by John Creasey
As the invasion barges reached the shore the men, leaping from them, ran forward and flung themselves down to find some cover.
Above, the Stukas roared with ever-increasing viciousness, dropping their cargoes into the water and around the small boats, creating a hell upon the seas, turning the normal air men breathed to fire and smoke and death. The crackle of small arms, the bark of pompoms, the deeper note of the heavier guns farther inland, the flashing of the shells and the bright light of flares, the fierce red flame from the bombs, the streaking of tracer bullets: all were there, all part of the raging inferno of what a few minutes before had been a quiet stretch of beach protected only by barbed wire and, at some points, small concrete block-houses.
Beyond the coast the British ‘planes were strafing gun positions, the great roars of the explosions of their bombs echoing above the nearer sounds.
Men with blacked faces and dulled buttons carrying automatic rifles and revolvers, crawled slowly up the beach towards the source of the inferno. Advance parties went forward with their hand-grenades, carrying death and destruction, knowing that they had to smash those defences or else perish.
So they crawled forward, or at least held on. The noise increased, the crescendo of the roaring engines and the crashing bombs deepened to an incredible intensity.
The order to withdraw came.
They lost men on all sides as they went back to the sand and then into the water.
Above them the air was filled with light, the clear shadowless light of flares, and the deep, ravenous light of the gunfire and the bombs. In such an unholy illumination the small craft could be seen, near the shore, waiting for the survivors. A motor torpedo boat maintained a fierce fire to cover the withdrawal of one party, and it seemed that a hundred guns were trained on it. The men at the guns kept on, but one by one they were put out of action until only one man remained at a pompom; he kept firing although the boat was holed a dozen times and sinking fast.
There was no relaxing in the shooting from the shore, no diminishing of the protecting fire from the warships further out at sea. The small craft were loaded and began to head for the larger vessels, men were in the water, swimming or standing up to their necks.
Farther out, crowded boats began to make for the English coast, with night fighters screening them from the air.
Soon a silence fell...
The word reached Berlin, and then was telephoned to a place known only to a few, where Hitler was receiving messages from many people. The megalomaniac who knew the answers to all the problems that arose. Following the rumours of Hershall’s assassination and the ominous silence of the British radio, the news brought hope with it.
From Hitler’s headquarters there went a call: ‘Who brought the information of the coming raid?’
• • • • •
In a small hotel near Laval’s headquarters, a short man who was known to be English, and who had been to and from England frequently in the past few months, was sitting in an easy chair in a room overlooking a wide boulevard. Somebody tapped on the door. He looked round, removed his feet from the window-ledge, and called:
‘Entrez.’
The Frenchman who entered was tall, thin, and melancholy, with a high, domed forehead from which fine streaks of hair grew well back. He was Monsieur Jules Traves, a barrister.
‘Hallo, Traves,’ said the Englishman, who, snatching what comfort he could, displayed his shirt-sleeves. Though his hair was grey, his face, now beaded with perspiration, was youthful. He looked up with a quick, winning smile. ‘Now what’s up?’
‘I have just come from Laval, my friend. There is a great desire to find the man who brought the news of the Boulogne raid.’
‘I didn’t bring the news, I took the message over the radio.’
‘Can you name the man who sent it?’ asked Traves.
‘No, and I don’t propose to try.’
‘I understand that Berlin requires a full statement of how the news is obtained. It is considered just possible that future information would not be so reliable, and——’ Traves shrugged. ‘You know the German thoroughness. I should not be awkward if I were in your shoes.’
For some seconds the Englishman stared at him.
‘Now listen,’ he said at last, I don’t know who gets it or how it’s obtained. The organisation in England is pretty good, and it does a fine job. I receive the news in Vichy, and pass it on. That’s all I can tell you, except——’
‘I am glad there is an “except”,’ said Traves with a tense smile. ‘I should not like to hear that anything had happened to you, my friend.’
‘It won’t,’ snapped the Englishman. ‘If it does, there will be an abrupt end to any more red-hot news.’
‘You forget your aptitude for boasting, M’sieu; you have often told me that if you had to run, then the news would be radioed to others.’
The youthful face of the Englishman no longer looked amiable. There was apprehension in his expression, and the perspiration which ran into his eyes looked almost like tears.
‘There’s a man who comes out to see me, he’s coming the day after tomorrow.’
‘Where will you meet him?’
‘He’ll come here.’
‘What is his name?’
‘When he gets here it’s Hebas. In England it’s Howe.’
‘And when do you expect him?’
‘Around seven o’clock the day after tomorrow.’
‘And you think he will have information as to how the news is obtained?’
‘He’s my only direct contact with England,’ said the other sourly. ‘I can’t make promises for him.’
‘Of course not, of course not,’ said Traves smoothly. ‘Au revoir, mon ami.’
He went out of the room as quietly as he had entered, leaving the Englishman frowning at the closed door.
• • • • •
Traves sat in a café, where, lingering over a drink, he could safely watch those moving up and down the street.
After a while a short, well-dressed man appeared, with waxed moustaches and an ostentatious air of satisfaction allied to a peculiarly covert expression. To the average Frenchman the word ‘collaborationist’ was written in his apprehensive manner and his obvious prosperity. The newcomer sat down.
They talked idly for a while, and then their voices dropped. In truth the little ‘Frenchman’ was Stewart, who had just come from Bruce Hammond.
Traves reported what he had learnt.
‘Howe, Edward Howe,’ mused Stewart. ‘Nice work, Traves. How are you making out?’
‘My friend, you need have no fears when the attack does start, from every village and every town there will be such an uprising as has never been seen! I almost pity the Boche.’
‘Don’t waste your time,’ said Stewart grimly.
He stayed there for half an hour longer, and then left, casting a furtive glance about as he entered the street. He was shouldered off the pavement three times in a hundred yards by inoffensive-looking people who whispered ‘Canaille’ into his ear, as they gave him a surreptitious push. He avoided any major scene, and eventually reached a large house in the residential quarter of the city. A card in the window announced ‘Appartements’. The front door was open. A sharp-faced woman was sitting by another open door farther along the passage, but averted her eyes when Stewart entered.
He went upstairs to a room on the third floor, opened it, and stepped through.
Bruce Hammond was lying in his shirt-sleeves on the single bed. His shoes were off, as were his collar and tie, and his brown hair was ruffled.
Stewart closed and locked the door.
‘Something’s breaking,’ he said, and passed the news on.
‘We’re getting on. Any word about Tallboys?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ said Hammond. ‘He would have sent word by now if he’s all right. Well, I’d better get ready for the return trip.’
Some ho
ur and a half later, when darkness was over the land, Hammond left the apartment house and cycled through the streets of the Vichy suburbs towards the open country. There was a new moon, and it gave enough light for him to see with reasonable precaution. Three times he was stopped by the police, but his papers were in order, countersigned by a high Vichy authority, and he went on without difficulty until he reached a tiny village called Auberne. About Auberne the land was very flat, and there were meadows which were ideal for landing-places for aircraft. Hammond made his way to the estaminet, drank poor white wine, and talked innocuously to the host. Then he went outside and entered the rear of the estaminet. A girl, little more than a child, admitted him.
‘You were not followed, M’sieu?’
‘All safe, cherie,’ said Hammond cheerfully. ‘And how is Yvonne tonight?’
‘Well, as always, M’sieu. I am asked to send word to you that the aeroplane will be here at ten o’clock.’
‘Good, that’s fine,’ said Hammond. ‘I’ll go out and wait for it.’
It was turned half-past nine.
Hammond walked towards a copse of trees near the village. No one else was about, and as far as he was aware no one saw him. He reached the copse, where he could hide until the aeroplane came to pick him up.
Then he heard the sound of an engine.
It was not that of the expected aeroplane, but of a car coming along the road. He moved a little so that he could see the beam of a headlight: There were three of them. They were coming from Vichy and travelling at high speed.
The cars stopped in the village, and the engines were turned off. He was too far away to see what was happening, although when lights shone from doorways and windows he caught glimpses of men moving. He heard a shout, and then another: then he saw the flash of a pistol shot.
He was standing rigid, looking towards the village. He saw that the door of the estaminet was open, and the figures of men in uniform silhouetted against the light. Then people streamed out. From the far end of the village there came a sudden shouting, an upheaval doubtless intended to distract the attention of the men who had arrived.
Hammond knew that the men were Gestapo agents, and assumed that there had been a rumour of the secret radio receiving set at the estaminet. He suspected that the village would rise as one man against the raiders; but he was afraid that someone would talk and give him away.
Then in the distance he heard the drone of an aircraft engine.
15
Quick Work
The noise was so loud that Hammond knew that the Gestapo agents must hear it. He had expected to see the cars move off at any moment, but they were silent for a long time, although cries and shouts, oaths and curses, from the village proved that there was reason enough for it.
The village was fighting.
Hammond did not know that the rumour had been spread around that the English were sending for an agent, and that the Gestapo must not be allowed to get him first. There was hardly a man or woman who did not play some part in creating confusion, and as the Gestapo officers were in the estaminet three men fell upon the guards by the cars. That started the shooting, and was the herald of a burst of machine-gun fire which cut a dozen down and sent the others rushing for cover. The first car, freed of attackers, started off towards the copse of trees, and the noise of the aeroplane.
Hammond saw that the landing light of the aircraft was now so low overhead that the noise of its engine made the ground shiver, awakening the birds and sending them flying upward with shrill chatter.
He saw it touch land.
He ran swiftly towards it, judging the place where it would stop. The pilot knew his job to perfection, for he came to a standstill at a spot where he had a clear run for a take-off. The doors opened and a man stepped down, while Bruce shouted to him:
‘Get inside, get ready!’
As he spoke the engine had been cut out, and his words travelled clearly. He heard the noise of the approaching car, also, and was desperately afraid that the others would follow and arrive in time to stop the take-off. He redoubled his speed, while the man who had left the aircraft returned, and the engine started again.
Hammond reached it.
A man was waiting to help him as he clambered on to the wing and then climbed through the door. As he tumbled inward a burst of machine-gun fire from the Gestapo car rattled out, bullets pecking the ground about the ‘plane. The door slammed. The ‘plane moved off, slowly at first, but with gathering speed. The driver of the Gestapo car tried to get in front of it, but the gunner of the aircraft loosed a single burst.
The car turned over; for a moment its headlights carved a way through the near-darkness and then went out.
The aircraft surged upwards, and a man said something to Hammond; he did not hear the words, for he was watching the lights in the village and could imagine what was happening there, could picture the savagery of the Gestapo who had been foiled at the very moment success appeared to be within their grasp. He knew that the little village would be a place of mourning and weeping for a long time to come.
Watching, he saw the lights of the village going out one by one; that seemed symbolic. He thought of the little receiving set in the cellar, specially built to take short-wave messages from England, and wondered what kind of an ‘investigation’ there would be. He thought of the pale face of Yvonne, and her burning enthusiasm, allied to a strange, fatalistic fear.
Then there was an explosion which burst red and ferocious upon the earth. It was in the centre of the village, and he had no doubt that it was at the estaminet. He was near enough even then to see pieces of débris flying upwards above the flames, which settled down to burn and keep burning. Hammond watched while the flames grew smaller, and the height of the aircraft increased.
‘Bad show, eh?’ a man shouted into his ear above the roar of the engines.
‘A bad show, yes, but a damned heroic one. What a people!’
‘Who?’ The speaker seemed surprised.
‘The French,’ said Hammond, and shrugged. ‘Who else?’
• • • • •
It was barely midnight as he rang the bell of Loftus’s flat, and when the door opened he heard voices coming from an inner room, Hershall’s among them. Loftus himself opened the door and smiled at Bruce, whose arrival had been heralded by a telephone call from the aerodrome. His expression altered as he saw Bruce’s face in a better light.
‘Anything wrong?’
‘We can’t use Auberne again,’ said Hammond shortly. ‘Any news from Tallboys?’
‘No, and I doubt if there will be. He had to use English when he sent word over, and that meant an emergency.’ His face was set. ‘Have you got anything?’
Hammond related what had happened. He omitted no details, and finished:
‘Traves knew that Vichy was getting the dope, of course, and he’s been looking out for some time. It’s an odd business. This Englishman in Vichy, a fellow named Smith, gets word from England. He’s the receiving end, and he says he knows nothing of how it’s done over here. Smith sells the information to Vichy, and I gather Vichy sells it to Berlin. The thing is, Bill, they don’t know anything about the business except that “Smith” gets radio reports from, presumably, England, and collects the money. Then this man Howe, Edward Howe, turns up in Vichy from time to time and collects the cash. Presumably he brings it back to England and there’s at least an even chance that he knows where the information comes from. Know anything about him?’
‘He was killed, or rather he killed himself.’
Loftus explained more to Hammond who was aghast at the news. The information that the man was dead wrecked theories which had been comforting him all the way from France.
All the time the mutter of conversation came from the next room. Hershall’s voice predominated.
‘So that is that,’ said Hammond slowly.
‘There’s something else, Bruce. Mike Errol went down there two days ago and then disappeared. He was with
a brother of Edward Howe, and I’ve had photographs of the couple—they’re twins, and they look like it. A pretty good likeness.’
‘Where’s the brother?’ snapped Hammond. ‘There’s just a chance that he’d do.’
‘We haven’t found him yet. And we’ve something under forty-eight hours to fix it.’ He ran his hand through his hair and then stood up. ‘Come on, let’s pass it on to the others.’
When they entered the further room, Hershall was saying:
‘And if the public can take what they’ve already taken, I can’t imagine that they’re going to be so badly affected by the rumour that I’m hurt.’
‘If only you realised how great an uplifting effect you have on them,’ commented Laidlaw. ‘If only——’
‘Now look here,’ said Hershall brusquely. ‘If anything happened to me I’d be replaced in a few days, and in a few weeks, even if I weren’t forgotten, the people would be working and fighting and arguing and criticising, just as they have with me. Anyhow, I’m not going to die yet.’ His eyes creased at the corners as he looked at Loftus and Hammond. ‘Now we’ve started this, we need to keep it up for a few days more. If it’s bolstering up German morale, all right—let it.’
Laidlaw shrugged his shoulders.
Craigie said quietly:
‘One of the chief anxieties is whether the raid the other night should have been allowed to go on. The view in some quarters’—he eyed Laidlaw frankly—’is that it was an unnecessary sacrifice. Over a hundred and fifty men were lost.’
Loftus said slowly:
‘I think we can prove that it was worthwhile, gentlemen.’ He smoothed back his hair and was aware of the quick gaze from all the others. He went on to explain Hammond’s news, and Hershall’s eyes were very bright when the story was finished.
‘So they not only feel sure that they are getting wholly reliable information, but we know part of the organisation which is selling it.’
‘We’ll do more,’ said Loftus briefly. ‘If we can get hold of this brother of the man Howe we’ve got the thing in our pockets.’ He went on quickly before anyone could interrupt: ‘Both the Howes speak French fluently and German fairly well, both know France, and the Vichy and Berlin authorities have never seen Edward: so his brother would be more or less assured of getting through. The only contact necessary for him in Vichy would be a man named Smith, and we can handle Smith quite effectively.’
