Chapter 7
Caves and Wooden Pillows
Olaf’s Inlet, 0845 hrs, Thursday, 25th April, 1940.
Guided by Wilson, with the aid of a powerful torch, the ‘Nishga’s’ sea boat inched slowly into the biggest of the caves. The shaft of light showed a cavern much bigger than the entrance suggested.
“By the mark ten fathoms,” called Wyatt, his voice echoing off the rock had a strange metallic edge to it.
Ahead his torch picked out a rock ledge stretching away into the unfathomable gloom.
Grant turned to O’Neill, “Bring her a point to starboard, coxswain”.
They edged slowly up to the blue-grey rock forming the shelf.
“Rocks ahead!” yelled Wilson, grabbing his boat hook.
“Hold water!” barked O’Neill.
The four oarsmen thrust their blades into the water.
“Back-water!… Lively there!”
The oarsmen struggled against the forward motion of the heavy boat. Wyatt’s boat hook slipped on the submerged rocks and the stern swung sharply round to present the boat’s port side to the rocks.
“Fend her off!” yelled O’Neill.
There was a horrible grating noise and the boat staggered to a halt.
“She’s sprung a leak,” called someone.
O’Neill clambered for’ard atop the thwarts reaching down between the oarsmen he felt the planking; it was wet to the touch.
“Shine that lamp over here, Tug.” by its light he could see the water trickling down onto the bottom boards.
“It’s not too bad, sir,” he called, “stressed a plank or two is all, nothing Chippy can’t fix…We not going to sink…”
“No survivor’s leave then, Hooky?” asked Wilson, straight faced.
O’Neill grinned in the dark, but chose to ignore the remark, “‘Blur’, keep your eye on the bottom boards, if the water comes over the top get to work with the bailer.” He scrambled back to Grant in the stern, “It’s nothing to write home about, sir.”
Grant stood up in the boat and squinted into the dark water out to port.
“I want to take a closer look at these rocks… Wilson! Pass that light down here.”
The beam of the lamp flashed about the walls of the cavern as it was passed from man to man.
“This looks promising; it could be what we’re looking for. It’s deep enough and then there’s this.”
O’Neill looked over his shoulder at the rock ledge a foot or so under the surface. “And what might we be doing with that, sir? Apart from springing a few more planks on it, that is?”
“We could build it up to the same level as the ledge behind it that would widen the shelf enough to give us the headroom we’ll need to bring the ‘Eddy’ in here.”
“Arh! I’m with you now, sir; it’s a landing jetty you’ll be making. Well, there’s enough rocks over there to build ourselves two of the buggers.”
“Where?” asked Grant.
“If you pass me the light, sir; I’ll show yer.”
O’Neill shone the light to the far end of the cave. “Now where the fuck are they?… begging your pardon, sir… Arh! There they are!” The torch had picked out what appeared to be a rock fall. “I saw them as we came in. We could ferry some of it over here easy enough.”
“Some of them look a bit heavy for that.”
“The big ones we could sling over the side, keep them underwater. They’re not so heavy that way. We could rig a jackstay from that wall to this one and pull the boat backwards and forwards on that, save time not having to manoeuvring her.”
“Pull over there, coxswain, we’ll take a closer look.”
The pile of fallen rocks towered above them for twelve feet or more. “Plenty there,” said Grant, “We’ll return after ‘stand easy’ and make a start.”
“Aye, Aye, sir, it’ll be near high tide then, it’ll give us a better idea of the headroom we’ll be having. But it looks to me as if we’ll have to unstep the ‘Eddy’s’ mast to get her right in as far as the shelf.”
* * *
Ordinary Seaman Goddard stepped over the hatch coaming and clattered down the metal ladder holding on with one hand and carrying the steel teapot deftly in the other. The rest of the mess had already arrived and were seated around the table.
As he set the huge teapot down the talk was of leave. It had been the only topic of conversation since the Skipper’s broadcast at nine that morning. The men manning the sea boat hadn’t heard the news until they arrived back on board.
“ …I’m looking forward to a decent night’s sleep,” Wyatt was saying.
“You had an all-night-in the night we left the tanker, bloody second part of starboard dipping in again! The one night we weren’t closed up at steaming stations in weeks and it was you lot that got the whole night in yer pits. That was two on the trot; remember that time in ‘Cripple Creek’.”
“It’s in recognition of the hard work we put in compared to the rest of you loafing bastards!” said Wilson, straight faced.
“Yeah, bloody right!” said Wyatt, above the groans from the rest of the mess, “I’m taking about night after night of uninterrupted kip.” He lay back luxuriously, “I’m talking ‘ere of every bloody night for five bloody lovely nights… Anyway all-night-in on board with you lot don’t count, who can get a full night’s sleep ‘ere, when the watches are changing at midnight and again at four. I swear blind, every bastard who gets up bumps into my bloody ‘ammock.”
Stubbs blew cigarette smoke down his nose, “That’s because your ‘ammock’s slung right by the bloody ladder.”
“Yeah, well that ain’t my fault is it?”
“‘Cause it bloody well is! I can remember when we first come aboard; you said I’m slinging my ‘ammock nearest the hatch so I can be first out if this bugger goes down.”
“It’s being so cheerful that keeps Earpy going, ain’t it Earpy.” said Wilson.
“Ere, talking of sinking,” said Wyatt, watching Goddard pour out the last of the ‘wet’ of tea to make sure he got his fair share. “How about our ‘rum bosun’ very nearly sinking the sea boat.”
“Sure! It was only a tap,” said O’Neill, There wasn’t even enough water to fill this cup.”
“Arh! Ignore ‘im,” said Wilson dismissively. “He’s only trying to wind you up.”
O’Neill stood up to reach for his cap and banged his head on the overhead fire main It was as well the news of the impending leave had put the Irishman in a good mood. “Be God!…I’ll be putting in for an aircraft carrier, once Jerry has sunk this bastard!”
“Funny, ain’t it?” mused Goddard. Heads I mean; you think we would have had a bit more protection for our heads really wouldn’t yer. You know, what’s his name? That bloke who reckons we were all apes a long time ago.” He looked around the table for an answer, but could see by the expressions on his messmates faces that he wasn’t about to get one. So he continued in his ignorance. “Anyway he thought that we are what we are now was down to nature getting rid of the weak. You know the slowest runners in a tribe would have got eaten by a dinosaur, sort of thing. So you’d think, bearing in mind how many people get killed being hit on the head, that those of us what got this far would have more than a thin bit of skin and bone to protect our heads, after all it's where our brains are.”
“Or, in your case, where they should be” said Wilson. “I see what you mean though. It’s a wonder we ain’t got a big flap of fat on top of our heads for protection.”
“Suit you that would, Tug. You’d have a beer head to go with your beer belly.”
* * *
It was close on tot time when they found the tunnel. They had been steadily moving the rocks across the cavern and had just returned for another load.
Wilson and Wyatt levering at one large rock, sent it toppling forward onto its face. A bright shaft of sunlight suddenly beamed through into the cavern.
Wilson got down on his knees to investigate, “‘ere
there’s a sort of tunnel under ‘ere.”
Slowly they cleared the rocks around the opening, moving them across to enlarge the shelf. Impatient as they all were to explore the tunnel Grant, conscious that they would have to leave very soon, insisted they complete their main job first. The work was hard and it was a tiring, but it was still an enthusiastic boat’s crew that eventually began the climb up the tunnel. The sides were smooth and dry.
Part of the way up, they were surprised to find a sizeable cavern, it ran off to the south, they pushed on without exploring it fully. After ten minutes hard climbing they saw a pale blue circle above and with renewed energy pushed rapidly on towards it. The strange colour of the light was explained when they found the exit blocked by a considerable quantity of compacted snow. Working in relays with the boat hook they broke through and found themselves on the plateau above the destroyer much to the surprise of the marine sentries stationed close by.
Grant saw that with a few alterations, a rope handrail and maybe some steps cut into the rock in places, the tunnel would make the job of guarding the inlet much easier. Now there would be no need to scale the cliff face to reach the top.
* * *
The dawn spilled pink across a grey sea, to port the west coast of Scotland stretched low and dark along an indistinct horizon.
The ‘Nishga’ dipped into the curling waves, submerging her wet nose with the enthusiasm of a terrier burying its snout in a rabbit burrow. Each time she emerged she lifted tons of green water up with her, spewing it back into the sea from her overflowing scuppers.
The men were stood to at dawn action stations, those exposed to the elements, hunched deep into their duffel coats, deep into the womb-warmth of their own bodies.
Below the ship was battened down, hatches screwed tight, the metal deadlights clamped over thick glass scuttles produced a dismal half-light that made everything look tired and dirty. The pitching of the sea and the sealed airlessness made for miserable conditions in which to pass a long day.
If the sea conditions made life squalid below decks on the destroyer, on the two E-boats astern of her, it made life intolerable. The two tiny warships climbed the steep sided waves, clinging to them like camels ascending sand dunes. Dwarfed by the vast seas, they took onboard impossible amounts of water, tilted to impossible angles, smashed with impossible force into towering walls of water.
The hulls of the patrol boats were shaped for speed, shaped to ride on top of the water, to skim across the surface like water boatmen. They were essentially coastal craft and made bad foul-weather boats. In any sort of sea they bucked and bounced, launching themselves from the wave tops like unbroken stallions. Consequently the E-boats, capable of forty knots, could not operate above ten. With the real chance of an attack by friendly forces, as well as those of the enemy, it was vital that the ‘Nishga’ stayed with them; so she too hobbled her way south at the same snail’s pace. It was seven hundred and fifty miles to their destination it would take more than two days.
On the ‘Eddy’, Grant had been continuously on the bridge since leaving the Norwegian coast; his whole body ached from the unrelenting strain put upon aching muscles by the merciless pitching and the rolling.
In view of the clandestine nature of their operations Barr had timed their
arrival to coincide with darkness. His future plans depended on the existence of the captured German ships remaining a secret. The men had been warned about loose talk and how their very lives depended on anonymity.
The two E-boats parted company with the ‘Nishga’ at a secret base on the east coast of the Isle of Man where their crews were transferred to the ‘Nishga’ for the short trip across to the mainland.
* * *
The dry dock rang with sound of hammering, echoing and clanging off the high walls, jarring the nerves of the men still aboard. A bored bosun’s mate stood by the quartermaster’s desk flicking lethargically through the pages of a tattered magazine he had found on his rounds.
Wyatt, who was acting quartermaster for the leave period, looked over his shoulder “Where you get that from Blur?”
“Wardroom… I didn’t know officers went in for this sort of thing,” he pointed at a scantily clad female form.
Wyatt leant on the desk, “It’s a great leveller, we’re all the same when it comes to that sort of thing,” he waved at the page, “But you were right to lift it, I don’t agree with them looking at things like that, it might give them ideas… We don’t want them reproducing, there’s enough of the bastards as it is.”
“You don’t like pig’s much do you, Earpy?”
Wyatt rubbed his tired eyes, “Arh! Don’t talk to me about pigs, lazy lot of bastards. You’ve seen ‘em. When we’re in ‘arbour they ‘ave even less to do than when we’re at bloody sea. Worse than the bloody dockyard maties,” he pointed at some dockyard workers who had been standing at the end of the gangway for over an hour, “and they get more time off then the Unknown Warrior.”
* * *
“What’s so interesting about that particular merchantman, sir? asked Midshipman Hogg. “Troopship isn’t she?”
They were both working on the bridge, Hogg updating the Admiralty charts and Grant attempting to get to grips with the intricacies of the Watch and Quarters Bill. The latter had lit a cigarette and was leaning on the bridge screen, studying the troopship with great interest.
“She’s the ‘Empire Trooper.”
“Doesn’t the Empire bit of her name mean she’s an ex-German?”
“That’s right,” said Grant, peering intently through his binoculars. “As far as I know all, well, nearly all, captured enemy ships carry an ‘Empire’ prefix. She was the ‘Cap Norte’ before. When I was serving aboard the ‘Belfast’ we captured her as she was returning to Germany from South America.”
“When was that exactly?”
“Oh… October last year. She was trying to get back to Germany disguised as a neutral.”
“Did you get prize money,” asked Hogg, his eyes lighting up.
“They say we will, someday,” smiled Grant, “and, if we do, it will be enough for the first payment on a yacht of my own after the war.”
“Is that how you intend to pay the bills when it’s all over, go back to yacht minding?”
“Haven’t really decided yet, but something like that. Preferable something that doesn’t involve blowing things up anyway.”
* * *
Barr had, unusually, taken the first five-day leave period, normally he would have let his Number One have that privilege, while he stayed on to see that the start of the refit was trouble free, but he had complete trust in Grant’s abilities and was happy to leave the ship in his hands. This coupled with the fact that he had several vital appointments to keep in London allowed him, with a reasonably clear conscience, to board the Suffolk bound train...
As the soot-stained trees slipped hypnotically by his window, he dozed. The clickerty-clack of the wheels became a Bren gun firing and the rhythmic sway of the train carriage became the ‘Nishga’ in the Norwegian Sea. The hiss of steam and the squeal of the train’s brakes translated into a diving aircraft that woke him as the train jerked to a stop at Ipswich. He’d slept through the entire journey. It had grown dark. He straightened his cap and tie in the cracked carriage window before pulling his holdall down from the string luggage rack.
The ticket collector had a shaded hurricane lamp propped in the corner, its orange glow illuminating his plump Pickwickian face as he clipped the ticket.
Barr stood in the station concourse feeling like a truant from school. Nothing to do for four whole days. He smiled as he walked to the taxi rank. Nothing to do… it wouldn’t last; his wife would make sure of that.
* * *
The mess radio was playing a Carol Gibbins’ number.
“Deep voice for a bird,” commented Stubbs.
Wilson laughed, “I always used to think Carol was a girl’s name.” r />
“Course it is… ain’t it?” asked Wyatt.
“Well ‘is name’s Carol and he’s a bloke,” said Wilson, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the speaker on the bulkhead.
“You can be called Carol if you’re a bloke?” said Wyatt, his voice rising in disbelief.
“Not in my fucking book you can’t.” growled O’Neill from his slung hammock.
“What about Gene Kelly?”
“He’s a dancer, enough said?”
The nightingale sang no more in Berkley Square as the clattering of the metal ladder drowned out the music. It was Goddard.
“How’d you get on,” asked Wilson, as he arrived at the bottom of the mess ladder.
“They failed me again.”
“What!” exclaimed Wyatt, “after all that revising you did while we were watch keeping on the gangway!”
Wilson grimaced to hide a smile. “I told yer, you should have been revising from yer seamanship manual and not those girlie magazines. You carry on like this, you’ll never make Able Seaman, you’ll go blind from all that revising.”
Goddard said nothing, a picture of gloom.
“Well, what was it you got wrong?” asked O’Neill, “When I tested you the other day, you was all about.”
“Yeah,” ribbed Wyatt, “All about like shit in a hurricane fan.”
“Yeah well! I don’t think it was fair really.”
“What’d ‘e do ask you a question on seamanship?” said Wilson.
Goddard ignored his mentor, “Jimmy the One asked me if you was at anchor, how many times you would pipe the side for a visiting Admiral.”
“Twice,” answered O’Neill. “And you knew that the other day when I asked you,” he added, accusingly.
“Yeah… Well I said, ‘Four’. He said, ‘Wrong! The answer is two… What made you think it were four?’ “
“I said, ‘I thought it was a trick question, sir. It’s four times if you count when he leaves as well. You pipe once as he approaches the ship, again when he comes up over the side and the same again when he leaves, that’s four.”
“He’s right enough there,” agreed O’Neill.