Raid On Scapa

'Land ahoy.'

The voice, Australian accented, was not the jubilant expression of a sailor returning from months at Sea. It was hushed, more of a whispered simple statement.

'Good work, Chief.' Said a man in civilian clothes, swathed in a bundle against the biting northern wind. 'Aye, I can see the lights. British land whatever the damn krauts say. Home at last.'

The Chief picked up a pair of binoculars from their resting place. It took a few seconds to find them- the modifications RNE Engineers had made to the Vosper MTB to make it look less like a Torpedo Boat and more like a civilian craft were an eyesore, and the other crews had derided him mercilessly. But how else would an RNE boat put in at Belfast, fit extra fuel tanks ready for a raid on the Orkney Islands, without attracting undue attention from the Yanks swanning about there?

What I've got here is the world's smallest, fastest Q-ship Thought the Australian Petty Officer, Archie Howard. Who's laughing now, mates?

But he found the binoculars - they'd slid under a riveted aluminium plate, covered in fishing net, that concealed a bracket a Vickers Machine gun could be fitted to. With the binoculars he took in the lights, and confirmed that the lights were in fact Scapa - at least according to his brief.

The engine purred steadily under deck, a beautiful, soothing tone. Chief Howard had pointed that out to the Scottish Civilian, who didn't seem to understand - proving how much of a landlubber the man was, and would always be. And land was where they were taking him - not quite Scot land, but close enough.

Right. To business, then.

The Chief instructed his wheelman to turn ten degrees to starboard. The distant lights of shore wheeled, the boat lurching - gently, to the chief and his crew, but unsettling as ever for the civilian, who fell off his stool.

'Could ye no tell me when you're going to do that?' He joked, laughing it off. He seemed a likable sort to Howard, but Howard guarded himself, not getting too friendly - He didn't know for sure, but the man struck him as dangerous. Why else would they be taking him to Scapa Floe - the largest Naval Base in the world?

'Sorry about that, Mister.' Grinned the Chief, taking off his black Officer's cap so he could brush some of the sweat from his thinning scalp - sweat despite the cold. He addressed a Seaman scurrying up the deck.

'Get the depth readings, Atkins. We'll be hitting the beach soon.'

'Aye aye, chief.'

The Vosper slid on through still waters like a blade, leaving turbulence in its wake.

Soon this turbulence would reach shore, and Scapa would be in war again - The war that was begun in 1914, and although had hovered near peace for a good twenty-three years, was in no way over.

'Ach, its cold here. And it stinks. All of Britain stinks. We should have left the stinking Tommies to their own stinking Island. Stinking Island monkeys.' Griped Feldwebel Hans-Dieter Muenchbeck, pulling his field-grey greatcoat around him, and clapping his hands.

'Got a cigarette?' He asked his compatriot in the observation post - a kid who'd seemed thoroughly miserable every day of his army life, or so it seemed to Muenchbeck. He didn't even know the kid's name. He just called him Schmidt, and the kid didn't argue with the Feldwebel's rank.

'Sorry, Feldwebel. Help you there I can't.'

The wind howled, and here in Scotland, when it howled you knew about it. The two men were in a concrete observation post overlooking a secluded bay. They had glass windows, a heater, heavy coats, flasks of tepid coffee (not the detested local tea) and still they felt the bite of Scotland.

'Pah!' Said Muenchbeck, making a dismissive gesture. 'You're worse than those damn frigid Scottish whores.'

Surprisingly, 'Schmidt' - Who never spoke more than three sentences a day, laughed at that. It seemed he'd suddenly transformed to Muenchbeck. Maybe the youngster was coming out of his shell at last.

'I was with my comrade, Stiefler' Began the young soldier, excitedly. 'On leave in Glasgow. We met this man who offered to take us to a whorehouse.' Schmidt paused, wondering whether he should be telling this to a Feldwebel. The wind roared louder outside.

'Go on! Go on!' Urged Muenchbeck - Bawdy stories were one of the few entertainments on offer out here on this surely the worst duty that could be afforded to men in the Kaiser's service.

'Well, Stiefler and I arrived at the whorehouse, a dirty, stinking place. We paid the Scotsman, and were led into a hallway. Stiefler looked so excited, but was sad because I got to go first - I was taken to a room. And there, was the fattest, blubbery, pimpled hund of a woman I'd ever seen, in stockings and suspenders -'

Muenchbeck was roaring with laughter, and the kid was heartened.

A noise outside, like rocks tumbling down the hill.

'I made my excuses, and left through the back door. I ran quickly around to the front, and Stiefler had gone in-'

He never got to finish the story - suddenly the kid's eyes went pale, wide with fright, and he turned and moved for the two Gewehr 98s stacked in a corner of the room - Mid turn, Muenchbeck heard an odd puff] sound -twice - and the kid's back suddenly erupted into two blood-red geysers, through his heavy greatcoat. He slumped to the floor quite dead.

But Muenchbeck was no slouch - he'd sprang to his feet and dived to the left, knowing the doorway was behind him, and someone must have entered unheard. His Luger was out and cocked, he whirled-

Something made an impact on the side of his head, and he dropped bonelessly.

Sergeant Pete 'Dingo' Johnson lowered his Owen Machine carbine - the standard Submachinegun for all British Exile forces, this one fitted with a newfangled silencer the boffins back in Oz had whipped up. The gun was satisfyingly heavy, and packed a hefty .454 calibre punch, easily controllably because it had two pistol-type grips, the magazine being top-mounted.

It certainly made short work of these two poor sods Thought the Australian Royal Marine Commando, prodding the corpse of the older man with his boot.

Killing gave him no pleasure - these weren't the first men he'd ever killed, and surely wouldn't be the last. As usual, the emotions welled up within him - anger, hatred, remorse, loss. But it was true what they said - it got easier each time.

That didn't give Dingo any comfort.

A man came up behind him, but Dingo knew he was a comrade, wearing British-type webbing, the serge cap Royal marines wore in place of their famous Green Beret, and similarly armed.

'The sound didn't carry further than this cove, sarge.' The Marine exclaimed. 'These silencers are pretty good, aren't they?'

Dingo simply nodded, and left the small observation post. The other marine, who'd never seen a dead body before, got a good look at the two corpses, and the pools of blood forming around them. He fell silent. His image of war as a jolly old boy's adventure shattered forever. It had to haoppen to every soldier one time or another - better sooner rather than later.

Dingo let him think on that for a moment, then patted him on the back.

'Come on mate. Let's clean this up, and send word back.'