Operation Absolom (Carter's Commandos Book 1), page 16
“But he’s probably looking this way as well. They think they have us pinned down.” Looking at the cluster of troopers behind the house, Carter knew that they were pinned down. Forty or so men being halted by a single man in a well-prepared position, armed only with a bolt action rifle. Something had to be done before the Germans spotted the weakness and exploited it with a counter attack.
“OK, Steven. I’ll give you five minutes of cover fire, then we’ll cease firing to allow you to cross the road. But be careful. The houses between us and the church haven’t been cleared yet.”
“Thank you. I won’t go in through the front door. It’s probably barricaded anyway. I’ll go down between the church and the factory and try to find a back way in, or I’ll go in through a window.”
“OK, synchronise watches.”
That had already been done before they boarded the landing craft, but there was no harm in doing it again. “We cease firing at ten thirty five precisely.” Turner stated.
“Got it. Wish me luck.” Carter didn’t give his Troop Commander time to say anything more, as he jogged away to the rear corner of the house.
* * *
Carter dodged from cover to cover along the backs of the houses. It wasn’t just the sniper he had to think about, he reminded himself. Any of these buildings could be harbouring German defenders and he was armed only with his Webley. Too late he realised that he should have borrowed a Thompson gun. Well, he wasn’t going back now. But if there were any Germans in the houses they were concentrating on the street side, not on the rear, so he made the short journey unscathed.
He came to a halt when he spied the church on the other side of the main street. From this side on view he could see the long barrel of the sniper’s rifle protruding between the sand bagged defence of the bell tower. He saw the puff of smoke that announced another shot, but the sound was drowned out by the other noises of the battle that was ranging, not least that of the destroyer’s guns as it continued to rain artillery shells on the road connecting Kirkesfjord to the larger town of Groening, or maybe on enemy shipping.
Carter checked his watch. Ten thirty four. A minute to go. Splinters flew from the structure of the bell tower as the Bren gunners maintained their fire. Sand trickled down the front of the building as a sandbag was holed.
The second hand crawled around the dial of Carter’s watch. As it approached the ten he braced himself, flexing the big muscles in his legs that would drive him across the road. A knot of fear grew in his throat and his skin crawled in anticipation of the bullet that might end his life. As the hand of his watch hit the twelve, Carter launched himself across the road, the pounding of his heart drowning out the thud of his boots until he was able to flatten himself against the front of the church. Rifle fire from further along the street tried to pick him out, but the church’s tiny porch offered some protection. But it served as a warning and he hurried to get around the corner. There was a twenty yard wide gap between the church and the fish oil factory that was its neighbour. Carter could hear shouts of command within the factory. English voices, probably laying more demolition charges. He’d better hurry. The rear of the church might offer some way in to the building, so he eased himself along the side, ducking his head below the level of the windows in case there were more Germans inside.
That was a point. What if there were more defenders inside? The six rounds in his Webley wouldn’t last long against a determined defence. He fingered his one remaining grenade, hanging from his webbing harness. That should even up the odds a little. Was it sacrilegious to throw a grenade into a church, his over active mind wondered? Surely it must be. Well, he wasn’t too sure he had a mortal soul to endanger, so it was an issue he would have to defer until he had time to consult the padre who, at that moment, would be back on the beach giving comfort to the wounded.
Carter froze as a figure came around the corner of the church. The German saw Carter at the same time as Carter saw him. The race started. The German’s rifle swung towards Carter as the commando raised his hand to fire. The range was close, barely six feet, neither of them could miss.
Carter won by a fraction of a second. As the German’s finger whitened on the trigger of his rifle, Carter’s Webley spat once, then again. The German managed to fire his weapon and Carter felt the snap of air past his check and the crack of the supersonic sound it made, simultaneous to the bang of the weapon. But it was too late for the German, who collapsed in a heap, dead before he hit the ground.
Carter released the breath he had been holding and gulped in fresh supplies. Close. He felt his hand shaking. He’d just killed a man, snuffed out his life in an instance. It was the first he knew he had killed personally. The others, back towards the beach, any of his men might have killed, but this had been him. The fact that the German would have done the same to him didn’t seem to matter. He had killed a man. How did he feel about that?
He felt that if he didn’t do something quick, the next German might kill him. Snap out of it, Carter, he told himself. Time for philosophising later. Right now you’ve got a job to do. You’re a soldier, a commando. It’s what we do. He took another deep breath while he struggled to get control of his nerves.
Calmer now, he crossed the gap to the shadow of the factory where some abandoned oil drums lay rusting. They would provide some cover. He surveyed the bell tower as he used the respite to replace the two spent cartridges in his revolver. Splinters flew again as the Bren guns resumed their fire. Was the sniper still up there, or was he even now making his escape? The answer came in the form of another puff of smoke.
There was no sign of any more Germans behind the church, from where the dead man had appeared. OK, now was the time. Carter emerged at a crouch. It was probably what saved him as the world exploded behind him and he was lifted and thrown around like a rag doll. Before being dropped unceremoniously onto the ground.
6 Troop had blown up the first of the fish oil factories.
* * *
He coughed the dust from his throat and blinked several times as his vision began to clear. He could feel himself pinned down by rubble, but it wasn’t crushing him. He moved his arm and something slid off, giving him more freedom. A kick of his leg produced the same result. Gradually he was able to release himself from the pile of broken planks and other loose debris. He scraped dust and splinters from his face, feeling the wetness of his own blood as he did so. Not much, probably no more than scratches. His head hurt. Probing gently, he found the seat of the pain; an egg sized lump on the side of his head. That must have been where he hit the ground.
Now that he knew why he was hurting, he had to work out what had caused the hurt. Smoke tickled his nostrils and his rapidly returning hearing recorded the roar and crackle of flames. It was quite close by, he guessed, because he could feel the heat.
There was a rapid popping sound. Ammunition cooking off. He ducked. It wasn’t aimed at him, but exploding ammunition went in all directions. It would be a shame to die from a random bullet. How did he know it was ammunition? How did he know what exploding bullets sounded like?
He struggled to sit upright, the pain in his head protesting. To one side he saw the soup bowl shape of his steel helmet. He dragged it towards him and jammed it back on his head, wincing as it pressed hard against the tender lump. He felt nauseated and had to wait for the feeling to pass. Looking around him he tried to work out where he was.
There were several buildings on fire and others damaged by blast and gunshots. A few yards away a dead German lay, also half covered by debris, blood seeping from two small holes in his feldgrau greatcoat. A tug at his own neck made him look down at his chest. It was a lanyard. He followed it to its end and saw the standard issue Webley revolver lying beside him. He picked it up and checked the load. Two bullets fired. What’s the betting that the diameter of the wounds in the German’s coat matched the point four five five calibre of his weapon. He pushed the revolver back into the holster at his waist.
But that didn’t solve the mystery of how he had got here, or even where ‘here’ was. He scanned the length of the single street, flanked on either side by houses and other buildings. At the end it finished abruptly at a stone jetty. Beyond the jetty lay the expanse of a fjord.
‘Fjord’. That was a Norwegian word. Why had he used it? Because he was in Norway, he concluded. Once triggered, the memories flooded back. Operation Absolom, Kirkesfjord, Norway. That made it Christmas Eve. They’d been sent to give Jerry a Christmas gift; one he wouldn’t enjoy.
The whoop-whoop of a naval vessel’s siren broke the silence, sounding a farewell and echoing across the expanse of water, sending the sea birds aloft, screeching in protest. He craned his neck and saw the stern of a destroyer disappearing around a bend in the steep cliffs. That would be HMS Orbit. She had been detailed as rear-guard for the flotilla of landing craft that had brought them there and would also take them back to the mother ship, HMS Prince Leopold. Too late for him to jump up and try to attract their attention, even if his aching head had allowed it.
So that was the where; now for the what. A German sniper. That was it. He had just taken out young Private Griffiths. Good chap Griffiths; handy in the boxing ring. Great shame. That was it. He’d seen the sniper’s position and directed fire onto it as he sneaked down the side of a fish oil factory to find a back way into the church where the sniper had set up shop.
There it was, just a few yards away, the white painted wooden building with a red roof. Every window had been broken by the blast that had sent Carter flying and covered him in debris.
He’d been close to one of the fish oil factories, the reason they’d been sent there. The fish oil factories that the demolition teams had been tasked with blowing up. He must have been too close. Damned lucky to be alive.
He looked up to the front of the building, towards the sniper’s position in the stubby bell tower. The bell tower was no more, just a ragged wooden stump and the remnants of the sandbags that had protected the sniper, sand dribbling down the wooden tiles of the roof. The blast from the demolition couldn’t have done that. It must have been artillery fire, directed from the destroyer that had stood out in the fjord. A bit over the top, in his opinion. He’d have got the sniper if … But he hadn’t and someone had taken the decision to use a sledge hammer to crack a nut rather than risk another man.
How long had he been out cold? He checked his watch, noting the cracked glass, but the second hand was still sweeping steadily around the dial; fourteen thirty hours, give or take a couple of minutes. Dusk starting to creep in at these northern latitudes. They’d been scheduled to start re-embarking on the landing craft at thirteen thirty. The disappearing destroyer suggested they’d been bang on time.
The only sounds he could hear were the crackling flames and the odd rumble of collapsing walls as the fires did their work. He looked around again. The Germans would be back, those that had fled rather than face the commandos. With them would come reinforcements and they would search the town, seeking out stragglers. Seeking out him. He couldn’t afford to sit around here feeling sorry for himself.
The German’s rifle lay close to his body. He stood up and crossed the few feet to pick it up. He worked the bolt action of the Mauser Gewehr 24, ejecting a spent cartridge and ramming another home from the five round magazine. It was a good rifle, reliable and had been in service with the Wehrmacht since they had seized hundreds of thousands of them when they invaded Czechoslovakia, but this one seemed new, so was probably of German manufacture. He rooted around in the dead German’s ammunition pouches and found several blocks of bullets, the rims at the bottom of the cartridge cases held on metal strips, five rounds to a strip. He pushed them into his own pouches above his spare Webley ammunition.
The German didn’t seem to have any grenades on him, which was a pity. Maybe he would find more dead Germans. There was no doubt about it, really. The commandos were good shots, spending twice as much time practicing on the rifle ranges as regular infantry.
He stood stock still, listening. A sound had come from behind him. What was it? He tried to identify it. Even with the continuing noise from the burning buildings he could recognise the creaking of a hinge.
He dived right, his head protesting at the sudden movement. His helmet flew off once again. He must remember to tighten the chin strap, he scolded himself, even as he crawled on knees and elbows to find some cover. He pushed the rifle ahead of him and pressed the butt into his shoulder, then carefully raised his head, seeking out the source of the noise.
There, slightly right of his eyeline. A head appeared, projecting through a trapdoor, next to a house, two down from where he had woken up. No uniform, no helmet and no visible sign of a weapon. Must be a local; a civilian.
But the commando didn’t relax. He couldn’t be sure. Through the aperture of the rear sight he lined up the blade of the foresight on his target, dead centre of the figure’s chest. The man climbed higher, exposing his body, holding his arms above his head. He waved one of them, calling the commando officer forward.
Steven Carter checked both sides of himself to make sure that he wasn’t being lured into a trap. He craned his head around to check his six o’clock. No sign of any enemy behind him. Cautiously he rose to his feet and approached the man.
The man continued to beckon, his arm waving frantically, trying to get Carter to hurry.
“Down here.” The man said in heavily accented English. “Hide, before Germans come.”
No point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, Carter decided. He descended a ladder into the cellar of the house that loomed above him. The man followed him, dropping the trapdoor into place as soon as his head was below the height of the low ceiling.
The cellar was lit only by a single oil lamp, the warm glow from which illuminated the faces of the other occupants of the room.
“My wife, Helga.” He indicated an attractive woman standing in the middle of the room, her hands folded protectively around the shoulders of two small, blond haired boys. “My boys, Eirik and Nils.” He added. “My name is Olav.” He extended his hand to allow Steven to shake it.
Steven introduced himself. “I’m Lieutenant Steven Carter. Call me Steven, please. We seem to have made a bit of a mess of your town.”
The man shrugged, as though it was of no account. “You kill Germans. That is all we ask.”
“We destroyed your factories.” Carter was having difficulty understanding how the man was so forgiving for the carnage that had come storming out of the sea to destroy his home.
“The Germans need fish oil. They will re-build them. Meanwhile, we have boats and nets. We can fish. We will not starve.”
“Am I the only British soldier you found?”
“The only one we have seen. But only because we heard you moaning.”
“I was moaning?”
“Oh yes, for several minutes. We didn’t go to help because we thought you might be a German. Then I saw you sit up.”
“You were very brave. I could have shot you.”
Olav shrugged again. “But you did not.”
The woman turned and gently ushered her two sons up a flight of stairs to the upper level of the house. “We were hiding down here when you were fighting, it is safer. Better you stay down here, in case you are seen through windows. My wife will fix food for you.”
“Hang on, I can probably contribute.” He undid the heavy buckle of his webbing belt and shrugged his way out of his harness so that he could reach his pack and open it up to search inside. They had all been issued with a day’s rations, which had remained untouched. He took out a tin of bully beef and a small packet of tea leaves, offering them to the woman. She took them from him with a smile, before following the boys up the stairs.
“You are commandos.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact, announced clearly on the shoulder of Carter’s battledress blouse. “We have heard of you. You have raided other places in Norway.”
“Yes, the Lofoten Islands and Floss. I’m surprised you have heard. The Germans don’t broadcast news of what we do, do they?”
“We listen to the BBC; in secret of course. King Hackon broadcasts to us and encourages us to resist the Germans. There isn’t much we can do, but I can help you.”
“If the Germans find me in your house they’ll probably shoot you.”
“I know. Tonight we’ll get you out of the village. I have a small boat. We’ll cross the fjord to the other side. There is a place you can hide until I can contact the Osvald Group, the resistance. They’re communists, but they are fighting the Germans so we co-operate with them. They can put you in touch with people who may be able to get you home. If not, they will get you to Sweden.”
There was a hissing sound, like steam escaping and they turned to see what it was. The woman, Helga, was standing at the top of the stairs, waving her husband towards her.
“Hva er det?” he asked.
“Det er en annen soldat utlenfor.” She replied.
“My wife says that there is another soldier outside. I’ll go upstairs and take a look.” He moved quickly, gently easing his wife to one side so that he could get past her. He was back a few moments later.
“It is getting dark, so he is hard to see, but I think he may be one of yours. Can you take a look?” He gestured to the trap door at the top of its short ladder.
There was no room to use the long German rifle, so Carter drew his Webley and climbed the ladder, holding on with one hand. He used his helmeted head to nudge the trapdoor open a few inches, a shot of pain reminding him that he still had an egg sized bump. He could see the soldier, hunched over, creeping carefully along the side of the road, trying to stay in the deeper shadows, but he was being defeated by the flickering glow of the flames. The gathering dusk wasn’t quite complete, but it was dark enough to hide everything but his general shape and the occasional glimpse of skin turned orange by the fire’s glow.
