by Gee, Colin
2031 hrs, Wednesday, 7th November 1945. Kildare Street, Dublin, Éire.
The room was full of tension, heightened by the low lighting, the crackle of an open fire, and the fug of pipe smoke.
The only occupants eyed each other adversarialy, testing each other’s resolve, seeking out weakness and preparing to pounce on an unguarded moment.
The man in uniform leant forward, eyes boring into those of his companion as he made a small adjustment to the positions.
“Check.”
As he let go of the piece, Colonel Dan Bryan knew that something was wrong, for the man opposite permitted a smug look to replace the previous stoic expression.
Richard Hayes, Director of the National Library of Ireland, in whose office the two men were enjoying their usual game of chess, shook his head slowly.
“Some people never learn, you know.”
Bryan’s eyes sought the truth on the chequered battlefield as Hayes almost caressed a Knight before removing the Colonel’s checking Bishop.
“Check.”
The Knight, its work done, sat almost taunting Bryan; exposed, unsupported, alone, and vulnerable, and yet, so invulnerable.
The move had revealed the Black Queen, which now lay in check on Bryan’s King.
“Damn.”
“Indeed, Dan.”
Whilst not over yet, there was no way back for the Head of Irish Army Intelligence.
He capitulated in the time-honoured way.
Both men settled back into their chairs, sampling pipe and whisky in equal measure, the first part of their rituals complete.
The Library Director donned a professorial air as he examined a worn piece of paper.
“I believe that makes the tally sixty-three to twenty-one in my favour. A very precise ratio, Colonel.”
“I do so hate smart asses, so I do.”
Both men giggled comfortably, close friends who had enjoyed many such encounters.
Hayes leant forward and freshened Bryan’s glass.
“So, any further news on our government’s position?”
“No change, President de Valera has assured all parties of the neutrality of our country.”
Both men understood that the real position was somewhat more complicated than that, as it had been in the previous war.
“My contacts with British Special Branch and the Allied intelligence and special forces continue as ever, although with new names and new targets.”
Hayes sampled his whisky.
“And our own problem children? Are they still quiet?”
Throughout World War Two, Richard Hayes had assisted Irish G2 with cracking the codes used by German agents in their communications with the IRA, codes that still bore fruit for Irish Intelligence when the Republicans employed them.
“Well... you tell me, Richard. How did you get on with our problem?”
The problem in question was a number of messages crafted in a hitherto unknown code that defeated the best efforts of the Irish decoders.
Bryan has spent some time with another Hayes that very day, in an effort to pick at anything within the ex-IRA Chief of Staff’s memory that could help unlock the new messages.
In 1941, Hayes had been tried and sentenced for treason by an IRA court, accusations and circumstantial evidence leading them to believe he was a spy for the Garda.
He escaped and handed himself in to the Garda, seeking protection.
Subsequently imprisoned for five years, Stephen Hayes received frequent visits from the authorities in an effort to pick his brain clean.
Hayes had been the main author of the notorious ‘Plan Kathleen’, the IRA’s proposal to Germany for an invasion of Northern Ireland.
A large folder, containing all that G2 knew of the plan, sat on the generous sofa.
Richard Hayes cleared the chessboard away and, indicating the file, sought permission to examine it.
Bryan opened his palm in acquiescence.
The academic slid his glasses up his forehead and read steadily.
“The other decoded messages were simple, but of no substance. You concur?”
Hayes stopped reading.
“Yes, although there was some phraseology that intrigued.”
The Colonel’s interest piqued.
“I haven’t seen them myself so enlighten me please.”
“Two in particular, one of which was repeated in two of the messages.”
Setting aside the folder, Stephen Hayes removed a hand written note from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, here we are. Two messages speak of site security, unusual in itself. This one gives a radio frequency but God above only knows what for. I assume your boys are on that already?”
The Colonel nodded, his monitoring department having yielded nothing from the discovery.
“Ah yes, this one. All Anger, whatever that may be, is a priority. Suggests itself as a codeword for an operation to me.”
Something clicked somewhere, deep in the recesses of his brain and Colonel Bryan became uncomfortable, knowing that he knew something but not knowing what it was that he knew.
“May I use your phone, Richard?”
A simple nod from Hayes was all that was needed.
Bryan paused at the handset, placed it back in the receiver and backtracked to the door.
On opening it, he was confronted by a very eager looking young man, dressed in a well cut suit and smartly turned out.
“Mulranny, have the car ready in five minutes. We’re going back to Kilmainham.”
Kilmainham Jail was a large institution renowned for its harsh environment and regime. Closed in 1924 it had fallen into apparent disuse, which was exactly the way G2 liked it to be viewed.
Retrieving the phone, Bryan made the arrangements.
“Dr Fogarty? Bryan here. Something’s come up and I need to chat with our friend again.”
“No, that will not do, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, tonight.”
“Thank you Dr Fogarty.”
Replacing the receiver, Bryan returned to the chess table and downed the rest of his whisky.
“I’m going to need that file, Richard. I'll have a copy sent to you first thing in the morning... but for now, I need it.”
Reluctantly, the older man closed the folder and offered it up.
“I don’t suppose you are going to share, are you?”
“If I knew what it was, I would. All I know is that the answer is in the Kathleen file and Stephen Hayes is going to tell me tonight.”
“Can you get me that copy tonight?”
Bryan laughed.
“Keen aren’t you? May I use your phone again?”
There was no opposition to that, so a copy was swiftly organised, to be delivered to the Academic’s home within the hour.
“Right, I'll see what our canary has to say. You know how to get hold of me if you find anything.”
The two friends shook hands and parted.
I want no mercy... I’ll have no mercy... I’ll die as many thousands have died, for the sake of their beloved land and in defence of it. I'll die proudly and triumphantly, in defence of republican principals and the liberty of an oppressed people.
William Allen, Irish Republican.
Chapter 106 - THE COLONELS
0819 hrs, Thursday, 8th November 1945, airborne over the Western Approaches, approximately one mile north of the Irish mainland.
NS-D had spotted its stricken sister immediately, the familiar white shape standing out against the grey rock of the coastline.
The Mayo Republicans had dragged the damaged Sunderland north-eastwards and away from Glenlara, putting some two miles distance between the two before damaging the watertight hull and leaving the sea to do the rest.
However, the sea had contrary ideas and gently pushed NS-X into a modest bay three miles east of the IRA camp.
As had been agreed in the early morning briefing, in the event that the missing aircraft had been discovered, NS-D set herself down
on the ocean and taxied as close as possible to the silent Sunderland, guns trained in case of trouble.
Each of the rescue aircraft had an extra dinghy aboard, so four of the crew made the short journey between aircraft.
NS-D’s location report was received with mixed feelings back in Castle Archdale.
The open hatch invited the rescuers in, but all they found was a silence laden with death, for all aboard were beyond help.
Splitting up to search different areas, the Flying Officer in charge climbed the stairs to the palace, finding both pilots very obviously dead at their controls. Other bodies lay around the Flight Engineer's board at the rear of the space.
Elsewhere, other rescuers-turned-undertakers located the rest of the crew, each man pale and long dead.
The commander of NS-D instructed that the dead crew should be transferred to his aircraft, detailing two more men to go and assist, as well as to ensure that all secrets from equipment and charts were either recovered or destroyed.
After forty-five silent and nerve-wracking minutes, the job was complete.
Attaching a line to the silent aircraft, NS-D pulled her out into deeper water, where the rear gunner completed the work done by the IRA the night before, venting the hull with heavy calibre bullets.
NS-X sank quickly and silently. Her remaining depth bombs had been made safe to avoid announcing their presence to half of Ireland.
NS-D turned into the wind and drove herself airborne, heading back to their base with an awful cargo.
Hostile eyes watched their departure, as they had done from the moment the Sunderland had touched down.
As NS-D disappeared slowly from sight, Seamus Brown rose from his hiding place, gathered up his two colleagues and jogged off towards his base, hoping his report would calm the fears of the Russian officer.
0820 hrs, Thursday, 8th November 1945, Headquarters, G2 Irish Special Branch, Dublin.
The phone rang at his desk, causing the Colonel to jump, so engrossed was he in his work.
“Bryan.”
The Colonel stretched as he listened to the brief information.
“Good. Ask him to come in please.”
Replacing the receiver, Bryan walked to the side table and poured two cups of tea, one of which he held out to the newly arrived Richard Hayes.
Manoeuvring his visitor to a seat, Bryan resumed his former position.
“So then, what brings you to my office at this ungodly hour, Richard?”
“You know very well why I am here.”
The two men enjoyed the fencing as a rule, but today there were other fish to fry.
“All Anger.”
“All Anger indeed, Dan.”
“Mr Hayes informs me it was an old codename, used back in the days before the Germans.”
“So the codes wouldn’t cover it at all. It’s a double encryption?”
“Well, yes and no, Stephen. Fortunately, the IRA are not THAT bright. What we have is a simple code name that was encoded using old German message code. The name ‘All Anger’ means something to someone in its own right. It’s not an encryption as such.”
“Yes, I do understand that, you know!”
Bryan held his hands up in apology.
“Not teaching you to suck eggs, Stephen.”
“When did this codename first come into being?”
Swiftly consulting his notes from the late evening session with the ex-IRA man, the Colonel spoke with authority.
“He says quiet adamantly it was 1933. He remembered because of Hitler.”
“Didn’t we discover something about that?”
The Colonel grinned.
“Yes... we did. They had a habit of using anagrams as simple codenames.”
Such a statement posed a challenge the Academic could not resist.
Picking up a pencil, he begged a piece of paper and started to work.
All Anger...
Angerall.
Enallgar.
Largelan.
Ellanrag.
Within a minute, he sat back triumphantly.
“Glenlara.”
“Impressive, Stephen, it took me a little longer.”
That brought the slightest of scowls from Hayes.
“Forgive me. Now cast your mind back.”
Hayes, his mind again tasked, slipped quickly from his annoyance into recall mode.
“Yes, I thought it was familiar... Glenlara, Cork. You had that trouble with the Garda ambush, the lads from Castleisland, just before the world went mad again, did you not?”
“Anything else?”
He racked his brain.
“The woods near there.”
“Indeed, Stephen.”
There had been two reports of strange lights in the woods between Glennamucklagh and Glenlara. The second report had resulted in the dispatch of a team and four Garda constables subsequently being shot to death in an ambush. One inexplicable issue of that ambush was the fact that their car and bodies were found at Barleyhill, the other side of the woods from the dead men’s base at Castleisland.
Licking his lips free from sweet tea, Bryan asked the important question.
“Are there any messages that would tie in with that ambush and this codeword? My men can't find any at first look.”
“I will check my own folders and see what I can find.”
The G2 Commander nodded and then relaxed back into his chair.
“None the less, a number of my men and Special Branch officers, plus a company of the Army, are presently on their way to see what delights the woods contain.”
1100 hrs Thursday 8th November 1945, the Alpine Front.
On the stroke of 11am, the artillery of Chuikov’s and Yeremenko’s forces commenced a barrage, hundreds of artillery pieces delivering thousands of shells in a storm that lasted thirty minutes precisely.
As the artillery ceased its activity, defending Allied units came up from their bunkers, moved up from secondary positions and prepared to face whatever it was that was coming at them through the heavy snow.
At 1140 hrs, Soviet artillery and previously silent rocket batteries fired as one, catching the deployed defenders by surprise and inflicting heavy casualties.
The plan required that the barrage would advance, commencing at 1210hrs and the plan was followed to the letter, shell shocked and battered Allied soldiers suddenly finding themselves overrun as Soviet infantry formations closed up and into their positions, hard on the edge of the advancing barrages.
Chuikov’s 1st Alpine Front committed itself in Eastern Austria, striking hard down upon the defenders of Northeast Italy, keeping his southern flank against the relative safety of the Yugoslav border, his right flank in touch with Yeremenko’s 1st Southern European Front, the border between them agreed on as a small German village only recently made notorious; Berchtesgaden.
Konev’s suggestion had been simple and well reasoned.
The logistics gleaned from the Yugoslavs were close at hand for the 1st Alpine and 1st Southern European. The units were fresh, whereas the enemy opposite them had been thinned out to reinforce the German front.
The Spanish had arrived and been inserted into frontline positions. Not quality troops by all accounts, certainly not up to the standard of the old Blau Division.
Other inferior units had been detected in Italy and Southern France, soldiers of limited worth, according to Soviet intelligence and Soviet prejudices. Negroes, Brazilians, French, Mexicans, Portuguese, and even small detachments from Cuba and Paraguay.
So, Konev had argued, with his plans for limited advances on the main front, combined with a rejuvenation programme and resupply schedule for the savaged Red Banner formations, now was the time to instigate the phase that brought Chuikov and Yeremenko into action.
The GKO had agreed and the dying started all over again.
1720 hrs, Saturday, 10th November 1945, Base Commanders Office, RAF Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland.
Squadron Leader Benjamin Vil
joen read the report in silence, detaching himself from the fact that he was reading about the death of his brother.
All secret map work, all radio code books, and all sensitive equipment had either been recovered or had been verified as destroyed within the aircraft. That ticked a lot of boxes on the RAF loss report he was filing.
All the bodies had been placed in the station morgue, awaiting proper ceremony at the Sacred Heart cemetery in Irvinestown.
Ten good men, not the least of which was his brother.
Larry Cox had been a good mate too.
The musing triggered something in his mind; an unease, a discomfort, a seed of something 'not right'.
Viljoen screwed his eyes up tight, trying to work through the smokescreen hiding the thought from full sight.
Again, he ran through Flight Lieutenant Edinburgh’s report. Word for word, thinking each matter through.
He paused and re-read one section, and turned his attention to the transcript of messages from the ill-fated Sunderland.
The smokescreen cleared and the seed flourished in an instant.
He leant forward and picked up the phone.
“Corporal, ask Flight Sergeant Smith to report to my office. Immediately please. Thank you.”
Viljoen held his peace for the eight minutes it took for Smith to present himself.
“I want to clarify something, Flight Sergeant. In your Flight’s report he quite clearly states that you recovered the pilot’s bodies from the cockpit. Is that correct?”
Smith relaxed, having expected a rocket over the wholesale destruction of No2 hut’s electrical system, as undertaken by his pet Montague, since disappeared.
“Yes, Sir. Pettigrew and myself recovered the two of them.”
“From the flight crew seats?”
