String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  There was yet another mystery, which concerned the men he had seen going out to the wreck on most calm nights. After bobbing around on the waves for several hours, they would then put in to the beach below the Conroy’s house just before dawn. Then they would put out to sea again half an hour later and speed off along the coast in a westerly direction. By morning there were never any footprints, for they had been washed away by the tide. He hoped he’d get to the bottom of this mystery eventually.

  Simon’s main problem was time...he had to spend more time in Mowbray, exploring the wreck and the surrounding reefs. He badly needed those damned air cylinders for his underwater trials. He had tested them weeks ago and found them ideal. They were ordered and dispatched, but destroyed in a raid on the railways, so now he had to wait for a new consignment.

  Simon was late for his appointment. Shivering in the foyer of ETOUSA, he watched the smog infiltrating the building through cracks around the doors and the windows. The smell of soot was worse than before and the temperature was near to freezing. After a short wait, Simon was shown into the functional office of Lieutenant General Walters. He had a new secretary: tall, plain and on the wrong side of forty. Simon tried his best to look relaxed and confident as he waited for the inevitable question: Have you found the Nazi sympathizers yet, Johnson? It didn’t come. Strangely Walters had other matters on his mind.

  ‘Sit down, I expect you could do with some coffee. It’s on the way.’

  ‘That would be great, sir. How do Londoners manage to drive in this damn smog? We crawled through the city at five miles an hour.’

  ‘It can get worse. Sometimes you can’t see your hand in front of your face.’

  The coffee arrived and Walters broke off and sat silently waiting until the woman had left the room. ‘Help yourself and let’s get down to business.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘I guess I’m here for a couple of years,’ he said mournfully. He shook himself like a dog emerging from water, as if shaking off the smog, blitzed buildings, draughts and gloomy vistas.

  ‘I like the way you work, Johnson. My commanders tell me they’ve introduced any number of your ideas. The mood is improving on both sides.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘We can all learn from our allies, Johnson. I want you to liaise with a certain London organization whose members carry out much the same work as you, but they’ve been doing it far longer. The Brits are way ahead of us in their campaign of disinformation and deception. Broadly speaking, their aim is to confuse and harass the enemy and to damage their morale while sustaining the morale of the occupied countries. They call this black and white propaganda. Evidently it gets blacker as they get nastier, depending upon just how creative they can get on a daily basis.’

  ‘Sounds as if they enjoy their work,’ Simon murmured.

  ‘Don’t make any assumptions about them, captain,’ Walters went on enthusiastically. ‘They, consist of some of this country’s leading intellectuals. They even operate a few fake radio stations, one of them, Soldatensender Calais is particularly successful in spreading disturbing news among the Germans by portraying the Nazis as corrupt and ridiculous bunglers. They called themselves the Political Warfare Executive (PWE). There are two headquarters, at Woburn Abbey and at the BBC’s Bush House.

  ‘The point is, they think they can “both use you and help you”. Their words! You’ll meet a few of them today, they tell me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘A taxi is waiting for you in the car park at the back of this building. No one can beat a London taxi driver in a smog. So, good luck. Johnson. I await your report with interest.’

  Thanks to the experienced London cab driver, Simon was on time for his appointment. He was shown into a large room, thick with cigarette smoke, but he could just make out a well-stocked bar at the end of the room. Six civilians were lounging around hugging their drinks.

  They stood up as Simon was shown in and introduced, but only first names were used. Later he learned that he was keeping company with a journalist, a government minister, a BBC producer, a professor of mathematics, a lawyer and a copywriter.

  ‘We’ve managed to procure some rye whisky. I believe you Americans prefer your own poison,’ Alf said. ‘It’s all yours. Help yourself.’

  Their ages ranged from thirty to fifty and they seemed a pleasant enough bunch. Simon helped himself to a generous tot of neat whisky and found an easy chair. The usual polite small talk followed on how he liked England and English weather, then they pressed him to have another drink before getting down to business. Simon tried to memorize their names: Alf, wearing a hand-knitted jersey of riotous colours and design, had the rugged, tanned appearance of a foreign correspondent.

  ‘Look here, Simon,’ Alf said. ‘Congratulations are in order with your white propaganda projects, but you seem to be facing a brick wall in trying to pinpoint the links to your Nazi sympathizers.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted cautiously.

  It was Dick, short, cultured and expensively dressed, who disagreed. ‘Simon hasn’t had much time,’ he said. A BBC type, Simon guessed. Later he learned that he was right. Dick pushed a dish of cashew nuts towards him. ‘We thought we’d knuckle in on your turf. We can be very useful to each other. Why don’t you join us from time to time, say for fortnightly meetings? We’ll create a few sibs for you, starting today.’

  ‘Sibs?’ Simon queried.

  ‘From the Latin sibilare, to hiss or to whistle, dear boy. Of course you can make up your own sibs, but you can’t go ahead and use them, at least not before you check them with us, and we have to check them with the Executive in the Foreign Office. A free-for-all would lead to chaos. That’s why we need this link between your guys and ours. What do you think of this idea?’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ he answered prudently.

  ‘I assure you, the Executive give a fast reply. There’s no question of waiting around, unless research is needed.’ It was Josh who had spoken. He looked to be the oldest man present. Pushing sixty, Simon reckoned. Smooth and polished, he had an air of being someone who was often in the public eye.

  Simon just nodded. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to add to the conversation.

  ‘This is my brain child, but no one seems to think much of it,’ Alf, of the riotous jersey said. ‘I suggest that we let it slip, via a sib, that the New Forest has been declared out of bounds for everyone because the Yanks are storing their war technology there, prior to the invasion. Your sib could be broadcast by gossiping at the pub, or a memo left around, or a copy of a letter lying in an unlocked briefcase, anything. Set a trap for whoever it is you suspect and then you wait for Jerry’s bombs, or local demonstrations and reports in the press. The point is, this enables you to pinpoint your first link in the chain.’

  ‘It could be a man gossiping in the pub,’ Simon said, thinking of John.

  ‘That’s right. It’s seldom straightforward. Of course, most of our work isn’t pinpointing local spies or blabbers, but causing friction in enemy territory. We’d be glad of your help when you have time.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like to give it a try. I’ll keep in touch. To be honest, I don’t much care for your New Forest sib. I’m billeted with a family who live nearby.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Andy,’ Alf called. ‘The idea is OK, but the location isn’t. They’d bomb the New Forest to shambles.’

  Suddenly they were all arguing, tossing out ideas, tearing them to bits and starting again. Eventually the meeting calmed down, glasses were refilled, the air became smoggier and the atmosphere more relaxed.

  ‘Territorial rights . . . that’s always a touchy point,’ Simon said in an unexpected breathing space. ‘I’m constantly in trouble because there’s no available space for the church fete.’

  ‘True. How about farms?’ Josh called out.

  ‘No, something nearer to home. Something everyone uses.’

  ‘Beaches,’ someone called out.

  ‘For American training.’

  ‘Exa
ctly, damned foreign troops taking our kids’ beaches with immediate effect. Nowhere to play or to swim.’

  ‘But it’s January,’ Dick said. ‘Wrong timing.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Simon argued. ‘I see the kids playing football and netball on the beaches all the time.’

  ‘Some of them have been commandeered by the War Office, but others are available for the public. If you were to threaten them all . . . well I think the public would consider this to be totally unjustified,’ Josh chimed in.

  Andy shrugged. ‘It’s a daft idea.’ He looked a trifle shabby compared to the others. Later Simon learned that he was both titled and rich and he had made his name as a mathematician.

  ‘But what about the after effect,’ Simon said. ‘How do we get over the fact that none of these beaches are ever commandeered.’

  ‘You mean if the sib works?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s right down your street, Simon. You’d have to use your talents to smooth it over. You’re good at that. Right now we want to catch these buggers. I suggest you write a report stating that you endorse the proposal that all beaches along the south of England be roped off for US army training from immediate effect. We’ll do that for you now.’ Alf got busy on the typewriter drafting the letter. His fingers flew like a typist’s over the keys and Simon guessed he must be a reporter of some kind. Moments later Alf got up and walked out. ‘I’ll get the OK,’ he said.

  ‘I like the sibs about the beaches, but that’s all so far.’

  Ideas bounced backwards and forwards, but to Simon’s mind they all seemed to incur hazards for the locals. ‘For God’s sake, people are killed every night.’ Andy argued, until he realized no one agreed with him

  ‘What about a rocket base on an uninhabited island in the Outer Hebrides . . . just to please our Yankee friend,’ he suggested as a joke. His idea brought laughs all round.

  ‘Actually I like that.’ Josh stood up and poured himself a drink and Simon was impressed with his height and his graceful movements. His olive skin, dark eyes and black hair seemed at odds with his accent. Middle-Eastern, but second generation in England, Simon guessed. ‘They sure as hell wouldn’t like us aiming doodlebugs at Berlin.’

  ‘There’s Eilean nan Ron,’ Andy put in. ‘I’ve been there.’

  ‘Someone owns that island.’

  ‘A certain duchess. I know her well.’

  ‘OK, let’s give it a try.’ They all threw in ideas and Alf typed the final memo and gave it to Andy who left the room. He returned ten minutes later with a pleased look on his face. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I said, “We need to use your island as a decoy. It might get bombed to bits, but if it does we’ll have collared another spy.” She said. “Why ask? Go ahead, but don’t try it in the nesting season.” That’s exactly what I expected from her.’ Andy looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Well then,’ Simon tried to smother a yawn. ‘One more, just to be on the safe side.’

  Lunchtime brought sandwiches of York ham with English mustard and cress, and the meeting progressed, but no one could agree on which to choose out of the dozen or so sibs they had created.

  ‘Remember that idea that Peter had last week,’ Alf said. ‘We couldn’t agree on it, but I felt it had merit. We claimed that most of the German POWs have been turned and had agreed to join our forces. They were going to be trained by the Yanks and eventually drawn into the US fighting forces.’

  ‘It would piss Jerry off, but would they actually bomb their own men?’ Alf asked.

  ‘If they were considered to be traitors, the SS would. They might not tell the pilots who or what they were bombing. To date there are two concentration camps in Germany full to overflowing with German students who opened their mouths a bit too wide against the Third Reich.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, but not in the New Forest,’ Simon said, thinking of Helen in the canteen.

  ‘Then what about Pines? That’s an abandoned, pre-war holiday camp not far from Southampton. It’s surrounded with fields and you’ll be pleased to hear, Simon, that they’re not too fertile and there’s no livestock on them.’ Rob looked pleased with his input.

  ‘Done,’ Simon said.

  They moved on to find some ideas for their clandestine radio station. Each day, genuine war news was interspersed with damaging sibs. Simon managed to hold his own with the others. The time went quickly because he was enjoying himself. The meeting broke up at four p.m. Simon took a taxi back to his driver who gave him a note from Sergeant June Lucas, the pretty girl he had dated last time.

  ‘How about meeting for dinner tonight? Phone me if you are available.’ He phoned, and spent the evening dining and dancing with June, which helped to smooth his ruffled feathers after his rejection in Mowbray.

  Fifteen

  There were too many secrets in the old redbrick house on the cliff, Simon decided, as he and his team jogged up the steep ascent from the bay. Trying to take his mind off his agony, Simon thought about the family. Despite his efforts to make friends, he felt that he was still very much of an outsider, but Cooper was more of a mystery than the rest of them. A stranger might see an ordinary old man with iron grey hair that almost matched his eyes, a nose that was a trifle too long and too pinched, high cheek bones marred by an aging skin and a strong jaw above a scraggy neck. Closer observation would lead to a number of surprises. John didn’t communicate much, but he watched everyone closely and he was very bright indeed. He was an excellent rider, he read the financial and economic journals and he could talk intelligently about any subject you might care to bring up. He was kind to his grandchildren and to animals, but he disliked Americans, perhaps because he feared them. But why? Did he have something to hide? Was that why he was so antagonistic?

  Simon had decided to pass on the first sib as soon as he could. He was pretty sure that John was not a Nazi sympathizer, but he probably gossiped at the pub. Through John he might be able to trace the Nazi sympathizer, or spy, who had caused so much disruption in Mowbray.

  When they reached the lip of the cliff overhanging the bay, Simon said goodnight to his team and jogged back to the house. He showered and changed and found John alone in the lounge. Helen was at the canteen, he assumed, and the kids were probably studying.

  ‘It has turned into a rather pleasant evening. Why don’t we walk down to the pub and have a pint,’ he said. He had worked out that this was the best way to speak to John without the kids barging in.

  ‘Thought you didn’t like our beer.’ John looked surprised at the invitation.

  ‘I’m getting used to it, but they might have some rye.’

  ‘OK. I’m a bit fed up with sitting here by myself. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where is your favourite pub?’ Simon asked as they set off.

  ‘I don’t go by myself very often. Occasionally I go with friends to the Red Lion. We might as well go there now. It’s the closest and it has managed to maintain a well-stocked bar, although the place is looking tatty lately. It’s not their fault. The couple who own it are getting on and they have to do everything themselves since both of their sons joined the navy.’

  After that John lapsed into silence. Simon battled to keep the conversation going as they walked along the road. He wondered if he was setting too hard a pace, so he slowed down. The road led steeply downhill and from here they had a completely different view across the bay.

  ‘There it is,’ Simon exclaimed. ‘Look! D’you see that boat out there?’ Once again the launch was zooming towards the wreck. They showed no lights, perhaps because of the blackout, but the moon’s reflection had blazed a trail across the dark sea and Simon saw the shape of the motor launch crossing it.

  ‘Have you noticed them going across the bay late at night?’ Simon asked. ‘It seems to be a regular exercise. I’ve seen them a few times. Four or five people visit the wreck in the dark. They return just before dawn. I, too, wondered if they w
ere after the valuable cargo that went down with the ship. I called Lloyds, but they were quite certain that their salvage experts would have retrieved the cargo were it still there.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them at night, but in daylight they are often out there. There’s no mystery involved. They take members of the photographic club out to snap the fish around the wreck.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘So they say. Perhaps they have underwater flashguns. They held an exhibition in the local studio not long ago. Nothing special . . . in fact, it was appalling – a lot of dark water and shadowy fish out of focus. I believe they have underwater cameras and torches, but the swimmers have to hold their breath, so they can’t stay down for long.’ They chatted on about the wreck and soon reached the pub.

  The pub was shabby, but comfortable and the dozen or so patrons sat hunched over their drinks, gazing at the fire like arsonists worshipping their handiwork. From time to time someone reached forward to take another log from a big copper pot and throw it on the blaze, poking the embers until sparks flew up the chimney.

  When they had settled on a table fairly close to the fire, Simon fetched a warm, frothy beer for John, a rye whisky for himself and a plate of heavily salted potato chips, which he hated.

  They had hardly sat down before John gave him a long, hard look and said, ‘Well, out with it. Why are we here? What do you want to know so badly that you’ll endure my company for the evening?’

  ‘Enjoy sounds better than endure, John. We never have a chance to talk. When I asked you about the bay, I had my reasons,’ he ad-libbed.

  ‘Which were?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘I’m not supposed to say. It’s classified, but I suppose it will soon be public knowledge. All beaches are about to become the property of Allied military authorities. No civilians will be able to set foot on a beach until the war ends.’