while, they found what looked like a ride through the trees and caught sight of sky as the land dropped away on the other side of a ridge towards the sea. As they reached the ridge, it was almost impossible to see beyond it for the whirling snow, but they were just able to make out a long fissure in the land and black water dotted with lumps of ice. The shores of the fjord were backgrounded by white hills and the cheerless immensity of the higher mountains in a daunting landscape.