‘All right. Fine. Do without a tow-rope. Work for your living, for a change.’
Farr muttered, ‘Oh, my sainted aunt.’
Ben helped Rosie into the Frenchmen’s boat. ‘See you on Guenioc.’
‘I hope you will.’
* * *
It was an easy trip across, seemed to take no time at all. They hauled the dinghy up beside the larger boat and joined the rest of them in the cover of the rocks. Vidor and Léon would be waiting for them, to meet the agents who’d be landing from the gunboat and row them to Tariec; Léon would then take the boat back into L’Abernoit, and Vidor would have about two hours to wait for low water, until he could take the newcomers across the sands and hand them over to Solange, going on home himself by bicycle. If there was a weapons container being landed – he thought there would be, but it hadn’t been confirmed – they’d leave it cached here on Guenioc.
‘Until things become easier with us, you know.’
Ben said, ‘We’ll be saying prayers for you, Vidor.’
‘Thank you. But you have three other pinpoints, after all.’
‘Right. And navigationally this is the least easy. Still wouldn’t want you to close down.’
‘From my point of view – ours – we’d be very sad. In theory we could leave – join the Maquis perhaps – but it’s our home, we make our living here, have our families and friends. If the pinpoint goes – that’s it, I’m a vet, he’s a fisherman, Luc’s a barman.’
‘A few jobs on the side like the one at St Renan?’
‘Oh – when they come up…’
The rendezvous on the beach was set for 0045 G.M.T., meaning 2300 C.E.T. The gunboat would be in the anchorage by about midnight, that meant. Bright asked Ben, ‘Reckon it’ll be 600 coming, sir?’
‘Could well be. Skipper’ll be wanting to pick his own men up, I’d imagine.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Wanting my guts for garters, is what I suppose.’
* * *
‘Will Baker Street give you some leave now, Rosie?’
‘Not right away. There’ll be a lot of debriefing to get through first.’
‘What – a few days?’
‘Could take a week or two. Depends.’
‘Well. If I get leave, I’ll give you a buzz. Take you out for a meal or something.’
‘I may be out of circulation for a while, though. The debriefing might not even be in London. But you could leave a message – or write a note – and I’ll get in touch once the dust’s settled.’
‘Mind you, I’ll be putting in some sea-time – touch wood – so if you don’t hear from me right away—’
‘I’m sure you will be back at sea. Of course you will. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Whose was it, then?’ He didn’t expect an answer. He told her, ‘Listen – we’ll start at the Gay Nineties – maybe dine and dance at Hachette’s—’
‘Steer clear of railway hotels, that’s the main thing.’
‘Hear it, sir?’
Tommo Farr – first again… This was the northwest corner of the island, as close as they could get to the gunboat’s approach route. There was a fresh breeze now, west-northwest, over the mass of hissing white water at their feet. Farr called again, ‘Hear it now, sir?’
‘Not yet…’
Rosie squawked, ‘I do! Engines! Listen—’
‘Crikey, you’re right…’
The last time he’d heard that part-smothered, deeply resonant thrum he’d been in the dinghy with his seasick passengers and the sound had been receding, leaving him utterly appalled. The moment had been so awful that it had seemed unreal.
This one was real, all right. Getting more so every second. He called back, ‘Well done, Farr. Buy you a pint, first chance we get. Buy you both several pints, in fact.’ Dropping his voice, then, adding, ‘I owe you, God knows… Come on, Rosie.’ He pulled her up, ‘Mind your step now…’
* * *
Half an hour later, Ball came wading out of the surf and wrung Ben’s hand. ‘Ben. Oh, terrific!’
It was how he felt, too. Telling him, ‘This is Rosie. Only she’s not allowed to give her name. You landed her, remember, trip before last?’
‘Of course.’ He shook her hand. ‘Ben, I shouldn’t have lost you, as I did. Did you realize I’d gone off-course?’
‘Can’t say I did. I was using a shore light to steer by, and the bloody thing went out.’
‘I saw that light – on one of the Gerry observation posts, I reckon. Yeah, well… You hung on to the dinghy all right, I see…’
The boat he’d come ashore in was a sixteen-foot surfboat, which they’d brought from Falmouth in tow. Making sure of it, in case the passenger-list had grown any longer at the last minute, after the long moonlit interval.
A weaponry container was being landed. There was also a parcel of sweets for the local children and Scotch whisky for the réseau leaders. Bright and Farr lent a hand with the container, assisting their shipmates who were making jokes about lead-swingers taking French leave. Vidor had told Ball that he and Léon would see to the burial of the container, having plenty of time in hand; he was explaining to the three agents, one of whom was a woman, that they were going to have to wait on Tariec for the tide to fall.
Rosie patted the girl-agent’s arm. ‘Bonne chance.’
‘Merci.’
She stalked away, up towards the rocks. Tall, angular, anonymous, keeping herself to herself. Well, one did – always had. Rosie could guess how she’d be feeling, and felt in herself an enormous depth of empathy. It surprised her, made her think, Ben’s right, I probably have had enough… The four sailors were coming back to the surf-line, having parked the container up there in a cleft between rocks; one of them – Robertson, a leading hand – took Léon to show him where it was. Ball had been dishing out Mae Wests: he asked Hansen, ‘If you’re ready, sir? And – er – Rosie?’
* * *
They had a tow-line on, this time. A much shorter trip, but a much smaller point of destination, and again pitch-dark, with no compass. Easy passage anyway, not a drop of water shipped. All the way out, the final farewells with Vidor and Léon were echoing in Ben’s ears. He doubted he’d see them again, particularly as it was most unlikely he’d set foot in another dinghy.
Terrific guys, he thought. Incredible. Rosie had told him that most Frenchmen only wanted to sit tight and keep their heads down, tended to believe in the double-think doctrines propounded by Marshall Petain, and in an eventual Nazi victory. A man like Vidor, she’d agreed – and for that matter all the others he’d met in the past three weeks – made up for a hell of a lot of that species.
Come back and see them when the war’s over, he thought. Honeymoon trip with Rosie.
Well – not honeymoon. The honeymoon wasn’t going to wait that long. Second honeymoon, maybe.
The gunboat’s sheer side loomed over them. The other boat was at the ladder, passengers climbing up, sailors reaching down to help. From this dinghy there were oars to be passed up and lines to be received and hooked on, ready for her to be hoisted in a minute, when Ball’s surfboat had been led aft, clear of the ladder.
As it had now. Bright hauled the boat up to it, Ben grasped the ladder’s chain sides, and went up. M.G.B. 600 was moving quite a bit, pitching at her anchor with the long swells from the northwest rolling under her.
‘Quarry?’
Surprisingly, Mike Hughes was there in the waist to meet him. Rosie was the slight figure behind his shoulder. There were busy men all round them: seeing to the boats, ushering the passengers into the bridge and thence down below, and up for’ard he guessed they’d be shortening in, not hanging around in here any longer than they had to. The six-pounder was manned, he saw as he came off the ladder; the Oerlikons too, gunners up there on the bandstand in black silhouette against star-dotted sky. He faced Hughes: ‘Can’t salute, sir, haven’t a cap. Actually I’m dressed like Charlie’s aunt.’
‘Suit you
to a ‘T’, no doubt.’ Hughes reached to shake his hand. ‘Glad to have you back, Ben.’
* * *
They had a substitute navigating officer on board, a friend of Ben’s whose own boat was in Portsmouth being re-engined. With Hughes’ concurrence, Ben left him to it. He’d worked out his own courses in relation to the tides and so forth, which Ben would have had to have got down to from scratch and to no particular advantage. Having said goodnight to Rosie and hello to most of the ship’s company’s personalities, therefore, he slung his own binoculars on and joined the skipper, Don Shepherd and Petty Officer Ambrose in the forefront of the bridge. The gunboat was under way by this time, at slow speed, only the outer pair of engines rumbling through their silencers and drowned exhausts.
The coxswain, Ambrose, eased rudder off her as she nosed out around the west side of Guenioc.
‘Wheel’s amidships, sir.’
‘Steer north ten west.’
‘North ten west, sir…’
Rolling a bit, with the swell sliding under her from not so far off the beam. She was at action stations, all weapons manned and eyes skinned. Here in the bridge, two lookouts at its after end and the signalman, Crow, as well as the three of them up front, all had glasses at their eyes.
‘Course north ten west, sir.’
‘Very good.’
The ritual response… Don Sutherland asked, without lowering his binoculars, ‘What’s the panic about, Ben?’
‘Panic?’
Hughes took over: ‘Right up to about five minutes before we shoved off there was some doubt whether this pinpoint would be usable.’
‘Oh, yes. Boches swarming all over – not that you’d notice especially, if you didn’t live there, but a lot more than usual, anyway – looking for arms dumps. Theory is, if they’ve got that far – and it’s a persistent effort, still going on – they may also have ideas how the stuff’s been getting in. In which case – who knows?’
Shepherd commented, ‘Seems they don’t have any such idea.’
‘We aren’t out yet.’ Hughes, his glasses sweeping slowly across the bow. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions.’
Rolling, rumbling, and the swish of sea, white water splitting ahead and spreading astern, melting into the surrounding blackness. Ben lowered his binoculars, wiped sea-dew off their front lenses, put them up again… ‘Brisante coming up abeam to starboard, sir.’
‘Can’t think what we did without you, pilot.’
‘Must admit I wondered, sir.’
The coxswain, Ambrose, cackled briefly.
‘Bridge?’
Hughes answered the voicepipe from the pilot. ‘Bridge.’
‘Be better on north thirteen west, sir.’
‘Very good. Cox’n – steer three degrees to port.’
‘Three degrees to port, sir…’
Otherwise, Ben appreciated, you might be shaving the Grande Fourche rocks a trifle close. Navigating by echo-sounder, as Tony would be doing now, you sometimes got readings or sequences of readings that told you exactly where you were. He had his glasses trained out that way, out across the two channels which both led into the L’Abervrac’h inlet and anchorage – where this morning he’d told Rosie that enemy small ships might conceivably lie in wait. Recalling also that the last time he’d left this place they’d darned near run into some armed trawlers, but had stopped engines and lain doggo while the bastards passed ahead.
Rosie’d be fast asleep, he hoped. Having sweet dreams, not the kind Solange had told him she’d had last night. Visualizing her, in the skipper’s little cabin. They’d all had ham sandwiches and coffee when they’d boarded; he’d forced a couple of sandwiches down himself, before he’d rather formally wished her a good night’s sleep and left her to it.
‘Petite Fourche in sight fine to starboard, sir.’
‘Very good…’
After that, the Libenter. Easy conditions, tonight, a lot easier than when you were being flung around. Grande Fourche was abeam, at this moment. Searching to starboard, looking for the loom of the searchlight on Ile Vierge; no such thing though, yet. Although the line of sight should have been clear, just about. Or maybe they weren’t using it tonight. Sweeping back very slowly: over La Pendante, then the littered water over the inshore end of the Libenter bank.
Shepherd said, ‘Got the place to ourselves, sir, by the look of it.’
How it should be. Fifteenth Flotilla gunboats had to be just about the only seagoing units of the Royal Navy that did not seek action of a violent kind. Action for these small ships meant only stealth: silent approach, invisible inshore presence, withdrawal still undetected. Perhaps surprisingly, there was enormous satisfaction in it – triumph even – as much as there ever was in the crash and flame of gunfire.
Especially when you had a cargo that was – to put it mildly – somewhat precious.
‘Pilot.’ That would have been for him, but the skipper was addressing Tony Swanton. Telling him, ‘Petite Fourche will be abeam in about thirty seconds.’
‘When it is, sir, alter to north fourteen east.’
It was now.
‘Starboard wheel, Cox’n, steer north fourteen east.’
‘Starboard wheel, sir. North fourteen east…’
Ben saw the searchlight, at last. ‘Loom of the light on Ile Vierge about green seven-oh, sir.’
Nosing smoothly towards the new course: Ambrose already easing rudder off her.
‘Ben – the girl we have on board now – isn’t she the one we landed here, trip before last?’
‘The very same, sir.’
‘And didn’t you know her, before that?’
‘Course north fourteen east, sir.’
‘Very good. Ben, didn’t—’
‘Had met before, yes. About the end of my time with N.I.D.’
‘Ah – of course…’
Telling no lies.
Telling no nothing.
Ignoring some stupid dig from Shepherd, too. He was all right; just – well, stupid… Ben thought, lowering his glasses, I’ll paint this. Paint this moment. The black sea peeling white, gunners crouching over it like leashed hounds – paint it as I’m seeing it now and call it Rosie Sleeping.
Postscript
In researching the naval side of this story, the role of the 15th Motor Gunboat Flotilla and detail of the gunboats, I was fortunate in having the most expert of advice from Commander Christopher Dreyer DSO DSC* RN (Rtd.), and through him (as President of the Coastal Forces Veterans’ Association) further help from John Townend VRD, Charles Milner DSM and W.R. Cartwright DSM, respectively Navigating Officer, Leading Telegraphist and P.O. Motor Mechanic of M.G.B. 718. I was also privileged to see some autobiographical notes left by the late David Birkin, another of the flotilla’s navigating officers; for this I have to thank his widow, the actress Judy Campbell.
In June 1944 718’s first lieutenant, Guy Hamilton, who had landed on ‘Bonaparte’ beach (near Plouha) with two ratings, was unable to rejoin the gunboat – she’d dragged her anchor. They had to be left ashore, and were suspected by the Resistance of being Nazi decoys. He writes – in January 1955 – ‘we were several days and nights on the run… Suspicions were mutual. When at last we cast our lot, I remember a long walk through the night led by a young and equally suspicious lady. Was she just walking us into a trap? We entered a darkened cottage, and I heard a sigh of relief. The blackout curtain was of rubberised canvas. The material used by S.O.E. to pack agents’ stores and equipment. I knew we were in good hands.’
In later years, Guy Hamilton was to become famous as a film director, one of his major successes being Goldfinger.
Into the Fire is a novel, and all the characters in it – except for Maurice Buckmaster and Francois Mitterrand (who did travel with the 15th Flotilla, on occasion) are fictitious. The real-life leaders of the L’Abervrac’h réseau were Paul Hentic, code-name ‘Mao’, Pierre Jeanson – ‘Sarol’ – and their radio operator ‘Jeannot’. David Birkin recorded in his notes t
hat soon after Christmas of 1943 all three were arrested, tortured at Gestapo headquarters in Paris and sent to their deaths in concentration camps; but happily it has more recently emerged that this is not so at any rate in the case of Paul Hentic, who in the summer of 1993 was alive and well and living in the south of France.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by Little, Brown
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
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Copyright © Alexander Fullerton, 1995
The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630351
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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