‘Captain says to watch along the northern road. They’ve picked up something about SS troops coming down from Hergen.’
Memling nodded and went on staring out over the empty fjord. If he were the German commander charged with ousting a bunch of bastards from a tiny pinprick of a town that made absolutely no difference to anyone but the people who lived there, that is exactly what he would want them to think. In the meantime he would be doing his level best to bring his troops up by boat, especially now that he had the fog for cover. Norway’s west coast was long on water and boats, short on roads and vehicles.
‘Well?’ the sergeant major demanded.
‘Bugger the road. If they’re coming… ‘ Memling waved a hand at the fjord.
The sergeant major was a regular, and even two years in the Royal Marine Commando had not broken him of the habit of holding all officers in awe. ‘But the captain…’
‘Bugger the captain as well. What the hell does he know?’ Memling sighed and shifted position to take the strain off his thighs, ‘If it bothers you that much, send two men to the end of the road. But no further, mind. I want them within shouting distance when the Nazis come out of that fog. And make damned certain the machine gunners know their fire points.’
The two troopers were sent off grumbling as the rain began in earnest. Visibility was even worse now, especially with the coming dusk. The grey-blue sky seemed to have lowered right to the water. Across the fjord, streamers of cloud billowed in slow motion along the dark mountain slopes, and Memling, who had a fondness for just such days, spent a few moments enjoying the spectacle.
Everything about this raid had been screwed up from the beginning. The chief planning officer was killed by German bombs in London the day before the rendezvous in Dundee. His replacement, a hopelessly inept army officer who had given the plans only the sketchiest of readings, had undertaken the briefing, and consequently they had received a great deal of misinformation. And there had been no proper co-ordination with the RAF or the navy.
Two days earlier they had marched in full kit to the docks, to find the berth for the Dutch navy destroyer that was to take them to Norway empty. Three hours in the freezing rain and they were marched back again, eight miles in each direction. An old British destroyer was finally substituted, one of the American lend-lease four-stackers that lacked the speed to get them in and out quickly. As a result, the landing was made in daylight rather than at dawn. Of course no one had thought to inform the RAF, who were to raid three airfields nearby, of the delay, and so they had gone according to the original schedule. Consequently the Mosquitoes, laid on hastily to provide badly needed close support, were jumped over the North Sea and turned back.
That and the fact that Captain Miles Renson, a regular marine officer with extensive service in Greece and Crete, had proven to be a bungler. Renson was making drastic mistakes, and Memling was damned if he was going to contribute to them. If Renson insisted upon concentrating his forces in the wrong spot, he certainly would not help him commit suicide.
The more he studied the narrow beach, the more he was convinced the German attack would come this way. Renson had already ignored his radioed warning as well as the runner sent to convince him. The captain was going to make damned certain he did not take advice from a junior officer, and a mere volunteer at that.
Memling made up his mind abruptly. ‘Sergeant Major, keep the men here and under cover. No one is to move without my express permission. That includes instructions from the captain. Understand?’
The man’s expression was apprehensive, but he acknowledged the order.
‘I’m taking Corporal Hayward with me to make a sweep along the beach to the north and west. If anything happens, I’ll fire a red flare. Either way, you’ll know I was right.’
The sergeant major gave him a sceptical look, and Memling shrugged and motioned Hayward after him as he started up the slope to the road edging the beach.
Thirty yards on, the road swerved inland a few hundred feet. Memling vaulted the low wood fence and jumped down to the beach. The road would have been easier, but there were still snipers about and Renson refused to clear them out, claiming the risk was too great.
They trotted along, keeping a wary eye out for enemy troops that might have infiltrated to test their defences. The beach was littered with a winter’s accumulation of driftwood, making progress difficult.
Hayward had fallen behind a few paces and was moving swiftly, scanning to the sides and rear. Memling was glad that he had picked the stubby Yorkshireman. He was probably the steadiest of the lot, and that was saying a great deal. Nearly all of the commandos were regulars chosen from the various branches of the service. If any survived, it would be because of their skill. Most of the men on this job had seen action before, hit-and-run nuisance raids such as this or else with a variety of units in Greece or the desert. Renson had as well, and that made his behaviour all the more inexplicable to Memling.
They had gone about a mile when Hayward hissed at him:
‘Listen!’
Rain was falling heavily, and the wind was strong enough to set the trees swaying, so that it was difficult to distinguish sounds. Memling knelt close to the water’s edge and cupped an ear. After a moment he heard it too, an oar striking water.
Visibility was now less than a hundred yards in the gathering dusk, but the sound told him that there was at least one boat approaching the town. He swore to himself. Who the devil is in that boat – German troops or Norwegian fishermen? The question had not occurred to him before. If they were fishermen, they might not know of the British raid; and if he guessed wrong and fired the red flare, it could give his ambush away. Yet if he held back until he was certain, there would be no time for Renson to move his troops to meet the threat. The familiar surge of exhilaration coursed through him then, and he laughed. The corporal stared at him in astonishment.
‘Hayward, fire a burst towards the boat, high enough not to hit anyone.’
‘Bloody ‘ell!’
‘Damn it, do as you’re told!’
Hayward stared at him a moment, then as the puzzle of the boat’s identity occurred to him as well, slipped the fire selector button on his Sten to the right for automatic, rested the wire stock against the side of his hip, and glanced to see that Memling had the flare gun out and ready.
Memling nodded, and Hayward squeezed off a short burst.
The result was an instant’s silence, followed by shouts and gunfire. They were Germans all right, and Memling fired the flare gun as both he and Hayward dived for the meagre cover offered by the trees.
The German barrage lasted only a few moments. Hayward raised his head, spat a mouthful of sand, and gave Memling a steady look. ‘Yer a fookin’ idiot… sir.’
By the time the two men reached the wharf, the firefight was over. Drifting through the fog were the shattered remains of two fishing boats and several bodies. The shingled beach was littered with debris, and two commandos stood guard over a huddle of German prisoners while a third helped an exhausted soldier from the water. Captain Renson was talking to Lieutenant Peter Driscoll, commander of the second Special Service company. Memling was both surprised and relieved to see that his own company was still drawn up into the perimeter as he had ordered. The rest of Driscoll’s people could be seen filtering back through the town.
Memling saluted Renson. Renson returned the salute with a suspicious glare, ‘I do not think it was a good idea for you to leave your command, Memling.’
Jan took a deep breath. Renson, it seemed, was not about to give an inch. ‘My sergeant major is very capable, sir. I had no doubt that he could hold the position.’