by Conor Bender
Jimmy shot Cutter a look of distaste. “Not yet, but it’s early.”
Cutter opened the gate to 64 Baker Street and walked in. Another guard stopped him and asked for identification before he could make his way up to Atkinson’s office.
Cutter hated headquarters. The constant echo of women’s shoes clicking against the wooden floors and the cacophony of typewriters almost made Cutter long for fieldwork. He ambled up the stairs and strode into Atkinson’s office. “Morning, Freddy, how goes the war?”
“Arch, how nice to see you,” Frederick Atkinson said with a smile, closing a dossier he was reading and setting it down. “We were beginning to wonder if you had been killed in a bombing.”
Cutter grinned wryly. “I was given three weeks of holiday, I wasn’t about to give you a way to find me and interrupt it.”
“Yes, I can hardly blame you.” He sat back in his chair and gave Cutter an inquisitive look. “Rested?”
“Would it matter?”
The corners of Freddy’s mustache drooped down into a frown. “Personally, yes; professionally, no.”
“Control has work for me?”
Freddy nodded silently.
“I was promised a desk after Paris. What is this? Hambro punishing me for how things shook out?”
“Paris wasn’t your fault, everyone knows that. Sometimes things just go wrong.”
“I’m known to the Gestapo. Sending me back gets us nowhere.”
“Control disagrees. Our contacts in the Resistance tell us that they are still hunting you in Paris, but don’t have a solid description of you. They think you’re from Toulouse and have no photo. Your cover survived your exodus from the Continent.”
“I daresay I barely did,” Cutter said sitting down across from Freddy. “It could be a ruse by the Gestapo to get me back to the Continent so they can capture me.”
“We don’t think so.”
“So what does Control want?”
“I can’t say for certain. He’s keeping this close to his chest. I suspect it has to do with the invasion.”
Cutter clucked his tongue in amusement. “Mysterious, aren’t we?”
“Well, you know the Abwehr has spies just like us, no doubt one or two floors below us.”
“Surely you can’t be serious.”
“Nothing is confirmed, but we suspect we have a leaky ship.” Atkinson checked his watch and stood up. “We’d better get going. The boss wants to see us.”
“Any more word on me taking on more administrative duties?” Cutter asked as they walked down the hall.
“Ask Hambro. That decision is out of my hands.”
“Freddy, you have the worst bedside manner. How the hell are you my handler? At least string me along a little.”
Atkinson chuckled. “Sorry, Arch, what I meant to say was the paperwork is pending approval by Hambro. Upon his review you’ll be behind a desk in no time, provided you pass one final evaluation. Better?”
“Moderately.”
They walked into the waiting room for the head of the SOE; Hambro’s secretary gave them a questioning look.
“We’re here to see the boss. He’s expecting us,” Freddy provided.
“You can go in, Mr. Atkinson, he’s expecting you.”
Freddy nodded and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Hambro called from inside.
Atkinson opened the door and let Cutter in first.
“Gentlemen, good to see you. Take a seat,” Hambro said from behind his desk, motioning to a pair of shabby chairs in front of him. “Give me one minute to finish this brief.”
Cutter sat down in the chair and looked around the office. It was shabby and cramped; it reminded Cutter of his father’s office at Oxford. A smile crept over his face at the thought of the university. He still had a semester to complete before he could get his degree. The war had put that on hold, but Cutter had every intention of finishing his studies and eventually receiving his doctorate in archaeology.
Hambro finally finished reading and looked up at them. “Arthur, how are you?”
“I’m well, sir. Curious as to what’s going on.”
“You just cut right to the chase.”
“Best not to delay bad news, sir.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s your job, sir,” Cutter shot back.
Atkinson bristled and shot him a glance, a combination of annoyance and embarrassment.
“Arch, as always your petulant attitude is very refreshing.” Hambro gave Cutter a patient look and pulled a dossier from a stack.
“It’s part of my charm, sir.”
Atkinson coughed and attempted to steer the conversation into friendlier waters. “Sir, I think what Cutter means is, we’ve heard talk about the invasion. Is that why we’re here?”
Hambro’s forehead creased in frustration. “Damn rumor mill. I haven’t even told anyone about this and speculations begin to fly.”
Cutter and Atkinson exchanged glances and eyed Hambro suspiciously.
“No, it’s not the invasion. We need to send Cutter back to France,” Hambro rumbled as Atkinson and Cutter reviewed the file.
Cutter looked up at Hambro with an annoyed expression.
Hambro put his hands up in mock defense. “I know you just returned, and we usually give you a couple weeks to reset after a mission, but this is important, old boy.”
“Ideal locations for a raid?” Atkinson read; he gave Hambro a questioning look. “A bit ambitious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, it is, but it’s going to happen with or without our help. General Montgomery has begun planning to conduct a raid and has requested intelligence on suitable targets and beachheads to land at.” Hambro deliberately failed to mention anything about Mountbatten and Leigh-Mallory. The last thing he wanted was to bog SOE down in the political quagmire of senior military leadership, aristocracy, and political buffoonery.
“I’m assuming that’s why you want me to go back to France?”
“Indeed.” Hambro rummaged through his desk and found a cigarette and lit it. “I need you to get in contact with your sources in Normandy and begin setting the stage for a raid.”
Atkinson handed the file to Cutter and he thumbed through it. “Am I to assume that I am picking where the raid will be occurring?”
Hambro inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled. “You’ll be providing recommendations and cursory reports on troop locations. You’ll be in France no longer than a month and we will pull you back. Once the location for the raid has been determined, reconnaissance flights will scout the area monthly providing updates on the region.”
Cutter stared intently at Hambro, his sharp gray eyes never leaving his face. “That’s what you told me before I went to Paris. Three months later, three Special Air Service commandos showed up unexpectedly on my doorstep, and within twenty-four hours they, along with my Resistance contact, were dead and I was almost captured.”
“Yes, I know, what of it?”
“If I’m going to be sent to France for a month to reestablish contacts and to scout raid locations, I better not be fucking told while in the field that I will be supporting additional missions that can compromise my own.”
Hambro ignored Cutter’s temper and kept his cool when he responded, “What happened last time was not something SOE endorsed and fought aggressively against.”
“That won’t help my credibility the next time I meet with the French Resistance. They’ll think I’m an Abwehr plant.”
“That’s why we’re sending you and your winning personality rather than some stony git,” Hambro groused as he checked his watch. “Fred, as usual you will be Arch’s control officer. I expect a brief from you in two weeks.”
“Will do, sir.” Atkinson and Cutter stood up. �
�Come on, Arch, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Always a pleasure, sir,” Cutter said with a hint of impudence. “Come on, Freddy, try and control me.”
“Go ahead, Arch, I need to talk to the boss about something real quick.”
Cutter eyed them both suspiciously but said nothing. He shrugged and walked out of the office.
When Freddy was sure Cutter was out of earshot he glared at Hambro. “Sir, you promised him an office job after Paris.”
“I know, and I had every intention of delivering on that promise until this raid business came up. Cutter is just too damn valuable in the field. Do you know how many agents we have that speak French, Greek, and German well and can read Latin?” Hambro grunted. “It’s not as many as we lead people to believe.”
“I can think of at least three other agents we could send in Cutter’s place. Two are already in France and negate the requirement for infiltration.”
Hambro shifted his weight in his chair and leaned forward, his tone fatherly, “Freddy you’re a great handler because you give a damn, but you don’t let it get in the way of what needs to be done. Cutter needs to do this. He’s been inserted into France seven times, and except for Paris, he’s exfilled smoothly. His success in the field isn’t because of luck.”
“Then why not send him north to be an instructor?”
The corners of Hambro’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Cutter has something that can’t be taught, you have to learn it on your own. He’s very cunning and he plays off people’s needs like a conductor directs an orchestra. He’s a devious, Machiavellian bastard. That’s why he’s such a great agent. He can be your friend in a moment’s notice and kill you the very next if you risk the mission.”
“The typing pool calls him Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Well, they aren’t wrong.” Hambro leaned forward in his chair further. “You read his after-action report, about how his Resistance contact was killed?”
“Yeah, he said a stray bullet penetrated his skull.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened. Cutter has never been so dour when a contact was killed by the Germans. I think he killed the contact himself.”
“Jesus.”
“How many agents have the bollocks to do that?” Hambro asked. He leaned back in his chair and took a pull on his cigarette. “We need Cutter on this mission because I firmly believe no one else can complete it. Once it’s done, I promise Cutter will be done with fieldwork.”
“I intend to hold you to that promise, sir,” Freddy said, the veiled threat clearly understood by Hambro.
CHAPTER 4
FNG
RAF Turnhouse
“Tighten up, Red 3, there’s a hole the size of my mother’s house between your wingtip and mine!” Faraday shouted.
“Copy, Red Leader,” the student chirped obediently, tentatively inching his Spitfire closer to Faraday’s.
Faraday turned and checked on the student on his other wing. “Red 2, climb, you’re too low. You’re no good to me in a dogfight below me!”
“Copy, Red Leader.”
Faraday shook his head and checked his fuel. He had a quarter of a tank left. “Alright, Red Flight, that’s enough for one day, we’ll work on it again tomorrow. Red 2, go ahead and land; Red 3, follow in after him. We’ll debrief on the ground.”
“Roger, Red Leader.”
Faraday broke away from the pair of them as they began the landing cycle and climbed to survey their landings. After a month at RAF Turnhouse he could see he was already effecting a change in the skill level of his students. He watched as Red 2 went in for landing.
“Sloppy,” he muttered as red flares exploded from the control tower signaling that Red 2 had forgotten to lower his landing gear.
“I couldn’t have been this green?” Faraday asked himself as he started his descent. His students had much to learn, but they were quick studies, Faraday reasoned. With the exception of formation flight and dogfighting, which came with experience and practice, they showed promise. Faraday pushed them hard, but he was ensuring that before the students went into the war, they received as much flight time as possible to sharpen those things that couldn’t be taught but had to be experienced.
As both of his students’ wheels touched the ground, Faraday lined up an approach and started his descent. When he landed, both his students were waiting for him.
Faraday shut down his aircraft and climbed out. “You two need to learn to follow my lead in the air. If you don’t, you won’t last longer than twenty minutes against the Nazis.”
Both students nodded their heads vigorously and followed after Faraday as he hopped off his aircraft and started to walk toward the ready shed. Faraday looked over his shoulder back at his two students and locked eyes with Flying Officer Faust. “Danny, you need to keep your little eye on my wing and big eye on the air. If we were in a dogfight you would be too busy watching my ass to see a German closing on your tail.” He turned and looked over his other shoulder at his other student, Flying Officer Chambers. “Alex, ease up on the control. You’re too jerky in your movements.” He deliberately didn’t mention Chambers’s mistake of forgetting to lower the landing gear. He was a good lad and wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Faraday was sure.
“Will do, sir,” the pair of them echoed.
“Good, now bugger off. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll keep working on it.”
They both saluted and turned toward the barracks.
“How’re they looking?” Squadron Leader Peter Bailey called from the doorway of the ready shack.
“A few more weeks and they’ll be fine. Were we the last flight?”
Bailey nodded. “I’m heading to the pub, care to join?”
“Sure.” Faraday pulled his Mae West off his shoulder and tossed it and his flight harness in his locker in the shack.
“I meant to ask, how’s the transition from flight leader to instructor?”
Faraday shrugged and closed the locker. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.” He walked out of the shack and joined Bailey on the stoop. A light, misty rain began to fall, coating their flight suits in a damp. Faraday turned his collar up against the wet and they set out across the grassy field. “I thought I would be more relaxed teaching, but I think I’m more scared for my students than I was during the Battle of Britain.”
“I know the feeling. You’re scared shitless for your own life in a dogfight, but when you have to teach others to fight for their lives you’re bloody petrified that you’ll fail them.”
“I’m just scared that I’ll forget to teach them that one thing and they’ll die for it.”
“Just wait till you have children,” Bailey chuckled. The sun started to set as they walked into the quaint pub down the road from the airfield.
Bailey ordered a round from the bartender and handed a beer to Faraday. “Other than that, how do you like instructing?”
“Well, the hours are great, my schedule is predictable and I’m not on ready status every day, so it’s bloody marvelous.”
“Not to mention the pub isn’t too crowded.”
“That is a perk. I must admit I do love watching the students stride in here after they earn their wings. The look on their faces as they’ve earned the right to drink with real pilots is stimulating.”
Bailey nodded and looked at the far end of the bar. The wall was littered with pilot wings and patches that students had left as part of a tradition. He chuckled as he pointed toward a corner of the wall.
Faraday looked where he was pointing and let out a laugh. On the wall sat a pair of wings with BAILEY and FARADAY emblazoned underneath them. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
Bailey chuckled, “I remember your first solo. You forgot to lower your landing gear when you were coming in to land. The control tower personnel all but ran out into the mid
dle of the runway to stop you from landing. They must have fired twelve flares.”
Faraday laughed at the memory. “If memory serves me, I recall you nearly falling out of the sky because you forgot to check your fuel gauge and never noticed a steady fuel leak.”
“It’s a miracle I still have an ass after the chewing I got from the instructor.”
“I bet you don’t let your students make the same mistake.”
“Never.” Bailey toyed with his mug, spinning it with his hands just fast enough for the beer to touch the lip of the glass. “I’m debating whether or not to go back south.”
Faraday looked over at him but didn’t say anything.
“Sharon thinks I’m crazy, but I can’t in good conscience stay here. I’m rested and my mind is fit. I’m ready to get back into the fray.” He looked over at Faraday. “Seeing men like you, seasoned pilots, come up here for a respite makes me feel awful that I’ve been up here nice and safe for the past eight months.”
“Shut up, Pete, you have no reason to feel ashamed,” Faraday said taking a sip from his beer. “You’re an ace who was shot down and wounded over France. You’ve earned your time here to heal and help teach the next crop of pilots.”
“Well, I’m healed, and it’s time for me to get back in the fight.”
Faraday didn’t say anything; he knew the feeling. He already felt like he was cheating his friends by coming up to Turnhouse to teach students in the safety of Scotland while they were fighting and dying back south. What made him feel worse was the relief he felt every morning when he woke up, knowing with some certainty that he would be alive in the evening.
“Where would you go?”
“Twelve Group most likely, they need an experienced commander since Eleven is getting the most experienced pilots.”
“Less chance of being shot down in France, too.”
“That, too.” Bailey drained his mug. “I expect orders will come through in the next few weeks.”
“Who will take over the squadron?”
“Banner, I believe. He’s a good man. He’ll do fine.”
“Well, we’ll have to have a banger before you depart.”
