Jubilee- Spies and Raiders

by Conor Bender

  ​“That would be grand,” Bailey agreed. He motioned to the bartender for another beer.

  ​They sat quietly for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts. Faraday eyed the wings on the far wall, recognizing a handful of names underneath the wings, and knowing that a few of them hadn't survived the Battle of Britain.

  ​They both finished their beers and Bailey finally broke the silence, “Bloody Nazis. Wankers really know how to botch up the world.”

  ​Faraday shook his head absently. “They really know how to cock it up.” He ordered another round from the bartender and nudged Bailey and raised his glass. “For our friends long gone.”

  ​“Cheers.”

  ​Faraday finished the glass and ordered another.

  ​The two of them talked for another hour about their students, past missions, family life and everything else before they both decided it was time to return to their homes. The next day both met with their students and discussed the day’s lessons and went up, ready to continue teaching the latest batch of fighter pilots.

  ***

  The British War Office

  Hambro gazed impassively at the map of Europe. German swastikas littered it, dotting the landscape of the continent and surrounding England on all sides. England’s situation was dire, and as cynical as Hambro was he believed they would survive the German onslaught. He ignored the handful of staff officers in the room. He had no interest in making small talk, nor was he inclined to interact with anyone from Combined Operations. Mountbatten’s style of leadership had attracted similar personalities to his unit, many of whom were eager to make a big splash into politics after the war if they could curry favor with Mountbatten. Hambro was leery of trusting them with a budget, let alone organizing a raid.

  “I hate that map more often than not,” Montgomery said from behind him.

  Hambro turned and gave a thin smile. “Feels more like a Gordian knot than a statement of fact.”

  “That says a lot about the type of person you are. Some people look at the map and take it as a resolute fact of our circumstances.”

  “I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the ones who look for ideal circumstances, and if they don’t exist they make them.”

  “You do know George Bernard Shaw is a socialist.”

  “The Germans must’ve taken him to heart. They were on their knees after the Great War; look at them know.”

  Montgomery grunted in annoyance, “Is this what we’re here for?” He turned toward another map in the room.

  “It is,” Hambro said simply. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

  Montgomery nodded as he inspected the map absently. “I have some bad news, old boy. The Joint Chief has tied my hands on this raid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Montgomery shrugged uncomfortably, a trait unusual for a general. “It seems Dickie went to Churchill and complained about my involvement and now I’ve been forced to go along with Combined Operations taking the lead. This is now a Combined Operations meeting.”

  “So you’re telling me that we’ve been politically outmaneuvered and Combined Operations is running the show now?” It was a rare occasion for Hambro’s emotions to betray him, but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He could feel his cheeks burn as rage gripped him. He struggled to steady himself.

  “I’m afraid so,” Montgomery grunted, his face made up into a scowl as though he had smelled something repulsive.

  “So who is leading this meeting?”

  Montgomery turned and beckoned a vice admiral over to him, “John, are you the senior Combined Operations representative?”

  Vice Admiral John Hughes-Hallett bobbed his head. “Yes, General, I am.”

  “Well, let’s get this meeting started, shall we?”

  “Whenever you are ready to be briefed.”

  Montgomery gave Hughes-Hallett a confused look. “What do you mean? You’re leading this meeting.”

  “Sir, you’re the senior ranking officer, this is your meeting.”

  “I was told Combined Operations was taking over planning for this raid?”

  “Yes, General, but as senior ranking officer, it is the custom that you lead the meeting.”

  Montgomery turned and stared at Hambro in disbelief. The look in his eye was a combination of annoyance and contempt. With a grunt he turned back to the vice admiral and shot him a disgruntled look. “Very well, if Combined Operations doesn’t wish to plan their own operation I will do it for them.” Without another word he strode over to the head of the table and sat down. He shot Hughes-Hallett a venomous look but said nothing. Taking the general’s cue, the rest of the personnel in the room quickly found their seats. “Mr. Hambro, please orient us to the map.”

  Hambro nodded, he was still a little bewildered as to what was going on. Did Hughes-Hallett shift control of the meeting to Montgomery to shirk responsibility? If Mountbatten pushed so hard to have this raid, why did he just have one of his chief planners give it back to Montgomery? Hambro struggled to find a logical answer, but could only settle on one. Mountbatten wanted all the credit but didn’t want to do all the work. He had never before seen such a spectacle in his life. He walked over to the map and pointed to Normandy. “Gentlemen, for those of you who are not aware, over the past few days there has been talk of exploring the viability of conducting a large-scale raid on the French coast. Our target is Dieppe.” Hambro locked eyes with Montgomery as he said the town. “For my part, SOE is currently gathering intelligence to assist in the development of a raid in the coming months, and identify targets of opportunity.”

  Montgomery nodded and looked around the room. “Admiral, I assume Combined Operations has a working template for how this raid will occur. How long will this raid last?”

  Admiral Hughes-Hallett shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m afraid the Navy can only provide fifteen hours of support, so we are tethered to that time schedule.”

  “Fifteen hours? How the bloody hell do you expect the raiding party to unload and seize their objectives in that amount of time?”

  Hughes-Hallett started to answer but was cut off by Montgomery, “Dammit, man, have you never planned a raid? This isn’t some outpost in Norway we’re looking at. It’s a large, heavily occupied city. The raiding party won’t be a fifty-man team; expect a thousand men to land in Normandy!”

  “Combined Operations is confident we can accomplish our objective within fifteen hours.”

  “Admiral, I can tell you with certainty that the raiding force will need closer to forty-eight hours to land, attack and retreat successfully. If the Navy cannot provide this, then this raid needs to be reevaluated.”

  “General, Combined Operations will have to evaluate this and reconvene.”

  “Admiral, you do as you please. As far as I’m concerned, this is a Combined Operations mission. The only reason I am leading this meeting is because you refused to do so.” Montgomery didn’t wait for him to respond and turned to Hambro. “Mr. Hambro, as soon as intelligence begins to come in, please contact Major General Roberts. He will serve as my liaison for South Eastern Command.”

  Hambro bobbed his head silently, surprised by this unexpected turn of events. At the moment he had no clue who was in charge of the raid and whom exactly he needed to provide intelligence to.

  Montgomery turned and glared back at Hughes-Hallett, his lips pursed beneath his mustache. “Admiral, who is the planning officer for this raid at Combined Operations?”

  “I am, General.”

  “Then I leave it in your hands.” Montgomery briskly stood up from the table. “Gentlemen, if there is nothing further, I recommend you convene next week to further develop your plan.” Without another word, he strode out of the room.

  Hambro watched in confusion as Montgomery walked out of the room and he quickly went after him. “General.”

  Montgomery stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Hambro?”

  “What is going
on?”

  “I honestly am as confused as you, but I will not let Combined Operations demand my cooperation and then expect me to plan their entire raid. When they have a plan, they can let me know.”

  “I am literally about to send a man into the field for this in a matter of hours,” Hambro growled. “It’s highly dangerous and better be worth it.”

  “Charles, forgive me, I don’t mean to disregard the risk your agent is taking, but I am in a political quagmire. I can’t fight Mountbatten as long as he has Churchill’s ear, and I can’t waste time arguing over the details of this raid with him. I have other responsibilities with Southern Command. I’ll do my best to help where I can, though.”

  Hambro nodded but said nothing.

  “Keep calm and carry on, old boy, that’s all we can do here.” He squeezed Hambro’s arm in encouragement, turned and left.

  “Goddammit,” Hambro swore furiously, receiving a handful of dirty looks from a group of generals walking through the hallway. He was furious about Mountbatten’s political subterfuge, and was even more angry at Montgomery for allowing himself to be so easily outmaneuvered. But most of all, he was furious with himself for letting himself and Cutter be put in this difficult situation.

  ***

  RAF Biggin Hill

  ​Freddy Atkinson stood outside the hangar and waited for Cutter. He took a heavy draw on his cigarette to steady his nerves. He didn’t like last minute missions, and in his opinion this was as last minute as it could be. There were too many unknowns. His mind wandered; he was concerned Cutter wasn’t ready for this mission. Since Hambro’s revelation that Cutter may have killed Victor, Freddy had reservations about sending him back into the field. He needed to be sharp for this mission, and if he had a guilty conscience about Victor’s death he could easily cock up the whole operation.

  ​Freddy watched as the C-47 pilot and copilot walked around their blacked-out aircraft and inspected the wings, tires, and stabilizers. He hated C-47s and had requested a Lysander for this mission. It was smaller, faster, and more nimble. The C-47 needed a large, flat field to land, and due to the aircraft’s size it was less forgiving if the pilots made a mistake on approach.

  Atkinson spotted Cutter, blew out a puff of smoke and flicked his cigarette into a puddle of water on the flight line and waved to him. Cutter saw him and nodded. He walked toward him, keeping an eye out for any incoming aircraft as Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes taxied to and from the runway. He didn’t look the part of a spy. He was dressed in a brown serge suit and carried a small trunk. If Atkinson didn’t know better, he would have thought Cutter was going out to the country. The tailors at SOE had done a thorough job of making sure Arthur looked like he was from Normandy.

  ​“All set?” Atkinson asked, shaking Cutter’s hand.

  ​“Well, if I’m not it’s too bloody late now.”

  ​“Do you have your cipher?”

  ​Cutter nodded and patted his breast pocket. Inside was a code book that held all of Cutter’s code words to communicate with SOE. At first Hambro hadn’t liked the idea of Cutter keeping a lexicon of code words on him. If he was captured, the Germans could exploit it. Cutter had argued against it; with the amount of data he was trying to relay, it would require extensive use of code words and a dictionary was a necessity if he was to provide accurate detailed information. Being fluent in Greek he had devised a basic cipher for the code book using the Greek alphabet. In order to even read the code book you needed to know the cipher. It had stumped the SOE codebreakers for a time, and Hambro had relented.

  ​They spotted Hambro near the rear hatch of the aircraft conferring with the pilot. He looked up and spotted Cutter and Atkinson and beckoned them over.

  ​“Arch, Freddy, how are we?”

  ​“Ready for the return flight.”

  ​“I just wanted to see you off and remind you that the more sites you can inspect the less likely you’ll have to go back.”

  ​“Thank you for the pep talk, sir,” Cutter said blandly, only to be shoved cautiously by Atkinson.

  ​“What legend are you using?”

  ​“Olivier Deschamps, French archaeologist and student of naval history, home as a result of the war,” Cutter furnished. “It’s an old legend I’ve used and I have a contact in the area who can verify me.”

  ​Hambro nodded and exchanged a knowing look with Atkinson. “Best of luck, Arch. Freddy, I’ll wait for you in the car.” Atkinson watched Hambro amble back toward the car and when he was out of earshot shot Cutter a cautionary look, saying, “You may be a good spy but you need to learn to check your mouth and keep your temper.”

  ​“Oh, come off it, Fred! We both know this mission is a kick in the bollocks,” Cutter flared, pent up anger boiling over. He was more than angry; he was tired of the risk. People always talked about the glory of war, the glory and heroism of making sacrifices for King and country, but they never mentioned the other things. Like being interrogated and tortured for the locations of French Resistance fighters. Like having your fingernails pulled out after being captured and questioned by the Waffen-SS, or dying in a ditch and no one knowing about your death. In real life, war didn’t have music playing in the background like it did in the movies, and Cutter had seen enough friends die horrible deaths that he didn’t want to join them.

  ​“When the hell is my request to become a control officer going to come through?”

  ​Atkinson sighed heavily and put a comforting hand on Cutter’s shoulder. “Arch, I know this is tough, believe me I do. I have spoken with Hambro about your request, and he assures me it will come through as soon as this raid is completed.”

  ​“Not after this mission.”

  ​“No, we need your contacts for this. Once this raid is done we can replace you with someone else to work with the Resistance and you can manage them.”

  ​Cutter didn’t say anything, anger visible on his face.

  ​“Arch, keep it together for a little while longer and I’ll get you out of the field, I promise.”

  ​Cutter swallowed and licked his lips, not trusting his voice. SOE agents didn’t have the best life expectancy. He had beaten the odds, but he didn’t expect that to keep happening. He wanted to survive this war, and his best chance of doing so was behind a desk. He had done his part and felt he didn’t owe Hambro, the British people, or the King for that matter, anymore. He had already done seven insertions, and the average for an SOE agent was five. It was time for him to come in from the field and train the next crop of agents.

  ​“Ready when you are, gentlemen,” the pilot interrupted, as ground crews started to pull back the tarp covering the hangar.

  ​Freddy inclined his head and extended his hand to Cutter. “Stay safe, I’ll see you soon.”

  ​Cutter nodded and forced a mischievous smile. “Stay out of trouble.” He walked over to the C-47’s hatch and clambered in. He gave Atkinson a wave and shut the door.

  ​Atkinson waved and started to walk away. As soon as Atkinson was far enough away, the pilot started the engine and conducted his preflight check. When he was done he unlocked the brakes and started to taxi away from the hangar.

  ​Atkinson watched the plane taxi to the runway before hopping in Hambro’s car.

  ​“Will he be alright?”

  ​“It’s just nerves. Arthur will be fine once he gets there. It’s the anticipation prior to jumping into an icy pool: standing over it is always worse than getting in.”

  ​“Let’s hope so. We’ve lost enough agents this past month; we can’t afford to lose him.”

  ​“He had a right to know that Billy Ealey and Eamon Royce were killed in the last two weeks.”

  ​“You know why I didn’t tell him, the same reason you didn’t as his control officer. Your job is to make sure he has everything he needs to get the mission done and hedge off as much risk as possible so if his mission is compromised he can’t damage other missions.”

  ​“It’s a dirty business we
do.”

  ​“It is, but it’s necessary,” Hambro agreed. He waved to his driver, signaling it was time to go. “I have a meeting with the PM tomorrow morning. I’ll be sure to let him know our agent, code name Cartographer, has been inserted.”

  ​“Why did we change his code name from Merlin?”

  ​“It helps keep the Germans on their toes. With all the radio traffic being intercepted by them, they’ll think Cutter’s code name is one for a new spy. We’ll keep sending chatter using Cutter’s old code name, letting the Germans think we have more spies than we actually do.”

  ​“Won’t that endanger Cutter?”

  ​“No, the Germans don’t know that we know they’ve cracked a few of our codes. The codes we will send referring to Cutter will be saying he is in the South of France, and we can send the Abwehr and the Gestapo on a merry chase.”

  ​“That’s bloody clever of you.”

  ​“That’s why the PM doesn’t meddle in my affairs,” Hambro murmured as he lit a cigarette. He didn’t mention anything about Montgomery and the Combined Operations meeting. It was the last thing Freddy needed to know about.

  ***

  Five Miles West of Quiberville, France

  ​Cutter silently thanked God one more time for not having to jump out of the plane as he cleared the field his C-47 landed in. The aircraft was on the ground no longer than half a minute. Just enough time to land, spin around, and take off. By the time Cutter had scrambled over the hedgerow onto the road, the sound of the C-47 was an inaudible rumble. Cutter dusted a few leaves off his pants and checked his watch. The luminescent hands showed that it was two in the morning, which meant he had three hours to make it to the safe house before anyone was awake. He put his trunk on the ground and opened it. Inside was the typical set of clothes, but underneath were a few components to a radio Cutter expected the French Resistance needed and a Colt M1911 pistol. Cutter fumbled around in the dark and checked to make sure they were secure in the trunk and then double-checked the F-S fighting knife in a sheath in the flat of his back. Satisfied, he shut the case, picked it up, and started walking.