‘Our friend the Knut’s adrift, sir.’
Trench said it – somewhat unnecessarily. Nick grunted, and checked the time on his wrist-watch, as if Lange’s lateness hadn’t occurred to him until now, as if his nerves weren’t already racked up tight because of it.
Pacing the quarterdeck. Trench pacing beside him because, tired of his own thoughts which had begun to go in circles, he’d invited his second-in-command to join him.
Five minutes to ten. In one hour he ought to be pulling the hook out of the mud, getting set to move out for the raid on Namsos. And before he could do that, Torp had to be sent ashore to see his wire-cutting friends and then get back aboard again: and depending on what news Lange brought with him when he did come, there might be a need to reshape plans. He was cutting it much too fine for comfort.
Last night, the news had been that in Altfjord was one U-boat and that in Rodsundet were two destroyers. Musical chairs, he’d thought, with a submarine now gate-crashing the party. But there had to be a purpose, a reason: and since then a little of it had begun to show, but last night he’d said to Torp, who’d come down to the cabin with Lange’s report, ‘Let’s wait and see what we have out there in the morning, Claus. Who knows – Scharnhorst and Gneisenau perhaps.’ He’d teased him: ‘They know you’ve got your Valkyrien here and they’re waiting until they’ve assembled a force powerful enough to take you on.’
‘You are so funny you make me want to pump-ship.’
‘Your wardroom dinner-party will have given you that urge. Use my bathroom if you like.’
He stole another sight of his watch. 2158. The three minutes had crawled like ten. If Lange didn’t come, he told himself, he’d let Torp go ashore at 2230 and he’d weigh at 2300. He couldn’t afford to waste any of the short period of darkness; he’d have to assume that the enemy were deployed as they had been at noon – which meant one U-boat and one destroyer alongside each other in Altbotn and one destroyer left at anchor in Rodsundet. Between first light and midday one of the two destroyers who’d spent the night in Rodsundet had gone round into Namsenfjord and then nosed slowly into Altbotn, the inner fjord, and anchored off its western shore; the U-boat had then moved in too, and berthed alongside her. Guesswork suggested that the U-boat was getting assistance of some kind from the destroyer. Or vice versa: but this was less likely, in view of Mohammed having gone to the mountain and not the other way about. But from Nick’s point of view the improvement was considerable. The pair holding each other up in Altbotn probably wouldn’t be able to get under way very quickly: one of them must have something wrong with her, and the destroyer might not have steam up now. Also, if no alarm or loud noises were made, it should be possible to sneak past them undetected, as they were blind in there to what was happening in Namsenfjord. In fact, having them bottled up in there, one might do them some damage en passant, Nip in: a couple of torpedoes: nip out again. During the afternoon he’d been giving it some thought. But Rodsundet too: with only one enemy destroyer there he reckoned his chances of fighting his way out would be better than evens. He knew the German was there, and the German wouldn’t know anything until Intent hit him. Depending, of course, on how much fuss was kicked up at Namsos before that.
That had been the lunchtime picture. How it might look now was another question. Where the hell was Lange?
Three minutes past ten.
He glanced upwards. Cloud cover was still complete. If anything it was thicker than it had been yesterday. So there’d be no bother with a moon. Twenty-five knots would be a maximum speed down-fjord, after the attack, because at full speed the funnel-glow could give them away.
‘Rifles and ammo are in Valkyrien’s skiff, sir.’
That, from Tommy Trench, was a display of nerves. They both knew the skiff was alongside and that Nick had given orders half an hour ago for the weapons to be put in it, to save time when Lange did turn up. He didn’t answer Trench. That skiff would be hoisted on Intent’s starboard davits, after Torp had run his errand and Valkyrien had cast off. The other was already hoisted on the portside davits. On both sides Metcalf’s upperdeckmen had riven new falls, fitted new gripes and boat-ropes, cleaned, greased and tested the fire-blackened disengaging gear. Petty Officer Metcalf had worked like ten ordinary men since they’d been in here. Thinking of it, Nick told Trench, ‘When we’re out of here and the dust has settled, I believe we should think about Metcalf going through for chief. Might have a look at his Service Certificate.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
When we’re out of here…
Lange might have run into trouble. Into a Hun destroyer, for instance.
If he didn’t come, Nick thought, he’d use Namsenfjord. There’d been three destroyers altogether in Lange’s first report, and the whereabouts of the third was currently unknown. If it returned he thought it would more likely join the one in Rodsundet. The one on the other side was there for the U-boat’s benefit and there’d be no point in another joining them. Namsenfjord: and if there hadn’t been much of a shindy made, stern-first into Altbotn for a crack at those buggers and then away, fast, before the Rodsundet ones woke up.
He liked that. It had a certain neatness.
‘I hear your guest-night was a success, Tommy.’
‘Guest-night…’ Trench swallowed surprise. One was hardly expecting to chat about dinner-parties. He nodded. ‘I believe it was, sir. We were all sorry you weren’t able to—’
‘Fishing-boat approaching, sir!’
‘ – able to be with us.’
‘I had a lot of stuff to see to.’ No point in dashing about yet. The blue boat would take a little while to cross the bay. However… ‘Number One, let’s have the cable party closed up, and tell Lyte to shorten-in to one and a half shackles. Special Sea Dutymen in half an hour.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Bosun’s mate!’
Intent’s engines were in full working order now, according to Torp’s translation of Halvard Boyensen’s report. Beamish, questioned by Nick, had agreed with it. They’d run a basin-trial this afternoon, at the Norwegian engineer’s request; Nick had consented in return for the man’s positive assurance that there’d be too little smoke for a German ten miles away to see. In fact, as he’d expected, the wind had backed to north-west and it blew such smoke as there was directly inshore. And the engines had functioned perfectly. Also, by that time the new fore topmast had been stepped and rigged. An interesting evolution, which had taken the whole forenoon. A mast-rope was led from an eyebolt on the foremast top, through the sheave in the heel of the topmast, back up again through a block on the other side of the fore top. Thence it was taken to the capstan on the foc’sl, the slant of it just clearing the forefront of the bridge and the flare of ‘B’ gundeck. At Trench’s order ‘Sway away!’ and with a couple of dozen seamen all around with hemp guys to steady it, the topmast had risen vertically like some variety of the Indian rope trick. After that, things became more complicated: the yards had to be slung up and secured, and the rigging – stays, backstays and shrouds – of two-inch steel-wire rope, set up. Finally there’d been only the lighter work to do, like halyards and wireless gear. It looked like any other topmast now; but such a very short time ago it had been a tree, snow-covered on a Norwegian hillside.
Nick was thinking as he crossed the plank to Valkyrien that his feeling of relief at Lange’s arrival might have been a trifle premature. There was no knowing what the Norwegian was about to tell them. It might be bloody awful. And even if the fjords were empty, there was still a tricky operation ahead of him at Namsos.
Torp came out of his deckhouse chewing, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. The same hand went to push his beat-up cap back to a more comfortable angle. He nodded to Nick, still chewing. ‘About times, he’s coming, eh?’ Kari came out behind him, and went aft without acknowledging Nick’s presence. She’d been reserved in her manner with him all day, and he’d decided against issuing any supper invitations. She was cross with him for not having joined them in the wardroom last night, he supposed: which was silly, and also proof that he’d been wise in not going along.
Sooner or later, he thought, one annoyed them all, one way or another. He hadn’t annoyed Fiona yet, though. Perhaps by not giving a damn she was annoyance-proof?
The blue boat was curving round, angling to run in alongside. A Norwegian – the young one, Einar – was hauling the skiff farther for’ard to make room for Lange. Kari appeared suddenly at Nick’s side: ‘We have coffee still hot if you would like some.’
‘No thank you, Kari. Kind thought, though.’ Peace-offering? When she smiled she was really breathtaking. And she was calmly prepared to sail this ancient heap six hundred miles, with two old men and a boy for crew… He had a quick, imaginative vision of Fiona faced with any such suggestion, her huge eyes widening as she uttered a characteristic squawk: ‘My dear sweet man, you must be stark, staring bonkers!’ Smiling at the mental picture – Kari meeting the smile and taking it as meant for her, smiling back: an unexpected dividend… Lange’s screws were going astern to take the way off his boat: stopped now, the stream of turbulence between the two wooden hulls quietening as crewmen fore and aft tossed lines to Norwegians on Valkyrien.
Lange hauled himself out of the doorway in the side of his wheelhouse, and began to yell at Torp. After a dozen words, Kari turned, glanced back at Nick. He thought she looked startled.
‘What’s he saying?’
She shook her head: still listening. The singsong recitation might have been going on for ever. Then it ended: Torp had swung round, seen Nick, and he was coming over to him.
‘You like good news first, or bad?’
‘All of it, and for God’s sake let’s not waste time.’
‘Okay. In Altbotn is still one U-boat, one destroyer. The U-boat has a big hatch open and the destroyer is lifting battery cells out with its torpedo davit. Maybe smashed battery – bad trouble for a submarine, huh?’
It would make sense. They’d need a surface like a pond’s, and that was what they’d found.
‘Other side, by Saltkjelvika, is now two destroyers.’
Two where there had been one, and all three accounted for now. He’d guessed right. And his way out would be via Namsenfjord. With a brief call perhaps at Altbotn.
Torp was grinning at him. ‘Now some good news. In Rodsundet is not only the two destroyers. The one that came brought with it an oil tanker and this has anchored too. Big ship – maybe fifteen, sixteen thousand ton.’
Kari interrupted: ‘But with two destroyers—’
‘Wait.’ Nick put up a hand to silence her. If there’d been ten destroyers that oiler would still have attracted him. But two was acceptable. And no need to raid Namsos. If he took them by surprise: which, coming from inside the fjords, ought surely to be possible…
His mind had a picture of that side of it. A snapshot: he’d need to study it closely to extract detail but it was there, complete. The other side – Altbotn – that destroyer would have to be dealt with too. Oiling would take an hour, after the tanker was captured, and there’d have been some bangs by that time. Altbotn was less than two miles from the Saltkjelvika anchorage, over that neck of land, and the destroyer would have time to get out and meet Intent and the tanker outside, or even to get right round and catch them still alongside, oiling. The U-boat was probably no danger, but the destroyer was.
It could be done. He’d been on his mental toes, keyed up, and everything was whirring and meshing now. It would have to: in the next forty-five minutes there was a hell of a lot of ground to cover.
‘Number One – have the rifles taken out of that skiff. Claus, go ashore, please, cancel previous arrangements and get back here as soon as possible.’
‘Very well.’
‘Then bring Lange down to my cabin with you. Listen he’d stopped the Norwegian as he moved towards the skiff – ‘I’m going to need your ship and his boat and all your crews, we move out of here at 2300, and you and your people will accept the dispositions I’m about to make. Right?’
‘We going to take the tanker?’
‘Yes. But we have to eliminate the ships in Altbotn too, so we’ve got to be in three places at once.’
Torp threw a glance at Kari, then looked back at Nick. ‘Okay. Any way you say.’ As he climbed over and down to the skiff he called something out to Lange, and the fisherman laughed, glancing round and up at Nick. Nick asked him, ‘Okay?’ and Lange laughed again, raised a thumb: ‘Hokay!’ He had already, when he’d been back here at midday, told Torp that his boat and crew were at Nick’s disposal for as long as Intent was in the fjords. He didn’t want to leave Norway but he’d help out now and he’d join in again when any other British force arrived, he’d said. Kari and he were yelling at each other now, and the other Norwegians were gathering round to listen, while Einar climbed down to join Torp in the skiff.
Nick went over the brow. Ideas developing. Intent’s ship’s company were grouped around in fair numbers, ears flapping for the buzz.
‘Mr Opie here?’
‘Here, sir.’ The gunner came from aft; he had a Torpedo Log and Progress Book under his arm. Opie had rather the shape of a praying mantis: skinny, stooped. Eyes so sharp and small that they were like skewers stabbing at you.
‘Mr Opie, I want two depthcharges provided, with wire slings so they can be slung over the stern either of Valkyrien or the fishing-boat. I’ll let you know in a minute which one. Also, I want two volunteer torpedomen – one of ’em had better be a killick – to go along with them.’
Opie said, ‘I’ll take charge of that party, sir.’
‘No, I want you with us. The pair who do go will have to sprint a distance of roughly a mile and a half, possibly being shot at. They’re to be warned it’ll be a fairly chancy operation. Bloody dangerous, in fact. And I want to see them before we shove off.’ Opie nodded, pulling at his nose. It didn’t need any stretching. He must have known he wasn’t a man to sprint a hundred yards, let alone three thousand. He said, ‘We’ll start getting the gear up, sir.’
Nick looked round at Trench. ‘Tommy – you, Chandler and Brocklehurst – in my cabin, now. Chandler’s to bring the chart of the fjords with him.’
He didn’t need the chart to work out the next bit, though. He’d checked over the various distances so often that he had them in his head. From here to Altbotn: just under ten miles. From here to the anchorage at Saltkjelvika: about seventeen. Lange’s boat would be the most suitable for Altbotn. So Valkyrien should come the other way with Intent. Sailing at 11 pm, 2300, and making good five knots – her top speed was six, but it was a rising tide and therefore an inflowing stream – three and a half hours in transit meant that the earliest time for zero hour would be 0230. Then an hour and a half for the fracas and the oiling would make it 0400. Dawn, near enough, no darkness left for the withdrawal. No bloody use!
Valkyrien would have to do the job in Altbotn. She wasn’t as good for it as the fishing-boat would have been, and Torp, who would obviously insist on participating in that expedition, hadn’t the youth or athleticism it was going to call for. But – no option… He was in the doorway of his cabin, having thought this out on the way down. Seymour was emerging from the pantry. Nick told him, ‘Shin up top, would you, ask Mr Opie to spare me a moment.’ Seymour and Pete Chandler collided as the navigator came plunging off the ladder into the flat carrying the chart and instruments. Brocklehurst was with him and, dwarfing the GCO from the rear, Tommy Trench, herding them along. Trench said, ‘I’ve left Lyte on the bridge, sir. Had to leave the foc’sl to Cox. But he’s got PO Granger to keep him on the straight and narrow.’
They’d still be shortening-in the cable. And they could shorten it a bit more, now. Mr Opie followed his nose into the cabin, rapping on the door-jamb as he entered. ‘Sir?’
‘Your charges are to be slung over Valkyrien’s counter. With that cut-away stern you’ll find it easy enough. You can use our starboard thrower davit to get them over. Haul Valkyrien for’ard a few yards if you need to. Wire slings, Mr Opie, a separate sling for each charge, and a slip on each of them which your torpedomen can knock off quickly and easily. They may be doing it under fire so it must be simple and if possible under cover. Leave the charges set to safe until just before she sails – you can arm them either by hanging over the side or from the skiff. I want shallow settings on the pistols… Is that all clear?’
Opie nodded. ‘Volunteers are Leading Torpedoman Crouch and Torpedoman Surtees, sir.’
‘Can they both run?’
‘Like bloody riggers, sir. That’s why I picked ’em.’
‘Picked them?’
‘The whole lot volunteered, sir.’
It didn’t surprise him. If you told matelots an operation was going to be dangerous they all rushed for it. Before the Zeebrugge raid the recruiters had had practically to beat men off with sticks. He told Opie, ‘They’re to be issued with Tommy guns. Three drums of ammo per gun. Tell the CM, and that he’s to see both men know how to use the things. You’ve got half an hour to be ready, Mr Opie, so you’d better slap it about a bit.’
He turned back into the cabin. Chandler had the chart spread out. Eighteen minutes past ten. He’d been right about those distances, and there was no option as to which of his ragbag squadron did which job. Torp wasn’t going to like Valkyrien being treated as expendable. He’d have a counter-proposal: Nick could foresee it and he was ready to rule it out. He dropped the dividers on the chart, and told his officers, ‘Two separate forces. One is Valkyrien, the other Intent with the fishing-boat. Valkyrien as you heard is being equipped with depthcharges slung under her counter and set shallow; she’ll drop them under the destroyer and the U-boat who are alongside each other in Altbotn. Here. Torp will no doubt insist on commanding her. He’ll need one engine-room hand and one other crewman, Norwegians, and we are providing two torpedomen for the charges. Valkyrien should slip and proceed at 2255. That is, in thirty-six minutes’ time. At five knots she can easily reach Altbotn and her target by 0100, which is zero hour. You can check exact timings in a minute, pilot. Now – Tommy. The fishing-boat – for short let’s call it ‘blueboat’ – is to be fitted with our own blue stern cluster. Send an LTO over to wire it up. Blueboat will be crewed by Lange and as many of his own men as he needs, and you, Tommy, will go in her to lead the boarding party and perhaps thereafter command the oiler. We shan’t just oil from her, you understand, we’ll take her with us. Command of her depends on Torp: I’ll offer him the job, otherwise it’s yours.’
If Torp got there, after the Altbotn operation, he’d obviously accept that offer. He’d be the best man for it, it would be a good use of his Norwegians, Nick would get his first lieutenant back, and everyone would be happy. The doubt was whether Torp would get there, after his action on the other side.
Nick told Trench, ‘Pick twelve men for your boarding party. I’ll take at least some of them back from you when we’re alongside the oiler later on. As well as the twelve you pick you can have all the surplus Norwegians – around ten of them, probably. Then if Torp assumes command of the oiler he’ll have his own chaps as crew. But add a leading stoker to your party, to be ready to work with Beamish when we get alongside. Rifles, bayonets, revolvers – and there’s one Tommy gun left – help yourself. You’ll need a signalman and he’d better take an Aldis and a pair of semaphore flags with him. And I suppose one telegraphist… And they’ll stay aboard. But look here, we’ll be fighting an action, so for God’s sake pick your men in a way that won’t cripple us in any one department. It’s up to you, because we won’t have time to consult on it. Take young Cox with you?’
Trench nodded. ‘Good idea, sir.’
‘Lyte can do your jobs – all from the bridge. Torpedo control is going to be important. Is he competent?’
‘He is, sir. But I’ll have a word with him.’
Lyte was Trench’s action understudy anyway, so he ought to know the job. If things went as they should they’d have sitting targets anyway. Nick went on, pointing out the route on the chart with the tips of the dividers, ‘We sail at 2300 and follow blueboat at ten knots through Sundsråsa, over to Lokkaren and up through it, then round this corner into Surviksund and through into Lauvoyfjord. I think you’ll find, pilot, that about here – ’ his pointer stopped on Lauvoy Island, just inside that much wider fjord – ‘we can reduce by a knot or two, provided we’re on schedule. I want to get over to this western coast then and hug it right into the anchorage. In case anyone didn’t get the buzz, by the way, the anchorage currently holds two Hun destroyers and one tanker of roughly 15,000 tons.’
Henry Brocklehurst raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah-hah.’
‘Sorry. As we’re a bit rushed I may be missing other points here or there. Stop me if anyone sees any gaps… As I said, pilot, you can work out precise speeds on the various stages, and when Torp’s back we’ll go over it all with him and Lange. No point bothering Lange on his own, because he doesn’t understand English. But his chaps know just how and where the oiler and the destroyers are lying, and we’ll get that out of them. What’s essential is that everything should happen simultaneously, at 0100: Valkyrien’s charges explode here in Altbotn, blueboat puts you and your party into the oiler, Tommy, and I hit the destroyers with torpedoes. Approaches will be dead quiet, slow and not a chink of light. As soon as I’ve fixed the destroyers I’ll berth on the oiler – which will be yours, let’s hope, by that time. If not, we’ll board and give you some help.’
‘Fair enough, sir.’ Trench nodded. ‘What about Hun prisoners? Lock ’em up?’
Nick rubbed his jaw. ‘Ship that size could have a crew of – Lord, forty or fifty. Take a lot of guarding, and we’re short-handed enough already.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we can bother with prisoners.’
They were all looking at him. Wondering whether that was all the guidance they were going to get. He pointed at the anchorage, the coast near Saltkjelvika.
‘Not a very long swim. Couple of hundred yards, in sheltered water?’
‘Ah.’ Trench nodded. ‘If any of ’em say they can’t swim, I’ll put ’em in the forepeak or some hold that’s easy to guard.’
‘I’m sure there won’t be time to give lessons.’ Brocklehurst’s contribution raised a laugh. Nick said, ‘Final point: having put our boarders into the oiler, blueboat will go inshore – about here, but Lange and Torp can fix the spot – to wait for and then embark the party from Valkyrien. They’ll have beached her somewhere about here – ’ the south-eastern shore of Altbotn, he was indicating – ‘and then legged it overland to the beach where blueboat will be waiting.’
Contours on the chart showed high ground to the north and to the south of that overland route. It was a valley of sorts and a road ran through it, so presumably it wouldn’t be too much of a problem for young, fit men.
He saw Trench glance up: turning, he found Torp in the cabin’s doorway. Age fifty-one, and carrying a little weight. Not too clearly one of the ‘young and fit’ brigade. But if he insisted on staying with his ship – which he would…
‘All right ashore, Commander?’
‘They are disappointed. Here is Knut Lange.’
‘Come in.’ Nick looked at Trench. ‘Better get cracking. Pick your men and arm them, that’s the first thing.’ He told Brocklehurst, ‘You can help him. Get an LTO over to blueboat with the cluster, to start with. And fill Lyte in on what I’ve been telling you. As far as gunnery’s concerned, I can’t spell out what’ll happen at zero hour, except that I want to hit with torpedoes first. Just have everything on the top line, right?’ The GCO nodded. Nick added, ‘You can organise your department when we’re under way. All right, off you go…’
Chandler was bent over the chart, working out speeds and courses. He asked Nick, ‘We’ll have blueboat to follow but we’ll have no pilot actually on board, sir?’
‘Well.’ Nick beckoned the Norwegians to come closer to the chart. ‘We’ll have Commander Torp’s daughter with us. I gather she knows these fjords as well as he does.’
Ten twenty-eight.
Ten thirty-one…
Kari had joined them in the day cabin. Torp asked Nick, ‘Why my Valkyrien? Why not his boat?’
Nick explained: because Valkyrien couldn’t make the distance to Rodsundet and leave them enough hours of darkness to get away before the Stukas came. He’d have preferred it the other way round; the faster, smaller craft would have been more suitable for the dash across Altbotn, and Valkyrien’s height in the water would have suited the boarding operation better. If the oiler didn’t have a gangway or a ladder over her side it might present a problem – an iron wall towering above the boat and no way to scale it. In that event they’d have to wait until Intent came alongside. This wasn’t a good solution, though, because the tanker’s crew would have seen the attack on the destroyers and they’d be ready to repel boarders. One wanted them, if possible, to be sound asleep in their bunks.
Kari was acting as interpreter. Lange mumbled at her, snatched up a signal pad and took Chandler’s pencil out of his hand, began to make a sketch. It turned out that he was saying the tanker was a modern ship and very low in comparison to her length. She had a high bridge section amidships and more superstructure aft where the funnel was, but between those two areas of superstructure she had an exceptionally low freeboard. Men could board from the top of the fishing-boat’s wheelhouse, and Lange would take some planks to put across.
‘Sounds as if he’s seen her himself.’
‘He has. This last trip he went to look, to make certain. It’s why he was late returning.’
‘Well, please tell him I’m very grateful to him.’ Nick looked at Torp’s less-than-happy face. ‘You dislike the idea of sacrificing your ship. I understand that. I’m very sorry there’s no other way of doing it.’
‘But maybe there is. I make the attack, I turn round and come out again, we have – one hour, one and a half? Easy – I meet you here, near Flottra?’
It was the suggestion he’d expected. He shook his head. ‘No, Claus. If you got away with it, I’d have to find you out there – ’
‘You don’t have to. I go on – right on!’
‘But I want my torpedomen back, you see. For one thing because I need them, for another I don’t believe you’d get ten miles before you were strafed by German ’planes. You haven’t the speed to get away: and we have.’ He suggested, ‘You don’t have to go along in Valkyrien, Claus. One of your younger men could do it – or I could provide an officer – Pete Chandler here, for instance – ’
‘Valkyrien is my ship, damn it all to hell!’
‘It’ll be hard going, once you’re ashore. Frankly, I’d say it was a job for youngsters, but—’
‘One and a quarter sea miles. A little more than two kilometres. I am not yet falling to bits, you know!’ He was red in the face and glaring. ‘Okay – how long does it take you to stop, take your men off from me outside?’
‘You might not get that far, you see. Once you’ve dropped those charges, they’ll be shooting at you. With only a few hundred yards to go to beach her, you should get away with it, but if you had to go two-thirds of the length of the fjord – and the way they’d expect you to be going…’ He shook his head. ‘If you got into trouble and I had to come on round and find you, I’d be throwing my own ship away. I’m not prepared to do that. Whereas when you come overland, we’re all in one spot together, ready to start off and not stop – out, and in darkness.’
Torp was silent. Simmering down, seeing the common sense of it. He looked at his daughter, and shrugged. ‘Man’s right.’ She nodded: but Nick could see she wasn’t happy about the job her father was taking on. Nick asked him, ‘What’ll you do – put her on the rocks with her seacocks open?’
Torp suggested, ‘Perhaps also some of those explosives?’
Fitted charges, with long-enough lengths of fuse to give the five men time to get clear. Half a dozen of them in that old ship’s bilges would just about take the bottom out of her. Nick agreed: and his torpedomen could handle that end of it. What he wanted now from Lange was a sketch of the anchorage on the other side, showing exactly where the oiler was anchored and where the destroyers were.
And after that –
Well. One thing at a time… But hardly: he was having to think of about forty things at a time. He’d had two days to work out the details of the Namsos operation, and he was setting this one up in fifty minutes.
Three minutes past eleven. Eight minutes late, Valkyrien was letting go the ropes which had held her to Intent. Knut Lange had cast off from Valkyrien at five minutes to the hour and dropped astern so that a torpedoman on his boat’s bow could set the pistols on the depthcharges which now hung in their wire-rope slings. Then Lange had brought his boat up on Intent’s, port side, and Trench’s boarding party were climbing down a scrambling-net into it. The Norwegians – nine of them – were already in the boat.
Trench wasn’t with them yet. He’d be coming up here to report, before they pushed off. Nick went over to the starboard side of the bridge, looked down at the gap of water which had already opened between his ship and Valkyrien. Claus Torp was beside the open door of his wheelhouse, chatting to the man inside – a man of about twenty-five, by the name of Larsen. (‘Last runner,’ Torp had explained. ‘Strong, too. Carry me and run like hell, I think.’) He wasn’t only talking to Larsen though, he had Kari facing him from Intent’s foc’sl deck, right below the place where Nick was leaning over. She was unhappy, worried for him, and he was keeping up the jokes, teasing her.
She had some reason to be worried, Nick thought. You could hardly expect to pull off a stunt like this one without some casualties. And Torp was the most likely candidate. It wasn’t only the most odds-against bit of the operation, it was also going to be something of a marathon.
Could he have held him back from it? Stopped him going in his own ship? Nick didn’t see how. He was a highly independent character, not a man to betray his principles.
Torp was staring up at him. Nick shouted across the gap, ‘Good luck!’
‘Look after this woman for me, huh?’ Pointing at Kari. Nick looked down, and at the same moment she glanced up: he saw her stiff, unhappy smile. He called to Torp, ‘We’ll keep her safe for you.’ Rather a daft assurance, he realised: the only way to have ensured her safety would have been to have landed her at Sveodden, now. Torp had just passed an order over his shoulder to his man Larsen; Valkyrien’s single screw was going astern, sliding her away from the destroyer’s side and sending a stream of churned, bubbling water seething forward. But she was clear now, and Torp had stopped the engine. Valkyrien still slid astern, with port rudder on to turn her bow out.
Torp’s and Kari’s gear was in Nick’s sleeping cabin aft. It was hers now, and she could use the day-cabin and his bathroom too. At sea he only used the little box just below the bridge.
‘Captain, sir?’
Tommy Trench, in his tin hat with ‘1st Lt’ painted on the front of it, and a webbing belt with a .45 revolver in the holster. ‘Boarding party embarked and ready to proceed, sir.’
‘Well done. You’ve worked wonders. I mean that.’
Trench grinned down at him. ‘Needs must, when the devil drives, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Intended, if I may say so, as a compliment. May I tell Lange to carry on, sir?’
‘Let Valkyrien get well clear first. I’ll give you a shout. Best of luck, Tommy.’
‘Sir.’ Chandler, coming from the chart-table, interrupted. ‘Sorry… But we must make twelve knots now, sir, to be up to the schedule. Reducing to eight when Lauvoy light’s abeam if we’re up to it.’
‘All right. Tommy, see Lange gets that and understands it, will you? Tell you what – ask Kari to translate. She’s just down here.’
‘Twelve knots, reducing to eight at Lauvoy light if we’re on time. Aye aye, sir.’ Trench saluted. ‘See you alongside my oiler, sir.’ As he moved off, Chief Stoker Beamish clambered into the bridge. He saluted too. ‘Main engines ready, sir.’
‘Chief, that’s music to the ears.’
‘Reckon it is that, sir.’
‘Everything on a split yarn for the oiling?’
‘Will be by 0100, sir. Leading Stoker Evans ’as gone with the boat party.’
‘Boyensen quite happy down there?’
Beamish thought he was. Boyensen would move over to become chief engineer of the oiler, in a couple of hours’ time. Meanwhile he was on loan from Torp, to hold Beamish’s hand in case anything went wrong or needed adjustment.
Nick told Chandler, ‘Ring on main engines.’ He crossed to the starboard side again as Valkyrien, her engine chugging ahead and black coal-smoke leaking from that tall funnel, came sliding past at a distance of about thirty feet. Torp saluted breezily, and Nick returned it. He called to Randolph Lyte, ‘Weigh anchor.’ The two torpedomen were standing at attention on Valkyrien’s stern; Nick took off his cap and waved it at them, and one hand came up in answer. The light was fading rapidly – outlines blurring, hills merging into the background of low cloud. The two depthcharges slung under the old ship’s counter looked like dangling testicles.
He’d shown the torpedomen, Crouch and Surtees, photographs in Jane’s Fighting Ships of modern German destroyers, pointing out the positon of searchlights above and abaft their bridges, fixed to the lower part of the foremast at roughly funnel-top height. The searchlight on the Altbotn destroyer would be an obvious menace to the Valkyrien party, and if those two could shoot it out with their Thompsons they’d about double their chances of getting away. Men at guns were also worth shooting at, as was anyone on the bridge, and the time to hit them, he’d suggested, would be immediately after the charges had been released, when they were still at close quarters. But the searchlight should be target number one.
Weighing wouldn’t take long now. They’d shortened-in to one shackle a few minutes ago. So there were twelve and a half fathoms of cable out, and as there were ten fathoms of water here it left very little slack to be gathered in.
Clanking of the rising cable. Power on the capstan – full, main generator power. Intent was reborn…
And Valkyrien was crossing her bow, turning to port to head for the gap into the channel which would take them through into Namsenfjord. Torp was up on his wheelhouse roof, already an indistinct figure in the fading light. Nick wondered if he’d thanked Torp enough, for all he’d done for him. Without Torp, Intent would still have been out in that open anchorage – Lovik – when the German destroyers had arrived. Helpless, easy meat… There hadn’t been time for goodbyes and none for thanks either. There should have been. The omission niggled in his mind, tinged with the fear that there might not be an opportunity to make it good. Lyte reported, ‘Cable’s up and down, sir.’
‘Very good.’ He leant over the port side of the bridge, looking down at the blue boat. Lange was lounging on the canopy of its wheelhouse, and Trench was perched on it near him. Cox, near the stern, had his tin hat slung on his shoulder. Nick called down, ‘Cast off and carry on, please. Best of luck, all of you.’ Trench said something to Lange, who gave Nick something between a wave and an offensive gesture; the gleam of his teeth showed up as he smiled. They weren’t all that white: just big… Some sailors on Intent’s, iron deck, letting go the blue boat’s ropes on Trench’s orders, raised a cheer; Trench called up to Nick, ‘Knock ’em for six, sir!’ A faint blue radiance near the boat’s stern showed that the stern cluster had already been switched on. The boat with its low silhouette wouldn’t have been easy to follow without it, on a night as dark as this one was going to be.
‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir.’
‘Very good.’ He stepped up behind the binnacle and Chandler moved over to make room for him. Checking the ship’s head on the gyro repeater. No hurry, though; he’d wait for the report of ‘Clear anchor’ and by that time the blue boat would have put about the right distance between them. Glancing round, he saw Kari: she was pressed against the port side of the bridge at its after end, near the ten-inch light, and gazing northwards towards a smallish blur and a patch of whitened sea that was all one could see now of Valkyrien.
‘Kari?’
She was wearing her bright-blue oilskin coat. She came towards him: dark, almost black hair, pale-blue eyes with fear in them. He told her, ‘Don’t worry. Your father’s a tough cookie. You’ll be entertained with a lot of tall stories from him in about two and a half hours’ time.’
She smiled, and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
He remembered that she’d offered him a similar reassurance, about Paul. Since then neither of them had mentioned the subject. The anxiety was in his mind but he was keeping it pushed well back, out of the way, where he didn’t have to listen to it. He was tempted to tell her that he’d instructed Crouch and Surtees to keep an eye on her father and give him a hand if he needed it. Not to the extent of throwing sound lives after a lost one, but – within reason… Lange’s boat was forging out on Intent’s bow. Moving slowly, waiting for the destroyer to show signs of following. The swirl of the boat’s wake showed up clearly, blued by the lights above it. Getting darker every second: by the time they were through Sundsråsa it would be black. Nice timing, in fact. He heard a shout down on the foc’sl, then Lyte’s quiet ‘Clear anchor, sir.’
‘Port ten.’
‘Port ten, sir… Ten of port wheel on, sir.’
‘Slow ahead together.’
‘Slow ahead together, sir!’
He felt the vibrations, muted at this slow speed, and the turbines’ whisper and the soft, slow-speed sucking of the intakes. Then his ship was gathering way.
‘Half ahead together. One-two-oh revolutions.’ Lange would see Intent’s bow-wave rise, and put on speed to match.
Eleven-eighteen.
‘He’s – slicing it a bit short, sir?’
Conning his ship round, following the blue glow, Nick didn’t answer Chandler. Lange was certainly cutting corners. They’d passed through Sundsråsa and held that same course for about a mile across the comparatively open water of Namsenfjord, and now the blue boat was leading round to starboard within a schoolboy-cricketer’s throw of the island of Ytre Gasoy. Meaning outer Gasoy, Kari had explained. Whitewashed rocks looked bright to starboard: he was bringing her round carefully, using only five degrees of wheel. There was not much wind, only a lapping on the black water, enough to take the shine off it. Knowing there were rocks off the north coast of the little island, he shared Chandler’s anxiety. All you could see was the broken water, but that was enough to make the hairs stand up on the back of a sailor’s neck – if not on a Norwegian fisherman’s.
‘Don’t worry.’ Kari’s voice on his right. ‘Knut could be doing this with his eyes shut.’
‘I do hope he isn’t.’ It occurred to him that he and Kari spent a lot of time telling each other not to worry. He bent to the voicepipe: ‘Midships.’
‘Midships, sir.’
‘Meet her.’ Keeping her on the outer edge of the blue boat’s curving wake. ‘Steer oh-eight-oh.’ He asked Chandler, ‘What’s our course to pass the next headland, the one to port now?’ ‘One-oh-five, sir.’
Kari said, ‘He won’t cut that corner. There is a rock a quarter-mile from the point.’
‘How very reassuring.’ Nick told the helmsman, ‘Starboard five.’ Lange was edging round again. He’d probably go right round to that one-oh-five, or something near it. ‘How long is the next leg, pilot?’
‘Mile and a half, sir.’ Chandler added drily, ‘Depending on whether he’s corner-cutting or rock-climbing.’ Kari giggled, and Nick was glad to hear it. He said into the voicepipe, ‘Midships.’ Breeze on the port quarter and astern now, bringing occasional stink of funnel-fumes. Black, quiet water, darkness enshrouding like black flannel. Damp, iced black flannel. ‘Meet her.’
‘Meet her, sir – ’
‘Steady!’
‘Steady, sir. One-oh-four – ’
‘Steer that.’
‘Steer one-oh-four, sir.’
‘Meet her’ meant putting the wheel the opposite way, to check a swing already imparted to the ship. As the rate of swing slowed you had either to give the helmsman a course to steer, or order ‘Steady’ to inform him that she was at that moment on the course you wanted. A mile and a half at twelve knots would take seven and a half minutes: then there’d be the turn to port into the narrow cleft called Lokkaren, and at the point of entry to it Intent and her guide would be less than two miles from German-occupied Namsos.
‘Time?’
‘Twenty-three fifty, sir.’
If it hadn’t been for the news which Lange had brought two hours ago, instead of turning into Lokkaren now they’d have been steering farther south and rounding the next headland, Merraneset, to raid Namsos for its oil. Nick wondered whether that might have turned out to be more tricky or less so than the jaunt he was on now. One would never know: it would be something to speculate on in one’s old age. If one had an old age. All he did know was that the Namsos operation followed immediately by an engagement with superior forces who’d have been actually waiting for him would have been a bit over the odds. He’d have attempted it, because there’d seemed to be no alternative; but now he didn’t have to do it he could admit to himself that it had never been a very attractive proposition.
‘Steer one-oh-six.’
‘One-oh-six, sir.’
He saw Lyte move from the starboard to the port fore corner of the bridge. Trench had found time – heaven knew how – to run over the torpedo-control system with him, and he’d assured Nick that the sub-lieutenant was ‘all about’ on it. Lyte wouldn’t have to cope with the telephone to the director tower: Nick had had a longer lead put on it, so it could be brought here to the binnacle. He could either talk to Brocklehurst himself, or put Chandler on it.
Cold: shivery, bone-penetrating cold, even through a duffle-coat… The whitish smear of wake and the blue glow were dead ahead still; he spoke without taking his eyes off it. ‘How long to the turn, pilot?’
‘About one minute, sir.’
‘Bosun’s mate?’
‘Yessir?’
‘Go round the ship, Marryott, make sure there’s not a speck of light showing anywhere. Including cigarettes on the gundecks. Take as long as you like, but make certain of it.’
The ship’s company had been sent to action stations as soon as the foc’sl had been secured, which had been done by the time they’d been halfway down Sundsråsa. Everything was closed up and ready: they could be meeting Hun destroyers in this fjord – here, now. Nothing guaranteed that the Germans would remain where they’d last been seen.
Kari said, ‘You can see the rock on your port bow.’
Chandler put his glasses on it. Nick kept his eyes on the blue cluster: it was a circular arrangement of blue light-bulbs fixed in a sort of shallow box so that it could only be seen from right astern. Lange might alter course at any moment, and he didn’t want to overshoot. There was no room or time for errors and corrections or blunderings about, and twelve knots was quite fast enough for negotiating a channel as narrow as the one that was coming next.
‘Down five revolutions.’
The light had seemed closer suddenly.
‘Down five, sir… One-three-five revolutions passed and repeated, sir.’
Chandler reported, ‘Rock’s abeam, sir, about one cable.’
‘Very good.’ His eyes were glued to that blue gleam. This was as close to Namsos as they’d come.
‘Port five.’
Lange had begun the turn that would take him round into Lokkaren: Nick had seen the light shift away leftwards.
‘Midships.’
‘That rock is slightly before the beam, sir.’
‘Very good.’ They were rock-climbing… He stooped again. ‘Port five.’
The sense of being behind the enemy’s lines: silence and darkness emphasised it, that and the knowledge that in a very short time he’d be creeping up on enemy ships which lay meanwhile in sleepy ignorance of his existence. There was a kind of tight-nerved satisfaction in it: just being here, armed and ready and on the verge of action – and unseen, unsuspected… He’d felt it before, more than once, but not for – well, twenty years. There was a kind of poacher’s thrill about it. That night off the Belgian coast in 1917, for instance, in a CMB – the modern development of which were called MTBs – en route to snatch some prisoners out of a guard trawler known to the Dover Patrol as ‘Weary Willie’…
‘Midships.’ They’d be past that rock by now.
‘Midships… Wheel’s amidships, sir!’
‘Ship’s head now, and the course up here, pilot?’
‘Course should be oh-one-five, sir. Ship’s head – oh-one-eight.’
Nick didn’t want to look at the compass, if he could avoid it, for the sake of his night vision. He told Jarratt, ‘Steer oh-one-six.’
‘Steer oh-one-six, sir.’
Chandler informed him, ‘After a mile and a quarter there’s foul ground to starboard, sir, so he’ll probably ease over. After that he’ll have to come back much more – about ten degrees – to starboard for the slight dog-leg through the narrowest part.’
‘All right.’ Chandler had courses, times and distances in his brown-covered navigator’s notebook, and a pencil torch so that when he squatted down near the base of the binnacle he could use it inside his coat. For all his stuffiness, Pete Chandler made a useful navigator. And the stuffiness might wear off, as he gradually changed from City gent to destroyer man.
‘Steer one degree to port.’
‘One degree to port, sir!’
‘Up five revolutions.’
‘Up five revolutions, sir. Course oh-one-five, sir. One-four-oh revolutions passed and repeated, sir.’
It was the feeling of stealth as well as the surrounding quiet that made one talk quietly. As if voices might be heard ashore, or in the next fjord… The Germans in Namsos were lucky. A few of them would have died tonight. Perhaps quite a lot of them. But none of ours, please God… If this trick could be pulled off without casualties – catch them with their pants so far down that only Germans got hurt – that would be something!
Torp and the others, plugging down Namsenfjord at this moment: for all five of them to return would be a bit much to hope for. One did still hope, though… Crouch had grinned, and said, ‘We’ll see ’im right, sir, don’t worry!’ and Surtees had confirmed, ‘We’ll ’elp the geezer out, sir.’
Geezer… How would one explain that term, to a Norwegian? Literally it meant ‘old woman’. One could hardly imagine anyone less womanish than Claus Torp.
The blue spot was moving left, and he bent quickly to the voicepipe. ‘Steer three degrees to port.’
‘Three degrees to port, sir!’
‘Your foul ground coming up, pilot.’ Lights in cottages on the coast to starboard. It felt like picking one’s way through people’s back gardens. Kari said, ‘There are shallows and a small island, and half a mile higher there is a ferry crossing.’
‘Not crossing now, let’s hope.’
‘I think it won’t be operating at night.’
‘Course one-oh-two, sir.’
‘Time?’
‘Five minutes past midnight, sir.’
‘How wide is the narrowest bit of this creek, Kari?’
‘About – hundred and fifty metres. Higher up. And before it there is a shoal, right in the middle. What is your ship’s draught?’
‘Twelve-foot six. What’s over the shoal?’
‘Sixteen, but – ’
More, with a rising tide.
‘He’ll lead us round it, I imagine, sir. Course will still be about oh-one-five. I mean after we’ve cleared this stuff to starboard.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Kari added, ‘This would be easy if the lights were burning.’
‘Steer two degrees to starboard.’ Nick straightened from the voicepipe. ‘Except they’d only be burning if your invaders had taken charge of them. Pilot, ship’s head now?’
‘Oh-one-five—’
‘Steer oh-one-five, cox’n.’
Lyte reported, ‘Spar buoy to starboard, sir. Green four-oh, fifty yards.’
‘It marks the edge of the bad part. Knut will be going to the left of the shoal now. You can make out the high land on your port bow, I think?’
‘Yes …’ There’d be no more than a fifty-yard gap between the shoal and that steep coastline. Without Lange to follow, this would have been a tricky passage to negotiate. Except that Kari could have brought them through… A few minutes later, the high ground to port was so close it seemed you could have leant out from the bridge and touched it. Only for a minute: then the blue glimmer was sliding to the right.
‘Starboard five.’
‘Starboard five, sir… Five of starboard wheel on, sir.’
Jarratt wouldn’t be seeing much, if anything, through his wheelhouse window. He certainly wouldn’t see the faint blue glow through sea-misted glass. ‘Midships.’
‘Midships, sir!’
‘Meet her.’
‘Meet her, sir…’
‘Steady!’
‘Steady – oh-two-seven, sir!’
‘Steer oh-two-eight.’
There’d be a gradual widening now, up to the top of the fjordlet. He asked Chandler, ‘Time?’
‘Twelve minutes past, sir.’
Forty-eight minutes to zero hour. In that time they had to get around the corner into Surviksundet and through that stretch into Lauvoyfjord and across it to Rodsundet. It seemed like a lot of ground to cover when he pictured the chart in his mind, but it was probably a bit under seven miles.
‘Course oh-two-eight, sir.’
‘Very good. This is a fiddly business, cox’n.’
‘Seems like it, sir.’
Blue light dead ahead, and distance just about the same. The cottages with lit windows to starboard were right by the fjord’s edge, a few of them, and the lights were reflected on the dead-flat water. Would Norwegians there be watching them pass? Taking them for Germans? Kari asked him quietly, ‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’
‘Ask away.’
‘I don’t wish to spoil your concentration.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Will we hear when they explode the depthcharges?’
‘Almost certainly.’
What one hoped not to hear from that direction would be the sound of German guns. Valkyrien wouldn’t stand up to five-inch shells. One had to hope for confusion, the enemy not knowing what had hit them or where from. If they could smash his searchlight…
Kari murmured, ‘So we will know they have got that far.’ Nick was adjusting the course to oh-two-seven, since Lange had drifted off slightly left; he told Kari without taking his eyes off the light, ‘We’ll be busy too by then. I’ll want you to be down below.’
‘Oh, but please – ’
‘There’s no question of your remaining on the bridge.’
Silence. Except familiar rattles, the steady thrumming of the engines, hoarsely sucking fans. Blue light edging left again: he called down to Jarratt, ‘Steer oh-two-five.’
Cutting this corner now. Kari asked him, ‘May I go in your chartroom, so I can listen to what happens?’
‘Yes, you may.’ She was a terrific girl, he thought. Torp had done a good job in the upbringing of his daughter. He asked her, ‘Any hazards in this next bit?’
‘Not in Surviksundet, down the centre. The only shoal is at the other end and it is ten metres, so it won’t bother you.’
Chandler muttered, binoculars at his eyes, ‘He’s going round, sir.’
‘Port five.’
Round and into Surviksundet. About three miles of it, with a width of four to five hundred yards all the way through. Three miles at twelve knots – fifteen minutes. Straightening his ship’s course into it after a spell of drastic Knut-type corner-cutting, he thought, After this there’s only Lauvoyfjord…
He wanted to be razor-sharp now. Had to be. Eight years pottering about with farm-hands and foresters had had a blunting effect, he suspected. The mind rested, took its time. He hoped he’d sloughed the landsman’s skin.
‘Up five revolutions.’
‘Up five revolutions, sir… One-four-five revolutions passed and repeated, sir.’
He asked Chandler, ‘Are we up to schedule?’
‘Just about, sir. We can check it and adjust speed as necessary at Lauvoy Island. But I think—’
‘Yes, all right.’
In other words, Don’t waffle…
‘One mile into Lauvoyfjord – ’ Kari’s voice beside him – ‘before we come to the island, there is a one-fathom shoal with a marker-buoy on it. I think Knut will leave it close to port.’
‘Right.’
After this – when, touch wood, he’d filled Intent’s sound tanks and had possession of the oiler – what next? It was bad luck to count chickens, but one had to think ahead and be ready with the answers. It wouldn’t be so long, if all went well, before he was alongside the oiler, with Torp or Trench wanting orders.
Head north, towards Vestfjord?
‘Steer two degrees to port.’
‘Steer two degrees to port, sir!’
According to the signal they’d picked up, the one Whitworth had sent Penelope, Vestfjord was where the action was. And with a number of destroyers up there the tanker and her cargo would be welcome. So – all right, north. It had the additional advantage of being in the opposite direction to the Hun airfields. Head up towards Narvik – where the 2nd Flotilla’s action had been…
‘Port five.’
‘Port five, sir. Five o’ port wheel on, sir…’
No need, when he made his signal, to mention leaking oil-tanks. After all, he’d have his own replenishments with him. If he reported the leaks they’d send him home. As long as this action left the ship in working order and with a few torpedoes left in her tubes, it would be justified. And they’d certainly want the oil up there. ‘Midships and meet her.’
‘Midships – meet her – ’
‘Steady!’
‘Steady – two-eight-five, sir – ’
‘Steer that.’
Coming out of Surviksundet, entering Lauvoyfjord. Lyte reported from the front of the bridge, ‘Spar buoy fine on the port bow, sir.’
‘Ah. Kari’s shoal.’
Chandler amplified, ‘Should be three cables south of the eastern end of the island, sir.’
At twelve thirty-three it was abeam, forty yards to port. Intent was on a course of 286 degrees. Chandler said, ‘We’re right on time, sir.’
Thanks to Knut Lange’s short-cuts… Two minutes after they’d passed that marker, Lauvoy light structure was three cables’ lengths to starboard.
Going like clockwork. Too good to last.
‘Blueboat’s going round, sir.’
‘Yes.’ He put his face down to the voicepipe. ‘Starboard ten.’ Then, straightening, ‘What’ll the course be now?’
‘Three-three-four, sir. And we ought to be coming down to eight – ’
‘One hundred revolutions!’
‘Hundred revolutions, sir – ’
‘Midships.’
Getting closer now. And Lange had cut his boat’s speed too: in fact the light-cluster was brighter, they’d closed up on him a little. It was all right, though. ‘Steer three-three-four.’
This course would take them up close to the western shore, the bulge of land where Lauvoyfjord ran into Rodsundet. The bulge was about one mile below the anchorage where the German ships were lying. The oiler was nearest and the destroyers were about two-thirds of a mile beyond her. All three were lying to single anchors – or had been, when last seen by Lange – and since high water would be at 0414 this morning the inward tidal flow would have them with their bows pointing north, down-fjord.
At twelve-fifty, when Intent would be only about one cable’s length – 200 yards – offshore, she’d be continuing straight ahead while Lange’s boat sheered away to port to follow the coastline round the curve into the anchorage to get inshore of the tanker, in a position to board her over her port side. Intent would be passing about 400 yards to seaward of her before turning in and closing the enemy destroyers.
Low coastline to port, dimly visible because of its lower edging of white surf. The hills inland weren’t discernible even with binoculars.
‘Time?’
‘Quarter to the hour, sir.’
He could hear the swell breaking along that coastline. He’d been too busy watching the blue light and the courses and speeds to have noticed until now the increasing motion on the ship. This north-wester, mild as it was compared to the gale they’d had three days ago, would be blowing straight down Rodsundet and funnelling into Gyltefjorden as well, and they’d be feeling it more as they crept round the bulge.
‘Comin’ up to 0050, sir.’
‘Better go down, Kari.’ He was watching the blue cluster, for it to disappear. At ten minutes to the hour, 0050, in the position they were reaching now, switching the light off would be Lange’s signal that he was branching away to port and would no longer serve as guide.
‘Has she gone down?’
‘She’s on her way, sir, yes. Cluster’s extinguished, sir!’
The cold, hard rim of the voicepipe cracked his forehead as he stooped and overdid it. ‘Seven-oh revolutions.’ He’d straightened. ‘Sub, for’ard tubes train to port, after tubes starboard. Stand by all tubes.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Give me the director telephone.’ Chandler put it in his hand. He told Brocklehurst, ‘Have “B” gun stand by with one round of starshell and train on red three-oh. Do not load yet.’
Revs, speed and sound all falling away. The wind was whistling overhead, Intent pitching gently, waves slapping at her stem. He didn’t want to use starshell: he’d order it only if the targets couldn’t be seen without it.
‘Large ship at anchor red five-oh, sir!’
Lyte had called it: and the for’ard port-side lookout was only a split second behind him. Brocklehurst’s voice came over the telephone: ‘Oiler bearing two-eight-oh, five hundred yards.’
‘Our targets should be to the north of her, right inshore.’ He passed the telephone to Chandler. ‘Time?’
‘Fifty-six, sir.’
‘Tubes turned out and ready, sir.’
Hope to God those bastards haven’t shifted…
‘Two destroyers to the right of the oiler – red three-five!’
‘Port ten.’
‘Director target!’
‘Steer three double-oh. Load all guns with SAP. Give me my glasses, pilot. Time?’
‘Fifty-eight, sir.’ Chandler passed the ‘load’ order to the director tower. Nick called to Lyte, ‘Sub, tell Mr Opie I’ll turn to starboard in one minute and fire four torpedoes from the for’ard tubes. Can you see both destroyers?’
Lyte had both targets in sight but slightly overlapping. He was talking to Opie now over the torpedo-control telephone. Nick had the enemy in his glasses. Beitzen class. Fine-looking ships. They wouldn’t look fine for long. After he’d made his turn to starboard they wouldn’t be overlapping much either, but they’d present one continuous line of target, which was what he’d planned for in this approach. He asked Chandler, ‘Time?’
‘Fifty-nine, sir.’
‘Starboard fifteen.’ He was close enough to be sure of hitting, and swinging now to bring the tubes to bear. Checking the compass. From the west, a rattle of machine-gun fire. Too soon… Enemy bearing was two-eight-five. He called down, ‘Steer oh-one-five.’
‘Steer oh-one-five, sir!’
That had been from the direction of Altbotn…
‘Sub – I want four carefully-aimed shots spread over both targets. Don’t rush – make sure of it.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Lyte was hunched behind the sight. With stationary targets the only way he could miss would be if the torpedoes didn’t run straight. Which did happen, sometimes. From a westerly direction, shorewards, came a deep, muffled-sounding whumpf. Then another. And on the heels of the twin explosions a rattling blare of machine-gun fire. Nick had his glasses on the dim shapes of the enemy destroyers. Silence now: but they’d be stirring, standing-to, alerted by Torp’s balloon having gone up a minute early. At any moment there’d be searchlights, starshell, a blaze of gunfire. Intent’s swing was slowing as she neared her firing course: with luck Lyte would get the fish away before the enemy woke up enough to—
Searchlight: it flared into life, grew swiftly from the left-hand destroyer, its beam lengthening and at the same time scything round – to search the shore…
Lyte snapped, ‘Fire one!’