On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) (3 page)

“
It’s the ‘Punjabi’, sir,” yelled the Yeoman somehow reading his thoughts. “She’s a sitting duck.”

Suddenly they heard a huge explosion
, Barr swung round just in time to see the ‘Eskimo’ lifted bodily from the water. Oily bellows of smoke quickly hid her from view. When it cleared downwind he could see a huge gaping hole. Her bow had been completely blown off probably by one of the massive shore-based torpedoes.

S
omehow, incredibly, she was managing to stay afloat. He could see men rushing forward across the debris-strewn deck dragging fires hoses to fight the raging fire.

Across the fjord the
‘Cossack’ was in even worse trouble, hard aground and under fire from the shore.

The
‘Kimberley’ roared across Barr’s line of sight all her guns blazing away, her Aldis flashing urgently.

“
She’s signalling the Flag,” Barr looked astern as the ‘Warspite’ lamp winked a smoke hazed reply.

Barr heard the clatter of their own Aldis.

“From the Flag to us, sir, ‘Give covering fire to the ‘Kimberley’ she is about to take LO3,’… that’s the ‘Cossack’, sir, ‘in tow’.”

“
Full ahead both engines, hard aport… Pilot! Take us close in to where the ‘Cossacks’ aground.”

“
That’s Hankins Point, sir.”

“
Very good. Then take us to Hankins’s Point, with all speed, if you please.”

“
Aye, aye, sir.”

The
‘Nishga’s’ bow swung dizzily across the skyline, first the speeding ‘Kimberly’ appearing in the eyes of the ship and then the beleaguered ‘Cossack’.

F
irst, the ‘Kimberley’ and then the ‘Nishga’ sped in closer to the shore. They began to draw fire from shore-based mortars, machine guns and even rifles. The bridge crew took hasty shelter behind the screens as rounds winged across the bridge and smacked into the metalwork.

Barr crouched over the voice pipe array
, “Bridge, Director.”

“
Director.”

“‘
Guns’, see what you can do to keep those snipers heads down.”

*     *     *

Wyatt at his station on ‘A’ gun had a clear view of the action in and around the crippled ‘Cossack’. His turret began to turn; all guns had been following the Gunnery Director’s pointer. Now the order came down to fire over open sights and return the fire from the machine guns and snipers arranged before them. He shook his head one hell of a large hammer to crack those nuts ashore.

Mind you they weren
’t the only nuts around, the skipper of the ‘Kimberly’ was right up there with them, going in after the ‘Cossack’ like that! Officers! He never could figure them. ‘A’ gun bucked and shook under him as they fired point blank into the shoreline at one of the tiny targets.

*     *     *

Barr heard the roar from the for’ard turret, tasted the bitter smoke as it flew past the bridge. Raising his head above the parapet he saw the fall of shot only yards from one of the shore-side mortar emplacements. The soldiers manning it scattered, leaving two of their number spread-eagled and still in the blackened snow.

The
‘Kimberly’ had noticeably slowed; drifting almost lazily into the smoke cloud that, momentarily, hid the ‘Cossack’ from view.

A lone
, helmeted figure up in her bow threw a heaving line into the smoke. A sudden puff of icy wind cleared Barr’s view, blowing the cloud in towards the shore. He caught a glimpse of hurrying figures as the ‘Kimberly’s’ seamen ran the messenger line inboard, working like men possessed.

The
‘hammer blows’ from the four point sevens were having the desired effect; the sniper fire had died away to the occasional hastily aimed shot. When this did happen, it was answered with a fusillade of machine gun fire from both ships. From what Barr could see the ‘Kimberley’s’ attempts to tow the ‘Cossack’ clear of the rocks wasn’t having the same sort of success. Through his binoculars he could see the hastily rigged towing hawser was bar taut, stretching and then vibrating under the immense strain. The ‘Cossack’ seemed to be stuck fast.

*     *     *

Wyatt wiped his cordite blackened eyes on the rough sleeve of his duffle. He must be seeing things. Two figures were descending the mountain towards the stranded ‘Cossack’ on skis!

They reached the shoreline
, quickly removing their skis they scrabbled across the rocks and up onto her quarterdeck. Through the powerful gun sights Wyatt could see what appeared to be a rolled up German flag. There really were a lot of nutters around today.

*     *     *

Barr removed his battle bowler, wiped at his blackened face with a handkerchief and looked around.

All the German ships and most of the shore batteries had been silenced and he could see German soldiers ashore retreating under fire from the squadron. It appeared to be over
, there was time to take stock of the situation, sunk and damaged ships littered the harbour. He counted eight German destroyers either sunk or ablaze. Amazingly they hadn’t lost any ships sunk, although three, the ‘Cossack’, ‘Eskimo’ and the ‘Punjabi’ were real ‘dockyard jobs’. There could be no rest until those three were under tow or scuttled. It looked as if they would be here for quite some time.

“
Pilot when’s the next high tide.”

“
Around six, sir.”

“
It looks increasingly as if they won’t be able to get the ‘Cossack’ off till then. Stand the men down.”

“
Aye, aye, sir… Defence Stations?”

“
Yes, that will do nicely and give the galley a buzz, will you? Get something hot into the men.” It was funny but he had only just noticed how cold it was.

As if by magic his steward materialised at his side.
“Your coffee, sir.” Incongruously, given the circumstances, Leading Steward Jenkins was balancing a silver pot of coffee and a delicate china cup and saucer on an immaculately polished tray. He could smell the fresh coffee beans and the generous measure of Jerez sherry that laced it. The man was God sent.

As night fell it brought with it that convenient high tide. They were soon e
mployed in further attempts to re-float ‘Cossack’ clear of rocks. During the first watch she, at last, floated free but, because of shell damage to her fore end, she was only able to go astern.

With other destroyers fussing around her like
protective mother hens, she weaved in and out of the still blazing wrecks of German destroyers and half submerged merchantmen.

Clear of the fjord
, the three crippled ships, under heavy escort, headed west for the shelter of the Lofoten Islands.

Chapter 2

A Roving

 
The next day the ‘Nishga’ entered Skelfjord; where the damaged ships were already undergoing temporary repairs. Most of those that were present at the battle the night before were there, not one had escaped damage of one sort or the other.

The
‘Nishga’ herself had no structural damage, but splinter and bullet holes peppered her sides, her upper deck bulkheads and both funnels. With so many damaged ships the harbour had been dubbed ‘Cripple Creek’ by the sailors.

Shortly after they had
dropped anchor, the Bosun’s Mate noticed a motor launch approaching from the direction of the flagship, it was hailed, came alongside and an officer ran up the gangway carrying a buff envelope.

Within a half-hour of his arrival he had left and Harbour Stations were piped. Even before they had cleared the mouth of the fjord the rumour had circulated throughout the ship that they were under orders for another
lone assignment further along the coast.

Up on the bridge B
arr was more than happy with his new assignment. The action at Narvik had been his first fleet action, his first time operating as part of a squadron under the command of an Admiral on a flagship. He was thrilled to have taken part but he preferred detached assignments. Independent action was something skippers would give his eye-teeth for. Free from the restraints that the presence of senior ships imposed and able to make your own decisions. There was even a chance at some prize money.

*     *     *

Once the skipper had officially announced that they would be cruising the west coast of Norway looking for likely targets, the topic of prize money was the only conversation around the tot tables.

All of the men in the seamen’s mess, indeed in the ship, were professionals; at this stage in the war ‘Hostility Only’ ratings were mostly confined to the smaller ships. So between the eight men sitting around the mess table there was something like fifty years of seagoing experience, even so not one of them had ever been awarded prize money.

Now if there was something under discussion of which they knew very little
, or even nothing at all, it was usually Wyatt who assumed the status of expert and who led any debate.

“
Come on then, you lot, someone must know what share of prize money goes to the ship’s company?”

He looked around the table; everyone was sitting mouths tight closed looking up at the
deck head or down into their tot glasses; except Goddard.

“
Blur?”

“
Erh.. Me? Well, I don’t know” he thought for a moment, “I heard in Nelson’s day they used to get a quarter…” he ventured.

Wyatt nodded sagely.
“And you all know what, say, a freighter’s worth nowadays?” Wyatt looked around the table; Goddard had now taken up a similar posture to the rest but Wilson… “You must know that, Tug?”

“
Well… thousands of pounds, I suppose.”

Wyatt nodded
shrewdly. “That’s right… there you go…so we all stand to get erh … a lot of money.” A murmur of admiration for Wyatt’s profound knowledge of the subject ran through the assembled seaman.

There was a clatter on the metal ladder as Stubbs arrived from th
e galley with a fanny of ‘pot-mess’.

The stew pot on its rubber mat in the centre of the table gradually emptied and they wiped their plates clean with the last of the fresh bread, brought across from the flagship
’s bakery.

O
’Neill, ‘Duff Bosun’ for the day went for the afters and placed it in the centre of the table with a flourish. It was, as usual, something under a thick layer of custard. Goddard dished a good helping out to each man and, with the notable exception of Able Seaman Wyatt, they all set to with some gusto.

“
What’s this supposed to be?” asked Wyatt of O’Neill a pained expression on his face after one tentative mouthful.

“
Duff.”

“
I can see that, can’t I! What sort of duff?”

O
’Neill looked up from his plate, “Take a good bite and bloody well find out. Am I a fucking menu?”

Wyatt spat his mouth-full back onto his plate,
“Well you ain’t a fucking cook that’s for sure!” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and added, “Disgusting, bloody disgusting that is.”

“
You mean discustarding,” quirked Wilson, reaching for Wyatt’s plate.

‘
Tug’ Wilson, was a barrel of a man, short in statue, broad in the chest with laughing eyes. Heavily tattooed, he sported a beard that he was justly proud of. He could always see the funny side of any situation. A fact that endeared him to most but which infuriated others beyond belief, especially Wyatt. His favourite line of ‘If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined’ would guarantee that Wyatt would ‘lose his rag’ to the point where he was often speechless with rage, but it could stop a moan dead in its tracks. It was Wilson’s honest held and much aired opinion that people with no sense of humour had no place in the Navy.

O’Neill was not one to take anything lying down, “There’s nothing wrong with that duff, I'll have you know I were renowned for my duffs on me last ship.”

“Yeah, but renowned for what, not for their bloody taste that’s for sure…renowned for giving everyone a dose of ‘Malta Dog’ more like.”

“
I wish I was in Malta now, anywhere to get away from your bloody moaning.” O’Neill turned back to his duff; pushed it to one side, admitting to himself that it wasn’t one of his best.

Wilson
, thinking it was time for a change of subject, stepped manfully into the breach, “Where are we making for? Anyone heard? I heard we’re taking that Norwegian bloke, the ‘Royals’ brought with ‘em…

*     *     *

At that very moment, in the cramped and cold Asdic hut, Lieutenant- Commander Barr, was about to brief three men on just that subject.

In front of him lay the Admiralty chart
for the Norwegian coast. He leaned over it, as a draught from the open door rippled it like silk.

“
Get the door will you please, Number One.”

Beside the tall thin figure of his second in comman
d stood the stocky marine corporal, Bushel, and to his left the stark blond hair of Olaf Kristiansand reflected the dim light from the range finder. The incessant and hypnotic ping of the Asdic transmissions punctuated Barr’s words as he spoke.

“
My orders are nothing if not imaginative, gentlemen. I am to find a secure base, anywhere north of Trondheim from which we are to harass the enemy’s supply lines. We will be getting most of our supplies from Scapa Flow so it will need to be within a fast night’s passage of there. That means our base must be somewhere within this radius” He indicated a pencilled semicircle with one gloved finger.

As you can see
there are hundreds of small deep water coves which look suitable for our purposes, at least on paper.

Jerry has, at the last estimate, over a thousand planes committed to this campaign. Wherever we chose as a hideout must enable us to stay out of si
ght of aircraft during daylight hours. Secondly, this coast is plagued by storms, as you know; we will need somewhere that will shelter us from the prevailing westerlies. So we are looking for a small bay, with perhaps an island, or islands to the west and preferably, with something that will give us some cover from the air, a cave, an overhang of rock, at the very least something to secure a camouflage netting to.

As I say
, on paper there are plenty of likely spots. Our problem is which one. Luckily we have Mr Kristiansand to advise us. Bushel you and your ‘Royals’ will provide the escort and help in the selection of the site from a military standpoint?”

Barr stood for a
moment, scratching the stubble on his chin and studying the chart.

“
We’ll stay on our present course, heading away from the land. If we are spotted by the enemy they won’t know our true intentions. As soon as it’s dark we’ll double back and drop off the landing party. How long will it take to survey this section of the coast on skis, Mr Kristiansand?”

“
No more than a day I have some likely sites in mind, so there will be no need to look into every Inlet on your chart”

“
Very well. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Then we’ll rendezvous here, at the southernmost end of the section, pick you up by boat. Any questions… No?…Right then! Thank you, gentleman. You may return to your duties.”

The three men filed out of the cabin and Barr
absentmindedly whistling a tune from an obscure Gilbert and Sullivan opera, turned back to his consideration of the chart.

*     *     *

The port lookout, Ordinary Seaman Goddard slowly swept his one hundred and twenty degree sector of the sky for what he thought would be the last time before his relief arrived.

Nothing, as usual…or was that something…a speck on the lens of the binoculars, he checked the glass, nothing, he raised them to his eyes frantically searching the
east again…Christ! He swung round yelling at the top of his voice, “Aircraft! Aircraft! Aircraft! Red one seven oh …Angle of sight four five!”

As he
yelled the first word of the warning, the bridge crew froze; by the second the alarm klaxon began its jarring belch, before he’d managed to release the safety from the Hotchkin gun the whole watch below were moving fast towards their action stations.  Metal ladders rang to the frantic and continuous stream of men emptying from the mess decks, plates left, food forgotten, their hastily acquired foul weather gear flapping about them, as they donned lifejackets and anti-flash gear on the move.

Even before Goddard had finished his report th
e guns were swinging around and onto the port quarter. Before the first men from starboard watch reached their action stations the guns opened fire.

Th
e Messerschmitt 109 came in low, barely clearing the wave tops. The tracer from its wing mounted cannon drifting almost lazily towards the ‘Nishga’; closer in they seemed to increase speed, ripping through the sea, crashing up the ship’s side, punching their way across the bridge. The fighter flashed over the ship drowning the noise of her guns with the manic scream of her engines, speeding away fast, climbing higher, twisting and turning in a maelstrom of tracer and exploding shells.

The
‘Nishga’s’ eight machine guns gave a last spurt of white-hot tracer and fell silent. But the greater range of the Pom Poms enabled them to continue the bombardment, the sky to starboard blossomed with exploding black mushrooms.

Impossibly the 109 emerged on the far side of the smoke, high in the clouds now, unscathed and turning gracefully, almost majestically in a slothful curve. Then back
down it came, roaring for more.

This time the gun
’s crews were ready, this time there was no hurry, they tracked the enemy with practised precision. Calm as an opening batsman who had survived the trauma of the first over. Practised professionals make the worst of foes. This was the lesson the Messerschmitts young headstrong pilot was about to learn.

In range of the awesome
aerial firepower of the destroyer his plane lasted only seconds. It began to disintegrate under him, ripped apart by a swarm of half- inch bullets from the heavy machine guns. Finally, as he wrestled with his smashed controls, a two-pound Pom Pom shell hit the cockpit and he became, in an instant, part of one of the black mushrooms he had been flying through.

*     *     *

The ‘Nishga’ stole in towards the darken shore, her sea boat slowly craned out from its davits and was lowered towards the wave crests until they were slipping by just beneath her keel. Ashore a lonely light flashed in the inky darkness.