Whale Fjord

Four

August 1940

It was raining. Of course it was bloody raining. It was Iceland.

At least there wasn’t much wind. It was the wind that had really got to Lieutenant Tom Marks since he and his men had arrived in Iceland three months earlier.

It would be better once the Nissen huts arrived. These prefabricated dwellings of semi-cylindrical corrugated metal, wood and concrete would keep out the rain and the wind. They even had stoves.

Tom looked out into the gloom at the field of tents that housed his platoon. It was early, 0600. In theory, it was dawn. In practice, black had merged into dark grey. Summer, such as it was, was coming to an end, and it would soon be getting colder. Life was already exceedingly uncomfortable for his men. Unless those Nissen huts came soon, it would get worse than that.

At the outbreak of war, Tom had imagined himself marching off to France, leading his men in desperate battles against the Hun. Well, there were no Huns in Iceland, at least not yet, but the challenges of leadership in this godforsaken country were many. He was a schoolteacher who had been trained to lead infantrymen, but now he was effectively a foreman on a construction site. Securing supplies took up most of his time, but the most important aspect of his job was keeping up the morale of his men in the face of an implacable and relentless enemy.

The Icelandic weather.

The 49th Division, the ‘Polar Bears’ as they were now called, had arrived in Iceland in May to relieve the Royal Marines who had initially occupied the island. Tom’s platoon was tasked with constructing a defensive position on the southern shore of Hvalfjördur, protecting the new naval base that was being built a few miles further east along the fjord, at Hvammsvík, near its end. His men spent some of their time manning emplacements against Germans who never came. They spent more of their time building and digging things: trenches, pillboxes, anti-aircraft defences, latrines.

The defensive position was a good one, on top of a low hill a hundred yards in from the shoreline. Hvalfjördur was deep, narrow and long, stretching twenty miles inland from Iceland’s west coast, protected on either side by great looming mountain ridges. From their position, the platoon’s three Vickers heavy machine guns could intercept attackers approaching along the dirt road that ran along the shoreline, or even landing craft attempting to reach Hvammsvík by sea.

The position was known as Tóftir, after the farm that lay a few hundred yards away, and which provided the soldiers with occasional eggs, butter and milk.

Also, possibly, brennivín, the ‘black death’ moonshine made from fermented potato mash and caraway seed that occasionally found its way into the camp. It tasted foul, it was ridiculously strong — much stronger than the army-supplied watered-down rum ration — and most importantly it seemed to spur half of the soldiers who drank it first to exuberance and then to violence. The previous day, Tom had had to put a lance corporal on a charge for fighting.

The work was hard, wet and soul-destroying. But Tom had soon learned that idleness and waiting were even more soul-destroying. Which was why he had been pleased with his commanding officer’s plan for a tactical exercise. Tom would leave one section of his platoon defending Tóftir, and take the other two sections in two one-and-a-half-ton lorries up into the hills to eventually link up with the rest of the company from Hvammsvík. The climax of the exercise would be the other two platoons of C Company attacking Tom’s defensive position on the crest of a certain hill marked on his map.

The roads were primitive, and the route to their objective involved fording two rivers. The forecast was for more heavy rain. Major Harris wanted to test his company, to see how well they could travel in such difficult conditions. It was best to know what their limitations were before the Germans landed, rather than discover them afterwards.

Tom agreed with the theory but was worried about the rivers. In principle, they became impassable after the snow melted in the spring, but at this time of year at the end of the summer they should be relatively low. Yet there had been an awful lot of rain recently. Tom had discussed it with Major Harris when he was at Hvammsvík planning the exercise, but the major had said that the maps showed they were fordable, and there was only one way to find out if this was the case.

Sergeant Pickersgill told him the lorries were ready, so Tom hopped in beside the driver and they set off.

Even along the road that ran beside the shore, the going was rough as the lorries lurched over potholes in steady rain. But once they turned off the main road on to a smaller gravel track twisting relentlessly uphill, the speed slowed below ten miles an hour as the lorries lurched and bucked. But they were hardy vehicles, well maintained and well driven.

They passed through a rugged landscape of rocks, stone, heather, moss, bilberry bushes and absolutely no trees. A thick grey wall of moisture encircled them. Ahead lay unseen hills; behind an unseen fjord.

They reached the first of the two rivers, which turned out to be little more than a stream, and both lorries crossed it easily. The second was more problematic.

The road ran straight into fast-flowing water, about thirty yards from one bank to the next. Tom, his sergeant and the two drivers got out to take a look.

They were high up in the hills. The ford was positioned at a point where the river took a breather along a shallow valley and broadened out before plunging downwards through rapids just a few yards further down. The water was shallow — a depth of about eighteen inches, which should be manageable — and the riverbed consisted of pebbles rather than sand or mud.

Tom’s lorry went first. Corporal Dibb, the driver, took it slow and steady. The lorry shook but made it through. Tom hopped out to watch Sergeant Pickersgill’s lorry follow successfully.

But it was still raining.

Tom’s platoon reached their objective in the late afternoon, leaving their two lorries at the end of the track and marching the last mile to set up defensive positions on what Tom was pretty sure was the correct hill. According to the map, there was a clear view of the valley from which the rest of the company would be attacking, having made their way up from Hvammsvík by an alternative road.

In practice, Tom could see nothing, just cloud.

Despite the cold and the rain, his men were undaunted. In fact, they almost seemed to be enjoying themselves. At least they weren’t digging turf or shifting rocks, and there was a profuse supply of sweet purple bilberries nestling in low bushes right under their noses.

As they stared into the mist, they heard the sound of heavy feet on rock and muffled commands. And a few minutes later they were brewing up with their adversaries and sharing their bilberries.

It was still raining.

The men were wet and tired but in good spirits as they began the long drive back to Tóftir.

Until they came to the river.

The rain had finally stopped, but not before it had swelled the stream. The current had strengthened appreciably and the water was at least a foot deeper.

Once again, Tom, his sergeant and the two drivers dismounted to assess the situation.

It didn’t look good.

‘What do you think, sir?’

Tom scanned the river. ‘We have no choice. I know it’s stopped raining, but the water level will only rise from here, so there’s no point waiting. And there’s no other route back to camp. We have to cross. Do you think you can make it, corporal?’

Dibb grinned. ‘Aye, sir. Just as long as we take it steady and don’t stop.’

The battalion had been recruited from the West Riding of Yorkshire. Most of the men had worked in the textile mills of Leeds and Bradford; they were small, undernourished but tough. But a few of them, like Dibb, were from the Yorkshire Dales, men who felt at home in the harsh landscape. Before the army, Dibb had spent several years driving a bus up and down Wharfedale in all weathers.

Tom himself had been brought up in North London, although he had attended university in Leeds and taken a job at a prep school at the foot of one of those Yorkshire Dales afterwards. But he certainly wasn’t a Dalesman like Dibb.

‘Carry on, corporal.’

Dibb did as he had promised, guiding the lorry through the torrent. At one point, close to the far bank, a wheel seemed to slip, but Dibb kept his nerve, easing on and off the accelerator, and they emerged from the river on to the bank.

Sergeant Pickersgill’s lorry followed them, slow and steady. It made good progress until it came to the spot where Dibb’s wheels had spun and it came to a stop.

The driver revved the engine, and the lorry sank alarmingly to one side.

‘Bugger!’ said Dibb.

‘You’re dead right there,’ said Tom.

Each lorry was equipped with a tow rope, chains and duckboards. The occupants of the second vehicle jumped out, swearing at the freezing water, and Sergeant Pickersgill organized the tow rope. The water reached up to the men’s thighs and they struggled to maintain their footing. Tom was concerned that if one of them fell they might get swept away, but they had to get the vehicle out of the river somehow.

The tow rope didn’t work. The next step was to try to insert the duckboards under the rear tyres underwater, and then shove from behind and pull from the front.

That wasn’t working either.

Tom began to wish that he had left the lorries on the bank and marched his men across. They had a wireless set and could have called for help from Hvammsvík. It would have taken hours to arrive, but at least he wouldn’t have lost a lorry.

Corporal Dibb had an idea. Try placing the duckboards behind the rear wheels of the lorry and push the vehicle backwards on to them. Then drive forwards out of the river.

Tom was doubtful, but it was worth a try.

Four men waded out to move the duckboards. One of them was Private Sowerby. He was a mill worker from one of the Halifax carpet factories. He was thin, and not much over five feet tall.

‘I say, will Sowerby be all right, sergeant?’ Tom asked.

‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ said the sergeant. ‘He’s not big, but he’s a strong lad.’

Tom knew Sowerby was tough, and brave too. He was popular with the other men, but a bit of a troublemaker. He had, of course, been involved in the brennivín incident the other night, but he had by all accounts broken the resulting fight up.

A good man to have in a tight spot.

The water was rising noticeably and the current seemed to be strengthening, especially farther out in the river. It was almost up to Sowerby’s waist.

Moving the duckboards involved stooping down into the freezing water. But the men were determined, and within ten minutes they had successfully placed the boards behind the rear wheels.

Dibb took the place of the driver in the second vehicle, and Tom plunged into the river with the rest of his platoon. The cold took his breath away, seeping through his woollen trousers and into his boots. He joined the back of what was now essentially a rugby scrum, leaning against the bonnet of the lorry.

At the count of three, Dibb revved the engine in reverse and the men pushed.

The lorry rocked, but nothing.

They tried again. This time the vehicle budged. Then it budged some more.

‘The wagon’s on the boards!’ shouted Sowerby, still at the back.

The soldiers dispersed. Dibb revved the accelerator, put the engine into gear, and the lorry lurched forward. And it kept going.

A loud cheer rose from the men.

With the water still swirling around his thighs, Tom looked further out into the river, where the four soldiers who had moved the duckboard were joining in with the cheering. Sowerby raised his arms in triumph, grinning at his mates, and then he swayed backwards, stumbled and fell.

The current sent him tumbling downstream.

Tom turned and scrambled for the bank. He sprinted along the side of the river, watching as Sowerby’s body rushed off ahead of him. Sowerby had managed to wrest his head above water, but the current, already fast, was speeding up as the river entered a narrower rocky channel before hurrying around a bend and out of sight.

As Tom ran he had no idea how far the rapids lasted. Maybe there was a quieter patch just around the bend.

Or a waterfall. He thought he could hear a distant roar.

There was no quiet patch, just rocks. But Sowerby was clinging to one of them, his arms hanging on to a small boulder in the middle of the stream, his legs dangling behind him in the water.

Tom could not let Private Sowerby die.

He was responsible for him. He could have abandoned the lorries on the bank and marched the platoon across the river. He could have insisted that Sowerby make way for a larger man behind the second lorry.

If he had done either of those things, Sowerby would not be clinging on to a boulder in the midst of a freezing torrent.

Gingerly, Tom stepped off the bank into the fast-running water. It reached up to his waist and tugged him down. It was only by holding on to an overhanging bush that he stopped himself from being swept away. The cold tore through his legs and his groin, leaving him gasping. He began to shake.

Sowerby was only five yards away. But Tom couldn’t reach him.

He knew it. Sowerby stared at him, fear in his eyes, and shook his head.

Sowerby knew it too.

Tom looked downstream. About thirty yards down, the river narrowed further, splitting into two around a large boulder. The left channel passed close to the bank. The right channel didn’t.

About twenty yards beyond that, the river just disappeared into air.

A waterfall.

‘Hold on, Sowerby!’ Tom cried. ‘Just hold on!’

Tom scrambled back up the bank, and clambered over the rocks along the edge of the river until he came to the point where the current parted.

Here there was a large boulder jammed against the bank which broke the flow. He waded out in relatively calm water behind it to the edge of the channel running by the rock in the middle of the river. The channel was about six feet across and flowing very fast.

Tom looked upstream. It was impossible to judge whether if Sowerby let go he would be swept into the left channel or the right. He might go left. Or he might not.

There was no other choice.

Tom found as firm a footing as he could against rocks on the riverbed and yelled upstream: ‘Let go, Sowerby!’

Sowerby’s face was pale, but determined — no sign of panic. He nodded.

He let go.

Immediately he was swept away downstream.

Sowerby managed to keep his head above water, and he splashed and kicked in an attempt to steer himself to the left.

For a moment it looked as if he would be swept right. Tom didn’t know if it was just luck or Sowerby’s kicks, but at the last instant his body swirled along the left channel, spinning as it did so.

Tom only had one chance to catch him; if he missed, Sowerby would hurtle past him and over the waterfall. Tom reached out and grabbed an arm, twisting Sowerby’s light body away from the centre of the current and towards the bank.

But as he did so, Tom lost his own footing. His head went under. He writhed and kicked down against the riverbed with his right leg.

Fortunately, his foot made purchase against a rock. He pushed hard against the current, and scrabbled around with his other leg for a foothold.

He found one. With all his strength he forced himself through the water to the calm eddy behind the boulder at the river’s edge, where he collapsed next to Sowerby.

Strong arms pulled both of them out on to the bank.

He found himself looking up at the ruddy face of Sergeant Pickersgill.

‘That were bloody stupid, sir,’ the sergeant said with a grin.

Tom was shaking uncontrollably with cold, but he managed a smile. ‘Carry on, sergeant.’