Under Orders (A Donald Cameron Naval Thriller)

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘It won’t be the same this time, Guns.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  The night began to come down. All through the long wait there had been a total lack of sound from the experimental base beside the fjord, but this was not unexpected since the mountain-face lying between it and the waiting party could be assumed to reflect sound back towards the fjord. When full dark had come, Cameron passed the word to move out. They took it slowly; it was vital now to make no sound at all. They came down to the end of the track towards the water and the angle of the high shore, mere shadows in the night. Cameron had left the girl behind: he refused to risk her life in the final work-out. She was to remain in cover and wait for them to return, and if they didn’t, she was to beat it back along the track and re-embark aboard the Castle Bay in Skojafjord. She was to give them one hour and that was all, whether or not the base blew up. If they survived and she had gone, they would find their own way back.

  Cameron, crawling painfully on his stomach, wormed ahead around the foot of the mountain until he had the buildings and the jetty in view. The place was in darkness but for a single light showing by the closed door into one of the concrete domes: no floods, thankfully. And no moon; the sky was heavily overcast and a wind was coming up, had been coming up since dusk. The surface of the fjord was ruffled with small waves and it had grown bitterly cold. It would be no joke swimming out to the jetty’s end. A long look through binoculars showed no sign of life but it could be taken for granted that there would be a guard mounted on the gate.

  Cameron crawled back and reported what he had seen.

  ‘Sounds too easy,’ Hanrahan said. ‘We’ll have to watch out for surprises. Like—for instance—a bloody minefield after all.’ He repeated what he’s said aboard the Castle Bay: ‘I’d have expected a reinforced guard. Queer that there isn’t, Mr Cameron.’

  ‘As far as they’re concerned, Guns, the attack’s over. The ship’s gone. Anyway, there’s no sign of any extra guard and I’m going to assume there’s not one.’ Cameron turned to the waiting commandos. ‘All set?’

  ‘All set, sir.’

  ‘Right. You all know the orders. We go in now.’ He led the way; his reconnaissance had convinced him that there were no sentries or patrols extended towards the entry channel, but the small party went round the angle of the mountain slowly and circumspectly, making no sound and, despite all the assurances, on edge for the terrible eruption of mines and a repetition of the slaughter on the northern perimeter. There was some distance to cover and once round Cameron judged it safe to advance for a while on foot rather than crawl on their stomachs. They narrowed the distance and breathed easier: Nordli had been right—no minefield. When they were within some four hundred yards of the base perimeter, Cameron halted the advance and ordered the men down flat. The sappers, carrying the fuse-line, detonators and tools hooked to their bodies, moved for the water, dropping slowly in, making no splashes that could be seen among the wavelets lapping the rocky shore. Covered by the infantrymen with Sten guns aimed towards the perimeter gate, they swam out with a slow breast-stroke for the end of the jetty. It was expertly done: within seconds Cameron had lost sight even of their woollen-capped heads and blackened faces. Then he and his party crawled slowly ahead, closing the distance towards the point where the end of the fuse-line would be brought ashore.

  ***

  ‘Cocoa, sir.’

  Forbes turned from the bridge guardrail. ‘Thank you, it’s very welcome.’ He took the mug from the boatswain’s mate. It was comfortingly warm in his hands. Warm, too, when it reached his stomach. It was a wretchedly cold night, but not as bad for him as for Cameron’s party: he could always go into the warmth of the chartroom if he wanted to... he did want to, but his place was on the bridge and never mind Beddows, who’d kept on saying he should get some sleep since he could be called in seconds if anything should blow up. Blow up! Forbes grinned to himself at his navigator’s choice of words. He hoped fervently that something would blow up before long and had no doubts that, if and when it did, he would hear it all the way from Vest Hammarfjord. Perhaps he was being over-conscientious, but that was the way he happened to be made and he wouldn’t rest easy if he left the bridge.

  Keeping himself awake, he walked up and down past the binnacle, looking down at his manned guns that had so sadly failed to penetrate that damned experimental set-up. Two attempts, one by the army, one by himself, and the result had been total, abject failure. The Nazis must be having a good laugh over all that. Also, they must know he was hoping to make the open sea, would indeed be expecting him to be well on his way out by now. It was bloody odd that the enemy wasn’t in evidence. True, there might be that trap ahead that he had expected he might run into, but, since he hadn’t arrived at it, he would have thought they would have put on a search and found him here in a recess of Skojafjord. All he could do was to be grateful they hadn’t; but it was still odd.

  Forbes craved a cigarette. But he couldn’t indulge himself; the ship lay darkened throughout, and glowing cigarette-ends could be seen a surprisingly long way in the dark.

  It was a job now to keep his eyelids open. He cannoned into the binnacle and realized that he’d fallen momentarily asleep whilst on the move.

  It was no good; Beddows had been right. A captain more than half asleep could become a menace to his ship and all her company. He was about to tell the Officer of the Watch, young Ricketts, that he was going to the chartroom for a spell when something, perhaps that which he had been half expecting and which had kept him glued to the bridge, happened.

  There was a ripple on the water, a small splash, no more than that, about three cables’-lengths off his port beam. Forbes brought his binoculars up and focussed. He saw nothing, but remained convinced that his unaided vision hadn’t failed him. He lowered the binoculars again and stood frowning and wondering.

  ‘Red nine oh,’ he said to Ricketts. ‘See anything?’

  Ricketts brought up his own binoculars and looked. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Something on the water, do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Yes...’

  Ricketts continued looking. He reported, ‘Nothing moving that I can see, sir. It’s very dark, though. Shall I put the searchlight on it, sir?’

  Forbes hesitated. ‘No. Just keep watching very carefully. I don’t want to show the ship up unnecessarily.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘But pass the word, quietly, to the close-range weapons’ crews to stand by their guns and be ready to open immediately they get the word.’ As Ricketts carried out the order, Forbes went on searching the sector. No result; then he fancied he picked up another slight movement, some small disturbance in the water, still on the same bearing but closer to his port side. It was so small it could easily have been a fish.

  Forbes blew out his breath and relaxed.

  A fish!

  Of course, it must be a fish. He was getting too old for command if he allowed himself to be rattled by a fish swimming peacefully about its nocturnal business of swallowing up creatures smaller than itself, or simply taking exercise... but he saw the movement again just as he was about to pass another message to the close-range weapons and something made him decide not to put the crews off the alert. God knew why... some sixth sense, fish or not.

  Ricketts said, ‘I still can’t see anything, sir.’

  Forbes mentioned fish, and Ricketts agreed. Reluctantly, Forbes settled for fish; and then, from deep in the ship, right below the waterline, there came a noise. It was hard to identify: a dull thud, and then a clang, though not quite a clang. And then a dragging sound.

  Suddenly, blinding awareness came to Forbes. He said, ‘Fish my backside!’ He moved fast for the voice-pipe to the wheelhouse. ‘Clear the engine-room and lower deck immediately, all hands on deck!’ He turned to Ricketts. ‘The buggers are clamping a limpet mine to the plates. Get the commandos to man the sides with all the guns they can muster. And swing out all boats.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
>
  Smudges on the water’s surface indicated the two sappers swimming back. They were assisted ashore by the commandos and came out shivering in the cold wind. There was still no sign of life from the base other than the movement of a sentry who tramped up and down more, probably, to keep his circulation going than anything else.

  One of the sappers reported, ‘Detonators in place and valve half shut over the end of the fuse. We led the fuse where the spark won’t be seen—along the underside of the jetty, working from the water.’

  ‘A cold job,’ Cameron said.

  There was a quiet laugh. ‘Jesus, you can say that again.’ The soldier indicated the end of the fuse-line. He said, ‘It’s wet but it should be all right—anyway, we’d better hope it’s still waterproof. It’s bloody old material, I suppose you know that, sir?’

  Hanrahan took up that one. ‘All I’ve got. Blame the bloody Admiralty, not me. Getting stores, even armament stores, out of the buggers, it’s like expecting milk from a nun. Give us the end, son.’

  The sapper passed the fuse-end over and Hanrahan gave it a pull. It lay on the ground, stretching back through the darkness to the jetty, in near enough a straight line. The Gunner brought matches from a pocket, took up the end of the fuse again, felt it and sniffed it and then brought out a jack-knife. Opening this, he cut a length off the end of the fuse and stuffed the rejected piece into his pocket. Then, shielding a match with his body, he struck it and applied the flame to the fuse. It caught at once and began sputtering. From now on until the spark reached the jetty would be the most risky part of the operation. The sputter was not much, but it could be seen as it began to close towards the jetty, and there was no chance of lowering it out of sight below the edge of the fjord: the waves were just too much. In no time the fuse would be extinguished. Hanrahan said, ‘I’ll back along with it as far as the jetty and shield it from prying eyes, Sub.’

  ‘You’ll go up with it—you can’t risk—’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Look, Guns, I’ll go. It’s up to me—’

  ‘No it bloody well isn’t, Mr Cameron. I’m the Gunner and it’s my bloody fuse and I’m going,’ Hanrahan said obstinately. ‘There’s not a lot of risk. I’ll nip back soon as the spark reaches the jetty, and then if they do see it, they’ll never react in time to do anything about it, the Jerries won’t. That’ll give me long enough.’

  ‘It won’t and you know it, Guns. You can’t have it both ways. Either the Jerries have got long enough to deal with it, or you’ve no time at all to get safe away. By my estimate, you’d only have ten minutes—’

  Hanrahan said, ‘I can run a long way in ten minutes, you’d be surprised.’

  He started backing away; Cameron said no more. This was no time for argument and to pull rank could be just a joke. Sub-lieutenants RNVR might well outrank warrant officers, but if you were wise you didn’t tell warrant officers that. And Mr Hanrahan obviously wouldn’t have taken a blind bit of notice in any case.

  The commandos watched the Gunner move away till he was lost to sight in the darkness. The fuse burned on, its sputter dimming as the distance increased. Now was the time for the rest of the party to beat it back around the corner into the entry channel. In the vast explosion to come no one would live along the front of the mountain: when the fuse-trail reached the jetty end of the pipeline and flashed along into the storage tanks there would be an inferno of fire and massive chunks of flung rock. The commando NCO made the point. He asked, ‘What about us lot, then?’

  Cameron said, ‘We stay till Mr Hanrahan’s in the clear. We still have a part to play. He may need covering fire.’

  ***

  Aboard the Castle Bay the upper deck was filled with men. On the bridge Beddows asked, ‘Aren’t you going to abandon, sir, get the hands ashore?’

  ‘No, Pilot, I’m not. There’s no damn rush! These buggers don’t set their bloody machines to go up before they’re well away and clear themselves. Are those commandos ready yet?’ He peered aft.

  ‘All ready, sir.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so before?’ Forbes shouted down from the after rail of the bridge: ‘Below there! As soon as you see anyone in the water, open fire on him but don’t kill him if you can avoid it. Wing him and then bring him inboard for questioning.’

  A voice came back: ‘They’ll swim submerged, sir. We won’t get a sight of them.’

  Forbes swore: the commando was right. He called down savagely, ‘Very well, pepper the water and we’ll hope to take one of the buggers alive. Open fire now.’

  As the automatic weapons fired downwards, the water became speckled like the result of a hailstorm. Forbes, watching over the side in the beam of an Aldis—no point now in trying to remain anonymous—was the first to see a flaccid body break surface, a bullet-riddled torso wearing breathing equipment, head and arms hanging down into the water and trails of blood swirling. There was satisfaction in that but not much advantage. Forbes shouted down to the upper deck again. ‘Hold it for a while. I want one of them alive. Be bloody careful. I have to know where the buggers have fixed the mine and how long we’ve got before it blows.’ He broke out into a profuse sweat: that time could be hours or minutes and never mind what he’d said to Beddows.

  He was in luck. Another man came to the surface, showing signs of life even though his breathing apparatus seemed to have been punctured by the commandos’ fire. An able-seaman went over the side, carrying a life-line attached to a lifebuoy. Striking out, he had the German in his arms quickly, and raised a hand. The men tending the line hauled in and brought the two alongside a jumping ladder put out from the after well-deck. The swimmer was shoved up the ladder and more men came down to drag him inboard. From the well-deck he was taken up to the bridge.

  Forbes said, ‘Talk and make it fast. I want to know where you put the mine and how long we have before it goes up.’

  The German looked as though he was half drowned but he wasn’t going to talk. He gathered saliva and spat full at the Captain. Forbes brought out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle away. He said evenly, ‘As one serviceman to another, I can’t blame you for doing your duty. But I don’t propose to sacrifice my ship’s company, or my ship, for your duty. I have mine too. Chief Boatswain’s Mate?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Chief Petty Officer Tanner took a pace forward, coming from behind the German.

  ‘Take him below to the double-bottom amidships, please, Tanner. He’s to stay there till he decides to talk. When he has decided, he can bang on the deckhead.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Tanner said with a certain amount of relish. It was bad enough being detailed to clean out the double-bottoms, let alone be shut down there. The double-bottoms stank of all manner of muck, there was precious little air and certainly no fresh air, and they were as far down in the ship as it was possible to get. The bottom, in fact, where the limpet mine was stuck. There was a snag: the skipper hadn’t said who was to stay on top of the double-bottom and listen for the Jerry’s bang. Tanner, as the senior rating present when the order had been given, decided it had to be up to him. The skipper hadn’t bothered to ask if the Jerry spoke English, and, having no German himself, had simply said his piece. But, taking the man below in custody of two seamen, Tanner elucidated the fact that the Hun did speak some English. This he established by saying calmly, ‘Hitler’s a bastard. Deserves all he’s going to get. Eating carpets, my word!’

  ‘The Führer,’ the German said, ‘does not eat carpets. Heil, Hitler!’

  ‘You , heil who you like,’ Tanner said vigorously as the Jerry was shoved down into the double-bottoms, ‘I don’t care. Just as long as you have a good ponder and then bang on the deckhead above you. If you don’t, you’ll fragment.’

  He shut the hatch and put the clips on. Then, folding his arms across his body, he leaned back against a bulkhead and waited. It wasn’t a nice job. He brought out a packet of Players. He took a fag out and before lighting it his eye was caught by the familiar wording on
the packet itself. It said: DUTY FREE HM SHIPS ONLY. He laughed, hollowly. HM Ships. Jesus! The missus had so often said that he’d given his life to HM Ships, that they were more important to him than she was, or the kids even. It wasn’t true, of course, though any minute now it could be. Tanner reflected on that limpet mine: one thing they could do, perhaps, would be to drag the bottom, put a long wire over aft, with the ends inboard, and pull it along the bottom from aft to for’ard. That held dangers—dislodgement could set off the mine for all he knew, even if it was on a time fuse. Also, the wire could foul on other projections, such as the echo sounder. They were in a cleft stick, dependent for their lives on the Hun in the double-bottom, unless they abandoned ship. It was a nasty decision for the skipper to have to make, but if he didn’t make it, then Tanner would soon begin to feel very vulnerable indeed. The Jerry somehow hadn’t looked the sort who would crack.