Extracted Page 4

  Two miles from here to the harbour. Two miles that need to be covered before oh-two-thirty hours, when he can give the signal. Two miles on rough terrain in the freezing cold of a Norwegian winter, but still far easier than the training regime of yomping ten miles with a backpack full of bricks into a live firing exercise.

  He sets off and instinctively veers to the grass verge, which softens the tread of his boots. His thick black beard protects his face from the cold. With the dark navy fisherman’s coat over a thick knitted jumper he looks every inch the Norwegian fisherman indigenous to these parts. That he cannot speak a word of Norwegian does not bother Harry. The disguise is to make him look natural to any passing patrol.

  Fifteen minutes later, he crests the top of the hill and starts the descent towards the dark harbour. No lights show for fear of the RAF. Blackness against a sea of blackness but the harbour is here, and in that harbour are U-boats and those U-boats are the target. Five of them reportedly brought in for service and repair. There will be guards, patrols, dogs, searchlights and rapid response units ready to mobilise instantly, but the element of surprise and sheer audacity might just see him through.

  He drops down to one knee, letting his breath recover while picking out the darker silhouettes of the buildings and smiling at the first slivers and cracks of warm yellow lights showing in the windows and door frames. It’s no different to England or any other base he’s been on. Soldiers believe they are invincible and, despite the constant warnings, they cannot help but get lazy. Doors not quite closed properly, curtains not drawn tight enough. Soldiers need to drink and move about. Who would attack here anyway? Norway in the middle of winter? Against the army of the Third Reich? Not a chance. Anyway, an RAF pilot flying thousands of feet in the air cannot possibly see a tiny yellow light on the ground.

  The next sentry post is manned properly with alert guards under the watchful eye of an officer. Harry stays low then drops on to his belly to snake over the freezing, stunted grass to the high-wire fence surrounding the town. In the shadows, he stops and pulls wire cutters from his pocket and sets to work. Each clunk is dull and seems to reverberate in every direction and he stops frequently to scan the vicinity and listen.

  He works steadily, biting through the links before peeling back the fence and creating a hole big enough to squeeze through, but he backs away and belly-crawls along the fence to the sentry hut while keeping his head tucked low in the high collar to prevent the moonlight reflecting from the skin round his eyes, cheeks and nose.

  Five metres out and he is close enough to hear the muted conversations of the guards and see the steam of their breaths. He pulls the explosive charge out, several sticks of dynamite wired to an electric timer. He turns the dial to set fifteen minutes and places it on the floor before belly-crawling back to the hole in the fence and through into the town.

  He gets to his feet, dusts his clothes off and walks casually. There will be a curfew in place but the tide will be high soon and the German soldiers need fresh fish to eat. Another hour will see the local fishermen getting ready to set out. With luck, he will be taken as an early riser.

  He stops to light a cigarette at the corner of a building, closing his eyes against the flare of the match. Nothing is less suspicious than a bearded fisherman in a fishing village smoking a cigarette. He checks his timing, pauses for a couple of seconds and then sets the next charge with a ten-minute delay, dropping it into the shadow of the building.

  He strolls down a side road towards the harbour, smoking casually while picking a stray bit of tobacco from his tongue and showing no reaction to the sound of heavy boots from a night patrol marching nearby. Every commando knows the score if they are caught by the enemy. The Geneva Convention no longer applies to them and already the brass back home are getting reports of captured commandos being executed by firing squads. He is in disguise too so the luxury of being transported somewhere else before being executed is also highly unlikely. He will either be shot on sight or tortured to death. He should have been given a cyanide capsule but the mission was scrabbled together so fast no one had time to get them.

  He stops at the corner of the next building showing a sliver of yellow light through the gap in the curtains and the voices of soldiers talking inside. He places the third charge with five minutes and change on the timer and walks on. With three minutes to go, he heads purposefully towards the harbour. With two minutes to go, he makes out the dark shapes of the U-boats in the water. With one minute to go, he reaches the old wooden huts used to store the nets and gear for the fishing boats.

  With thirty seconds to go, he shakes his head at the poor level of security within the town. Twenty seconds and he stands in the deep shadows rocking on his heels while his right hand grips the first grenade. Ten seconds left and the first alarm sounds from the night patrol finding the hole in the fence. A shrill whistle taken up and returned by every other guard until the general alarm warbles through the town, rousing every soldier to his feet.

  The explosions are not perfectly synchronised but are bloody close. The first detonation is the second charge placed. The second explosion is the dynamite placed by the main gate and the last is the closest, but all are within a few seconds of each other and it only serves to increase the level of confusion and mass panic within the town.

  The diversion is under way. The German soldiers think the attack is coming from within the town and it’s that misdirection that has to be sustained to give the other commandos the chance to place the charges on the submarines in the dock.

  One life to save many. The devastation wrought by the U-boats on the Allied fleet will be significantly slowed with five taken out of service, and the psychological effect against the Germans is a price worth paying. No matter where you are, the British Commandos will find you and they will kill you.

  He draws a deep breath and pulls the pin from the grenade but holds it clamped in his left hand while his right tugs the service pistol free from his waistband. A snort of derision as he glances down at the now live grenade and thinks of the deadly little cyanide pills. Who needs a pill when you’ve got a grenade?

  In the maelstrom of chaos, order is formed. The German army is the enemy but one given respect for the discipline they show, and already the officers are shouting orders.

  He steps out of the shadows and walks steadily back towards the town, knowing it is time to earn his nickname.

  Two soldiers run towards him still blinking the sleep from their eyes. For a second the disguise works and they pay no heed to the bearded fisherman until he fires from the hip. They both drop with looks of utter shock etched on their young faces. Belly shots. Not immediately fatal and they scream and writhe with burning agony in their guts from the heavy slugs. Harry moves forward, firing twice at point-blank range, instantly killing them. Pistol ditched, grenade from left hand to right and in one smooth motion he turns to launch the grenade into the air towards the town. He grabs the machine guns from the fallen soldiers and, clutching one in each hand, he sets off as the grenade detonates to a chorus of screams and shouts.

  He strides into a wide road packed with soldiers forming up as an officer gives curt orders from the high step of a house. Moving sideways across the road Harry opens up, firing both weapons into the dense ranks. Bullets spew from the barrels, shredding men apart. A twitch of aim and the officer is sent spinning from the step with his chest ripped open. They return fire but Harry is away, running into an alley between the buildings. Ditching one of the machine guns, he pulls another grenade, bites the pin out and flings it over his head in the direction he came from.

  Harry glances to the sky, longing to hear the roar of the engines. From the alley, he barrels into a four-man patrol running from the opposite direction. He shoots two, feels rather than hears the gun click empty and rams the stock into the head of the third. The fourth spins on the spot, bringing his weapon to aim just as Harry steps in and drives the dagger through his neck. Wrenching the blade free, he punctures th
e chest again and again as the soldier grips the trigger of the machine gun, firing blindly into the air. He quickly turns to finish the dazed soldier on the ground. Four down and he slinks back into the shadows between the buildings.

  Searchlights sweep the town. The sound of heavy-calibre and small-arms fire coming from the harbour front tells Harry the Germans have spotted the fast boats moving towards the U-boats. Explosions erupt with sheets of flame scorching the air as the Germans start throwing grenades into houses, believing there to be multiple attackers.

  Harry bursts from the alley into the wide main road of the town, firing at the soldiers running in every direction. He runs behind a building, counting to three before stepping back out to fire into the ranks chasing towards him. Several go down. He moves away, running crouched as he pulls the final grenade from his pocket, bites the pin out, stops, turns and rolls it back to the corner of the house before dropping to lie flat. The soldiers reach the corner to fire round with arms extended before running into the path of the grenade that destroys their small squad.

  On his feet and running, firing from the hip while engines roar in the sky and the fires of the town light a path for the pilots of the RAF bombers.

  In the harbour, the first U-boat blows with a ground-shaking explosion that brings Harry down again to his stomach. Burning fragments spin in every direction, with the secondary detonations creating a noise that becomes a thing of unimaginable terror. Fires raging, engines screaming, bombs falling, guns firing and the cries of the dying. You have absolute permission to cause absolute carnage. Carnage is caused. Devastation is wrought.

  The second U-boat explodes. The first bomb dropped from the planes strikes and the chaos of the tiny fishing village perched on the edge of the Norwegian fjord becomes hell with hundreds killed instantly.

  A soldier on fire runs past Harry screaming for his mother. Two more chase after him, desperate to save their comrade. Harry fires from the ground, killing the two, but leaving the burning man to draw more of his comrades out. Another bomb drops. Harry grins at the bravery of the pilots flying into the barrage of anti-aircraft fire that must be rattling them in their seats. That grin freezes in horror as the leading plane is hit with an explosion of flame high in the sky and a shriek as the aircraft breaks apart to plummet down through the air.

  The third U-boat detonates and this time Harry feels the rain of seawater coming down. Three boats destroyed. The town is already on its knees. No matter what happens now, this is victory. This is testament to training, fortitude and a willingness to hold your nerve. Thousands of Allied lives saved and the ships bringing food and supplies will get to British shores, bringing desperately needed resources to the starving population.

  The only problem is Harry is still alive. He was not meant to get this far. No one actually said it was a suicide mission, but it was obvious. The fourth U-boat blows. He grins while trying to think of what to do now. An idea forms. If you can get to the boats then you might, and I emphasise you might, get out. He goes for it. Grinning with the audacity of the attempt. Running flat out, he jumps over the dead bodies and veers round the still-burning man. Booming anti-aircraft guns firing. Lights strobing the sky. Small arms still give battle and in that noise is the unmistakable sound of Sten guns. British Sten guns firing short, staccato bursts. How the hell the commando teams on the boats are still alive is beyond Harry. The U-boat explosions should have got them. The returning fire from the Germans should have got them. But that noise is unique.

  Ditching the German machine gun, he works to strip the heavy coat from his frame, letting it drop in his wake. His arms pump. His feet pound the ground as all around him houses blow apart from bombs falling from the sky. Flames everywhere. People screaming orders and through them all he runs with a wry grin that maybe, just maybe, he can get away and get that pack of smokes Tom owes him.

  In the water only two of the commandos’ wooden-hulled fast boats remain from a fleet of seven sent in and those two boats whizz back and forth giving the Germans something to aim at while the divers freeze in the water, fixing the charges to the last U-boat.

  Harry runs down the steps on to the lower wall and through the Germans kneeling to return fire.

  The boat powers through the still waters towards the stern of the U-boat as Harry runs alongside and vaults the gap to land heavily on the metallic flank. He sprints past the jutting tower hardly daring to believe no one has shot him then curses foully as the bullets start pinging near his feet.

  A burning desire propels him on. That absolute need to reach the fast boat as it stops to collect the divers who set the charges.

  He wants to scream out to wait but every bit of air is needed to fuel his lungs that beat his heart that drives his muscles to keep working. Through tear-streaked eyes caused by the freezing air whipping past his face Harry watches the two divers being pulled from the sea while two more commandos change the magazines on their Sten guns. Only a few metres to go now and he powers on. The first commando completes the magazine change and yanks the bolt back before aiming at the dock and the look of surprise on his face makes Harry want to burst out laughing. The commando pokes his mate in the arm and points dumbly at Harry. The second commando blinks and grins with a slow shake of his head.

  ‘HARRY, YOU FAT BASTARD,’ he shouts, waving a pack of cigarettes in the air. ‘YOU TIGHT SOD,’ he yells, laughing, as he yanks the bolt back on the weapon. ‘RUN, YA CRAZY GIT,’ he adds, as though Harry isn’t shifting at all.

  The commandos fire past Harry at the harbour wall, giving what small cover they can. The men urge him on, shouting and waving for Harry to go faster and put some bloody effort into it. The man at the wheel revs the engine, aiming for the corner of the submarine to give Harry a chance to jump in, except the angle is off. The commandos firing don’t realise and lay down whatever fire they can muster and Harry watches in horror as the boat starts to veer away in tiny increments that increase the gap. With a rare tingle of fear coursing through his veins Harry leaps from the submarine but the distance is just those few inches too far and even the outstretched arms of the commandos can’t reach him as he splashes down into the freezing water of the fjord, which rips the air from his lungs.

  Blackness everywhere and the shock strikes him to the core. The shock at missing the boat. The shock at seeing it edge away and the shock of the freezing cold water filling his boots. They become anchors, pulling him down deeper and deeper. His lungs demand air and the transition from hot to instant cold overwhelms his senses. Training kicks in. Don’t panic. Lock it down and work to swim up.

  With a final kick, his head breaks the surface and he sucks the too cold air into his lungs, which spasm with a violent cough. Something hits him from behind. He jolts away, turning to see the burnt bodies of dead German sailors in every direction.

  One last charge to go and he swims through a sea of corpses while his chest tries to cough the rancid water from his lungs. The dull thud of the last explosion reaches his ears and he knows it’s too late. A second later and the shock wave hits, sending him surging high on a wave of death.

  An instant later, he feels the gut-wrenching change of direction caused by the sucking void trying to fill the hole created by the U-boat surging into the air from the force of the explosion. Rip tides swirling in every direction, spinning him round and pulling him under. Gravity overcomes force and the boat reaches the apex of its climb into the sky before sinking back down as more explosions rip through the hull. When it lands, the displacement expels the water that had been pulled back into the explosive suction, pushing it out with raging tsunamis to the sides. Waves metres high surge over the harbour wall, ripping men from their firing positions as flaming debris rains down.

  All sense and meaning are gone. Harry is unable to swim with or against the flow so he relaxes to let the water take him.

  It is over. The battle is done. He stood a chance at getting away and if nothing else his mates will go back saying Mad Harry Madden almost mad
e it back for that pack of smokes Tom owed him.

  Five U-boats taken out with hundreds of enemy soldiers killed and this night will be remembered forever. Better to die now in the freezing water than be tortured at the hands of the jackboot-wearing SS and executed later by firing squad.

  With the booming retorts of the anti-aircraft guns still firing, Harry opens his mouth and purposefully sucks in the retch-inducing water. Instant panic sets in as his body fights to rid his lungs of the liquid, but vomiting only induces an urge to breathe in and Harry keeps his head down, forcing himself to overcome the panic to suck the water in again and again. Images of his life flash through his mind. From a child playing in the woods to the stories of the comet streaking overhead on the day of his birth. Through school, working, dating and then the army. Training in the Scottish Highlands. Running. Swimming. Laughing and fighting.

  No regrets now, old chap. No looking back. You did your bit. That’s all anyone can ask. Sleep now. Wait for Edith.

  Edith. Her face in his mind and that single image is what he holds closest as the warming hands of death start easing him from this mortal world.

  ‘Where is he? Is that him?’

  ‘Christ, there’s loads . . . how we gonna find him?’

  Edith so fair and small. The way she laughs at the difference in their size. His huge hands dwarfing her dainty fingers.

  ‘Harry? No, it’s not him . . . check that one, Malc . . . quick!’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘No, try that one . . . he’s got a beard . . . yes! Harry? Harry?’

  Hands grab his shoulders as the beckoning becomes so powerful it cannot be denied, but denied it is and the hands pull him roughly from the warm waters.

  ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Get him in . . . NEIN, ER IST TOT . . .’

  ‘What did you say, Konrad?’

  ‘I told them he’s dead . . . get him in before they realise . . . Harry? Stay quiet . . .’