by V M Knox
‘I cannot tell you how important this is, Clement. Every day our ships are prey to the German U-boat packs operating in the Atlantic. Hundreds of lives and thousands of tons of supplies are at stake, not to mention the sheer numbers of ships destroyed. If there is cause for concern in Caithness we must know about it. Churchill is calling it the Battle for the Atlantic. And it is a battle we must win. Our very survival is at stake.’ Johnny drew in a long breath then stood, his hands clasped behind his back and turned to look out the window at the grey skies. ‘Hopefully, it will turn out to be nothing more than an over-zealous operative picking up birdsong.’
‘And if it is not birdsong?’
Johnny turned to face Clement. ‘Try to pinpoint where exactly. Then report in. But this must be neat and above all, quiet. In. Out. All the locals need to know is that you are a vicar going to Orkney to take up a parish. No one must even suspect your real purpose. After all, if this person isn’t an innocent local, we don’t want him getting wind of us and flying the coop. It should be pretty straightforward. You are, however, on your own with this one. The Special Duties Operative is only a contact and cannot blow her cover to assist you, should you get into any difficulties. I have every confidence that you will do admirably.’
‘The operative is a woman?’
‘Yes. They make better wireless operators than men. Something to do with having a gentler touch.’
Clement nodded. ‘And if it isn’t an innocent local chatting, what is to happen to this enemy plant once I’ve located him, if I can?’
Johnny returned to his chair. ‘He will be removed. But that is for others to worry about, which is why it is so important for you to be discreet.’
‘When do I go?’
‘Monday.’
‘How?’
‘We have booked a seat for you on the Edinburgh train. Change there for Inverness. A Reverend St Clair will meet you and billet you overnight. Cockburn will have told him not to ask questions. Next morning, take the Thurso bus. There is a daily train to Thurso from London but the route we have chosen will give you greater anonymity. The bus stops at Wick and Huna. Alight there. The post mistress is your contact. She will be there to meet the bus to collect the post.’
‘Her name?’
‘Sarah Crawford.’
‘Does she know I’m coming?’
‘Not specifically. If the wireless is being intercepted we cannot use names. But she has been notified that an old friend of her mother’s is coming.’
‘And if I cannot find the source?’
‘I have every confidence that you will, Clement. Stay a few days but not longer than one week. Then make your report through Stratton in Thurso. As Caithness is a restricted area for travel, we have issued you with a pass for your entry along with some basic maps of the area. You should keep the pass on you at all times in case you are stopped by any inquisitive military personnel. I have arranged for you to stay tonight at St James’s with the Guards.’ Johnny handed him an envelope containing the train tickets and entry pass. ‘Get some rest tomorrow, but spend some time studying the maps so that you have a general understanding of the facilities and environs of Caithness.’
Clement reached for his small pack and secreted the papers.
‘No uniforms from now on, Clement, except the clerical collar. Everything you need and a pack containing a pistol for you is already at St James’s.’
‘Fairly sure I would go then?’
Johnny smiled. ‘You have always done your duty, Clement. And trustworthy men who operate in shadows are hard to find. Just wait on the curb outside, a car will take you to St James’s.’
Chapter 2
Monday 24th February
Uniforms of every kind choked the forecourt of King’s Cross Station as he hurried for the platform.
‘Clement!’
He turned. Standing among the throng was the familiar face of Reginald Naylor, a resident of Fearnley Maughton and a man with whom Clement had served already in this war.
Reg walked towards him. ‘I heard you were in the West Country, Clement. Have you been in London all this time?’
‘Reg!’ he grasped the man’s hand and shook it warmly. ‘It’s a long story.’
Clement stared into the familiar face of his former neighbour. There was so much he wanted to ask; about what Reg had been doing since they’d last met, about Reg’s wife, Geraldine, and all the other residents of Fearnley Maughton. He held Reg’s affable gaze. But despite their shared past, there was, in that second, a perceptible divide. So much had changed in the six months since Clement’s departure from the village. It seemed a lifetime ago. No, not a lifetime, Clement reminded himself, another time. Another life. He glanced at his watch. The train was leaving in six minutes. ‘What about you, Reg? I don’t recognise your uniform.’
‘I’m not surprised, Clement. Pioneer Corps. Fancy name for doing thankless and unpleasant tasks. Have you time for a cup of tea?’
‘I’m so sorry. I have to catch my train. There is so much...’
‘I know.’ Reg shrugged his shoulders. ‘Time is against us, Clement. It’s the war. It was good to see you, though. Where are you headed?’
‘North.’
Reg laughed. ‘By that remark, I’m guessing you’re still working with the Cloak and Dagger Department!’
Clement smiled, Reg’s directness refreshing after the riddles of Whitehall.
‘We are too, actually,’ Reg said, pointing to a small group of men sitting on their packs some twenty feet away. ‘Heading north, I mean. But not for another hour. Wick, apparently. Although what for is anyone’s guess.’
‘You should keep that to yourself, Reg. Loose lips, remember. May the Lord bless you and keep you.’ Clement shook his friend’s hand firmly in farewell then hurried away.
Two minutes later he opened the door to the train and found his compartment. Placing his pack in the rack above his seat, he sat down and stared through the window. His eyes searched the faces for Reg Naylor, but the man had already disappeared into the swirl of humanity.
He allowed his mind to dwell on Reginald Naylor and his wife Geraldine. They lived in a beautiful house on the outskirts of Fearnley Maughton. Clement remembered the day he had asked Reg to be involved in the Auxiliary Units. The man had proved to be an excellent marksman and Clement wondered what Reg was now doing with the Pioneer Corps. He said a brief prayer for Reg’s safety.
The compartment filled with five young men in Royal Air Force pilot’s uniform. They stowed their packs, their voices raised with excitement. For the young, Clement acknowledged, war was an adventure, and for an instant he smiled, their ebullience contagious. His mind went back to when he had first joined up in the early days of the last war. He, too, had felt both that thrill and camaraderie. Unlike so many others, he had lived through it and knew first-hand the inglorious legacy of war. Forcing those memories from his mind, he listened to the young men’s chatter. One of their number looked up and smiled at him. Their conversation had turned to the latest London trend; American Jazz music - a subject Clement knew nothing about. His gaze returned to the window and the endless ebb and flow of people. Idle chatter was discouraged, especially with pilots.
He stood and reached for his pack and took out his Bible, his thoughts returning to Reg Naylor. Clement wondered if he would see his old neighbour again this side of heaven. Holding the Book, Clement noticed the fourth finger of his left hand, where his wedding band should have been. Johnny had advised him not to wear it. He understood why but its absence was a constant reminder. He closed his pack and sat down. His loss, and the thousands of innocents killed, were what it was all about; for freedom and peace and loved ones, like his beloved Mary and Reg's wife Geraldine. That was why decent men went to war. But with Mary gone? Clement pursed his lips and opened his Bible. He began to read the ninety-first Psalm.
A burst of laughter from the young men beside him made him look up. He returned the
ir smile. Only the Lord knew their fate.
Fate. Such an unknown thing, he thought gazing through the window again. Fate was only borne by hope. He reflected on a Biblical verse from Romans chapter eight, “For we are saved by hope”. It applied just as much to him as it did the pilots. Strange that Johnny had chosen the word for his cover identity. But it wasn't only pilots, or himself, whose future was so uncertain. He recalled Johnny's words about the horrific loss of life and essential supplies lost daily from U-boat attacks in the Atlantic. Everyone he knew, and thousands he didn't, were suffering in one way or another. He pondered whether such privation and tragedy would make for a more compassionate world after the war? Or, would it be the reverse? And that was supposing the Allies won. While the invasion had not come in September the previous year he knew it was foolish to believe they wouldn't try again.
Perhaps now the Germans had given up on actual invasion and hoped to win the war by starving the nation into submission. Closing his Bible, he wriggled his left foot, the strap of the Fairbairn Sykes Commando Knife attached to the inside of his leg rubbing against his flesh. Not that he believed it would be needed for this mission but since his training at Coleshill House in Wiltshire, he never went anywhere without it.
A moment later the guard’s whistle blew and the train pulled away from the platform. Clement folded his arms, the long-barrelled Welrod Pistol concealed under his greatcoat pressing into his chest. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, Scotland still many hundreds of miles away.
At York, Clement stepped from the train with his fellow passengers to stretch his legs. Evacuees with excited children, labelled like parcels, crowded the platform and he wondered where they were headed. To Clement it seemed that the whole country was perpetually on the move. To his right, a few yards from the train door, the young Royal Air Force Pilots were already huddled together smoking. Although Clement thought their conversation was less jovial, they still chatted and joked the way people do when confronted with impending adversity. Further along the platform, Clement saw two ladies operating a canteen. Feeling hungry, he strode towards them and purchased a sandwich and mug of tea.
Holding the warm cup with both hands, his gaze fell again on the line of small children. Several were crying, their fear for what lay ahead, heart-wrenching. Whispering a prayer for their safety, he finished his tea, returned the mug to the canteen and walked back to his compartment. The young pilots had already taken their seats.
One of them looked up at him as he slid back the compartment door.
‘Would you like a newspaper to read, Vicar?’
‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’
‘Where are you headed, sir?’
‘North. You?’
The young pilot smiled. ‘Can’t say. No disrespect intended.’
‘Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.’
Clement took the folded paper and sat down. Opening it, he glanced over the top at the young pilot. Talking about troop movements was not permitted and Clement knew this but his question confirmed that his clerical garb belied any suspicion about his activities. His eyes returned to the newspaper. A Nazi bomb had hit a railway arch in the East End of London causing almost a hundred deaths. Innocent life lost; the indiscriminate killing of defenceless civilians was what made this war so wicked. The exact location of the bomb’s carnage had been censored, but it was when he read about such outrages that he wondered whether, in fact, he should have remained a country vicar. He knew it was too late for such recriminations. He had made his decision to join the shadowy world of covert operations the previous September, and he knew then there would be no turning back. Now he had to live with the consequences. Or die with them. But without Mary, he really didn’t care if he lived or died.
Through the window he saw a young couple embracing. Separation, whether temporary or permanent, was a cruel aspect of war. The last verse of St Matthew’s Gospel came to his mind, “I am with you alway,”. In theory, Clement knew the Lord was with him. But lately he didn’t feel it. What he felt was his current reality; alone and adrift, disconnected from any other living soul, surrounded by strangers.
The couple on the platform parted, the man, in naval uniform, boarding the train.
Waverley Station was larger than he had expected. The high cliff up to the famous Edinburgh Castle loomed above like a cat on a wall, surveying its prey. Hurrying to change platforms, Clement boarded the Inverness train and settled into another compartment, the daylight slowly failing.
Postal clerks and merchant seamen were his travel companions now, but his fellow passengers appeared more intent on sleep than conversation. He checked his watch; it was just after four.
The trip from Edinburgh to Inverness was slow and became an exercise in patience. Deep snow drifts had to be removed from the tracks at regular intervals and the increasing darkness obscured the view, adding to the growing tedium within the compartment. Closing his eyes, he dozed in his seat and contemplated his billet for the night, hopeful of a congenial host and a warm vicarage.
A bitter night had already descended over Inverness when Clement stepped from the train and cast his eye around the dimly lit platform. Light rain patted his hat. Drawing his coat around him, he followed the flow of passengers making their way towards the ticket collector and the street beyond. Outside the station entrance was a small square where a stone statue of a Highland Soldier stood facing the High Street. Walking to the edge of the square, he looked along the street in both directions. A small crowd had gathered a little further down the pavement by a bus stop. He put his pack down and looked around at the grey stone buildings, the biting cold seeping into his bones.
‘Reverend Wisdom?’
Clement turned. Before him stood an elderly, gaunt man wearing a clerical collar. He grasped the icy hand of Reverend St Clair and within twenty minutes Clement was sitting in an ice-cold manse by a struggling fire. But other than learning St Clair had lived in Inverness all his life and had been a minister for sixty years, the conversation yielded little.
‘Nearly seven,’ St Clair said, switching on the wireless. ‘I like to have my dinner listening to the Home Service.’
‘Can I be of any assistance?’
‘No, thank you. It’s right ready to serve.’
St Clair returned with two plates of stew as the voice of Richard Dimbleby informed the listeners of the Nazi bomb that had landed in the East End of London.
An hour later, St Clair stood and switched off the wireless. ‘Not much in the way of real news. But I expect you know all about it anyway.’ St Clair reached for the empty dinner plates. ‘I retire early, Reverend Wisdom. Not as young as I used to be. And it saves on the coal. I’ll boil the water for the pig’uns.’
Clement smiled. Whilst he wasn’t sure what a pig’un was, he could see from St Clair’s expression that the man considered it a luxury.
St Clair shuffled towards the door. Standing in the open doorway, grasping the dishes, the elderly man turned and looked directly at Clement. ‘I’ve been told not to ask about what you’re doing for us, but I wish you God speed, laddie. I envy you, Reverend Wisdom, for the Lord has surely called you in our time of travail.’
St Clair turned and left the room.
Clement stared after his host, the sound of the elderly man’s shuffling feet disappearing along the hallway. The profundity of St Clair’s words were like a lightning bolt. In that second, all Clement’s confusion and anxiety about his life’s direction vanished. The realization hit him. Johnny had once referred to Clement’s involvement with The Service as being part of the bigger picture; what he had done with the Auxiliary Units had been important, but what he was doing now affected hundreds of lives, even if few knew about it. He smiled feeling the Divine hand of reassurance about his decision and gratitude for St Clair’s stirring words.
Leaving the parlour, he walked along the icy hallway to the kitchen where he could hear the sounds of St Clair washing
up dishes. Before him, in the centre of the room, was a table already laid for breakfast, the cups turned upside down in readiness. He watched St Clair pour boiling water into two ceramic cylinders then wrap each in a red flannel cloth.
‘Put it against the kidneys and you’ll never be ill,’ the elderly Scot told him.
Clement took the ancient hot-water bottle. He felt overwhelming gratitude and not just for St Clair’s hospitality. The effect of his brother cleric’s words had been like an epiphany; something he would never forget. Grasping the warm pig’un he followed his host along the corridor and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.
St Clair pushed open a door. ‘I trust you’ll be comfortable here.’
‘Good night, Reverend St Clair. And thank you.’
Clement closed the door. Before him was a single bed. It had a rose-coloured satin quilt on the top and the sheets were turned down in anticipation of his arrival. The sight of the welcoming arrangement juxtaposed with the single bed; the gesture both kind and an instant reminder of his current status. Clement pressed the warm pot against his chest. Like St Clair himself, the hot-water bottle and the turned-down bed were the acts of a decent man’s innate kindness. Dropping his pack beside the bed, Clement placed the warm pig under the sheets then checked the black-out curtains over the window. Turning up the lamp on the stand by the bed, he surveyed the room. On the wall opposite was a washstand and basin, but there was nothing in the room that could be considered decorative except one picture hanging over the bed-head; a lithograph of a rotunda surrounded by daffodils in an unknown garden. Clement placed his knife and pistol under the mattress, he undressed and climbed into the cold sheets, his feet on the pig at the foot of the bed.
Chapter 3
Scotland, Tuesday 25th February
A sharp knock and St Clair’s voice at his door told Clement it was six o’clock. It was still dark and he rubbed his eyes feeling more weary than when he had retired. He could hear rain hitting the window pane. It promised a bleak day. Forcing himself to get up, he lit the lamp and dressed quickly in the chill air, placing the knife in its scabbard on his left leg and the pistol in the holster over his vest.
