“You are persistent.”
“I’m afraid you’ll change your mind and not come if you have time to think about it.” He smiled and added, “What d’you say?”
“I can’t promise.” Then she smiled. “If I can make it.”
Frazer said quietly so that the others could not hear. “You should smile more often. You’re lovely.”
She did not reply, but looked at him for several seconds, her eyes holding that same awareness that he had seen in the bar. Then she was gone.
She was exciting and very desirable despite her aloofness. That was her protection, and it might still act against him. But she had agreed to see him. It was a beginning and Frazer was conscious of a great happiness.
The seaman, protected from the cold in a long watchcoat and wearing white belt and gaiters, examined Allenby’s identity card and special pass.
Allenby looked along the neat driveway and saw a sprawling, two-storeyed building which had once been a hotel for people who liked the country, walking and fishing. The navy was doing its best to change all that. Neat, white-painted stones lined the driveway, and a White Ensign flapped damply from a newly erected mast.
The sentry shifted the weight of a Stirling sub-machine gun on his shoulder and said cheerfully, “Commander Prothero’s expectin’ you. Th’ first door, you want.”
He had a twangy northern accent. It seemed out of place, Allenby thought. Devon and Cornwall were the farthest he had been for his prewar holidays with his parents. He felt vaguely at home here.
It had been a long journey from London. Changing trains and several holdups because of work on the line, and an air raid that lit the darkness like a far-off electrical storm. A jeep had awaited his arrival at Truro. The new HQ was situated some four miles from there, and about five from the main port of Falmouth. As the crow flies, that is. He smiled as he recalled the narrow, twisting lanes in which he had hiked, dreamed and imagined what he might become one day. You had to double every distance if you were going by road in
Cornwall.
His driver called, “I’ll take your gear to your quarters right away, sir!” He revved his engine.
It was his quiet way of telling the lieutenant that Prothero was not in the habit of waiting. Even if Allenby was worn out and needed a bath, the moment was now.
Allenby walked up the driveway and returned the salutes of two sailors in oilskins. They too looked as if they should be at sea dressed like that, then Allenby realized that the river was right there below the hotel. Even here it was not secluded. Landing craft, fuel and ammunition lighters, and others which appeared to be. carrying mobile cranes and lifting gear lined the opposite bank. It would be like that all the way downstream to Carrick Roads and Falmouth itself. No wonder there were so many checkpoints and wire fences. But how could they keep such a massive build-up a secret? Surely the Germans must know what was happening.
As he trudged up the driveway he thought of his seven days’ leave. It had been strained, and they had all been cut off from each other. The Mannerings had dropped in as promised. Threatened, more likely, he thought. Mr. Mannering had gone on about Salerno, the losses of men there during and immediately after the landings. At one point he had said, “I’d have thought the navy would have been better prepared. It’s the same with everything we do.”
Allenby had seen his father’s sudden apprehension and had said, “When I was sweeping mines I was one of the lucky ones. My ship was a proper sweeper. There were peacetime paddle steamers, clapped-out fishing drifters and trawlers doing the toughest and most thankless job there is.” His voice had risen as he had exclaimed, “We have no say in the ships and weapons we receive. We just have to get out there and fight the bloody war!”
His mother had exclaimed sharply, “Dicky, please!” Mannering had said in an almost forgiving tone, “Never mind, I’ve broad shoulders, what?”
Allenby had been about to say “and a big mouth too,” but he had desisted. But the evening had not been a happy one.
In some ways he was glad to be back. It was the life he had come to understand like no other. He belonged. He paused and glanced up at the empty sky. Empty except for several barrage balloons. Like a school of flying whales.
He entered the door and saw the bustle of figures in every direction. Empty boxes to be removed, full ones to be opened and sorted into the various offices. There was nobody he recognized. His heart sank. What was he expecting?
A squat, elderly Chief Yeoman of Signals was peering at a clipboard, his red face screwed up with concentration.
Allenby said, “Good morning, Yco. Can you tell me where I can find Commander Prothero?”
The Chief Yeoman looked at him and sighed loudly as a Wren dropped a packet of papers on the floor so that they scattered in every direction.
He said with feeling, “Gawd, what a bleedin’ potmess!” Then he grinned. “Still, worse troubles at sea, they tells me!” He pointed across the entrance hall where visitors had once gathered to sign the register.
“Through there, sir. ‘E’s a bit peeved today.” Allenby was wearing his raincoat and displayed no rank, and the Chief Yeoman was obviously offering a friendly warning.
“Thanks, Yeo.” He bit his lip. “Is Leading Wren Hazel about?”
The man eyed him impassively. “She ‘ad the forenoon, sir. She’s gone to ‘er billet. You just missed ‘er.”
Allenby walked into the office and felt the Chief Yeoman staring after him.
Another Wren he did not know ushered him through the outer office to another, grander one which was already lined with maps, aerial photographs and clips of signals. Some Wrens and a petty officer writer were putting files into order, and a torpedoman was testing the newly installed telephones. There was a sense of urgency about the place, as noticeable as the strong smell of pusser’s paint.
Then into another office and the Wren announced, “Lieutenant Allenby, sir.”
Prothero was drinking coffee from a huge cup and waited for Allenby to reach him before he offered his hand.
“Good to see you.” His bright little eyes searched Allenby’s face. “Fit?”
“I’ve seen the PMO, sir.” It was not what Prothero meant, but Allenby was too strained to play games.
Then he realized that there was another officer in the room, partly concealed by a high-backed leather chair. One of the original hotel’s, he thought.
The officer was a lieutenant with the interwoven gold lace of the Royal Naval Reserve on his sleeves. He had a round, competent face, the look of the professional seaman like most
of the RNR.
Prothero said, “This is Lieutenant Quinlan.” He did not elaborate. Prothero settled himself uncomfortably on a chair.
“No one was sorrier than I that you had to cut short your leave after what you had been through.”
Allenby felt like smiling. You would think that he had offered to forgo his leave.
“But this is an important mission and I want to keep it in the family. The Admiral agrees that it is a job for my section.”
The same Wren entered the room and put a cup of coffee beside Allenby’s chair. As she left, Allenby saw the Boss watching her legs. His expression made him look suddenly vulnerable.
Prothero said, “I’m sending you to the Channel Islands, Jersey to be exact.” He watched Allenby, his eyes mild again.
Allenby stared at him. The Channel Islands had been occupied by the enemy since the fall of France. They were the only part of Britain under the German jackboot. He knew little about them, other than the travel pictures and brochures he had read before the war. Hardly a top-line military objective.
Prothero said, “Amazing isn’t it? Jersey’s only one hundred and fifty miles from your chair. But it’s so well defended it might as well be on the moon.”
He heaved himself up from his seat and crossed to the nearest wall map. The south coast of England and the Western Approaches. France and the Cherbourg Peninsula, and nestling just below i
t that small group of islands.
Prothero said, “The Germans have thrown up some impressive fortifications, gun sites and an anti-tank wall above the beaches that would stop just about anything. The garrison, however, is not the best in the Wehrmacht. Mostly older men, reservists, and others sent there to recover from wounds and illness received on the Russian Front. But there are plenty of naval patrols, some based on the islands, and of course there is a flotilla of E-Boats just over the water in St Malo. Impressive, eh?”
Allenby got to his feet and walked to the map. From the way Prothero described the place it sounded like a one-way exercise.
Prothero said slowly, “The Allies will be invading Normandy eventually. Sooner rather than later, and we shall be playing an important role. My sources tell me that the enemy has built a completely new radar complex and erected it on Jersey. In the event of an attack it will protect their flank and monitor all surface and air movements. It’s very advanced, I’m given to understand. It must be destroyed.”
Allenby looked across to the windows, his mind grappling with the simple statement.
Prothero added, “The Channel Islands are British. They have managed to exist under the German occupation with minimum persecution. There is no Resistance as we know it in France and Scandinavia. Occasionally a few reckless individuals have carried out acts of defiance. If caught they have been harshly dealt with. And that is how it must remain. The war will end one day. I don’t want us to be the cause of savage reprisals in those islands as carried out elsewhere.”
Allenby thought of the raid on Sicily. He had heard that when the SS and Gestapo had arrived at that fishing village to investigate they had executed even some of the women.
“So you want me to do it, sir?”
“You’ll be met when you land. One of the people there has formed a small group. He helped design the structure, and he also has access to some of the equipment. Our Intelligence and radar advisers would give their teeth to have a look at it. It may have to be jammed before the invasion. We shall need to know how.”
“Why can’t this local man do the job, sir?”
“It’s got to look like a raid from outside. We shall create a diversion while you get on with the mission. Well?”
Allenby knew it was useless to ask about his chances.
“When do I start?”
Prothero beamed. “Good lad. It’ll be a day or so. But it’s all laid on.” He frowned. “You’re not bothered by submarines, I trust?”
He gestured to the other lieutenant before Allenby could reply. “Quinlan here will be your taxi driver. He is captain of a midget submarine X-19, one of those sent to attack the Tirpitz. He had to pull out at the last minute with some mechanical trouble.”
Allenby saw the round-faced lieutenant through new eyes. Like most of the navy, he had been excited and astonished by the audacity of the midgets’ attack on Germany’s greatest battleship. Most of the submariners had been killed or captured. Quinlan had been saved by a stroke of bad luck, or whichever way he looked at it.
Quinlan saw Prothero’s impatient nod and said, “We shall leave Falmouth in an ordinary submarine with X-19 on tow. When we get within working distance we shall board the boat and leave the passage crew in the parent sub. There is a supply vessel which calls regularly at Jersey from St Malo. Troops, fuel and rations for the army.” He glanced at Prothero, his expression cold. “Not a target we would normally risk an X-Craft for, but it may make the Germans believe it was a fuliscale raid.”
Prothero glared. “They must believe that!”
Quinlan looked at Allenby. “I’ve got my little sub hidden inside a dock at Falmouth. Flag Officer Submarines is making all the arrangements.” He studied Allenby’s pale features and added, “Don’t worry. We’ll manage something. I sometimes wonder what they’ll think of next. And don’t worry about mechanical trouble. It’s been taken care of.”
Prothero folded his arms. They barely reached across his body. “Get settled in, Allenby. ” It was a dismissal. “I have a few points to discuss with Quinlan. ” Or did he merely want to separate them until the time to move?
Allenby asked, “Can I take it that Major Thomas is not involved this time, sir?”
Prothero scowled fiercely. “Now, just because you—” He calmed himself with an effort. “You are not supposed to know who is doing what and when. But no, Major Thomas is employed elsewhere. I know how you feel, but we often have to work with other sections. Thomas’s is just one of them. And before you condemn him completely, just remember that his family were wiped out by the SS as a reprisal. He has no love for Germans.”
“I know that, sir.” Allenby faced him. “But he enjoys his work too much.”
He closed the door behind him and saw the Chief Yeoman in the outer office talking with one of the Wrens.
He grinned as he saw Allenby’s grim expression.
“All done, sir? I did tell you about him.”
As Allenby turned towards the staircase the Chief Yeoman added, “By the way, sir.” He held out half of a signal flimsy. “Phone call for you just now. I’ve wrote down the number. Young lady it was.” He almost winked. “The one you mentioned like.”
Allenby found a telephone and after some explaining to the operator he heard the line begin to buzz.
His mouth was completely dry. As if he was just going into battle. If only he had time to compose himself. He knew it would have made no difference.
There was a click and then she said, “Yes?” “This is Lieutenant Allenby, is that-?”
He thought he could hear girls’ voices and the clatter of crockery. It must be the Wrens’ quarters. Her voice returned, closer this time as if she had shut a door to exclude the noise.
“I-I just wanted to thank you for your letter.”
There was a long pause while Allenby covered his ear with one hand in case he missed something. For an instant he thought they had been cut off.
Then she said, “It was good of you, after the way I treated you.”
Allenby said urgently, “No, it was my fault. I wanted to explain.” The words were tumbling out of him in confusion. “You see, I can’t remember.” He tried to steady himself. “I’m sorry. It s not at all what I wanted to say.”
She asked, “What did you want to tell me?”
“Please don’t laugh at me, or hang up, but-” He groped for words. “I’ve thought of you such a lot. I wondered if we might meet somewhere?”
It seemed an age before she spoke again. “Yes. All right.”
There was another pause and he could hear her breathing. Fast, as if she was nervous too. She said, “I know what you are going to do. I have seen the signals. I wish-“
“Don’t let’s talk about it.” So she knew. He would not have to pretend like he did at home. “I do so want to talk to you,”
“Yes. We are working watch-and-watch until things settle down. I could see you during the dogs. Only for a few moments. By the way, do you have a bicycle?”
Allenby thought he had misheard. She explained. “There’s a little teashop about a mile from you. We could meet there. It’s usually empty. The Chief Yeoman will get a bike for you.”
“How did you know I’d arrived?”
She laughed. “He was the one who phoned me when you were with the Boss.”
“I’ll be there.”
She said, “I must go. There’s a queue outside the box.” She added, “I’m glad you’re safe-” The line went dead and an aggrieved voice said, “Sorry, sir, but this is a service line. “
At least the operator didn’t say that there was a war on.
Allenby walked away, his mind in a daze. He was going to see her. Explain, or try to, what had happened to her brother. And to see her, just as he had described her to his father.
He saw the Chief Yeoman filling his pipe. There was some order amidst the chaos now and he looked almost pleased.
Allenby said, “Thanks, Yeo.”
The man grinned. “
Now you’ll be wantin’ a bicycle, right, sir?”
They laughed like conspirators.
Allenby said, “Right!”
The little tearooms called the Marigolds were on the edge of a village called Feock. Allenby pedalling fast on the unaccustomed bicycle arrived at four o’clock, far too early as the dogwatches did not begin until then.
An old lady with her hair twisted into a severe bun eyed him suspiciously as he entered and waited for him to sit down. Apart from two women at a table by the bay window the place was empty. Again, it reminded Allenby of his boyhood. The checkered tablecloths, farming scenes on the wall.
The proprietor walked to Allenby’s table and said, “Tea?” Allenby glanced quickly at his watch. “I’m a bit early. There’ll be two of us.”
She eyed him for a few seconds and said, “This is not a waiting room, young man.”
Allenby flushed as the other two women turned to stare.
Perhaps a lot of servicemen came here to meet their dates, he thought. The locals probably disliked being swamped by the forces of several nations, no matter how honorable their intentions.
The woman said sharply, “What’s that?” She pointed at the ribbon on Allenby’s breast.
Why did he have to get so embarrassed each time someone mentioned it? In the past he had pretended, boasted even, of the things he hadn’t done. Reality seemed to render him speechless.
In a small voice he replied, “The GC, ma’am.”
She leaned closer and he could smell lavender.
“The George Cross, eh?” She studied it and then him in silence. Then she did something as unnerving as when his mother had momentarily dropped her guard. She rested her hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “Stay as long as you like, son.”
She turned away and vanished into the back room.
The bell above the door jangled and Joanna Hazel walked in, and then stopped to look at him.
Allenby got to his feet, the other women, everything, forgotten as he stared at her. Her jaunty Wren’s cap was tilted over her dark hair and she sounded breathless from her ride.
The Volunteers Page 18
