by Gee, Colin
“Yes Sir.”
Viljoen cleared his throat very deliberately.
“Think hard about this, Flight Sergeant. Are you absolutely sure that both pilots were in the flight crew seats?”
The mental image that flashed up was immediately examined and confirmed his view, and was very quickly consigned back to the recesses of his mind, where all such awful memories should dwell.
“I'm absolutely positive, Sir.”
The Squadron Leader nodded softly.
“Where was Arsey found?”
The darker dungeons of his mind surrendered up another pictorial horror.
“In the galley, Sir.”
“Thank you for that, Smith. We'll speak about your bloody rat and the wiring another time.”
Saluting smartly, Smith removed himself from the office and heard the occupant asking for the Base Intelligence officer as he closed the door.
As Smith set about the task of locating the errant rodent Montague, Flight Lieutenant Blackmore was gestured to a chair in his commander’s office.
“Blackie, I’m afraid there's a problem with the report on NS-X.”
“Oh? I thought the whole thing was well-written and covered everything Skipper?”
“Yes, and thank our Lord it did or we would have missed something. See here.”
Viljoen passed the copy he had been reading, having circled the important part.
“Yes I see, very precise. Smith and Pettigrew recovered the pilot’s bodies.”
Viljoen held his peace, merely passing another report, similarly highlighted.
Blackmore read the short section, frown increasingly deeper with each word. He then held the two, one in each hand, his eyes flicking rapidly left and right, comparing facts in his mind.
“A mistake, Skipper?”
“I think not Blackie. Smith's a solid type and I’ve just pressed him on the matter. He sticks by that. Can’t speak to Pettigrew until he’s back obviously.”
Pettigrew had been granted urgent leave to return to the mainland where his mother was dying.
“Error by the wireless op?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible Blackie, do you?”
It took but a few moments for Blackmore to deal with that one.
“The operator’s message is very distinct, naming Crozier as flying the aircraft. He'd be able to see the flight deck from his position.”
More silence as two sharp brains worked the possibilities.
Blackmore spoke aloud. More to ensure he was thinking matters through correctly.
“We've information, via the radio op, stating that Crozier was flying the aircraft. We've a report from Pettigrew, supported by Smith, stating categorically that the two pilots were removed from the flight deck seats.”
His frown was as deep as could be, then his hairline jerked upwards as the muscles in his forehead took everything in the opposite direction.
“Clearly, someone's wrong. Obviously, there has to be a mistake.”
Viljoen shook his head slowly, halting his Intelligence Officer.
“And what if they're both right, Blacky?”
“Both right, Skipper?”
The Squadron Leader nodded.
“Well, then I suppose,” Blackmore spoke slowly, giving his brain time to unravel the simple possibility that Viljoen had dangled in front of him, “Someone in the crew was alive and put them back in their proper places out of respect?”
“Not quite what I was thinking, Blackie. Or?”
More mental unravelling took place.
“Or, someone else did so. Hang on a... pilots belong in the palace. Are you suggesting that someone else put the pilots on the flight deck, Skipper?”
“Of course not. That would be totally mad. Give me another alternative.”
Blackmore missed the little edge in Viljoen’s tone.
“I don’t have one, Skip.”
“Neither do I at the moment. So, is it possible that the aircraft put down near the submarine and they did it for some reason?”
Blackmore had started to shake his head before his CO had finished.
“The geography and timings don’t work for that. The attack and sinking took place way up north. We're talking about right against the Irish coast here.”
“Aren’t we just, man,” the South-African character suppressing the RAF Officer just for the shortest moment.
“Ok, Skipper. I'll see what I can rustle up with my contacts and I'll have a chat with the Doc after church parade tomorrow. I was just over at the OK Corral and he wasn’t there. The orderly didn’t know where he was. I’ll search him out and get him to have another gander at the poor sods before we say our goodbyes. I’m off to the St Lucia this evening for a spot of lunch and the monthly intel exchange.”
Viljoen had forgotten that.
“I’ll have a chat with some chaps there and see if we can come up with something for you, Skipper.”
“I'll be making arrangements with Sacred Heart for Wednesday, Blackie.”
“We'll have something for you by then, I’m sure, Skipper.”
1812 hrs, Saturday, 10th November 1945, RAF St Angelo, Northern Ireland.
The snow had not yet visited itself upon the Emerald Isle, but the weather was bad enough that it started to affect the comings and goings at RAF St Angelo.
Twenty-two minutes later than expected, a USAAF C-47 touched down at the County Fermanagh airbase and two American officers dismounted. After salutes and handshakes were exchanged with a British Army Captain, the American Colonel and his ADC were spirited away in one of two Austin staff cars set aside for those arriving. Their driver was a thin WAAF Sergeant with a face and disposition that only a mother could love.
Some forty-five minutes previously, an RAF Airspeed Oxford had landed more heavily, disgorging four shaken men. They received a similar service from the harridan and her fellow WAAF driver.
No sooner had the pair of Austins returned than the final visitors made their appearance.
A Lockheed Hudson in the livery of 54 Squadron RAF Coastal Command gently dropped to the tarmac and disgorged two shadowy figures that disappeared into an Austin at speed.
An experienced air force observer might have questioned that the aircraft was a Hudson Mark I, a type no longer flown by 54 Squadron. However, the subterfuge was, and always had been, sufficient to maintain the secrecy required by its users.
The Hudson had changed hands in 1942. It had once been a USAAF crewed aircraft that got into difficulty and landed on unfamiliar territory. That then changed its destiny. The crew were interned and the aircraft was taken into service by the new owners, Repainted in RAF markings, the maritime patrol aircraft was well suited to the clandestine purpose to which it was put.
An aircraft of the Irish Air Corps would attract too much attention and promote too many questions, whereas a version in RAF colours was very suited to the transporting of important people in secret.
1900 hrs Saturday 10th November 1945, Rossahilly House, Trory, Northern Ireland.
At 1900 hrs precisely, the nine men strolled through the exquisitely tiled hallway and sat down in the dining room of Rossahilly House, on the shores of Lough Erne, whose still waters, made almost magical by the reflecting moonlight, almost seemed to reach into the room through the large bay window.
The owner, the Right Honourable Percy Hollander, spent his evening in his opulent private study, his presence in Rossahilly considered necessary to lend cover to the comings and goings of the great men.
In less impressive surroundings elsewhere in the house, the assistants to the great men enjoyed the opportunity of relaxation and light conversation.
Outside the isolated residence, silent men kept watch, alert and with weapons ready.
Major General Colin Gubbins and Sir David Petrie had recovered from their heavy landing and were looking forward to their dinner.
Respectively, they were the heads of SOE and MI5. The two men had an uneasy truce, their working r
elationship often strained by apparent violations of their own imagined operational boundaries.
Colonel Valentine Vivian, Vice-chief of the SIS, and Major General Sir Kenneth Strong, SHAEF’s G2 Intelligence Chief, had journeyed in by car from RAF Belfast, and had already discussed a number of matters of personal concern, having arrived an hour ahead of the main group.
Rear-Admiral Dalziel had also driven from Belfast, sharing a car with the two senior police officers who were heads of Special Branch in England and Northern Ireland, DCI Bertram Leonard and CI Michael Rafferty respectively.
The table was completed by Colonels Dan Bryan of the Irish Republic’s G2 and Samuel Rossiter, head of the OSS.
Wine was poured and the fois-gras arrived, signalling both the start of the meal and the commencement of business.
Discussions had gone on into the small hours, so it had been agreed that breakfast would be served at ten.
It was the habit of these meetings that the morning’s conversation was lighter in nature, although each man’s remaining dilemmas often surfaced for group examination.
By prior arrangement, Percy Hollander, ex-Irish Guards and confidante of Sir David Petrie, took his breakfast separately, eagerly anticipating the few hours that he and Sir David would spend at the snooker table, once the bulk of visitors had departed.
Low voices alternated between praising the cuisine and discussing the minutiae of the Intelligence business.
Dalziel almost sat elsewhere, so put off was he by Gubbins’ mound of fried kidneys. However, he decided to grin and bear it, if only to enquire further about SOE potential in Scandinavia.
Rossiter, a recent conversion to the decidedly British morning kidney ration, was also similarly interested and the conversation gained pace, dropping in volume, as interesting matters of mutual interest were uncovered.
It was the habit of these breakfasts, where relaxation and tiredness were key players, that good work was done between agencies that were often as suspicious of each other as they were of the enemy that they collectively fought.
Bryan, Bertram and Rafferty all enjoyed the more traditional fare of egg, sausage and bacon, all topped off with fried soda bread and white pudding.
The former lamented the failure of their operation at Glenlara, but amused his companions with the IRA’s basic use of anagram codes.
Gubbins, Vivian, and Strong kicked the Polish issue around after the latter had taken a negative stance on the smell originating from the kippers being consumed before his eyes.
By twelve midday, all but one guest had departed, and that guest was well into a game winning break on Rossahilly House’s snooker table.
1712 hrs, Sunday, 11th November 1945, Base Commander’s office, RAF Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland.
The plan had been that Dalziel would be dropped off at the main gate of the RAF base and the two police officers would proceed on to their meeting with some local intelligence officers in Irvinestown.
The plan did not cater for the Sunbeam-Talbot Ten destroying a leaf spring in a pothole concealed by the overnight snowfall. Leaving the driver with the vehicle, the trio took the short walk to the camp’s main entrance and sought assistance.
A party of fitters was sent and the Sunbeam was hauled into the base workshop for repair.
Squadron Leader Viljoen had organised drinks in his office and hoped to use the opportunity to glean more information as to the progress of the war.
More drawn to the other uniformed man, Viljoen and Dalziel discussed the situation at sea.
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and the look on Blackmore’s face told everyone that something worrying had happened.
“Skipper...”
Blackmore looked at the strangers in the room, deciding whether he should speak openly or get his CO alone.
Viljoen made the decision for him.
“Go on, Blackie. Speak freely, man. Get it off your chest.”
Swallowing hard to gain some composure, Flight Lieutenant Blackmore dropped his bombshell.
“Skipper, Doc decided to have a gander at the crew's bodies this afternoon. He found something... I mean... Christ... something awful that simply doesn’t fit. You need to see this straight away, Skipper.”
“Awful? What is it, Blackie?”
“You have to see this, Skipper. Right now!”
“OK, deep breaths and give me a clue.”
“They didn’t die in the attack on the sub and didn’t die because of a rough landing. They were shot.”
“Fucking shot? By the sub then?”
“No, I mean executed, Skipper.”
The policemen and the Intelligence officer had heard key words and their interest was piqued.
Viljoen rose quickly, started to apologise to his guests, and then thought better of it.
“Perhaps you would like to accompany me, gentlemen... Sir?”
The three men needed no second invitation.
“OK then, Doc, what have you got then, man?”
Holliday, the silver haired Medical Officer, source of the OK Corral nickname for the base hospital, delivered his verdict in simple words.
“Quite straightforward, Skipper. Aidan was killed by a bullet to the back of the neck, a wound that someone then tried to disguise by gouging the area, possibly with metal from the fuselage.”
The elderly doctor had grabbed their undivided attention.
“My view is that Aidan Erasmus was killed first. I think they then realised their error and then chose a less obvious method of execution. The method used was one undoubtedly driven by hate.”
That caused a number of eyes to narrow as imaginations started to work.
He moved to Magic’s body and took his station on the opposite side of the trestle.
“In all my days, I have never seen anything like this. Never.”
His five-man audience waited as he rolled the body on its side.
“When they first arrived, we gave them a cursory examination, nothing more. That's my fault, I’m afraid. Each of them was very obviously dead and the external injuries were in line with those we have seen before... crash trauma, explosive and shot wounds... et cetera.”
Magic’s corpse showed all the signs associated with a heavy landing and being thrown against something unforgiving.
“I'll perform a full autopsy but my initial examination of Flight Sergeant Malan would make me feel he was shot at least three times.”
Viljoen took a step forward and sought out the evidence that Holliday had missed.
“You misunderstand me, Skipper. The wounds are internal.”
Chief Inspector Michael Rafferty was the only one who immediately grasped the significance, his mind dragging back details of two ‘assassinations’ that he had been called to investigate.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!”
Eyes turned to Rafferty, instinctively knowing that he understood something, as yet unrevealed.
Addressing Holliday, Rafferty spoke very deliberately.
“In ‘41, there were two executions of IRA members that we’d turned as King’s agents. The bodies were badly beaten... but without external signs of the fatal injury.”
There was no way he could lighten the blow.
“They had been executed with a pistol up the rectum.”
Stunned silence.
Shocked silence.
Disbelieving silence.
The MO spoke first.
“That's what I have found. I think they killed Erasmus quickly and then realised their error. They then disposed of the others by... that method.”
“He calls it the Silencer.”
Dalziel broke from his thoughts.
“Who calls it the Silencer?”
The dark shadow on Rafferty’s face was very obvious.
“Brown... Seamus Michael Brown. IRA executioner and second most wanted man in Ireland. And, interestingly, he’s a Brit.”
“What?”
“Conceived and delivered in
Liverpool, Admiral. British born and bred.”
DCI Leonard was in police mode immediately.
“Where and when was this, Squadron Leader?”
“North Coast of Éire, 5th December... Thank you, Doc. Full autopsy on each, reports as quick as possible.”
The Squadron communications office was closer than his own sanctuary, so Viljoen led the group into the large room, grabbing at a map and setting it down on the table for all to see.
“We found her here,” he indicated the precise spot from memory, “But she certainly would have drifted with the current, so didn’t start there.”
The five of them pored over the map.
“My God!”
Rafferty’s outburst attracted their attention, his face draining of colour in an instant, as his mind raced to work out what he could say and, more importantly, what he couldn’t say.
‘Oh fuck it!’
He decided to say everything he knew.
“All Anger.”
Leonard had been present during that conversation and immediately understood.
“Oh my eye, yes. All Anger.”
The others did not understand.
“Our friends in the Republic have had the answer all along but just didn’t realise it.”
Leonard took the lead.
“They intercepted a message that spoke of ‘All Anger’, a simple code that they boiled down to a small hamlet in Limerick, one that had appeared suspicious for some time. An easy mistake to make.”
Eyes turned back to Rafferty as he completed the story.
“G2 received intelligence about ‘All Anger’, a simple anagram code, employed when the IRA was less proficient in such matters. Our friends worked out that it meant ‘Glenlara’.”
He left out the part about the broken German code as a courtesy to G2.
“The Irish Intelligence put two and two together and went for Glenlara, Limerick, where there had been some trouble prior to, completely missing this Glenlara,” he fingered the map, drawing attention to the coastal village that sat uncomfortably close to the location of the Sunderland Flying boat, “And I will bet that right here sits an IRA force... and more besides.”
