The real enemy was the weather. The clock came a very close second.
Captain Kimber had sent a brief top-secret signal to the effect that the German training base for midget submarines of the type captured by Warlock was showing signs of closing down. The base was still there, and the little submarines, or “Negroes,” as they were apparently called by their creators, had been reported as before, and in the same impressive numbers. But there had been less activity, and the local Norwegian underground had signalled other information which left little doubt that the whole organisation was preparing to move south.
At night, as he lay staring up at the darkness, Drummond had often thought about those nameless agents in occupied Norway, and any other land under the German heel. Hourly they must be risking discovery. The torture and agony which would follow capture, the punishment and destruction even of their families as a frightening example to others, it must all lurk in each man’s mind as he drew his sketches of installations and railway sidings with their loads of military stores and troop trains. Whenever he switched on his little transmitter and tried to reach London, or flashed his torch from a fishing boat to some invisible submarine off the coast, he must have held his breath. Waiting for the sharp challenge. The arrest. The beginning of unrelenting, unceasing pain.
But the weather knew of no such problems. As the destroyers lay at their moorings in the great gash of a fjord hacked into Iceland’s east coast, they were constantly reminded of the calm which seemed to prevail as far south as Biscay and as far north as Spitzbergen. Washed-out blue skies, damp, listless air which hung in messdecks and cabins and painted everything with a dull, misty finish.
True to his word, Kimber had arranged for a repair ship to be at hand, but as the base engineer officer had been heard to remark, “The old girls need less attention than brand-new ships.” So there had not even been much work beyond daily routine to keep the men’s minds elsewhere.
Drummond had gone aboard Lomond within minutes of her arrival at Seydisf ford. After hearing what de Pass had said about the Moltke, he had been expecting some sort of a change in Beaumont, although he did not know in what way it might show itself. But, outwardly at least, Beaumont had displayed little but gnawing irritation.
He had said, “When you are told you can go ahead with something, there’s nothing so calculated to get on your wick as stupid, bloody delays!”
He had not even shown much enthusiasm for Miles Salter and his small camera crew, who had been busy for most of the passage round the coast from Reykjavik, and once in the great fjord had used a motor boat for further shots of the waiting destroyers.
And Drummond had thought a good deal about the girl, Sarah Kemp.
Fifteen minutes before their time to leave Reykjavik harbour he had been told by the officer of the guard that he was wanted on the telephone in the dock office. He had known she would see through Salter’s deception, although he had hoped it would not be quite so soon.
She had said, “I won’t say much over this line. But I know!”
He had tried to imagine her face on the other end of the wire. Resigned, matter-of-fact, anxious for him perhaps.
“I’m sorry. It had to be like this.”
“Yes.” She had remained silent, and for a moment he had imagined she had hung up. “When you didn’t call me. About a date. I knew then, I think.”
“It’ll be all right.”
Through the dirty windows of the dock office he had seen his own ship against the jetty, the greasy streamers of smoke from her unmatched funnels, going straight up, smearing the empty sky. No wind. Not a breath, he had thought despairingly.
They’ll cut us to pieces.
“I wish you had something better to remember,” she had given a small laugh, it might have been a sob, “than a silly old pipe. And all I did was moan about my troubles. ” That time he had heard her voice break. “When you knew, while I was talking.”
He had said, “I’ll see you soon. I promise. I’m not letting you get away with it like this. You said you wanted a holiday on a volcano, remember?”
He had heard her sniff, the impatient click of a switchboard operator.
“Yes, I remember.” Another break. “Take care, Keith.”
The line had gone dead. Only when he was striding back to the brow did he realise she had used his name.
And then, on the afternoon of the eighth day, as he had been sitting in his cabin reading about the continuing successes in Sicily, the summons had arrived. All commanding officers to repair on board flotilla leader forthwith.
Kimber was there, too, and as the destroyers’ captains arrived in their various motor boats, the Lomond’s wardroom seemed jammed tight with them and his assembled staff.
Beaumont did not intend to waste any more time.
“In a few minutes, gentlemen, the met officer and other interested parties will be filling in the pale patches. But I want to tell you right away that the raid is about to begin.”
He leaned his hands on the table, and in the sudden silence Drummond could even hear his own heart beating. Beaumont must have cleared every steward, every officer not required at the meeting from the wardroom area, for the ship seemed like a grave.
Beaumont was — saying in the same steady, tone, “Fog is usually a bad enemy to any sailor. This time it will be our ally. The met chaps can put it into better words for you later, but as far as we are concerned there has been a prevailing bank of fog moving up from the Baltic for several days. It now extends right along the Norwegian coast north of the sixty-fifth parallel, and shows no sign at all of clearing away. It is fairly common at this time of year, but it seems heavier than usual.”
The others nodded and moved their feet.
Drummond watched Kimber as he walked to the table. He showed a certain weariness, and he looked as if he had slept badly. But his voice was the same. Unemotional.
“It is all arranged. The flotilla will leave here tonight and head north-east to a rendezvous point off Bear Island. There you will be met by two oilers and replenish supplies. As explained in your final orders, you will then proceed south again. To your objective.”
There was a pause while the R.A.F. met officer assembled his coloured chart on a little easel, showing all the areas of high and low pressure, and bunches of darting arrows which might mean almost anything.
Drummond was still thinking of Kimber’s bare announcement. Up to Bear Island, that bleak hump of land south of Spitzbergen, then over a thousand miles towards their target. All the way there, and all the way back, would total well over six thousand miles. He bit his lip. When it still lay ahead of you, it seemed impossible. An endless nightmare.
Kimber looked above the meteorological chart. “Carrier support is prepared for your withdrawal. Fuelling facilities are in hand in case either of the oilers we already have are lost or damaged by enemy action. ” He tapped his own chart. “Thanks to the ice-edge falling back to the north, you will be able to keep clear of normal enemy patrol areas. A fast convoy will be passing south of Bear Island en route for Murmansk, so that should keep the German spotting planes well occupied and away from you.”
He looked at Drummond. “Well, Commander, d’you have any points to raise?”
Drummond shook his head. “If the fog lifts …” He began again: “Can we expect support from the Norwegian agents, sir?”