by V M Knox
If Necessary Alone
V. M. Knox
Dedication
Great Britain 1941
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Also by V. M. Knox
Copyright
Dedication
For Peter
“I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best
arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.”
Winston S. Churchill
Speech to The House of Commons
4th June, 1940
Great Britain 1941
Chapter 1
London, Saturday 22nd February
The taxi pulled up at the corner of Whitehall Place. Alighting, Clement pulled up the collar of his overcoat and walked towards the elaborate stone entrance of Number Seven. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the door handle and stepped inside. Five months had passed since he’d last been here; the airless smell of the foyer made it seem like yesterday.
He felt ambivalent about his return. The letter asking him to come to London burned in his top pocket. As he climbed the grey stone stairs he recalled the day he’d received it and how his heart had sunk at the sight of the envelope. He wasn’t entirely sure why; he had, after all, expected it. Perhaps it was because it meant he could no longer avoid the world. Or maybe he just hoped they would leave him alone now. If Johnny Winthorpe had anything to do with it - and Clement guessed he did - then Colonel Gubbins’s letter was a summons, not a request.
Clement remembered the first time he had set eyes on the charismatic colonel. Then, Clement had been a rural vicar, living in one of England’s prettiest East Sussex villages, Fearnley Maughton. But that was before. Before the war. Before his involvement in the covert Auxiliary Units. Before all manner of things. But mostly before Mary died. He cleared his throat. His wife’s death was still too raw.
‘Reverend Wisdom?’
The sound of someone calling his name made his ghosts vanish, at least for now.
At the top of the stairs stood a smartly-dressed young woman. ‘This way, please.’
Clement joined her then followed her along the corridor, the sound of her shoes tapping out an energetic rhythm on the marble tiles. Yet despite her brisk manner, his attention was on the elaborate surroundings of the third floor. ‘Has Colonel Gubbins moved office?’
The young woman continued walking. ‘Yes, but I am taking you to Captain Winthorpe’s office.’
‘Not Commander Winthorpe any more then?’
The woman stopped and turned, her face breaking into the sort of grin that reveals neither emotion nor information before continuing her march along the corridor.
Clement felt a sigh rising. Official secrets. Whitehall was full of them. No one chatted any more. His thoughts returned to Johnny Winthorpe, his old colleague from theological college days. Johnny’s promotion didn’t surprise Clement. His mind went back to the night on Winchelsea Beach and the two men with whom he had expected to die: Johnny Winthorpe and Chief Inspector Arthur Morris of Lewes Police. That had been in the autumn of the previous year and Clement hadn’t seen either man since. Gubbins had ordered his removal to the West Country to recuperate. Although, convalescence was not the only reason for Clement leaving Fearnley Maughton, the village he had served for over twenty years.
It had been for his protection. He visualised the villagers - people whose lives he had shared - and imagined their bewilderment at his sudden departure. Every time he thought about Fearnley Maughton he felt guilty. If he lived through the war, Clement resolved to make it up to them. But his greatest sense of regret was for Mary. More than regret, he felt the overwhelming burden of inextinguishable guilt. Just thinking of her made his eyes sting with tears. Not even during the Great War in the trenches of France had he heard such coughing; the exhausting rattle of pneumonia that had convulsed her small frame until death overcame.
Looking up, Clement saw they were standing before a closed door. The young woman knocked twice. Opening the door for him, she beamed her joyless grin then disappeared.
Before him was an office that was vast in comparison to Johnny’s former office on the top floor. There, Clement had had to squeeze past the door in order to sit down. Now he saw the elegant surroundings of establishment; large windows, heavy curtains and expensive furniture.
‘Clement! How good to see you.’ Johnny came around his desk, hand extended in greeting, the naval captain’s uniform immaculate. ‘May I offer my sincere condolences on Mary’s passing.’
‘Thank you.’ Clement cleared his throat. ‘So how is the intelligence business?’
‘More in need of men like yourself than ever.’
‘Church affairs still on the back burner then?’
‘People in glass houses, Clement.’ Johnny indicated a chair before his desk.
‘Colonel Gubbins has moved office, I hear?’
Johnny sat down. ‘Yes. But he comes and goes from time to time. Can I get you some tea?’
‘No, thank you, Johnny.’ Clement was aware that he hadn’t learned where Gubbins had gone. It didn’t matter. The Colonel was, no doubt, a busy man and the War Office was a large place. Clement’s gaze shifted to the portraits on the walls of stern-faced generals and admirals whose identities he didn’t know. ‘With promotion comes a larger office?’
‘Something like that. But it also comes with added responsibility.’ Johnny’s hand reached for a plain white envelope lying on the desk and passed it to Clement. He tore it open.
Inside was a letter, signed by Gubbins, informing Clement of his promotion to the rank of Major.
‘Can’t confer upon you a medal for something that didn’t happen on Winchelsea Beach, Clement. But Gubbins can arrange promotions.’
In his mind’s eye he could see Mary. She would have been proud. He felt his throat tighten. Sometimes it caught him off guard and he blinked several times wiping the evidence of his sorrow from his eyes.
Johnny had stopped speaking. ‘Are you fully recovered, Clement?’
He bit into his lip, the emptiness of grief rising from his gut. ‘I can’t talk about it, Johnny. But if I am totally honest with you, and myself, I am more at war with God right now than I am with the Germans.’
He saw Johnny’s head nod, but Johnny had never married. What could the man know of the bond between husband and wife? For Clement, Mary’s death was unfathomable and crushing in its intensity. It made him angry and distraught in equal measure. But even though he wrestled with God about her futile death, his faith was not extinguished. It never could be. Despite everything, he had felt the hand of God in the trenches of France and he couldn’t deny it. Moreover, he had taken solemn vows at his ordination. They were as important t
o him as his marriage vows and never to be broken.
Having no mortal enemy to blame for her premature death made it harder and despite all attempts at justification, Clement felt responsible. If he had remained a vicar and never met Colonel Gubbins, she would still be with him. If she hadn’t walked from the village of Combe Martin to their cottage on the hilltop, she would not have been caught in the downpour and she would not have succumbed to what the doctors called “the old man’s friend”. He blinked several times.
Johnny sat waiting, an anxious frown creasing his handsome face.
‘I will be alright, Johnny. In time. “We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs”.’ Clement quoted his favourite line from Shakespeare’s Henry V.
‘I wish I could say take as much time as you need, Clement but...’
‘It would do me no good, Johnny,’ Clement interrupted. ‘And Mary would be the first to tell me to pull myself together.’
‘Well, if you are sure.’
‘No. But I think it is the right thing to do. Self-sacrifice. Isn’t that what men like you and I are called upon to do?’
A door opened behind him and Clement swivelled in his seat. A man he did not recognise entered the room.
Johnny stood. ‘Sir, may I introduce Major Clement Wisdom.’
Clement turned and rose from the chair. Before him stood a man of about his own age. He was of average height with a symmetrical face, wore a neat moustache and a tweed suit and looked the most ordinary of men. The eyes, however, Clement decided, told a different story; neither lugubrious nor maniacal, but eyes that knew from experience both the heroic and the evil capacity of man.
‘Ah, yes! The Vicar. Colonel Gubbins speaks highly of you. I am informed you are recently bereaved. My condolences.’
‘Thank you.’ Despite the man’s palpable charisma, Clement considered Mary’s death was not a topic for discussion with strangers.
‘They call me “C”,’ the man went on. ‘We have a small problem in the north and your name has been put forward. Winthorpe will fill you in.’
“C” turned to leave but stopped, the perspicacious eyes again holding Clement’s gaze. ‘Thank you, Major.’
Clement stared after the man then turned to his old friend. From Johnny’s reaction and the authoritative demeanour of the man called “C”, Clement surmised he had just met the Head of The Secret Service. In all the years Clement had known John Winthorpe, he had never seen the man lost for words until now. Clement sat down and waited for Johnny to resume his seat and his wits.
‘Well! Quite a compliment! You won’t be aware of it, Clement, but “C” rarely makes such appearances.’
‘What’s going on, Johnny?’
Johnny pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t move with Colonel Gubbins. I now work exclusively with the Secret Intelligence Service. There are - how shall I put it? - certain rivalries between The Service and some of the more newly created departments. And, in fact, it was I who suggested you for this job.’
Clement wanted to ask why, but he knew Johnny wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, say. But whether it was a career move for Johnny or simply to dodge interdepartmental feuding, it mattered little to Clement.
Johnny reached for a file on his desk. ‘Whilst your recent involvement with the team in East Sussex cannot continue, we would like you to join the Special Duties Section. You won’t have heard of them before. Totally secret. You have, however, already met one of the trainers when you went to Coleshill House for your initial training for the Auxiliary Units.’
Clement nodded. He knew to whom Johnny was referring.
‘Have you kept physically fit?’
Clement nodded thinking of the long hours of running over the steep hills around Combe Martin since Mary’s death. ‘I follow the programme I learned at Coleshill.’ Although he knew his almost excessive exercise regime had more to do with mitigating grief than desire to remain physically fit.
‘Excellent. How are you with cold climes?’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Scotland. About as far north as one can get on the mainland.’
Clement had never been to Scotland but the thought of the remote and cold northerly borders of Great Britain, especially in winter, wasn’t warming him to the idea.
Johnny opened the file before him. ‘We would like you to rendezvous with the Special Duties Branch Operative in the village of Huna, in Caithness. Apparently they are picking up some unusual radio transmissions in the area. Could be nothing, but given its proximity to the North Atlantic, and our fleet in Scapa Flow, it is best to investigate. There is also a Royal Air Force Base in the area at Castletown and a radar station operated by the Royal Navy on Dunnet Head. Caithness may not be the centre of the known world in peace time, but right now it is a tightly restricted area.’
‘What are the operative’s duties?’
‘Local information gathering and wireless operator.’
‘Are they at a Y-Station or an out-station?’
‘An out-station. There are about ten covering Caithness. Quite a few of the more remote rural areas already had wireless transmitters. Stands to reason in isolated and cold regions. With all that is going on in Caithness, and their proximity to the coast, most were confiscated. And those that weren’t are operated in secret. They report on happenings in their own sector and radio in to the Y-Station on Dunnet Head.’
‘Could the transmissions be coming from the Y-station?’
‘Unlikely. In fact, the information supplied by the operative was passed on to us by the Y-station personnel. Not something I believe they would do, if someone there were sending out illicit transmissions. Besides which, no one working there is ever left alone. At any time.’
‘And no one locally can investigate?’
‘Not really possible, Clement. The Royal Air Force chaps and Y-station personnel are kept too busy to spend time away from the base investigating such matters. Besides which, they are not trained for what they may encounter. It must be a covert operation. They have been informed that we are sending someone.’
‘Why covert, if you don’t suspect them?’
‘It is possible that the transmissions are innocent. By that I mean a local who has concealed his transmitter and is still secretly chatting to his neighbours, but it could be an enemy plant located somewhere in Caithness.’
‘And the Y-station can’t get a fix on it?’ Clement asked, suspicious that Johnny knew more than he was saying.
Johnny sat back in his chair. ‘Can’t involve the Y-station at all, Clement. Nor draw even the slightest attention to them for the simple reason that this particular Y-station is one of only a handful that have direct access to Bletchley Park, our most top-secret code and cipher facility. It has to be handled covertly. More importantly, it has to be handled by someone I know I can trust.’
‘Do I have that level of clearance?’ He felt a rising anxiety. He had never done a solo mission, much less in unfamiliar territory. He chastised himself. Everything seemed straightforward and nothing he couldn’t handle. After all, he had a talent for connecting with people that had helped with his parish work at Fearnley Maughton. If it worked in East Sussex, why shouldn’t it in Scotland? He gave Johnny a confident smile.
‘You will have. Just a few extra papers to sign.’ Johnny passed an already typed page across the desk. Clement read the document threatening him with a charge of treason, the punishment for which was death, should he ever become too talkative.
Johnny went on. ‘Huna village, where our operative lives, is a few miles to the east of Dunnet Head where the Y-station is located and nearby is an historic church, Canisbay Kirk. Which is another reason I thought of you, Clement. I have spoken with the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, Reverend James Cockburn. The cover story we have invented for you is that you are to take up the
position of minister at St Peter’s on South Ronaldsay, one of the Orkney Islands. Reverend
Cockburn is writing to the minister of Canisbay Kirk who will put you up. I have always found there to be greater anonymity staying in vicarages over public houses. You should also make contact with a local fisherman to arrange passage to St Margaret’s Hope, the main town on South Ronaldsay. Of course, you may not need to go to Orkney, if you find the source easily, but everything should look genuine.’
Clement signed the papers and handed them back. ‘I know nothing about the Church of Scotland. I’m sure the local minister would see straight through me.’
Johnny placed the documents back in the file. ‘We had thought of that. But Reverend Cockburn informs me that with so many clergy in the forces now, they are happy to take men from other denominations. The minister in Canisbay is a Reverend Aidan Heath. He will be notified by Reverend Cockburn of your intended visit but not of your real purpose. Once you have ascertained whether there is any reason for concern, you can leave the area. Send the report of your findings to me through official police channels from the station at Thurso. The inspector there is a man by the name of Stratton. He isn’t one of us, so he won’t know your true purpose in being there either, but he has been made aware that someone from Special Duties will be in the vicinity. Stratton has been told to comply with any request from a man, cover name Hope.’
Johnny handed him another sealed envelope. ‘If you need information, you can call us here on the direct number in the envelope. Memorise it, Clement. Don’t have the number on you. I have to be away myself in the coming weeks, so if I am unavailable, ask for Nora Ballantyne.’ Johnny reached forward and pressed a button on a small wooden box on his desk. Within seconds the door opened and the well-dressed young woman reappeared.
‘Miss Ballantyne, should Major Wisdom telephone you in the coming weeks, please give him any assistance he requests.’
Nora Ballantyne smiled her cheerless grin and slid from the room. Nothing further was said, but Clement surmised that Miss Ballantyne already knew everything there was to know about him.
