Authors: Anthony G Williams
THE FORESIGHT WAR (15 page)
The commander of the incoming flight of Beauforts acknowledged and the planes diverted to the north to approach Herjangsfjord over the mountains.
The reconnaissance plane had meanwhile climbed to a safe altitude and circled the area, guiding the attacking planes in.
The first that the anti-aircraft gunners of the
Leipzig
knew of the attack was when the planes dived on them from the north, instead of the south-west direction that they had anxiously been scanning.
The light cruiser was a sitting target, and the 2,000 lb semi-armour piercing bombs carried by the Beauforts made short work of it for the loss of only one Beaufort.
As the
Leipzig
listed, burning, the reconnaissance aircraft made its way over to Ballangen to guide in the next flight onto the helpless destroyers.
The destroyers in Rombaksfjord would be next, the ground troops last.
The
Warspite
cruised up the Ofotfjord just before
She had been delayed by the need to clear mines from the entrance and by the intensive anti-submarine efforts made by the escorting destroyers and aircraft from the light carriers.
Approaching Narvik at the end of the Ofotfjord, she turned to port into the Herjandsfjord, the Gebirgsjäger watching in horrified fascination as the four massive turrets swung with leisurely menace, the barrels of the 15 inch guns seemingly shortening to invisibility as they aimed straight at them.
The improvised cover which was all they had had time to devise suddenly seemed horribly inadequate.
Spray flew over the bows of the tank landing craft as it ploughed past Narvik toward
Øyjord
on
the other side of the Rombaksfjord.
The colossal detonations of
Warspite
’s huge guns had been reverberating around the fjord for almost an hour, and the Sergeant-Major, bracing himself against the hatch of the Cromwell assault tank, felt briefly sorry for the German troops on the receiving end.
A sailor positioned in the bows signalled to him.
One minute left.
He felt the butterflies fluttering in his stomach and wished he had time for another visit to the heads, but it was too late now.
He took comfort from the massive bulk of his assault tank, with its 25-pounder gun thrusting forward.
The tank’s engine was warm and revving as the craft grounded.
The ramp crashed down and the driver threw the tank into gear, the vehicle lurching over the ramp and into the shallow water beyond.
Water streamed from the front of the tank as the tracks scrabbled it to the shore.
On both sides, the Sergeant-Major could see other craft landing, disgorging a mixture of Cromwells and Covenanter armoured personnel carriers, each with a section of Marines.
The Marines had left their Covenanter on the outskirts of
Øyjord
and
moved carefully through the village, alert to any ambush.
The Sergeant crouched
beside
a building, knowing that its wooden construction would give no protection but feeling comforted by the cover.
His section clustered around him, bristling with Solens, Besals and Brens.
With hand signals, he sent one group led by a corporal around one side of the building while he led the remainder around the other.
He spun round at a sudden blast from one side, in time to see an arcing tracer impact the front of the Covenanter.
A violent explosion shook the APC, which sat burning, obviously wrecked.
The chatter of automatic fire snapped at his attention and he hurled himself to the ground as the air around him crackled with supersonic bullets.
It seemed, he thought crazily, as if Øyjord might be occupied after all.
He gripped his Solen and looked round at his men, who were returning a hail of fire towards the concealed German positions.
It was not, he thought, going to be an easy day.
The Wellington patrolled its regular beat over the North Sea, festooned with the aerials of the new air observation radar.
The aircraft’s modest performance was slowed still further by the extra drag, but this was of no account to the RAF.
What mattered was the plot being kept on board, tracking air movements over Norway and directing the relentless Reapers onto promising targets.
The Nazis must, the pilot thought, be heartily sick of the way the virtually uncatchable fighters pounced without warning anywhere above Norway.
‘Aircraft heading west over the
North Sea
.’
The senior officer went to look at the CRT,
then
frowned.
‘Have we identified them?’
‘No, there’s no IFF response.’
He watched the blip on the screen as it grew closer.
It was not large, but was beginning to show that there was more than one plane.
He walked over to the R/T.
‘Hello, Argus calling aircraft heading west from Bergen at angels fifteen; please identify
yourselves
.’
Silence.
The officer felt his unease growing.
‘Where are the nearest Reapers?’
The operator sat still, suddenly pale.
‘Too far,’ he said quietly.
‘Pilot!
Bandits approaching from the west.
Break off the patrol and take evasive action.’
The lumbering aircraft lurched to one side and dropped toward the sea, winding up to a shuddering 250 mph.
‘Those bandits are doing at least four hundred.’
No-one could hear the operator’s whisper; they didn’t need to.
The four Fw 187s streaked towards the fleeing plane, guided faultlessly by the radar receivers they carried, tuned to the frequency of the Wellington’s set.
The officer suddenly guessed what was happening.
‘Turn off the radar!’ He yelled.
He was far too late.
‘So far so good.’
Mary was studying the latest situation reports and plotting the positions of the British units on the large map of Norway which dominated one wall of the Operations Room.
‘Narvik and Bardufoss airfield are secure and the Marines have linked up with the Norwegians in Hegra fort.
Dietl and the Third Mountain Division have been forced over the border into Sweden.’
‘Where doubtless they will not be interned for long,’ commented Charles drily.
‘Still, if they do hang around there, it will give us a good excuse to go into Sweden after them and put the iron ore mines into protective custody.’
‘What about Trondheim?’
Don was bleary-eyed and dishevelled, having been forced to catch up with lost sleep during the day.
‘Trondheim is ours but we took heavy losses.
The Marines managed to neutralise the coastal forts and paratroops seized the airfield.
But those radio-controlled bombs caused havoc until the carriers mounted standing Beaufighter patrols to knock down the Dorniers at a distance.
Then the Germans started providing fighter escorts and the air battle is still raging.
The first Hurricanes are operating from Vaernes, though, which is shifting the balance in our favour.
The First Armoured is pushing up the valley towards
Dombås ,
but the Germans are putting up a tough rearguard action so progress is slow.’
Johnson was moodily studying a map of the North Sea on the adjacent wall.
‘Naval losses have been heavy on both sides.
Our submarines and torpedo planes scored a number of successes and the Germans only have one pocket battleship, a couple of cruisers and some small destroyers left, but we’ve lost
Furious
,
Vindictive
and
Sheffield
to submarines, plus
Renown
,
Malaya
,
Cornwall
and several smaller ships to those damned radio-controlled bombs.’
‘It could have been worse.
At least the main covering force has stayed intact.’
Mary should have been a diplomat, reflected Don, or maybe a counsellor, if such a role had been thought of.
Johnson brightened.
‘Yes, after some terrific battles.
The Beaufighters and the new carriers have really proved themselves; they’re claiming twenty-three Dorniers for the loss of only three fighters, and the anti-aircraft escorts have claimed another nine.
On top of that, they sank three U-boats.’
‘We’ve probably got the measure of those bombs for the time being,’ commented Charles.
‘The control frequencies have been identified so we can jam them, at least until the Germans find out and change the frequencies.’
‘There have been some other nasty surprises, though.
We didn’t know the Germans had such good Asdic; it has cost us at least three submarines.
And their Panzerfausts are costing us dear in hitting our armoured vehicles.’
‘How are the Norwegians doing?’
Enquired Don.
Taylor pulled a face.
‘They never really had a chance to mobilise and they’ve been pushed up the Gudbransdal past Lillehammer, but General Ruge is pulling the remnants together and we’ve flown them crate-loads of PIATs to give them some chance against the Panzers.
Many of them are skilled skiers, though, so they’re doing a great job of reconnaissance and screening wherever we’ve been able to add them to our forces.’
Morgan looked up from the reports on operational readiness.
‘The Luftwaffe was badly handicapped by the job the Mosquitos did on the airfields, but they’re getting back into full swing now, with Messerschmitts operating from the Oslo fields.
They’re now too well defended to risk repeating the operations.
However, we started on Bergen and Stavanger yesterday.’
Johnson looked worried again.
‘These are
trickier,
they’re so much closer to the German airfields.
We’re going in, though, with
Warspite
and
Queen Elizabeth
, and the covering fleet is moving south to give them support.
We’ve doubled the escort screen, but even so we’re expecting a monumental air and sea battle before the Marines even land.
What’s worse, the Germans have had time to take over the defensive forts.
We’re planning to attack them with Beauforts carrying the new one-ton armour-piercing bombs, but there’s no guarantee they will knock them out.’
Don grimaced, remembering a long-ago visit to Bergen, the charm of the medieval wooden dockside buildings of the Bryggen.
They were hardly likely to survive the coming battle.
He tore his mind away from the memory and turned to Mary.
‘Anything happening elsewhere?’
‘Bodø and Tromsø are in Norwegian hands, and oddly enough the Germans have heavily bombed Namsos and Åndalsnes despite the lack of any military activity there.’
Don winced, thinking of the little towns, their wooden buildings so vulnerable to attack, smashed because of their significance in another time, another war.
He realised that Mary was watching him anxiously, and forced a smile.
‘Who was it who said that no plan of battle ever survives first contact with the enemy?
At least, we’re doing a whole lot better than we were in my time.’
Nothing seemed to be moving in the valley below.
The little
The railway line from Dombås to Lillehammer also hugged the north bank, with a station just where the river divided around a large island about half a mile long.
Beyond that, the river curved southward out of sight.
The Lieutenant lowered his field glasses and spoke to the radioman behind him.
‘Tell them
it’s
all clear.’
He looked through the glasses again and murmured to himself. ‘Neither the Norwegians nor, thank God, the Germans have reached here yet from Lillehammer, and if the remnants we drove out of Dombås came this way they haven’t stopped.
We should have time to set up a strong defensive position.’
He turned to his platoon.
‘Sergeant, stay here with the radioman and two others.
The rest will return with me.’
The Norwegians were exhausted after days of heavy fighting and nights of retreating, always being pushed back by the heavily-armed enemy; every move under observation from the ubiquitous Fieseler Storch scout planes, always the possibility of a fighter or bomber attack.
Still, they were intact as a fighting force under the grimly determined leadership of General Ruge, and their King and government were with them.
The portable anti-tank weapons flown in by the British had surprised the Germans and made them more cautious, buying the Norwegians precious time in their retreat.
The small force moved up the valley towards Kvam just before dawn, hoping to reach shelter before the accursed scout planes started hovering over them.
The Kaptein in command of the forward reconnaissance unit moved warily up the road toward the village, then halted as he saw movement by the road ahead.
He reached for his glasses and saw the flag being waved; it was a Union Jack.