Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Just follow the Norwegians,’ he said. ‘I’m going ashore for a while. Wait for me where the ledge ends.’ As Ricketts put the power-boat closer to the side, he jumped ashore with his gun and concealed himself behind a rock outcrop. The vessels moved on west. A few minutes later the German boat came up, its crew just visible as they stared ahead at the retreating British. Cameron let them draw level, then stood up as they went a little way past.

  He took aim and fired, a sustained, sweeping blast of gunfire. The Germans hadn’t a chance. The boat drifted on a little way until it swung against the bank and stopped, wedged into a rock, its engine running still. It had been very satisfactory; some of the dead, at least, had been revenged. Cameron ran ahead along the ledge and jumped back into the waiting power-boat.

  ‘Right,’ he said to Ricketts. ‘Next stop, the Castle Bay!’

  ***

  They came into the outer fjord, relieved to see the ship still intact and waiting for them. When all the boats had been secured alongside, Cameron reported to the Captain on the bridge, together with one of the commando Ncos he had brought off. Dawn was in the sky now, touching the mountain peaks, bringing splendid tints to the snow on the summits and lightening the water of the outer fjord. Forbes heard the reports in silence, then he said, ‘Just one building destroyed, and that not an important one. Was it worth all the loss of life?’

  The commando sergeant shrugged. ‘So far as it went, sir—no, I don’t believe it was. We have to admit it was a failure... but if we’d succeeded it would have been worth it, all right! I saw those contraptions the Germans are building and I’d say they’re pretty lethal.’

  ‘A kind of flying bomb, you said, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s the nearest we could get to a description. A pilotless aircraft, radio-controlled presumably. They could be sent anywhere, and even if they were shot down, they’d still do the job they were sent to do.’

  ‘No defence against them?’

  ‘None that I can think of at this moment, sir.’

  Forbes paced away across the bridge, then came back and halted. ‘They could hardly be despatched from Vest Hammarfjord,’ he said.

  ‘No, sir. Not from the bases under the mountain, anyway. But that’s just the construction and experimental site, I imagine. The launching-pads would be in France or Belgium.’

  ‘But even if you’d knocked this place out... it wouldn’t have taken the Jerries long to find another, would it? If not in Vest Hammarfjord, then somewhere else?’

  The sergeant agreed, but said, ‘At the very least it would have set them back for quite a while, sir. If their blue-prints and prototypes, all the experimental set-up—if all that lot was destroyed—’

  ‘Yes,’ Forbes interrupted, ‘I take the point, of course. But it’s a bit too late now to talk about what might have been—I’ve just been guilty of that, too. I’m simply damn sorry about the casualties. My job now is to do what I can to get the survivors out and home again. And just at this moment I’m feeling hamstrung. My information is that the Scharnhorst and the Hipper have been steaming north from Wilhelmshaven and are likely to be off the coast here at any moment. To make matters worse, Admiral Vian’s been withdrawn to the assistance of the PQ convoy. And my orders are that I’m to remain where I am until I’m told different. In other words I’m to be a sitting duck for the German heavy units to come in and shoot at—if they know we’re here, that is. I can only assume it’s because the Admiralty thinks they may not know that I’ve been ordered to remain inside.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘No doubt at all, we’ll be finding out one way or the other before much longer! I’ve half a mind to force the issue by disobeying orders and taking my ship to sea.’

  ‘Or into the fjord, sir,’ Cameron said.

  Forbes stared. ‘What the devil! Into Vest Hammarfjord, d’you mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Those concrete domes at the base must be pretty tough, but I doubt if they’d stand up to a bombardment from our 4-inch armament, sir.’

  Forbes laughed again. ‘Good God, Sub, we’d never get through the entry channel!’

  ‘There’s enough depth of water, sir—’

  ‘Yes, I know that, and it’s just wide enough too—just about! A bloody tight fit, in fact, especially on the bends—the chart makes it look like a ruddy snake. I wouldn’t fancy coming to grief on the rocks.’

  ‘I believe it can be done, sir,’ Cameron said, suddenly stubborn. ‘I believe we can pull the job off after all.’

  Forbes looked back at him, frowning. Here was he, a Commander RNR with a master mariner’s certificate, being virtually told his job by a sub-lieutenant of the RNVR on his own bridge. There was almost a comic element; but Cameron was being deadly serious and certainly there was no doubt about it that it would be just about possible to take the Castle Bay through. Possible—but they would need one hell of a lot of luck if they were not to stick fast on the rocks that lined the channel pretty well all the way through. Damn little clearance to port or starboard... but there was one thing absolutely certain and that was, neither the Scharnhorst nor the Hipper would be able to get through behind them.

  Forbes said, ‘You may have something there, Cameron. You just may.’ He turned to Beddows. ‘What d’you think, Pilot?’

  ‘Crazy, sir. None of us has the experience, none of us has ever been through the channel even in a rowing-boat—’

  ‘Except Cameron.’ Forbes turned away, thinking hard, and paced the bridge again, backwards and forwards whilst the fingers of the dawn stole farther across the sky and brought up their harsh surroundings clear and bright and fresh. Beddows was something of an old woman at times, much too cautious. All the responsibility was his, the Captain’s. He swung back and rubbed at tired eyes. He was nearly out on his feet in spite of constant cups of black coffee brought up by his steward. He said, ‘I remember a story from the last war. Just before Coronel... the PSNC’s Ortega was in the South Pacific, bound for the passage of the Horn. She sighted one of the German cruisers, one of the commerce raiders—the Dresden—and to avoid her the master took his ship through an uncharted channel north of Cape Horn, leading into the Magellan Strait. He sent a boat away with his Second Officer, to take soundings and lead him through. It was very successful. No reason why we shouldn’t do the same. As it happens, we have local experience available—your Resistance fishermen, Cameron—right?’

  Cameron nodded. ‘They’d be only too happy, sir, I’m certain.’

  Forbes said, ‘Then we’ll enter, and we’ll not delay any more. Pilot, you’ll have to take over poor Lonsdale’s duties as First Lieutenant. Pipe the hands to stations immediately.’

  Within the minute the boatswain’s calls were sounding through the ship: ‘Hands to stations for leaving harbour... cable and side party muster on the fo’c’sle... close X and Y doors... secure for sea.’ On the bridge, Forbes grinned to himself at the traditional words, which were currently inappropriate but couldn’t be altered. The RN was a shade hidebound and Mr Hanrahan for one would be scandalized at any suggestion that the ship should ‘secure for fjord’

  Mr Hanrahan was in fact rubbing his hands with sheer glee as the Castle Bay moved slowly across the dead still waters towards the narrow entry. He was about to come into his own; he, the Gunner, was to have the whole show virtually to himself. It was to be his guns, his ammunition, that would blast hell out of Adolf Hitler’s latest secret weapon. True, the pilotage was going to be tricky and they might never get there at all, but that wouldn’t be his fault, it would be the skipper’s. Assuming they arrived off the base, Mr Hanrahan was going to have the time of his life, the time that all his past training and experience had been leading up to. He glanced down at the single thin gold stripe on his uniform cuff: that, the indication of his warrant, had taken a lot of getting. Right through from Seaman Boy Second Class, then First Class... ordinary seaman, able-seaman, leading seaman, Petty Officer, Chief Petty Officer, plus the non-substantive rates that marched more or less in st
ep, from Seaman Gunner to Chief Gunner’s Mate. Now he was going to strike an individual blow at the bloody Jerries and that would be something to tell the missus next time he got some leave. It might also impress his son-in-law who was a company sergeant-major in the Coldstream and fancied he was God, being young for his rank. Mr Hanrahan’s son-in-law had soured him about the army. Brown jobs, pongoes, squaddies, call them what you like, they were all right but they weren’t the Navy. Mr Hanrahan didn’t for a moment deny their bravery and he was as grieved as anyone else about the appalling casualties the commando units had suffered. But the Navy was about to show them a thing or two, and Mr Hanrahan preened around his magazines and stores and guns like a squat peacock, accompanied by his Gunner’s Mate and Gunner’s party, all of the latter being seamen with gunnery non-substantive rates.

  At the for’ard 4-inch guns Mr Hanrahan stroked a finger across a barrel. It came away smeared. ‘Dirty,’ he said.

  ‘Be a sight dirtier soon,’ the Gunner’s Mate said with a touch of sourness.

  ‘Don’t moan,’ Mr Hanrahan said shortly. ‘Get it cleaned.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Gunner’s Mate transferred the rebuke to the gun’s crew, who had manned their weapon when the ship had been piped to action stations just after getting under way. He transferred it sharply and vigorously. ‘Get cracking, then, don’t ‘ang about, you ‘eard what the Gunner said. Clean the bloody gun.’ Many teeth were sucked by the gun’s crew as the Gunner moved majestically on. Stupid old sod... any minute now he’d go the whole hog and get the skipper to pipe Hands to Quarters Clean Guns, right throughout the ship. But Mr Hanrahan did no such thing. His tour of inspection completed, he took up his position just abaft the funnel from where he could watch the lot and bawl out any man who asked for it. None of his gunnery rates was going to let him or the ship down this day of all days.

  ***

  Forbes had been concerned about the girl: the girl who had said she was just Jane. Before getting under way he’d had a word with her, telling her what he intended to do. Like Cameron, he didn’t pry: he, too, knew that the FANYS were rather more than met the eye. He felt a special responsibility towards her, firstly on account of her obviously undercover activities in Norway, secondly almost in loco parentis: Jane looked young and defenceless and very much alone. No doubt she was as hard as nails inside and more than capable of looking after herself but Forbes had a soft heart where young women were concerned. She had to be taken care of while she was aboard his ship. He didn’t like the idea of taking her back into Vest Hammarfjord, but he had no choice despite the dangers—and dangers there were, for Cameron had reported her as saying the Germans were on her track. That was an anxiety; Forbes had no illusions about what he was intending to do. He might well destroy the flying bomb establishment, but the question of escaping back through the channel afterwards was a fraught one: the enemy wasn’t going to take it lying down. He gave the girl firm and unequivocal orders that she was to go below and stay out of harm’s way from the moment the ship cleared the inward end of the channel until she was ordered up again. He would be grateful, he said, if she would help out in the sick bay if necessary.

  This done, he turned his whole attention to the tricky business of pilotage in totally unfamiliar waters. In emulation of the Ortega’s Second Officer back in 1914, Cameron had been sent away in the seaboat to take soundings ahead as the Castle Bay moved in at dead slow speed behind him. He was constantly to sing out the depth. Beddows was on the bridge with the Captain, but the handling of the ship would be left largely to the local fishermen, two of whom, one being Jakob Nordli, had volunteered to remain aboard whilst the remainder stayed with the fishing-vessels which had cast off to sail out to sea and head, as Nordli had intended earlier, for another part of Norway. One of the fishermen would be on the bridge itself, giving the helm advice to Forbes, another would be stationed in the eyes of the ship to pass back directions by hand signal if he should believe the Castle Bay to be standing into danger.

  It was as good as they could make it, but Forbes’ heart was in his mouth as he probed his bows past Svalbard Point into the entry. He seemed, so high and close were the mountainous rock sides, to be moving into a cavern. The ship was utterly dwarfed, her masts looking like matchsticks set against the side of a house. There would be no turning back: it would be quite impossible to turn the ship in the channel, and equally impossible to bring her out stern first without piling her up.

  ***

  The German command was as ever efficient: already repair gangs were on the move, coming in along the supply road from the military garrison to the east. The barrack block would be quickly built up again, the bodies of the dead amongst the base defenders and amongst the British and the Resistance would be removed and incinerated. Fresh drafts were already coming in by lorry, to make good the effective defence strength.

  A stiff-faced General came in a staff car to inspect the damage for himself. Descending importantly, he was met by the Colonel in charge.

  The Colonel’s arm shot out. ‘Heil, Hitler! Welcome, Herr General.’

  ‘Heil, Hitler! You have lost men. The Führer is not pleased, Colonel von Franke.’

  ‘There has been no damage other than to the accommodation, Herr General,’ the Colonel pointed out. ‘All else is intact. The raid was a total failure, thanks to my very excellent officers, and men. Both raids were failures.’ He added, ‘The British are so stupid, Herr General.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was full agreement on that point. ‘Some, however, got away as I understand.’

  ‘Yes, Herr General. Unfortunately so. But they will have returned to their ship, that we know now to be in the outer fjord. The ship will not be allowed to return to a British port, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ A gleam had come into the General’s eye. ‘The ship is to be left to the guns of the Scharnhorst and the Admiral Hipper. I have orders from Berlin, from the Führer himself. The Führer has had a dream, a vision. He had the great courtesy to speak to me personally on the telephone. Heil, Hitler!’ The General gave a Nazi salute to no one in particular. ‘The Führer saw in this vision the destruction of the British ship under the great gun-turrets of the Scharnhorst, he saw her sink, ablaze from end to end. He saw no survivors. Those who were thrown clear were picked off by rifle fire from our sailors. For the Führer, this was enough.’

  ‘The Führer is a great leader, Herr General. A genius.’ There was no flicker in the expression of either of the officers; the solemnity was total. ‘Heil, Hitler.’

  ‘Heil, Hitler. I shall now make a tour of inspection, Colonel von Franke.’ The General, followed by von Franke and his personal staff officers, clanked off to poke around the damaged building. Colonel von Franke was not too worried; the General’s report would go, of course, to the Führer—this was inescapable, since this project was close to the Führer’s sacred heart; but the overall responsibility lay not with von Franke but with Herr General, so the report would be quite a glossy one.

  ***

  The Castle Bay went in, it seemed, by inches. Forbes watched everything closely, moving from side to side of his bridge as the cavernous sides enclosed the ship more deeply. There was an almost total silence throughout, above and below, a silence broken only by the muted sound from the engine-room and by the depth reports from Cameron. The Resistance man on the bridge, Jakob Nordli, passed instructions in a quiet voice, almost as though he were in church. From the bows, the hand signals came back, a little to this side, a little to that, or dead ahead. At one moment the ship shuddered violently and her head swung to starboard as she scraped some rocks.

  Forbes said, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’

  Jakob Nordli smiled. ‘Blasphemy is not necessary, Captain. All is well.’

  It was; the ship slid away from the rocks and moved on, taking a bend without too much difficulty. Forbes passed orders for the shipwright to sound round below, to look for sprung plates or leaks from holing. The report came back that the ship was sou
nd and watertight, and Forbes breathed easy again till the next time. The next time came when Cameron reported shoaling water, very unexpectedly: the chart hadn’t shown it. The warning came fractionally too late and although Forbes put his engine astern promptly it failed to bring the ship up in time.

  There was a lurch; men were thrown off balance around the decks as the way came off suddenly. Forbes swore. Nordli said, ‘I am sorry, Captain. She has run aground.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ Forbes’ face showed red fury as he stopped the engine. ‘All right, it’s my responsibility, I’m not blaming you. But what the bloody, perishing hell do we do now—other than wait for the Germans to come in with a gunboat and blow us out of the water?’

  As he finished speaking, there was a throbbing hum from the distance, coming closer. Aircraft engines: all heads went back as the men on the bridge and along the upper deck looked upwards between the sides of the mountains.