Whale Fjord

Eleven

October 1940

‘You’ve been rumbled, Tom.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

Tom was in Major Harris’s office at Hvammsvík. The major tossed Tom a sheet of paper.

It was an order to Lieutenant Marks telling him to report to Captain Pybus-Smith at Divisional HQ at Ártún to assist with the interrogation of passengers expected to arrive in Reykjavík aboard the SS Esja from Petsamo in Finland.

‘Why me, sir?’

‘As I said, they’ve rumbled you. They know you speak Icelandic.’

‘Hardly, sir. I’m certainly not good enough to interpret.’

‘I told HQ that, but they still want you. The good news is that you’ll be put up at the Hotel Borg. A couple of days in Reykjavík won’t do you any harm, eh?’

‘Do you know this Pybus-Smith, sir?’

‘I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s military intelligence. He’s frightfully keen — believes there is a spy under every Icelandic bed. To be fair to him, they’ve caught two already. He seems a decent fellow, but...’

‘Sir?’

‘I don’t altogether trust him.’

Tom rode the Enfield to divisional headquarters, a few miles before Reykjavík. It took him half an hour to learn that the captain was expecting Tom at a warehouse by the harbour in Reykjavík.

Reykjavík was bustling, especially in the harbour area. British merchant ships were backed up from the docks. The air was alive with clanks, crashes, shouts and the grinding of engines as cranes strained and forklifts buzzed around wharves crammed with crates, vehicles and munitions.

A section of Canadian Cameron Highlanders marched past, bayonets fixed, kilts swirling, stared at by a group of small blond Icelandic boys. One of the urchins lifted his arm in a swift Heil Hitler salute and ran, followed by his laughing comrades. A Canadian corporal broke step to give chase, but then thought better of it.

Just a short distance away, Icelandic fishing boats brushed up against another quay, and a row of burly women were filleting that day’s catch on long tables, their arms and aprons smeared in blood and guts. The smell of fish pervaded the air.

Tom found the warehouse, and Captain Pybus-Smith. He was a tall, dapper man with a thin moustache. He held himself like a gentleman, rather than an officer, and Tom guessed he wasn’t regular army. He greeted Tom with an affable smile, a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Good of you to come, Marks,’ he said. ‘That’s the Esja there.’ He pointed to a small passenger ship with a single funnel, tied up to the quayside.

‘The passengers are all Icelanders returning from Copenhagen. Many of them were students studying there: some of them are the sons of bigwigs in Iceland.’ He chuckled. ‘If there is such a thing as an Icelandic bigwig, what?’

Tom smiled politely.

‘Anyway, they made their way from Copenhagen to Finland and a port on the Barents Sea called Petsamo, where the Esja met them. They steamed from there to Scapa Flow where they have been screened. But I think we should screen them again, just to be on the safe side.’

‘Screen them for what, sir? Spying?’

‘That’s the idea. It would be a piece of cake for Jerry to smuggle one of their agents on board, or, better yet, turn one of the Icelanders to their cause. So, we’re looking for Nazis. And communists.’

‘Communists?’

‘After the Nazi — Soviet Pact last year, we need to beware of communists. A rum lot at the best of times, but it’s just possible the Nazis might recruit a Bolshie against us, you know?’

‘I see. What would you like me to do, sir? I speak a little Icelandic, but nowhere near enough to be a reliable interpreter.’

‘I have a good interpreter, Gunnar Árnason. He’s only nineteen, but he’s trustworthy. At least, I think he is. What I’d like you to do is sit in on the first interviews. Listen to the translation and tell me afterwards whether it’s accurate or whether there’s any funny stuff going on. Then perhaps, once you’ve seen how it’s done, we can split up and tackle the rest separately.’

‘Will the interpreter know that I speak some Icelandic?’

Pybus-Smith chuckled. ‘No. And I’d rather he didn’t.’

‘I see, sir. Won’t he find out at some point? Isn’t there a risk you’ll lose his trust?’

‘Oh, Gunnar knows me and my little schemes well. He won’t be surprised. Let’s get cracking, shall we?’

There were 250 passengers on the Esja, many of them male students from Iceland’s wealthier families, but also a hundred women and twenty-three children. They were let off the boat in small groups while they were ‘screened’, some of them pulled to one side for Pybus-Smith to question more closely. He asked these passengers — all men — about their family in Iceland, their political beliefs and affiliations, whether they had travelled outside Denmark — and he always threw a question in German at them to see whether they spoke the language.

The passengers were tired, bemused and nervous. Some of the older ones were offended, but this didn’t go down well with Pybus-Smith.

From what Tom could tell, Gunnar the young translator was doing a very good job.

Tom was on the lookout for a Marteinn Hálfdánsson and, sure enough, he was eventually ushered into the simple interview room, which was nothing more than a small concrete storage shed with a desk and four chairs.

He looked a little like Kristín and a lot like Hálfdán. Like Hálfdán and Siggi, but unlike his sister, he was short. He had reddish hair and an impish smile, which failed to impress Pybus-Smith. Neither did his answers.

Tom could tell that the fact that he came from a farm in Hvalfjördur raised the captain’s suspicions, as did Marteinn’s admission that his brother was working on the construction of the naval base there. But it was his membership of the Communist Party that really worried Pybus-Smith.

‘When did you become a member?’ he asked, the young interpreter translating.

‘About six months ago,’ said Marteinn. ‘While I was in Copenhagen. That was one of the reasons I went there, to study Marxism.’

‘Are your family communists?’

Marteinn snorted. ‘My father is a member of the Independence Party and always will be.’

‘And your brother? The one who works at the base?’

‘He’s only eighteen. He was seventeen last time I saw him, and he had no interest in politics.’

‘So, you are sympathetic to socialism. What about National Socialism?’

‘I’m no Nazi. The Nazis invaded Denmark. I have seen the Nazis at close quarters and I don’t like them.’

‘But the Soviet Union is allied to Germany?’

‘Not exactly allied.’

‘They made a pact to carve up Poland.’

‘They did,’ Marteinn admitted. ‘And I don’t know why. I don’t understand why the Soviet Union doesn’t oppose Hitler. It must have its reasons.’

‘And what do you think about the British presence in Iceland?’

Marteinn considered his answer. He chose honesty. ‘The British were uninvited. It was an invasion, an occupation.’

‘Like the Nazi occupation of Denmark?’

‘Not quite that bad, but yes.’

Pybus-Smith puffed at his pipe. ‘Would you prefer it if the British left?’

‘Yes,’ said Marteinn simply.

Part of Tom admired Marteinn’s honesty. Part of him wished he would just lie.

Pybus-Smith turned to Tom. ‘What do you think?’ he asked in a voice low enough so that even if Marteinn understood English, he wouldn’t hear.

‘I know his family,’ Tom said. ‘Their farm isn’t far from my platoon in Hvalfjördur.’

‘Really?’ Pybus-Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

‘His father, Hálfdán, is a good man and has always been perfectly civil to me. He welcomes the British being here — says we’re better than the Germans.’

‘I should bally well hope so. And the younger brother? The one who works at the base. What’s he like?’

‘A sullen blighter,’ Tom said.

‘Does he like the British?’

Tom was tempted to lie, but he was a British officer doing his duty. ‘No. He’s worried we’ll take his women.’

Pybus-Smith grinned. ‘Oh, that! So, what do you think? About Hálfdánsson?’

‘I think he’s all right,’ Tom said. ‘I know you said we should be suspicious of communists, but I think his only fault is he answered your questions honestly. He may not like us being here, but there’s no indication that he would help the Germans.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Pybus-Smith. ‘Let’s keep him overnight. Talk to him again tomorrow. Next!’