Jubilee- Spies and Raiders

by Conor Bender

  ​“Hey, cobber! Couldn’t let you go quietly into the night!” Clyde Baker roared.

  ​“Cheers.” Faraday raised his glass in thanks and took a sip. He navigated his way over to the bar, his back being patted the entire way and congratulatory remarks being spouted with every step.

  ​“Although you’re an ugly bastard, I hate to see you go,” Craig Bolden, the flight leader of Swift flight, called from a corner where he was playing a game of darts with Squadron Leader King. Faraday meandered through the crowd and joined them.

  ​“Is there going to be another late-night bare-knuckles brawl?”

  ​King chewed the tip of his cigar in thought. “You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. Maybe I’ll step in the ring.”

  ​“Sir, you keep trying, but no one is going to fight the pride of Sandhurst, especially when you’re the commanding officer,” Bolden mused with a chuckle. “Besides, it’s only Aussies and Kiwis that ever want to bash each other’s brains in.”

  ​“Right, well, we’ll see where the night takes us,” King said jovially. “Craig, be a good lad and go grab us another round.”

  ​Craig nodded, but before he left he raised a dart to eye level and took aim at the board, his tongue stuck out in devout concentration. When the dart left his hand and hit the bull’s-eye, King let out a groan.

  ​“I win. You’re buying, sir.”

  ​“Bloody conman,” King grumbled as he dug some money from his coat. He thrust a few quid into Bolden’s hand and waved him away. Once he was out of earshot, King looked at Faraday, his face serious. “You tell Stokes and Tombs?”

  ​Faraday nodded. “They’re a little unsure of themselves, but give them some pilots to train and they’ll quickly stop worrying about their own feelings.”

  ​“I can only make one of them flight lead. Who will it be?”

  ​“Tombs,” Faraday said simply. “The kid has a good understanding of aerial tactics. To him it’s not just a science but an art.”

  ​​“That was my thoughts exactly. Are you all packed to leave tomorrow?”

  ​Faraday snorted. “What is there to pack? All I have are the clothes on my back and the small trunk and toiletry kit I brought with me from the States.”

  “I figured you may have bought some new things since you’ve been here.”

  “Clearly you’ve never seen my lodgings. It resembles a dingy closet.”

  “Well, maybe when you make squadron leader you can get a bigger dingy closet.”

  “Maybe.” Faraday looked over at the far end of the bar. Clyde Baker had snatched a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and was lining up a row of shot glasses. He caught Faraday’s eye and aggressively motioned for King and him to come over.

  “Oh Christ.” King grimaced. “Baker is going to get us pissed out of our minds.”

  “I have a feeling I’m still going to be drunk tomorrow morning when I leave.”

  ​When Faraday awoke the next morning back at camp, a wicked headache and a mouth as dry as dust greeted him. He rolled out of his cot with a groan. He hadn’t been this drunk since his going away party at Princeton when he left for England. He stumbled over to the wash basin and dunked his head under the cold water. The water had its necessary effect and helped clear his head.

  ​He surveyed his room and made sure he had packed all of his worldly possessions into the small trunk, and slowly, carefully, hobbled down the stairs. As he walked outside he found King leaning against his car waiting for him. His face was pale and the pool of vomit on the ground next to the tire indicated that he was suffering just as much as Faraday.

  ​“All packed up?” King belched.

  ​Faraday nodded, “Just need to fill up the bike and I’ll be ready to go.”

  ​“You’re taking that grimy motorcycle?”

  ​“I like to think of it as a sentimental possession.”

  ​King snorted and handed him a sheaf of papers. “Your orders and a couple rations cards for petrol. They should get you to Turnhouse.”

  ​“Thanks.” Faraday took the documents, and the pair of them walked over to his motorcycle. It was a 1938 Norton 16 home model. Faraday had bought it almost immediately after flight school from another pilot who was selling it on the cheap prior to deploying to Burma.

  ​“If you need anything, don’t be afraid to give me a call,” King said, extending his hand.

  ​“Will do, sir. Keep an eye on Tombs and Stokes for me.”

  ​“They’ll do fine.”

  ​Faraday nodded but didn’t say anything. A silence fell over them. For some reason, Faraday couldn’t say goodbye; it felt strange and the words caught in his throat.

  ​King gave a knowing smirk. “Good luck.” He patted Faraday’s shoulder and started to walk away.

  ​“Thanks.” Faraday smiled and straddled his bike and started the engine. As he did so the claxon started to sound for an incoming German raid. He watched as pilots scrambled to their planes, Stokes and Tombs among them. The determined looks on their faces gave Faraday a vote of confidence in their chances of success. He had taught them everything they knew, now it was time for Faraday to do the same to another batch of students. He revved his engine, not wanting to be around when the first German strafing run hit the base. He pulled back on the throttle and accelerated away.

  ***

  ​“Durand, what’s the hold up?” Francois Crevier demanded.

  ​“It must be the weather; the signal is strong,” Durand said, double-checking the radio battery and instruments.

  ​Francois grunted in annoyance. He shouldered his Sten submachine gun and pulled out a carton of cigarettes in one deft movement. “Damned weather, we rarely get in touch with England and the one time we can the weather is against us.” He fought the urge to pace about the barn and stood silently behind Durand as he tinkered with the radio controls.

  ​“If we don’t hear from them soon, we’ll need to break down the radio. The Germans will be triangulating us as we speak.”

  ​“Yes, yes, I know.” Francois scanned the barn and spotted his niece near the barn door. “Talia!” Francois beckoned her over to him.

  ​Talia looked up from her place by the door. She could tell by the look on her uncle’s face that something was wrong. It was the same look he had had when the news came that the Nazis had taken Paris. “Climb up into the loft and keep watch.”

  ​“Is something wrong?”

  ​“There will be if you don’t do as I say, girl.”

  ​Talia frowned but did as her uncle commanded.

  ​“Wait, take this.” He rummaged through the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of binoculars and tossed them to her. “Shout if you see something.” Without another word he resumed his position hunched over Durand as he struggled to get a signal.

  ​Talia clambered up the ladder into the loft and rearranged a hay bale near the loft door and sat down. She took a moment to let her eyes adjust. The sun was dipping below the horizon and the twilight dusk had already set in. The long shadows cast by the hills and the forest gave the landscape a hollow feel, as though the French countryside knew the plight of her people. With the German occupation, nothing felt the same. The woods and hills, once sites where Talia would go to play as a girl, were now ominous and threatening places. Danger lurked everywhere, as German soldiers scoured the countryside in the search of Maquis fighters: people like Talia and her uncle.

  ​Talia squinted and struggled to keep watch. With the sun fading, she had a hard time seeing in the shadows. She scanned the rolling hills and watched the three roads that intersected a half mile from the barn. If a vehicle came she was sure they could get away quickly.

  ​As she watched the landscape, the angry shouting of her uncle floated up into the loft.

  ​“Dammit, Durand, why won’t it work!”

  ​Talia shook her head, if they would let her she was sure she could get the radio to work. It was infuriating, ever since she had moved from Paris to l
ive with Francois it had been a struggle to prove her worth. Getting Francois to simply agree to let her help the French Resistance had been a Herculean task. But she had quickly proved to him, if not everyone else, that she was up to the challenge. Francois had not been keen to the idea of letting his niece run around sabotaging Nazi supply lines, but she had given a persuasive argument: No one would suspect an eighteen-year-old girl to be a member of the Resistance. This made her valuable because the Nazis would pay her no mind.

  ​Francois had relented and had in turn convinced Claude to let her help, but her argument to help also proved fatal to her chances of advancement. Claude had agreed with Francois to let Talia help, but all he saw in her was a messenger and a lookout. The idea of using her for sabotage or anything more was out of the question.

  ​Talia silently grumbled and picked up the binoculars and resumed her watch. There were other assignments she could perform well. Smuggling munitions and weapons was a constant requirement, and one they were shorthanded for. She knew she could do more if she was given the chance. She looked through the binoculars and scanned the roads. She would speak to Francois about it later. As difficult as he was, he was family and was always looking out for her, unlike the others. Talia swept the three roads and scanned the woods. The sun was halfway below the horizon, making it difficult for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. She blinked and struggled to focus on the trunks of the trees. As she did so, a dozen figures appeared from the darkness of the forest. Their gray tunics and matte black guns made Talia’s heart skip a beat. They stopped at the edge of the woods as their commander surveyed the barn, his blond hair jutting out beneath his gray cap.

  ​“Merde.” Talia leapt up from the hay bale and scrambled to the edge of the loft. “Francois! Amsel is coming with his men!”

  ​Francois stopped what he was doing and looked up at his niece. “Are you sure?”

  ​“Yes!”

  ​“Durand, break the radio down and make for the fields.”

  ​Durand frowned but started to turn the radio off and pack it. “What about you?”

  ​Francois grabbed two magazines for his Sten and pocketed them and started up the ladder to the loft. “I’ll buy you some time.”

  ​Talia watched as her uncle moved to the loft’s window. She had no weapon, but she knew she could help. “I’m staying with you.”

  ​“Don’t be foolish, go with Durand.”

  ​“No.”

  ​“Dammit, girl, you’re as stubborn as your father. Go!” Francois shoved her toward the ladder and turned back to the window and started to fire the Sten.

  ​Talia clambered down the ladder as the staccato of the Sten pierced the evening quiet.

  ​“I’m nearly done. Go to the field, Talia,” Durand ordered as he finished packing the radio.

  ​Talia wordlessly ducked out the back of the barn and scampered through the wheat field. The wheat was taller than her, and with a few steps she was hidden by its golden stalks. Since the Nazi occupation, many farmers had abandoned their harvests rather than give it to the Germans. Talia was thankful that the farmer that had fled these fields hadn’t burned his crops. She ran through the field and came out near a large clump of trees where another member of the Resistance was waiting with a car.

  ​“What’s happening? Where are the others?”

  ​“Behind me,” Talia gasped as she caught her breath.

  ​The man stared at Talia uncertainly and brandished a shotgun as a heavy rustling emanated from the field. “Who goes there?”

  ​“Don’t shoot, it’s Durand! With Francois and Fabrice. Francois is shot, we must go!” Durand staggered out of the field with the radio over one shoulder and Francois struggling between him and Fabrice.

  ​“No!” Talia screamed and darted toward them.

  ​“Get him in the car!”

  ​Francois grimaced in pain but struggled to move under his own power. “I’m fine, Talia, just get in the car.”

  ​“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  ​“Are you a doctor? Get in the car.” Francois climbed into the back seat with some difficulty while Durand loaded the radio into the trunk.

  ​Talia sat down next to him and inspected his wound. A dark hole gushed blood next to his navel. “We’ll get you help.”

  ​Francois inspected the wound and shook his head. His face was pale and his voice shaky, as he said, “Don’t bother. You may not have been a doctor but I was. The bullet hit my liver . . . with the amount of blood I’ve lost, I don’t have much time.”

  ​“Don’t say that,” Talia whispered.

  ​“Let’s go!” Durand called as he clambered into the car and sat down next to Talia. He looked over at Francois. “You okay?”

  ​“No one can know that I was part of the Resistance. If the Nazis find me like this they’ll ask questions.”

  ​The tires screeched as the driver pressed down on the pedal. The car shot through the woods and came out on a dirt road a mile from the barn. Durand looked around, searching for any Nazis, but the road was empty. He looked over at Francois. “What should we do?”

  ​“Crash the car and burn it. If anyone asks, tell them I was drunk driving.”

  ​“We can take you to a doctor,” Talia argued. She gave Francois a pleading look. “Please, don’t die.”

  ​Francois smiled weakly and put a hand on Talia’s face. “You’re strong, but I need you to be stronger. Survive this war for me . . . for your parents and brother.”

  ​Talia stifled a cry as Francois’s head drooped to the side and his hand slid into his lap.

  ​Durand reached across her and checked for a pulse, “He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

  ​Talia wordlessly nodded. The pain of knowing that Francois was no longer there for her felt like a noose around her neck. Her last living family member had died and she was alone. She struggled to breathe and fought the urge to wretch. She refused to let Durand see her in such a vulnerable state.

  ​Durand put a comforting arm around her. “I’m sorry, Talia.” He grabbed a blanket off the floor of the car and gently draped it over Francois’s body. “Fabrice and I will do what needs to be done. We’ll take you home.”

  ​Talia stifled a sob and dried her eyes. “No, I will do it.”

  ​“This isn’t something a girl your age should do,” Fabrice argued softly.

  ​Talia stole a glance at her uncle. The warmth was slowly fading from his face, his skin was starting to take on the pale tone of the dead. I’m alone. The realization hitting her again. She swallowed bitterly and bit her lip. She needed to be strong for her parents, for her brother, for Francois. She turned and gave Durand a hard look, her eyes like granite. “I’m a member of the Resistance, not some innocent girl. Now let’s get this done.”

  CHAPTER 2

  RUTTER

  London, England

  Hambro hated Boodles. He hated gentlemen’s clubs in general, but he hated Boodles the most. It wasn’t because it was a poor establishment; quite the opposite. It was well regarded and magnificently furnished, and as such, it attracted a number of snobbish aristocratic patrons. And for that reason, he disliked it.

  The thought of coming here would never have entered his mind had the Earl Mountbatten and Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory not recommended it as a place to meet.

  So here he was, a disgruntled, unwilling participant at a venue he disliked with two men he despised. If Hambro had it his way, they would have met at the War Office. It was a perfect place to discuss classified information. “Boodles,” he grumbled.

  His driver looked at him through the rearview mirror in confusion. “Sir?”

  “Clark, if you wanted to discuss classified information pertaining to the war, where would you do so?” Hambro already knew the answer.

  “Either at HQ or the War Office, I’d say, sir.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Hambro grunted. To be fair, his disdain for the venue was only amplified by the people he was meet
ing. Hambro recalled with a grimace what his predecessor, Sir Frank Nelson, had said about Mountbatten and Leigh-Mallory. On Hambro’s first day as the head of the Special Operations Executive, Nelson had told him that they were the two best political minds to ever wear a uniform and waste the time and manpower of the British military. Upon working with the pair of them, Hambro quickly realized that Nelson had made an understatement.

  Clark pulled the car up to the curb in Pall-Mall and brought it to a stop.

  “Thank you, Clark.” Hambro struggled out of the back seat. He stepped onto the curb and attempted to straighten his rumpled tweed suit. His clothes were a day old and he hadn’t had a chance to go home and change. A late-night communiqué from one of his spies had kept him at the office until the wee hours of morning. He pulled on the hem of his jacket but quickly gave up, as the stubborn creases refused to smooth out. He let go of the fabric and looked around, surprised by the amount of sandbags barricading the front of the club. They served as a constant reminder that Britain was under threat by the German Luftwaffe.

  ​As he walked up to the front gate, he stopped as an olive green military vehicle approached. The lorry came to a halt in front of the gate and an aide-de-camp got out and opened the rear door.

  ​Hambro looked in bemusement as he waited to see who was in the back. To his surprise, it was Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery.

  ​The Field Marshal stepped onto the curb, straightened his military tunic and casually looked around. He spotted Hambro and a slight smile spread underneath his neatly manicured mustache. “Oh dear, what has Leigh-Mallory gotten me into now?” He walked over to Hambro and extended his hand.

  ​“General.” Hambro took his hand.

  ​“My dear fellow, it is good to see you. How are things?” He motioned Hambro through the gate.

  ​“Fair, thank you. I can only assume you too were roped into this meeting.”

  ​“Indeed, I nearly canceled attending, but maybe something of worth will come out of it since you are here.”

  ​Hambro couldn’t help but chuckle; it was a left-handed compliment if ever he had heard one. It was always flattering to know that you ranked higher than an air vice-marshal and English lord. “I understand you have Southeastern Command?”