James Benn - Billy Boyle

“Sure. But not weighed down with all this gear.”

“Right. It would take you to the bottom. Get rid of the parka. You won’t need it anyway. No matter how cold it is out here, it’s still summer, even at the Arctic Circle.”

I took off the parka and helmet. I left the Thompson and most everything else, except for my. 45 and one grenade that I stuffed into a cargo pocket in my utility pants, along with an extra pair of wool socks. Harry gave me a lightweight blue seaman’s coat with the English markings removed.

“You might not be noticed so easily if you wear this. Most of the locals are fishermen and wear similar gear. Get ready now, we’re almost there. We’ve just passed Lovund and Sleneset.”

Those were two outlying islands. Tomma was next. I put on the life-jacket over the coat and stood near the railing. Tomma was coming up on the horizon. It was about six miles wide and it would be less than that to the mainland. It was a good choice for a landing. Not obvious, with the mainland so close. Big enough to hide out in. Unless we were being observed, the Germans wouldn’t search it first thing. So my little swim made sense. I guess. I watched the island draw closer.

Harry’s first mate took over at the wheel as he came down to stand by me.

“It’s time. Sorry to dump you off like this, Billy, but things often don’t go as planned.”

“True,” I said sadly. “No, they don’t. I’m sorry about all this.”

“What do you have to be sorry about, Billy? This isn’t on your head. Someone in a cozy office in London thought this up, and now we’re here to pick up the pieces as best we can. That’s the nature of war.”

“Or is it the nature of man?”

Or my nature, I wondered. To pursue Rolf Kayser no matter what the cost to others, because he had offended me by killing my friend?

“If I had time for philosophy, Billy, I’d give that some thought. But right now I just drive the boat.” He grinned, wearily this time.

“Yeah, and I just jump off the boat.” I shook hands with Harry and then did that very thing.

It was like jumping into a barrel of ice. I went in deeper than I thought I would, then struggled to the surface, my arms flailing, panic just about to take over. The freezing water shocked me and I gasped for air. The Atlantic was cold along the North Shore back home, even in July, but it wasn’t anywhere near the Arctic Circle, like this water.

I kicked my feet as hard as I could, surfaced, and began to swim toward a line of rocks that jutted out from the shore. I heard the single working engine of MTB 718 resonate through the water and glanced back to see it disappear into its own smoke screen. I felt alone, abandoned. I knew that was irrational, as this was my own plan, but now that it was happening I would’ve given anything to be back on that boat.

The cold went right to my bones. My teeth were chattering and I had to work to keep my limbs moving, to remember to make each stroke. It was easy enough to float, but it was hard work kicking with those heavy combat boots. I wasn’t making much progress, and I started to worry, thinking I was about to go under and stay under. I felt my heart rate go up and knew I was afraid, and that fear could take over and kill me. I had to get up onto the rocks. I forced my legs to kick for all I was worth. I was breathing pretty hard and swallowed a bunch of water. Gagging, teeth chattering, I kept kicking. If I stopped I knew that I would die here.

Finally, my arms hit an underwater rock a few yards out from the first outcropping of rocks. I let my feet down to see if I could touch bottom. I could stand, but the water was up to my nose. I bobbed along, trying to walk, bounce, and climb the slippery underwater slope. Grabbing onto a jagged piece of rock, I pulled myself up. Cold water ran off me as I stumbled and tripped along the line of rocks that led toward shore. I made it to a gravel-strewn beach and fell to my knees, taking in big gasps of air as I pulled off the life jacket. I felt dizzy. A shudder ran through my chilled body and I doubled over and threw up seawater, the salty taste mixing with bile, the foulness staying in my mouth. After a few minutes’ rest, I found a large flat rock that I could move. When I lifted it a few inches above the wet gravel, small crabs darted out. Just like playing at the beach back home. I stuffed the life jacket underneath it and let it down with a wet thump before sitting on it, my clothes soaked and cold against my skin, shivering, but alive.

Then I heard the crunch of boots on the shingle. I tried to open my coat to get at my. 45 but my fingers were too numb to work the buttons. I was still fumbling with them when four men came around a large boulder. They were dressed like fishermen, except for the British Sten guns they carried. The first one said something to me in Norwegian. He sounded angry.

“I don’t speak Norwegian.”

“Napoleon,” another of them said slowly. That was the password. They were waiting for my response.

“Waterloo,” I said. Some of the tension left their faces. I stood.

“Why have you come now?” the English speaker demanded. “In daylight, with much shooting?”

“We had to-” I tried to explain.

They cut me off, speaking to each other in Norwegian. Their spokesman turned to me and said, “Is not good. We must go. Quickly.” They turned and walked off at a fast pace. I followed. Welcome to Norway. Is not good.

They took me to a rowboat, stowed their guns in a burlap sack, and rowed me to another island, Hugla, about one mile south of Tomma. I blew on my hands to warm them, but it didn’t help. They were red and raw from my cold scramble over sharp rocks. The icy water dripped from my clothes, making a dirty gray pool beneath my seat. As we beached the rowboat, I heard the drone of engines. From the south, coming from the mainland, a flight of three Bf 110 twin-engine fighterbombers flew over us toward the ocean.

“Is not good,” my new best friend in Norway repeated. “Is not good for boat. Not good.” He shook his head. I didn’t want to think about that boat right now.

“Cold,” I said. “I am cold. Not good. Understand?”

“Yes. Come.”

We walked across the pebble beach to a path that led through scrub brush, up over boulders and into a forest of small firs. A half hour later we were at a log cabin, at what was probably the highest point on the small island. The roof was covered with dirt, and moss, grass, and even some small fir trees grew from it. The cabin had a very narrow first floor, which was entered through a doorway above three granite steps in the middle of a rough-hewn pine-log wall facing a small clearing. The second floor was wider and jutted out over the bottom floor. The entrance led into a single room with a stairway and benches along the wall. I followed my rescuers upstairs and one of them got a fire going in the large stone fireplace. There were chairs and a table near the hearth. It was rustic but very comfortable, the kind of place that would have been great for a fishing vacation, if you weren’t being hunted by the Germans. From the single window I could see across to the mainland. The town of Nesna hugged the opposite shore, with steep mountains rising above it on two sides. There was an inlet-a fjord, I guess-that went past the town and vanished around a curve in the mountains. Fishing boats and other small craft went back and forth. It looked very peaceful. I knew looks could be deceiving.

Once the fire got going I undressed. They wrapped me in a blanket and sat me in front of the hearth. My clothes were hung to dry on wooden chairs they pushed close to the warmth.

“We sleep here, this night,” my talkative friend said. “Ferry to Nesna in the morning, yes? Is best.”