But the words bounced back at her, like they always did.
Commander Aubrey Prothero listened to his own heavy breathing while he stared at the colored map that lay weighted down on a table. A solitary shaded light glared down, suspended on a long flex, so that everything beyond the map was excluded in shadow.
A strip of coastline. It could have been almost anywhere from North Africa to the Adriatic. Large scale, with groups of colored pins and paper arrows to indicate the various zones and possible objectives.
It was very quiet, he thought, rather like his HQ in Portsmouth. Here in Plymouth they had also suffered badly from air raids, and this section’s offices were protected by concrete and steel from everything but a direct hit.
As if from miles away he heard the muffled bellow of a gunnery instructor as another company of raw recruits was initiated into the mysteries of parade training, rifle and bayonet drill, although what use it would be to seagoing personnel was beyond Prothero.
He was feeling his age after his madcap drive to Plymouth. His crazy Royal Marine driver had excelled himself. Even so he had been late and that troubled him.
He felt the other two occupants of the still room watching him. They had said nothing about his lateness, but were probably glad to have found a flaw in his rules on the matter.
Why? Perhaps one of the girls in the SDO had mixed up the signals, or had retyped the times wrongly. It was surprising that Lynn Balfour had not noticed it. Not like her at all.
He glanced up quickly. Both of the other officers were soldiers, a brigadier and a major. Their medal ribbons from forgotten campaigns gleamed in the harsh light, but above them their faces were in total shadow. It was like being with two decapitated corpses.
“Sorry to rush you, Aubrey, but we’ve been caught napping.”
Prothero almost added “again,” but refrained; he was still thinking about Second Officer Balfour.
He said, “It’s a bit dicey, even for our chaps.”
The brigadier said, “Our forces in North Africa are going like fury. We heard today that Rommel has been flown out on the direct orders of Hitler himself. He’s had to hand over the whole of the Afrika Korps, or what’s left of it, to von Arnim. It will all be over soon, a couple of weeks at the most. It looks as if Hitler is prepared to sacrifice the lot of them. No Dunkirk for him.”
Prothero leaned on the map, his big hands like lumps of coral. It was hard to accept that Rommel, the Desert Fox, who had won the respect of his own men and the Eighth Army alike, had given in. It would do more harm to the Germans’ morale than anything.
He heard the table creak under his weight. The map was a small section of the northern coast of Sicily. Not a healthy place at any time. When the Germans retreated there from North Africa it would be doubly dangerous to land or retrieve agents even with the aid of the so-called underground there. They were mostly bandits.
He said, “I’ve been unhappy about the situation in Sicily for months, although I found it difficult to get much sympathy for my views.” He did not conceal his bitterness. “Now we might be too late. When the Germans are finally out of North Africa the Allies will want to invade Sicily and Italy with as little delay as possible. Before Jerry has time to regroup, to set up extra coastal defences. For once the enemy will be on the defensive. We shall see how he likes it.”
The major said gently, “You mentioned a new team?”
“Yes. Good men.” In his mind he saw Allenby’s defensiveness, Frazer’s attempt to defend him. Together they should more than replace the ones who had been killed or gone missing.
He said, “We have to make contact with the Sicilians. Terrorists, partisans, whichever fits your point of view. It will be too late once the invasion starts. Those buggers will play one side against the other like the Yugoslavs have done. It’s now or never. Work with us, or be treated like the enemy.”
The brigadier did not conceal his relief. “My section will give you all the help it can.”
The major’s face dipped into the light as he opened some papers.
“The Canadian, Frazer, what’s he like?”
Prothero considered it. “Good. Headstrong but not reckless. The kind of man who can act quickly and encourage those who depend on him. He should have had a command by now. Bloody waste.” He almost added “as usual.”
The buck had been passed.
Prothero said, “I’ll get back right away.” His driver would love that. “Leave it to me. I’ll let you have the time and method in a few days.”
The brigadier stood up. “Anything we can do right now?” Prothero shrugged his massive shoulders. “Pray,” he replied.
A messenger guided him out into the evening air. It was not much like spring, he thought.
He allowed the plan to take shape in his mind as he walked unseeingly past some saluting sailors. Soon a new pointer or flag would appear on the map, the idea would become a fact.
He despised men like the two he had just left. They cared nothing for those who carried out their harebrained schemes. They were merely pawns, faceless units. Only the mission, and the next after that, counted. It was up to Special Operations to make sure that men did not die for nothing.
Prothero saw his driver waiting beside the car and quickened his pace.
It was just that it got harder each time.
3
A PIECE OF CAKE
As PROTHERO HAD hinted, things moved fast when he had got approval from higher up.
With some soldiers and a few Royal Marines, Frazer and Allenby found themselves packed into a. Dakota troop carrier and winging their way south to Gibraltar. There they had barely time to take a bath before they were taken, or rather escorted, by a severe looking provost marshal to a motor torpedo boat and were dashing through the night into the Mediterranean.
Crouched in one corner of the MTB’s tiny wardroom Allenby had tried to drag his mind from that last mine, to recover the one missing fragment of memory. He thought too of the Leading Wren’s words, the way that the second officer had attempted to soften them by asking him about the mine at the hospital.
He had thought also of his brief return home, the extraordinary change in his mother’s attitude when he had introduced her to Frazer. Allenby had cursed himself more than once on the way there; Frazer was said to be a millionaire’s son, a well-known yachtsman, all the things that Allenby could only imagine. He would be shocked by the shabby, semidetached house, the small back garden where his father did his best to grow vegetables, to “Dig for Victory.” All the houses in the respectable road were shabby, tired out by war. No repairs, too many air raids, not enough men around to paint and patch up.
But Frazer had settled down as if he was really enjoying himself. He had obviously won his mother’s heart, and gone further to make Allenby’s father talk about the Somme, something which was almost impossible to do.
He had said in his soft drawl, “My Dad was there, Mr. Allenby. Passchendaele as well.”
The old man’s eyes had misted over but he had given the small smile that Allenby had always known and loved.
“It’s not something you forget, er, Keith.”
On their way back to the station Frazer had remarked, “Good people. I hope they liked me.”
Frazer had spent most of his time on the MTB’s bridge, chatting with her youthful CO and peering at the chart while the boat scudded and bounded through the night.
The places on the North African coastline read like milestones of the war. Now the tide was turning and at least this phase of it was all but ended.
Oran, bombarded by the Royal Navy to destroy the warships of their ally after the French government had surrendered to Hitler. It had been necessary, for if the ships had fallen into enemy hands the balance of naval power would have swung against Britain. Nevertheless, the French who had remained in Tunis and Algeria had never forgotten or forgiven.
There were other names which had reappeared again and again in the early bulletins. Benghaz
i, Tobruk, and finally El Alamein where the Eighth Army had made a last desperate stand and had won.
If the MTB’s skipper had known anything about their mission or final destination he kept it to himself.
Frazer had recalled what Second Officer Balfour had said about secrecy. It was a pity he had not been able to speak to her again before they had been driven to the naval air station. He had called at the Ops Room, but each time she had been unable to see him. In a conference, or involved with her many duties. Or so they had said. He still wondered about it.
Four days after leaving Gibraltar they groped their way into the Tunisian port of Sousse.
Frazer and Allenby stood side by side on the bridge as the MTB picked her way nervously amongst partly submerged
wrecks and floating debris until signalled alongside a makeshift jetty which looked as if it had been built by children.
The MTB’s skipper grinned. “There’s a jeep waiting for you. I’ll have your gear shipped over.” He glanced across at the town, blasted buildings, eyeless windows and drifting layers of smoke. “I’ve been based here,” he said. There was something like pride in his voice. “It’s only a hundred and fifty miles to Sicily, and I think my flotilla has hunted every inch of it. The Germans have been trying to supply the Afrika Korps by sea at night. Now they’re attempting to evacuate their tanks and troops the same way. The seabed must be strewn with them.”
They shook hands, and Frazer was reminded of the moment he had left the Levant. It must be a month ago, he thought. It seemed like a century.
The jeep was waiting as promised. Seated at the wheel was a very bronzed young man in khaki shirt and shorts. He wore no markings or badges, but as he got down from his seat he slapped a naval cap on his head and saluted.
“Able Seaman Weeks, sir. Naval Party Seventy-Five.”
Frazer nodded. He wanted to grin, but the young sailor looked deadly serious. Not even the name of a ship for their new enterprise. A number, like a crate of stores.
They clambered in and the sailor said, ” ‘Bout eight miles, that’s all, sir.” They roared away, the wheels spewing out sand and dust like something solid.
Fraser felt the heat on his face. Searing, not like anything he had ever experienced. Heat and a strange heavy smell. The vastness of the desert, he thought. A place littered with burned-out and gutted tanks and half-tracks, smashed weapons and the too familiar wooden crosses.
They headed north towards Tunis, the piece of coastline which they had passed during their last night in the MTB.
“Is there much going on, Weeks?”
The rating glanced at Frazer; his eyes were very innocent. “Can’t really say, sir.” You could take that either way. Careless talk costs lives, the posters proclaimed, or the wittier ones like, Be like dad, keep mum.
The HQ of Naval Party Seventy-Five looked for all the world like a junk yard. There was a ragged line of salvaged vehicles, mostly German and Italian, piles of crates, jerrycans interspersed with sandbagged and camouflaged gun emplacements. There were several blackened craters around the place if anyone needed reminding how close the enemy air bases were.
And here was the sea, like a friend. Deep blue and untroubled once you looked beyond the wrecks and half-submerged hulks that lay nearer to the beach.
I “You’re here then.”
Frazer and Allenby found themselves face to face with a
I tall, hatless naval officer in khaki. His tarnished shoulder straps showed him to be a lieutenant commander, but from his appearance and the heavy pistol at his belt he looked more like a soldier. They both saluted and the other man gave a great grin. It made him look about ten years younger, Frazer thought.
The other man said, “I command here. John Goudie’s the name. “
He did not need to elaborate. Goudie had distinguished himself in motor gunboats from one end of the Med to the other, and before that in the narrow seas when little else had stood between the victorious Germans and the white cliffs of Dover.
Three Spitfires roared low overhead and Goudie said, “The RAF have been pretty good. They’ve kept the Krauts from bothering us too much. We don’t need aerial pictures right now, thank you very much.” He sounded light-hearted, not a care in the world.
Frazer glanced at Allenby and wondered what he thought. It was usually hard to know what he was thinking. Chalk and cheese, but they got on.
He thought of his visit to Allenby’s home, the way Allenby seemed to watch his mother, dreading what she might say. But Frazer had felt only admiration for the woman and her one-legged veteran husband. The house had looked rundown, but it seemed to represent what he had come to love about England. A tattered defiance that nothing could break. Even the way Allenby’s mother had laid out her high tea for them. It must have been more than a week’s ration.
That had been when he had made his one mistake. He had offered to write and ask his own folks to send some food parcels. Allenby’s mother had regarded him coolly. “We can manage, thank you. You get used to it. It’s never been easy in this house.”
A defense, an accusation because her husband had been unable to obtain proper work since his war-it was difficult to say. Afterwards Allenby had tried to apologize but Frazer had said, “She was right, eh? That sort of remark makes me no better than some cocky Yank!”
Lieutenant Commander Goudie led the way to a small hump of rock and loose stones and pointed down into an oval natural harbor. Apart from the scattered debris of war, it looked as if it had been there since time began. There were the sounds of saws and hammers, and jazz from a loudspeaker by some low camouflaged tents.
As they approached the base Frazer watched the comings and goings of the inhabitants. Most of them wore nothing but shorts, they might have been anybody. But all were young and looked very fit and tough. It was another navy, and most of them were obviously amused by the two new arrivals in their uncomfortable uniforms.
Frazer thought suddenly of the Levant and wondered if they had already forgotten him. Where was she now? Steaming back into Halifax, Nova Scotia, or charging up and down the lines of merchant ships as they prepared to leave St. John’s in Newfoundland?
Goudie said, “In here. Welcome to the mess.”
It was a slightly larger tent than the others and filled with crude trestle tables, ration boxes and cases of small-arms ammunition.
Goudie said, “Sit here, gentlemen. With your backs to all that squalor you won’t feel so bad.” He waited as a sailor entered with a tray under his arm.
Goudie raised an eyebrow. “Large gins, I think.”
Frazer watched him as he opened a canvas satchel and dragged out some papers. Very cool and self-possessed, he thought. But wound up like a wire. If half the things he had heard about Goudie’s exploits were true it was a marvel he was still joined together.
Goudie looked up and said abruptly, “I expect the Boss has put you in the picture?”
They nodded and took their gins from the messman. Frazer thought it was strange to hear Prothero’s name mentioned out here. He seemed to belong back in the UK. He almost choked as he realized the glass was full of neat gin. It was like fire. He saw Al-lenby’s eyes watering as he tried to stop himself from coughing.
Goudie grimaced. “The water’s not good. Jerry poisoned some of it before he left, bless him. And our ice-making equipment is still in Alex, I understand!” It seemed to amuse him.
“Now.” He laid a well-worn map on the table. “North coast of Sicily, and here-” he jabbed the map with a teaspoon, “is the objective.”
Objective. Despite the heat and the gin it was like a douche of ice water. They were going into action without any time for further preparation.
Goudie saw their expressions and said mildly, “Well, we were expecting you earlier, and we were not anticipating that your unfortunate predecessors were going to get the chop, right?”
Frazer opened his mouth to ask the question but shut it as Goudie added, “Anyway, the enemy has left us
no choice. Jerry is pulling out of North Africa so fast it will be a race. But the raid, our raid, is to be on a brand-new power plant which the Germans have been building in Sicily. As you may know, the island gets all its power from the mainland by overhead cable across the Messina Strait. If we invade,” he smiled, “when we invade, we shall have to make sure that the cable stays intact. But that is a headache for the brown jobs when they finally stumble ashore. This new installation is important for another reason. If we wait until all the German forces have pulled back to Sicily and the Italian mainland, the enemy will be ruthless with anyone who attempts to use sabotage against them. The Resistance, or whatever you choose to call them, are our only hope. They have no love for the Italian Government and hate the Germans for suppressing their activities far more efficiently than the Carabinieri ever could.”
Allenby spoke for the first time. “It’s to give the Resis
tance confidence, is it? To show them we are prepared to
back them up to and after the eventual invasion?”
Goudie nodded. “You have a quick mind. That’s good.” Frazer looked at the map. “How do we get there, sir?”
“The seas to the north and west of Sicily are alive with craft. Vessels taking part in the North African evacuation, the movement of stores and ammunition, and of course the fishing fleet without which there would be more trouble for the Germans. Before, it was comparatively easy for the enemy. All our ships were needed to fight the convoys through to Malta and beyond, and our submarines were worked to death tracking down Rommel’s convoys back and forth to Italy. Now we and the Americans have a round-the-clock air umbrella, and our Light Coastal Forces hunt from Sousse and Bone even in broad daylight.” He looked at each of them in turn. “So we ought to be able to slip through the patrols, rendezvous with the Sicilian patriots, blow the objective and then pull out. We should have the advantage of surprise. Nothing like this has ever been attempted against the northern coastline. Farther to go, but less well defended.” He frowned. “Or so the brains of Intelligence assure me.”
The Volunteers Page 4
