by Conor Bender
Cutter shook his head slowly. “If we kill Amsel, no matter how it looks, we are inviting trouble.”
“How so?” Durand crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “If it’s an accident, no one will suspect us.”
“Amsel is an oaf. His primal urges are something we need to be concerned about, but we can mitigate the risk. If we kill him he will be replaced.”
“What’s the problem with that?” Talia asked.
“Amsel’s interest in me is purely as a competitor for you. His own men know this. As long as we keep our distance from him we are fine.” Cutter paused to collect his thoughts and looked around the room. “However, if we kill him, we know nothing about his replacement. He will be an unknown quantity. I can only suspect anyone who replaces Amsel will begin his duties by becoming overly familiar with his surroundings. That means we’d be put under a microscope, and as a result it will delay our operations.”
“The devil we know is better than the devil we don’t.” Claude grumbled.
“Precisely.”
“I think it’s worth the risk,” Talia stubbornly persisted.
Cutter looked over at Claude for help. Cutter was solely an adviser; he made recommendations but couldn’t issue orders to Claude’s men. Claude would make the decision.
Claude was silent for a long moment, drumming his fingers on the table. ”Alright,” he said with finality, “we leave Amsel alone. For now.”
No one said anything, but there were silent nods. “Alright, gentlemen, that should be it. Continue with training, we will not be conducting attacks until Claude says otherwise.”
Claude’s declaration was met with a handful of nods. Without another word, the meeting was finished. Resistance members slowly trickled out of the house, moving in small groups of two or three, scurrying out into the fields and avoiding the roads. Durand and Claude shook Cutter’s hand and walked toward the door. As the pair of them left the safe house, Cutter looked at Talia. “What is it?”
Talia didn’t say anything but picked up the wine glasses and brought them into the kitchen. Their relationship was anything but simple. Cutter walked up behind her and placed his hands on her arms.
Her arms flexed taut and she stiffened. Cutter gently let go. “We need to talk.”
She snorted. “Now? About what?”
“That night we slept together. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for the past two months. We can’t keep doing this.”
“Don’t be silly, it was a moment of weakness for me. It won’t happen again.” Talia waved her hand dismissively and started to clean the glasses. Cutter could tell by her tone that that was not the end of the matter. Since the night they had made love she had changed. Although Cutter had barely known her, he could see the change. She was more serious and smiled even less now. He knew that he had hurt her when he had called what they did a mistake. He could tell that the emotional pain he had inflicted had hardened into resentment, and he despised himself for it, but didn’t know what else he could have done.
“Talia, I told you why this wouldn’t work. It’s too risky.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before.” She stiffly turned to look at him. Her eyes were set in her default frosty look. She eyed Olivier coolly but said nothing more. She wasn’t looking for a fight, nor was she interested in reconciling with him.
“So why does it feel like you want to kill me as well as Amsel?”
Talia’s lips puckered into a frown as she set the glass she was cleaning down. “Do you remember what you said to me on the beach? You said you were here because you didn’t want this war to take anything else from you.”
“I know, and I meant that.”
“Well, what’s the point if it’s already taken your ability to feel?”
Cutter paused, unsure of what she was getting at.
“Every time you begin to open up to me you immediately shut down. That night when we made love, that was the real you. Not some nom de guerre the SOE gave you. My uncle used to say that you spies had a split personality. Normally we only see your alias; Olivier, in your case. But you can normally start to see through the disguise and start to piece together the type of person a spy was before the war. With you that’s not the case, and I wonder if one of the things this war has taken from you is your identity.”
Cutter struggled to respond, uncertain of what to say. “Talia, I know you think I’m a bastard, but I mean well.”
Talia’s eyes glistened as she struggled to control herself. “Even a bastard feels.”
“I’m trying to keep you safe, dammit!” Cutter shouted in English.
After spending two months speaking French, his switch to English shocked both of them. They both remained quiet for a few moments before Cutter spoke, “Being romantically involved with a British spy is a sure way for you to be killed if I were captured. Do you have any idea what the Gestapo would do to me, to both of us, if I was caught? Death would be a mercy.”
“That’s why we need to kill Amsel,” Talia argued. Her tone was gentle, but her voice was firm.
“No, now is not the time. If the Abwehr or the Gestapo suspects me, Amsel’s death, no matter how well staged, will cause such a stir we’ll be scrambling to survive.”
“So what now?”
Cutter switched to French and said, “We’ll continue with establishing networks, and I plan to have a handful of raids occur to the south soon.” He locked eyes with Talia. “I promise, we will begin to kill Nazis.”
***
Atkinson didn’t bother to knock, but brushed past his secretary and opened the door to Hambro’s office. “I’ve received word from Cutter.”
Hambro looked up from a document he was reviewing and set it down. “What is it?”
Atkinson sat down across from him. “They’re preparing to start conducting guerrilla operations. We should be seeing a relocation of German soldiers to Normandy in response in the next few days.”
Hambro placed his fingertips together and leaned back in his chair. “This will benefit the Saint-Nazaire raid.” His lips curled into a smirk. “I don’t think we could have planned this any better.”
“When does that occur?”
Hambro reached for a cigarette and put it between his lips. “Combined Operations decided that the raid will go 28 March.” He pulled out his lighter and lit the cigarette and inhaled. “Lieutenant Colonel Newman’s commandos are conducting rehearsals and Commander Ryder is finishing his retrofits of the Campbeltown.” Hambro raised his eyebrows as he looked at Atkinson. “Did you know she’s originally an American ship, given to us courtesy of Roosevelt’s lend-lease program?”
“I was not aware, sir.”
Hambro grunted and took another drag on the cigarette. “I also found out that it has been requested by our American cousins that an observer accompany the raid.”
“Looks like the Yanks are finally getting in the war.”
“Took them bloody long enough.”
Freddy nodded and examined his boss. Hambro’s suit was disheveled and covered in creases. Freddy suspected he never made it home the night before. “With this raid going on, I suppose it means we can pull Cutter out?”
“Once the raid ends, the Germans will relocate their forces back south to Brittany. We’ll let things settle, then extract him.”
“What about the Dieppe raid?”
“The Resistance circuit should be able to provide us with the necessary intelligence without Cutter being there.”
“Arch will be happy to hear that.”
Hambro snubbed out his cigarette and nodded. “The raid goes in a few weeks. Go ahead and start planning to pull him out.”
***
First Lieutenant Malcolm Parker of the 1st Ranger Battalion looked around the port of Falmouth, Cornwall, in confusion. British soldiers and sailors passed him by giving him no notice as they went about their days. He turned his collar up against the rain and looked around. He
assumed he was in the correct place since he had spotted multiple gunboats and destroyers in the harbor being loaded up. His orders had lacked information and his commanding officer had basically told him to make it up as he went. The only solid piece of information he had been told was that he was to take part in a raid by British commandos in order to provide an assessment and further develop ranger doctrine.
The American Rangers were still a novel concept modeled after the British commandos, and as a result Parker was excited to be working with the people who created the groundwork for the unconventional warfare philosophy.
“Lieutenant Parker?” a voice called, pronouncing it “left-tenant.” Parker turned around and spotted a British soldier on the pier waving at him. Parker walked toward him and recognized the pips on his collar signifying the rank of captain. Parker fired off a salute which the captain returned lazily. He looked Parker over and nodded. “Welcome to Two Commandos.”
“Excited to be here, sir.”
“I’m Captain Corran Carver. You’ll be with Baker Troop.”
Parker took his hand and shook it.
“I hope you have your battle dress readily available?”
Parker looked at Carver in confusion. “Battle dress?”
“I believe you call them fatigues?”
“Oh, right,” Parker chuckled and gestured to what he was wearing. “I’m already wearing them.”
Carver cocked an eyebrow and nodded slowly. “Very clean. You haven’t been in the mud much?”
Parker frowned and noticed the weathered nature of Carver’s uniform. His trousers were sun-bleached a faded green and the multi-pattern raincoat he wore was just as ragged. The only things that looked clean and well maintained were the boots on his feet and the maroon beret perched jauntily on his head. It was a stark contrast to Parker’s freshly pressed new fatigues that he had purchased after Ranger training. He looked back up at Carver and shrugged sheepishly. “Well, I’m not afraid to get a little dirty.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Now you’ll forgive me, but we’re going to have to forego the usual administrative formalities of your arrival.”
“I understand.”
“Good, now follow me. We’ll toss your gear and get you settled later. We have an imminent training exercise that you need to be a part of.”
Parker nodded and wordlessly fell in step next to Carver.
“Where are you from?”
“South Carolina.”
“Is that near New York?”
“No.”
“Then I haven’t the foggiest where it is,” Carver chuckled.
Parker kept his mouth shut, unsure of how to respond. This was his first interaction with a British officer, and it was hardly what he expected. Carver’s cavalier attitude and grimy uniform seemed out of place with his clipped accent. In his mind he had expected a British officer to be fussing over tea and biscuits not someone eager to get in the muck and dirt with his troops.
“What do you think?” he asked, nodding to the ships. “Ever see something like this?”
“No, never.” Parker looked around. Nearly a dozen ships of different sizes sat moored in the harbor. He couldn’t believe it was all for a raid. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought they were invading Normandy.
“Jerry won’t know what hit him.” Carver motioned for Parker to continue following him. “Roughly two hundred fifty commandos and three hundred fifty sailors will be participating in this raid. We’re looking to do a lot of damage in a short amount of time and be out of there before anyone is the wiser.” Carver led Parker toward an inn. “This is billeting for Baker. Drop your gear and we’ll head over for training. You can get situated this evening after the briefing at eighteen hundred.”
Carver led Parker into the inn and found him a room. Once his gear was dropped, he followed Carver back out to the pier where the rest of Baker was waiting.
“Just try not to fall in the water and you’ll do fine. Do what the man next to you does.”
“Will do, sir.” Parker watched as the rest of the troop adjusted their gear. He had no idea what he was doing.
A yeoman navigated a gunboat up next to the dock and the commandos hopped in.
“You gonna stand on the pier and wait for us to come back or you gonna get in the damn boat?” Carver called.
Parker grinned sheepishly and jumped into the boat after them. What the hell am I doing?
“Right. So we’re still figuring out if we’re gonna be on the HMS Campbeltown or come in behind her. I expect we’ll know soon, but for now we’re training for the worst case.”
Parker nodded, still not entirely sure what Carver was talking about. “So what do I need to do?”
“Just work on getting your sea legs and we’ll go from there.”
They spent the afternoon training in the gunboats, sailing out of the harbor and back in and disembarking. They did this for roughly four hours until Carver was satisfied with the efficiency of their movements. The whole time, Parker struggled to stay out of the way of the commandos as they performed their designated tasks. By the end of the day Parker had found a sufficient corner of the boat where he wasn’t an obstruction.
“Don’t worry, sir. As long as you’re handy with a gun, you’ll do fine,” one of the team leaders, Sergeant Callum, encouraged as they exited the boats after the last exercise.
Carver grinned as Parker clambered off the boat and back onto the dock. “I daresay, they have the hang of it.”
Parker gave a low whistle and nodded his agreement. “They look good, sir.” He was dead tired and his knees ached from cracking them against the deck when he lost his footing.
Carver nodded and motioned for Parker to follow him down the dock. They made their way down the pier toward the Campbeltown.
“See anything unusual about her?”
Parker looked around the destroyer, not entirely sure what he was searching for. His eyes locked on the forward deck and he saw what Carver was talking about. Multiple steel plates had been welded to the railings and the twelve-pound gun attached to the deck was new.
“She’s been retrofitted with that gun, and two Oerlikon cannons on the upper deck,” Carver said, seeing the recognition on his face. “Armor plating to reinforce the front decks and a few extra funnels have been added.” Carver jerked his thumb to the aft of the ship. “To make her look more like a Nazi ship.”
“A lot of trouble for a simple raid.”
“Well, there’s nothing simple about this raid. This beauty is going to be laden down with commandos and a shit ton of explosives and will be ramming the Saint-Nazaire dry docks.”
Parker eyed Carver in annoyance. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. When the knowing smile never came he realized Carver was being serious. “That’s insane.”
Carver’s eyes twinkled and he smiled wryly. “Suicidal is a more apt descriptor in my opinion.”
“What about the gunboats?”
“Teams will be aboard the boats, but the main assault force will be aboard the destroyer. With the Campbeltown ramming the dock, the gunboats will be the only way the raid can escape.”
Parker scratched his neck as the scope of the mission started to come into view. “So the Campbeltown rams the dry docks, the teams disembark and destroy various objectives, and . . .”
“Fuses are lit on the Campbeltown and we move like hell to the gunboats to retreat,” Carver finished and expanded his arms out wide in a motion similar to an explosion. They walked away from the ship and back toward the inn.
Carver walked through the entrance to the inn and looked over his shoulder. “The brief is in an hour. We have one more rehearsal tomorrow before the raid.”
Parker grunted, unsure how to respond. A hundred different things were going through his head, but the biggest one was how he would repay his company commander for throw
ing him under the bus by sending him on this raid.
CHAPTER 9
CHARIOT
Faraday checked his fuel gauge. “Reese Flight, how are we looking on fuel?” They had taken off an hour ago and had spent the last thirty minutes flying over Cherbourg low and slow. Operation Chariot was happening at midnight and Faraday’s flight along with seven others had been tasked with buzzing Normandy in multiple Rhubarb missions in an effort to pull German forces from the area around Saint-Nazaire to better protect northern Brittany and Normandy.
Since their return from their initial flight over Saint-Nazaire, the only topic of discussion coming down from Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory’s headquarters concerned that town. Reconnaissance flights were sent out weekly all over Brittany as pilots scoured the region looking to get a firm understanding of the Nazi disposition there.
Faraday pulled back power and checked his map one more time. It felt good to hit the enemy on their own turf. Since his commissioning into the Royal Air Force, Faraday had spent the majority of his time defending the island. Aside from Rodeo and Rhubarb missions, they had never attacked the Nazis on their side of the Channel. He checked his trim tabs and listened as the rest of his flight checked in.
“Reese 4 here. I’m a little over half a tank.”
“Reese 5. Same.”
“Reese 3. Similar.”
“Reese 2. Same.”
“Roger. Swift Flight identified enemy targets in vicinity of Saint-Malo. Break off into sections and prepare to engage,” Faraday called. He pulled back gently on the stick. Argyle and Chambers followed him as Faust and O’Brien broke off into their section with Faust acting as section leader.
“This is Reese 5 beginning initial run,” Faust called as he began to descend on Saint-Malo, O’Brien hot on his tail. Faraday watched as the pair of them descended over the city, and scanned the skies for any aggressors.
“Reese Leader, this is Reese 5. Enemy ships have been spotted inside the harbor. Beginning gun run.”
“Roger. Where in the harbor?”
“The harbor looks like a giant C. They’re at the bottom of the C.”
