“Lower away,” ordered Grant.
The anchor sank slowly through the green blur of the deep to settle on the bottom.
“All right, coxswain, “I’ll take her in, you take charge of the warp…Give way… together”.
The final stage of the approach up to the treacherous rocks was made with understandable caution. The warp pulled taut, rising from the clear waters, the boat only feet from the rock promontory.
O’Neill made fast at the stern and called, “Over you go, ‘Tug’.”
The seaman scrambled onto the gunwale, paused a second, finely balanced, and then stepped almost gracefully across onto the rock ledge. The sea boat backed away.
They repeated the manoeuvre farther along the cliff face, again choosing a site with a ledge and an adjacent rock outcrop to which they, would later, secure the destroyer’s mooring.
The boat turned back towards the inlet’s entrance, the men leaning back into their oars as she gathered speed. As they moved out they made the soundings dropping buoys to form a marked channel deeper than the ‘Nishga’s’ draught. They worked swiftly, for as long as there was sufficient water there was no need to record the exact depth. They needed to save time in any way they could for already a dawn-blue light glimmered in the eastern sky.
* * *
As the ‘Nishga’ nosed her way slowly in towards Olaf’s Inlet, Grant climbed the bridge ladder two at a time. Barr sat huddled in his chair, he gave a quick salute.
The channel’s marked, sir. Basically we’ll need to keep her over to port all the way in. There’s a shelf of rock to starboard at around one fathom but apart from that, the Inlet’s deep enough.” He turned and pointed,” There’s the first buoy, it marks the beginning of the shelf.”
“Right you are, Number One, good job. You’d better get for’ard and check the Bosun’s arrangements”.
“Yes, sir, I’ve briefed the coxswain of the sea boat he’s ready to lead the way in.”
“Very good,” Barr leaned over a brass voice pipe, his breath misting the painted brass “Port five, both engines slow ahead.”
He listened with half an ear to the acknowledgements from the wheelhouse as he watched the flagstaff swinging rapidly left across the rock face. He could feel the eyes of the bridge crew boring into his back. He couldn’t blame them; it was an unsettling pastime, watching that unforgiving rock draw closer and closer. He deliberately turned away, “Any Kye left?”
* * *
Grant arrived on the fo’c’s’le as the ship lost way and started to roll lazily in the easy swell. He looked up at the cliff, now noticeably nearer; but for the ‘Skerries’, as the islands were known, their task would have been much more difficult, perhaps impossible.
The fo’c’s’lemen had been on deck for over an hour laying out the necessary gear, now they stood by stamping their feet, amid grey clouds of frosted breath. The petty officer in charge of the fo’c’s’le, Petty Officer Stone, straightened up from his task and saluted.
“Just about finished here, sir… The sea boat lying off the port bow”.
Stone, ‘Rocky’ to his few friends, was forty years of age, a saintly age amongst a crew whose average age was twenty. He was well named, his face rock-like, chiselled features above a square jaw. His huge arms were covered in an indistinguishable blue haze of tattoos that gave his skin the appearance of blue veined marble. He had been due for retirement in the September of ‘39, the very month that war had been declared, his retirement had been deferred by a Navy hungry for experienced seamen. If the truth had been known, which it wasn’t, he had been relieved when they’d stopped his discharge he had not been looking forward to a life ashore, the Navy and the sea were all he knew. Experience he certainly had in plenty. He had joined the Navy at fourteen, as a boy seaman, and was proud that he knew more about his trade than any man aboard the ‘Nishga’. The younger officers were glad to have him, not only relying on his prowess as a first rate seaman but also on the tact he used dealing with their inevitable blunders in front of the men. It was, however, tact that was noticeable by its absence in his dealings with the men. That he was a bully there could be no doubt, the lower deck lived in constant fear of his quick wit and his proficient and ready use of nautical adjectives. It was said he could have made the Devil himself blush.
Grant gave a thumbs-up to the bridge and took up his post in the eye of the ship. The destroyer inched slowly ahead following the fragile sea boat thirty feet below her raked bow.
The ‘Nishga’ nosed cautiously around the rocky headland with dawn’s light clipping the snow on the cliff tops above the masthead, forming a halo of blue light along its ragged edge.
* * *
O’Neill took the sea boat out of harm’s way while the long warship manoeuvred using her twin engines until, turning in a half circle, her bows pointed back out to sea.
When O’Neill saw the eye of the first mooring wire snaking down the destroyer’s side he took the sea boat close in under it. The boat’s crew coiled a few fathoms of it in the bottom of the boat and secured the bight to the boats wooden bollard.
While the seamen on the ‘Nishga’s’ fo’c’s’le carefully paid it out the sea boat pulled away and ferried the end to the first mooring point. Finally they rowed carefully towards a cold Wilson and the end of the destroyer’s stern mooring wire was passed to him. With the wire safely secured he jumped back into the boat.
At last, after thirty minutes hard graft the ‘Nishga’ was able to use her powerful winches to warp carefully in towards the weathered rock.
Seamen, spaced at intervals, along the length of the ship, lowered unwieldy basketwork fenders over the side, positioning them between the sharp rocks and the ship’s vulnerable side.
Towering fifty feet above the top of the mast the rock overhang gradually cut the ship off from the grey sky. To the men on deck it looked as if the cliff was toppling slowly over to engulf the ship.
Barr looked at his watch, the one his wife had given him on his last leave; it had taken ninety-four minutes to manoeuvre the ship into her new berth. They would have to do better than that.
* * *
Corporal Bushel leant to his left and looked down the crevasse he had just ascended. Fifty feet below he could see Stilson climbing steadily, fifty feet below him Blake, head craned back, watched the progress of his two companions.
Scattered about Blake’s feet lay the huge amount of gear they would need over the next few days. He could just see the lights that were to be used to mark the Inlet entrance for ‘Nishga’ when she returned from her planned night raids. In the other bundles were the means to defend the inlet along with their food, tents and other personal kit. Every item was vital to the task ahead; the loss of any one thing could mean failure or worse.
Bushel looked up; he still had a way to go before he reached the top of the sheer face. He wedged himself deeper into the fault in the rock and blew onto his cold hands. He smiled at his unspoken pun, time for a blow. He gazed out across the inlet, six maybe seven hundred feet across the still waters of the Inlet, the ‘Nishga’ lay snug under the overhang, her icy reflection mirror-clear beneath her camouflaged hull. Her decks swarmed with duffel-coated seamen doubling up on her mooring wires and laying out the massive camouflage netting.
He looked at his watch; within the hour he and his men would have to be up there, above the ship, ready to hoist the netting into place. He needed to get a move on; he shifted the coil of rope on his shoulder until it sat more comfortably and resumed the climb.
* * *
Captain Barr sat at his desk, his pen poised at the end of his signature staring at a photograph on his desk, it was of his wife and eight- year old son, taken on his last long leave that had been before the start of the war.
When he pictured them in his mind’s eye, as he often did during the long night watches, it was always this photograph that he saw. Sometimes it seemed as if they were frozen in time, somehow pre
served in the frame to await his homecoming. A knock on his cabin door brought Barr back to the present with a jolt. He looked up to see his steward standing in the doorway.
“Chief Petty Officer Graves to see you, sir.”
“Very good Jenkins, show him in please.”
Chief Petty Officer ‘Spooky’ Graves entered, his battered cap under one arm, his new Chief’s buttons shinning in splendid contrast. “You wanted to see me, sir.”
“Yes, Chief, I want to discuss some arrangements I have in mind for camouflaging the entrance to the inlet, take a seat,” he indicated a padded chair next to his desk.
The Chief sat uncomfortably on the edge, holding his cap in both hands as he looked about him.
“Cigarette?” asked Barr offering Graves one from a box on the desk.
“Thank you kindly, sir, I don’t mind if I do.”
Barr lit both their cigarettes with a table lighter and settled back in his chair. “We need to disguise the entrance to this Inlet and at the same time discourage enemy patrol boats from entering.”
Graves scratched at his bald head with the hand that held his cap, “I can see why, sir…”but I can’t, for the life of me, see as how you can do that.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time. I’ve an idea, but it’s only an idea, I’m hoping you can tell me if it is possible or not, put some meat on the bone, as it were. We could construct a raft to block the entrance.” He reached into the back of the desk and pulled out a notebook. “Here’s a rough sketch of the inlet. “I thought to place the raft here, where the entrance narrows.”
The Chippy dragged hard on the cigarette cupped in the hollow of a horny and nicotine stained fist. “But I don’t understand, sir, if we put it there it’ll be seen by the very patrol boats we want to discourage. At the very least it’s going to make them curious surely, sir?”
“Not if we make it look like part of the landscape, a landslide to be precise. “Barr turned the page of his notebook and revealed a sketch of a raft. “We pile it up with rocks, like this, there’s enough of them around, God knows. This step under the raft’s waterline carries more rocks, hiding the wooden beams of the raft. It will have to be loaded carefully to keep it stable. To look right the rocks will have to slope down from the landward end… that may cause problems with the trim though. What do you think?”
“A larger rock at the other end might balance her up, keep her level… or we could construct a framework in wood at the landward end. We could load the rocks on to that, make it look as if it’s all rocks, if you see what I mean…That would be lighter than a pile of rocks.”
“Excellent! Exactly what I was hoping to get from you.” Barr paused and pretended not to notice the glow of embarrassed pleasure on the Chief’s face. “We tow her into place and then just swing her open, like a gate, when we need to enter or leave, like the boom at Scapa Flow.”
Graves a pulled a face, “Let's hope it does a better job,” said Graves remembering the ‘Royal Oak’ sunk by a German submarine inside that boom.
“Hmm, perhaps that was a bad example… but you get the idea, Chief. What do you think, can it be done?”
“I can’t see why not. We’ve got plenty of wood…”
“That’s my next point; I don’t want you to use our wood, there’s no telling when we would be able to replace it, we may need it for damage control. I want you to cut it from the plantations ashore.”
“What lower it all the way down from the top?… big job… can be done, of course, but erh…”
“No, I thought to take the sea boat along the shore and cut it from sites near the water’s edge and tow it back here, floating behind . I want it done as soon as you can and, of course, without drawing any attention.”
“It would be better to cut it inland and drag it to the water’s edge so you couldn’t see the felled area from the sea.”
“Right, see the Chief Bosun’s Mate, tell him from me to give you all the men you need and the boat, of course.”
* * *
Lying flat on their stomachs in the frozen snow the two marines peered cautiously over the cliff edge. More than a hundred dizzy feet below they could see the starboard side of the ‘Nishga’. The netting stretched from a point just below them to the iron deck fifty feet below that. They could see seamen hauling the bottom end out towards the ship’s side.
“Looks alright. Let’s cut some branches to place over these blocks and tackles. Cover the lot with snow and we’re done.”
Ten minutes work and they were ready to leave. Bushel rammed his entrenching tool into its hanging strap. “That’s about it; we’re losing the light now. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
They had spent the whole day moving their equipment and hauling the heavy net into place.
They walked backwards down the slope raking over their footprints as they went. They had stepped out of their skis where the thick snow gave way to the windswept fringes at the cliff’s edge and set off at an easy pace, east towards where Stilson lay up watching the only path inland through the dense plantation.
Stilson rose out of the snow at their approach, he had been invisible in his white ski suit until he moved. The snow was even thicker here, sheltered from the worst of the winds by dense conifer.
“Everything all right?” asked Bushel. Stilson nodded. ‘Snake Stilson’ was a man of few words.
“Good, we’ll rig the other tent and get some shut-eye; I’ll stand first watch, two on four off. You’re next ‘Snake’. As soon as it’s light enough we get back to work.”
* * *
Slowly the cold red sun rose, spilling a pink light across the grey surface of the sea. The ‘Nishga’s’’ sea boat sliced through the calm, ripples of liquid silver fanning out from her stern.
Chief Shipwright Graves crouched against the cold, a woolly hat pulled down over his shiny red ears.
Standing alongside him O’Neill steered, using his legs to move the tiller bar, hands deep in the pockets of a stained duffel coat, his chin buried in its collar, his hat rammed down behind his ears. Five seamen bent to the oars, rowing awkwardly wrapped thickly in their foul weather clothing.
“Beautiful day,” said Chippy, when he received no reply from O’Neill he added, “Wouldn’t know there was a war on.”
“Too bloody cold for me, Spooky!” said O’Neill, squinting at the rocks to port; he suddenly touched Graves on the shoulder. “We could get in there pretty easy,” he pointed to a small beach, thick with storm blown seaweed.
They had been looking for a landing site since leaving the ship at first light.
“Looks alright from here, take her in closer.”
O’Neill took a half step to one side, pushing the tiller bar hard over with the outside of his leg; “Oars, port!”
The men on the port side lifted their oars clear of the water and the boat swung swiftly round.
“Give way together!” they bent to their oars and pulled towards the craggy shoreline.
* * *
Bushel
The inside of the tent glowed with an eerie green light as the rising sun filtered through the canvas. The marines were already awake, their breath condensing on the tent’s sides dripping ice cold drops onto their down sleeping bags.
Bushel crouching at the open flap turned his watch towards the sun’s glow. “We’d better make a move. Stilson you wet the tea, Blake see what you can do with the eggs. No smoke, we ain’t supposed to be having fires, use the driest wood from well into the plantation we’ll light it there so the branches disperse any smoke. If I see one puff of smoke from here out it goes and that means a cold breakfast, got it? I’ll make a start laying out the gear and camouflaging the camp. After breakfast we’ll rig up a few little welcoming presents just in case Jerry decides to drop in. After lunch we’ll set up the lights at the entrance ready in case the ‘Nishga’ does go out tonight.”
“Do yer think she will, Corp?” asked Blake.
??
?Weather’s perfect for getting in and out, flat calm hardly a breath of wind and there’s no moon tonight,”
“I heard there was a small one for Sergeants and Corporals only,” said Blake straight-faced.
“I heard different,” said Bushel, “no moon tonight, but there’s to be two moons tomorrow night,” his unsmiling face disappeared through the tent flap.
* * *
“Call the Hands… Call the Hands…Call the Hands, the quartermaster’s voice droned its dirge through the ship. “Heave-oh…Heave-oh…Heave-oh. Lash-up and stow…Cooks to the galley has gone long ago. Don’t turn over…turn out!”
A few blankets stirred in the forward seaman’s mess as the starboard watch demonstrated their lightening reflexes. The hatch crashing back on its stop stirred a few more; the metallic clatter of the mess ladder a few more and then the booming voice of the Petty Officer of Port Watch woke the remainder.
“All right! Who told yer you could sleep? Feet on the deck my smelly little cherubs! Hands off cocks, on socks,” he added pleasantly, punching the nearest hammock. “Anyone still in their pit in three seconds will be buried in it! One!…Two!…Three!… That’s better!” he said to the assembled mess as they appeared, as if by magic, alongside their hammocks wearing a motley assortment of sleeping attire, topped off with the same bloodhound expression. They stood arms hanging down their sides as Petty Officer Stone retraced his footsteps back up the ladder and dropped the hatch back down with a wince of a crash.
“Another day in fucking paradise,” moaned Wyatt.
“That’ll do me all right,” said Wilson, taking out a packet of ‘Duty Frees’.
“I wouldn’t mind a day in ‘fucking paradise’. I ain’t seen a woman in yonks.”
He held out his packet of ‘Blue Liners’, anyone want one? He paused while a few hands reached out, “Well, fucking well buy some!” he said snatching them away…relented, held them out again and ruefully watched them disappear.
Gradually the ship and her tired crew came back to life. At eight the starboard watch took over at defence stations and commenced the checks on the equipment that would be in their charge for the next four hours. Guns and torpedo launchers were trained round, ammunition in the ready-use lockers checked, tests run on the Asdic and radio sets, aft the depth charge launchers and ramps inspected and secured. Below, the stokers dipped the water and fuel tanks, checked gauges and oil levels, and re-greased everything that moved.