On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) (30 page)

They were now abeam,
the distance no more than a cable or so. Suddenly a burst of fire came from her fo’c’s’le. He ducked, something splattered across his face. Below him, the port gunner had slumped back, dropping into his harness. He hung there, rolling with the boat, blood running down from the exit wounds in his back.

The unhurried
‘pom pom’ of the Bofors aft filled the air, great chunks of the coaster flew into the air, her for’ard deck erupting into flying splinters, smoke and flashing light. Somewhere in the middle of all that, the enemy gunner and his weapon disintegrated and the firing stopped abruptly.

Grant
vaulted onto the main deck and bent over the seamen gunner, his thin body was still twitching in its harness, his chest a mess of torn clothing and gore. His eyes were wide open as if with shock at the sight of the growing pool of his blood at his feet.

Maurice, the young
midshipman, appeared at his side, a shell dressing in one shaking hand.

Grant
unbuckled the harness and gently laid, the now still body, down on the deck. “Too late I’m afraid…” He swung the gun round on its pintel, crouched beside the torpedo tube and fired a long burst. The coaster’s bridge windows shattered and the wooden structure splintered with holes as the heavy calibre bullets ripped into it.

The wardroom
steward appeared and bent down beside him checking the gunner for signs of life. Grant grabbed the bridge ladder, “Bofors!” he yelled, “Aim below her water line. Sink the bastard!”

The steady
unremitting beat recommenced and great smoking holes appeared in the coaster’s black hull as the gunner trained slowly aft along her entire length.

“
Half ahead both, starboard twenty,” the Bofors aft ceased fire abruptly as the coaster crossed the bow. As the target reappeared on the port bow the gun recommenced fire, ripping into the coaster’s other side. There was no sign of her boats, still no movement on her upper deck. Perhaps only one fanatic had stayed on board, perhaps more, it mattered not, one thing was for sure that was the last time he gave quarter. He would never again put his men’s lives at risk that way.

The coaster was listing heavily to port now and the
Bofors’ aimer lowered his sights. Rounds ripped into the seaweed and barnacles covering the bottom.

“
Cease fire!” A gong sounded aft and the gun stopped abruptly.

He had to look twice at the chart table clock. They had only been in action for three-quarters of an hour. He looked around the
oil covered sea. All the squadron’s boats were insight and intact.

T
he two M.T.B.s were still alongside enemy boats. Hogg’s E-boat was off to the south east traversing rapidly from right to left. He shifted his gaze in the direction she was heading. Immediately he saw two coasters, survivors fleeing towards the shoreline. No time for them, the enemy destroyer would have signalled, called for help. Quite suddenly he was sick of it all, sick of the killing.

“
Signalman make to the ‘Ethel’, ‘Break off your attack’. Then general signal. ‘Form line astern on me’.”

*     *     *

Across the dark water Crosswall-Brown’s signalman relayed the message to his captain.

The
diminutive midshipman, his face black with cordite, wiped a grubby hand across his red rimmed eyes and surveyed the burning remains of the enemy convoy, the debris and the smoke. He waited while Crosswall - Brown gave the necessary orders to bring the patrol boat around onto a course to intercept the ‘Eddy’.

“
You know, sir, while I was in training, at ‘Alfred’, I often wondered what they meant at the Sunday church parade when they prayed for ‘confusion to our enemies’.”

Crosswall-Brown, wiped the lenses of his binoculars with the corner of the towel, he used as a makeshift scarf,
“Scared, Snotty?”

The young Midshipman nodded in silent reply.

“There’s one reassuring thing to remember at such times. You have to be alive to be scared….And anyway as someone, who was doubtless, famous, once said, ‘Eighty percent of the things that you fear may happen, never do’.”

“
Then, sir, they may be famous, but it’s my bet they’ve never been to sea.”

Chapter 16

Almost Total Recall

HMS Nishga, 1300 hrs, Sunday, 26
th
May, 1940.

Barr lifted the brandy decanter and poured Grey a stiff one. His Number One looked as if he needed it. He looked that way a lot lately, nice enough chap, but he would not have been his first choice as a Number One if the circumstances had been different. Perhaps he was being unfair; perhaps they all looked that way these days. He handed Grey his drink. The First Lieutenant downed it in one.

Barr frowned
, but refrained from comment, “There’s some sort of flap on, Number One and ‘Orca’s’ been ordered to regroup at the ‘Flow’. He glanced at the clock above his desk. “They must be about half way between the Inlet and us, no sense in them coming all the way north. So we’ll get a signal off and divert them there. We’ll sail as soon as we’re ready… Pilot, shortest and quickest route there, if you please.”

Aye, aye, sir…What about the men at Olaf
’s Inlet, sir?” asked his navigator, “Aren’t we picking them up first.”

Barr turned his grey eyes
in his Navigating Officer’s direction, “They’ll have to get by as best they can, until this flap’s over.”

“
Have we no idea what it might be?”

“
It’s got to be something big that much is certain. It’s my guess, that it’s to do with getting the army out of France…but exactly what our role in it all will be,” he shrugged, “only God and the Admiralty know.”

Usbourne smiled,
“I thought they were one and the same person, sir.”

“
No, Pilot. That’s just a rumour… I think they just went to the same school.”

Usbourne
smiled down at his Wellington boots and then looked up at the ‘Old Man’. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir…There’s more men, in France than you can shake a stick at. It may take weeks to get them across the Channel; surely we can afford to lose a few hours, picking up the three marines at the Inlet.”

Barr put
down his glass and sighed, “I have my orders. The situation is probably a lot worse than any of us realise. No… our chaps, at the Inlet, have enough food to last them to the end of the bloody war and water’s no problem. I imagine they will be having an easier time of it than we will, over the next few weeks…God knows we may even be doing them a huge favour!”

*     *     *

Trondheim, 2130 hrs, 26
th
May, 1940.

The cold north-easterly had closed in around Olaf Kristiansand’s home like a besieging army. His family had retired early leaving him alone, listening to the news. It wasn’t good news, even from the British station. In France, Boulogne had fallen to the Germans. The British still held Calais and, with the help of the French, a smaller port called Dunkirk.

If you were to believe the Germans they had already taken Cal
ais. It was all very confusing, but whatever way you looked at it, the British were losing the war.

The radio announcer had spoken of a National Day of Prayer for the trapped troops. Kristiansand had very
little faith in prayer, it hadn’t saved Norway.

He must have dozed off for a sudden noise jerked him awake. Someone was at the door he stood u
p wearily and made for the door, then remembered the radio and stopped dead in his tracks; quickly he hid it under the false bottom in the log basket.

“
Whose is it?”

“
A friend.” said a female voice that he did not recognise.

When
Kristiansand hesitated the voice added, “I have come about Jens…he has been taken…”

The Norwegian quickly slipped the bolt back onto its stop and swung the heavy door open. The snow swept in, driven by a wind that howled it around the living room. He stood to one side to let the oilskin wrapped figure squeeze in past him.

He closed the door against the snowy blast and turned his back to it. “Who are you? Who is this Jens you speak of?”

“
My name Bendedikte Loevaas… Jens recruited me and you recruited him…correct?”

“
Recruited…recruited you say, I am too old for the services, I do not…”

“
And I have not the time for this! I have come here, at considerable risk to myself, so, please, just listen. They have him now… I am on my way to friends. If he talks he will give them both our names, the only two he knows…correct? What you do about it is up to you…I must go…” she made to leave. Kristiansand blocked her way.

“
How do I know you are telling the truth?”

“
You don’t… and I don’t have to prove anything to you… Look…I came here to help you, I could have just left…I’m beginning to wonder why I didn’t. I have risked my life…Get out of my way!” she pushed ineffectively at the big Norwegian.

Kristiansand stood to one side. The woman pulled her hood back over her blonde hair as he unbolted the door. She stepped out into the blizzard, paused and turned to face him
.” Think of your family, can you afford to take chances, to risk their lives?” Then she was gone.

Kristiansand stood in the open doorway, the snow quickly cove
ring his shoulders. He shivered and it wasn’t from the cold.

*     *     *

HMS Nishga

Heavy with static, the refined tones of the BBC announcer drifted in and out of clarity, “Storm; south, force 11, veering north-westerly, decreasing Force 10.”

“
Was that us?” asked Lieutenant Usbourne of the signalman. The man nodded.

The Navigating Officer looked
above the moisture-obscured windscreen. The rain was coming in from the south east, drifting in dense lines across the bleak wind-swept fo’c’s’le. “Middy!…better let the ‘Old Man’ know.”

The Midshipman disappeared below
, rattling the metal ladder in his haste.

Minutes later Barr, wrapped in
his worn oilskins, appeared on the bridge; he stood, at the top of the ladder, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the southern horizon, “Better get Number One to secure the upper deck. Where is he, anyway?”

“
I think he’s in his cabin, sir.”

Barr nodded as if he expected that as an answer,
“Ask him to wait until the port watch have had breakfast and then get them to secure below first, there should be time.” As if by warning, a strong gust of wind cracked and howled at the signal halyards.

Barr stopped
Usbourne, halfway to the ladder, “Better keep the close range weapons closed up. Use the men on the main armament to secure the upper scupper. I’ll not take any chances, we’ll still be in range of their fighters.”

Something in his
voice made Usbourne looked back, Barr was leaning over the chart table, he looked tired and drawn. Usbourne felt suddenly uneasy, the ‘Old Man’, they all depended on so, was becoming just that. Growing old before his time, before their very eyes. If he’d had a decent Number One, someone he could rely on it would help. He certainly shouldn’t have to worry about which watch did what, that should be a matter for his First, he had enough on his plate, God knows.

*     *     *

The wind had veered right round in under an hour. Warming to its task, the gusts had become stronger, more malignant. The ship was still beating its way south, confused waves surrounded them on all sides, battered by the wind-change into colliding, leaping peaks.

By the middle of the forenoon watch, it had steadied from the south. The gusts replaced by a strong blow, force seven or eight, the sea-state
maybe a little less, but building, like an over-stoked boiler about to blow its top.

Grey had gone to a late breakfast
, along with the port watch. His relief paced a lonely vigil to port. Barr sat slumped in his chair, deep in thought, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep.

Jenkins, his steward, appeared silently at his side
in his hands he balanced a silver tray of coffee and sandwiches.

“
Just the job, Jenkins, thank you.” said Barr, coming suddenly to life and rubbing his wet gloves together in anticipation.

“
The cold sausage from your breakfast, sir, I thought you might prefer it up here.”

“
Thank you, Jenkins, that’s very considerate of you.” Of course, breakfast, he’d completely forgotten, he had left it untouched in his cabin. He lifted the lid of the cover a crack, withdrew one sandwich quickly replacing the lid against the driving rain. The coffee was hot, laced with sherry, the way he liked it, he gulped hungrily at it, feeling the heat flow into his empty stomach.

They were still hours from Scapa Flow and the seas were piling up nicely. Eight-foot waves, stepping in from the south like a hundred white-haired chorus lines, ducking under the warship in perfect
step and dancing away to the north.

Half way through his second sandwich, the port lookout shouted something
, but the words were rushed away on the rising wind. The Officer of the Watch, nearer the man by several yards, snatched his glasses to his eyes.

Training his binoculars onto the same bearing, Barr glimpsed the stern of a small boat slipping into a deep trough. A
split second later and she had disappeared as if she’d never been. Moments later and she re-emerged, lifted high on the crest of the following wave, her upper deck was embroiled in foam, her scuppers gushing streams of water, she was awash from stem to stern.

There was time enough for Barr to recognise her as a M.F.V. before she once again vanished from sight. A motor fishing vessel, foreign in design,
but a M.F.V. all right, heading west. He sat tight-lipped for a second or two, deep in thought.

“
Action Stations, if you please… and come to starboard …steer south east, revolutions for fifteen knots. While the officer of the watch relayed his orders, Barr studied the boat through his glasses. She was rolling like a tub, empty by the looks of her and making hard going of it, as would be expected. There was something else…she seemed to be lolling, although it was very difficult to be sure, considering the conditions. Her roll was certainly erratic, not smooth and measured, as you would expect in a beam sea. At the end of each roll she jerked over sharply. She could have water in her hold, that would explain it, when she rolled, any water would rush to one side, jerking her the rest of the way over like that. She was on the wrong course if that was the case. Beam on to the sea she could easily flip over onto her beam ends.

The closing up reports began to echo up the voice pipes as Barr turned to his Yeoman of signals,
“Challenge her, Yeo, find out who she is and if she wants assistance.”

The shutter of the Aldis clattered for several minutes, to no effect.
“She’s not answering, sir.”

Barr crossed quickly to the Gun Director
’s voice pipe. “Bridge, Guns… The Gunnery Officer’s voice echoed back, ghost- like from the tube,

“
Guns.”

“
Put one round across her bows… not too close, looks as if she’s in enough trouble as it is.”

Before he had even replaced
the lid, ‘A’ gun barked out. Instantly a spout of water shot into the air sending a column of water to claw at the sky a half cable ahead of the target.

Barr lifted his binoculars, something white was being waved frantically fr
om the boat’s bridge window. It could be the shot across the bows had woken them up…it could be they were boxing clever.

“
Pilot, take us in… hailing distance… take up station on her port side. I’m feeling generous, give her the benefit of our lee.”

“
Number One, I want you to head the boarding party.” Grey’s expression of sudden panic did not go unnoticed, so much so that Barr felt obliged to explain. “This looks more like a job for your damage control team than ‘Guns’ heavy mob. I don’t think there’ll be any need to knock heads together. But… no chances mind, I want your men armed. Better take Petty Officer Stone, he’s a good man. You’ll need a good Petty Officer Stoker and the biggest pump we’ve got by the looks of things. Oh and take a ship’s diver. Have the sea boat manned and ready just in case, but I think I’ll try and get up alongside her first… if I manage it, your chaps will have to be ready to jump.”