by Will Belford
‘Ah you see that’s the beauty of this plan,’ said Mr Smith with a smirk, ‘the station is on the headland across from the hotel, they’re less than a mile apart as the crow flies.’
‘As the crow flies? What about on foot? What’s the terrain like for God’s sake?’ said Joe. ‘Looks to me like this doesn’t have anything to do with avoiding reprisals,’ said Joe, ‘it’s just a target of opportunity.’
‘Whatever the case,’ said Mr Smith, ‘that is the mission. I’m told you’re the man to carry it out because you speak reasonably fluent French and German. That should enable you to enlist the help of the locals if you need it, and will give you an edge over the Germans in the dark. I suggest you plan your attack to take advantage of those abilities.’
As he retched convulsively over the rail, Joe reflected bitterly on the gap between the planning of a raid like this and the reality of executing it. Captain Jensen had made it clear that this was Joe’s opportunity to make a name for himself and cement a position in the commandos. If he failed, he’d be posted to his old unit, assuming he returned at all. They’d already had to delay the mission a day because the weather in the Channel had been too rough to contemplate a landing.
His ears detected a change in the tone of the engine and he looked up to see the crew preparing the Bofors gun in its circular mounting.
‘Time to go matey,’ said the bosun, unhooking him from the rail, ‘good luck.’
At the rear of the MGB the crew were casting two inflatable rubber boats into the sea and tying them alongside. They bobbed like corks, and Joe blanched at the prospect of trying to get into them, let alone paddle them to the beach. With a final spit over the rail, he went below and found his squad ready and waiting, their faces blacked out with shoe polish.
‘Okay boys,’ said Joe, pulling a balaclava over his head, ‘let’s go visit France.’
He grabbed his rifle and pack and climbed up the pitching ladder into the wet darkness.
~ ~ ~
In his hotel room in Wissant, Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter signed the letter to his wife and glanced at his watch. Downing the last of his glass of cognac, he checked himself in the mirror and headed down the stairs to the foyer, where his driver, Private Hans Sprenger was waiting.
‘A delightful evening to spend by the French seaside eh Hans?’ said Richter jovially, acknowledging the private’s salute.
‘Gemutlich sir,’ replied the private, ‘how much longer do you think we’ll be here?’
‘Oh a mere junior officer like me isn’t privy to these sorts of details private,’ smirked Richter, who’d been told only that morning that he’d been promoted to commander of an anti-aircraft battery in the flak battalion of the Totenkopf division. This was wonderful news, not just the promotion, but because as a battery commander he’d be well away from most of the close fighting. All he’d have to do is shoot down the handful of enemy planes that had managed to elude the Luftwaffe’s Messerschmitts.
He had no desire to repeat the hellish experience he’d endured at the hands of the Tommies a few months before when his company attacked Le Cornet Malo. He’d lost half his men in half an hour, shot down like rabbits in the fields. Still, he’d settled the score in the farmyard at Le Paradis: none of those Tommies would see the green fields of England again, he’d made sure of that. The best of it was that he’d got away with it—they’d buried the bodies where they lay and since then no senior officer had seen fit to reprimand him for the incident. And why would they? The SS Totenkopf ‘Death’s Head’ division didn’t need to obey the usual rules of war.
Richter laughed to himself as the car wove its way through the dark French countryside. No-one was ever going to hold to him account for that day’s work. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was what had got him this promotion.
‘Something amusing sir?’ enquired Hans.
‘I was just thinking Hans, how good it is to be a member of the SS. We truly are the chosen people.’
Chapter Five
By some miracle they had all got into the inflatable boats, but it was only after the sailors had cast them off and turned for home that they realised the danger they were in. They were still a hundred yards out from shore and the cliff just a faint line in the darkness. The swell was strong and as they paddled closer to shore, the crash of the breakers hitting the pebbles grew ever louder.
They’d practised beach landings in inflatables for five nights, but that had been in a bay on the Channel coast with a small swell, and even then they’d capsized twice. Getting ashore here was going to be a totally different matter.
‘When we reach the break we’re going to have to try and catch a wave,’ called Joe over the sound of the waves crashing onto the shingle, ‘so take it easy and go on my signal.’
The other boat had been dropped off slightly further north of them, and Joe couldn’t even see it now. He could only hope they made it. The boat was pitching heavily now as the waves caught it at the rear and pushed it up and forward; ahead of him, Joe saw the white foam where the waves were breaking and felt the heave of the wave beneath him.
‘Now! Pull hard!’
Corporal Black on one side and Private Gregson on the other bent their backs to it and the rubber boat shot forward with the wave. Joe barely had time to register the gulf below them as the surging waters picked the boat up like a toy and dropped it into the trough. As the inflatable smacked down nose-first onto the shingle the wave surged over them, tipping the boat over and tossing men and equipment into a maelstrom of freezing water.
Joe felt himself plucked from the boat by a giant’s hand. The wave thrashed him against the pebbles, then picked him up and rolled him over and over until he had no idea which way was up. Helpless in the grip of the wave and surrounded by blackness, he was pounded relentlessly into the beach until eventually the waters of the Channel spat him out as indigestible and he washed up on the shingle amidst a rubble of boulders.
Coughing up mouthfuls of stinging salty water, Joe hauled his burning lungs through the rocks and up the beach until he was clear of the waves, then rolled onto his side and retched. When he got his breath, he checked himself. Miraculously nothing appeared to be broken, but he had lost his rifle, his helmet and his backpack.
He heard a cry of pain and looked around. Down on the waterline, where the waves rushed up and back through the black boulders, Private Gregson was writhing on the ground clutching his right leg. Corporal Black was kneeling beside him trying to drag him out of the water. Of Private Duncan there was no sign.
Joe stood and grimaced as the weight came onto on his left knee. His trousers were torn and when he touched the spot his hand came away smeared with blood. He hobbled down to the waterline and helped Black drag Gregson up the beach.
‘Let’s have a look at you mate,’ he said, pulling his knife from its scabbard and slicing open the private’s right trouser leg. Even in the gloom it was impossible to miss the shattered end of bone protruding from the man’s thigh a few inches above the knee.
‘Just a flesh wound, Private,’ said Joe, punching him on the shoulder, ‘want to lead us up the cliff?’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ said the man, wincing with the pain, ‘I’ve really buggered the mission haven’t I?’
‘Hell, you’ve got tickets on yourself mate, you’re not that important,’ said Joe, sheathing the knife, ‘You’ll just have to hold the fort here until we’re done.’ He hoped his making light of the situation didn’t sound as forced to Private Gregson’s ears as it did to his. He knew that showing any sympathy would only make Gregson feel worse, the man was a Commando after all, he deserved to keep his self-respect even if he was out of action. He’d be faced with lying here for hours in agony not knowing if his fellows would ever return, and facing certain capture when the sun came up.
Joe looked down the pile of rubble that was the beach, and despair rose in him like bile. One man down, one missing presumed drowned and no sign of the other
boat. Thirty yards away the inflatable was snagged on a rock and rolling with the waves. He also noticed that Gregson still had his backpack and Black had somehow managed to hold on to his rifle. One firearm; that was something at least.
‘Blacky, go and secure that boat will you? Gregson, let’s get you bandaged up and into some cover. Give me your field dressing.’ Joe put a makeshift bandage around the spot where the bone stuck out into the air.
‘The docs will have you as good as new once we’re back over the Ditch,’ he said as he tied it off. ‘Okay, up you get.’
With Joe under one shoulder, Gregson limped painfully up the slope to where some large boulders had fallen from the cliff face. Joe lodged him amongst them.
‘If any fresh rocks come down while you’re waiting, just duck. We’ll be back before dawn alright?’
‘Right you are sir, I’ll guard the boat for you with this,’ said Gregson, brandishing his knife.
‘Good man. Black, scout out a way up the cliff, I’m going to look for the other boat.’
The shoreline was shallow, only about twenty yards deep before the cliff rose up abruptly. It certainly wasn’t where they’d expected to land and Joe wondered how far they’d drifted off course and in which direction.
He clambered over the rocks at the northern end and came out onto a longer stretch of stony shore. It was black as the pit so he made his way carefully over the rocks looking for any sign of the other boat. Nothing. He negotiated another rock outcrop and found himself looking at a sheer cliff face that stretched out of sight. The waves were crashing directly onto the rocks at the base of the cliff.
‘Not much hope if they came in here,’ he said to himself and turned back the way he’d come.
Returning to the boat, he found Black pulling a rope, pitons and a rock hammer from Gregson’s backpack.
‘Found a chimney sir, but I can’t see more than about twenty feet up it, so we’ll just have to give it a go.’
‘Get moving then, I’ll scout the other beach and follow,’ said Joe, ‘Gregson, strip and clean that rifle and dry it out. It’s our only weapon so if I find any sand in it you’ll be on a charge.’
He sensed rather than saw Gregson throw a salute, then crunched off down the shingle towards the southern point. The smell of brine was thick in his nostrils, and now that the adrenaline of the landing was wearing off he was starting to shiver in his soaking uniform.
On the next beach he found Smythe.
Chapter Six
‘Over here lieutenant,’ came the familiar voice from the shadows. Smythe and Privates Hill and O’Sullivan were huddled against the rocks sharing out the contents of a backpack.
‘We lost Martin sir,’ said Smythe apologetically, ‘the rubber duck overturned and he never came up again. His backpack washed up, but not ‘im. At least we have the explosives,’ he said holding up a dynamite bundle.
‘We lost Duncan too, and Gregson’s broken his leg,’ replied Joe, ‘so we’ll have to make do with the five of us. Black reckons he’s found a way up the cliff, so let’s move.’
Black was already out of sight up the cliff when they got there, only the twitching tail of the rope betraying his presence above them.
‘What have we got between us?’ asked Joe.
‘Two dynamite bundles with detonators, and a coil of fuse wire,’ said Smythe, ‘but the timer’s buggered,’ he added, holding up a smashed clock face with wires hanging out of it.
‘We’ll think of something,’ said Joe, ‘what else?’
‘I’ve got me rifle and six grenades sir,’ said Private O’Sullivan.
‘I’ve only got my knife,’ said Hill, ‘and we’ve cannibalised the three backpacks that got through, so we’ve got some food and bandages, but surely you can’t mean to go on with the mission Dean?’
‘That’s Lieutenant Dean to you private, and yes, too bloody right I mean to go on with it. We’ve got explosives, there are five of us fit and able, and I originally wanted only two, so as far as I’m concerned nothing’s changed.’
‘But Lieutenant, we’ve only got two rifles, and what about Gregson here?’ objected Hill, ‘he needs to be evacuated.’
‘And he will be, with us, an hour before the sun comes up. Now enough talk soldier, get up that cliff or I’ll have you on a malingering charge.’
Using the rope as a guide, they started climbing. The rocks were encrusted with wet salt, and getting a purchase in the dark was a slow and painstaking process. After climbing steadily for a few minutes, Joe found himself in the chimney Black had mentioned and the climb got a bit easier as he used his back to steady himself against one wall while he walked his boots up the other side.
The further he went the narrower the chimney became, until he was cramped and bent almost double between the sides.
‘You’re nearly there sir,’ called Black from above him, ‘Grab the rope. I’ve pitoned it and I’ve got the other end, so you can put your weight on it.’
Joe reached out and grabbed the rope, then steadied himself and let his legs fall out of contact with the opposite wall. He swung outwards and smashed into the rock, twirling around and around, then grimly started hauling himself up the wet hemp one hand at a time. Twenty three pulls later he felt Black’s strong arms grab him around the shoulders and pull him up over the edge of the cliff.
‘Thanks Private. Carry on. I’ll have a dekko.’
The briefing had them landing a few hundred yards north of the hotel Richter was supposedly visiting, but as he crept away from the cliff edge Joe could see no sign of human habitation. The dim light of the moon through the clouds showed only windswept bracken and a few bent trees on the ground before him.
‘Bugger it, have we landed in the wrong place?’ he thought to himself. He went over the landmarks in his mind. They were supposed to have landed on a sandy beach with the cape on their right. The plan was to infiltrate up a track to the road that ran parallel to the beach and led to the hotel. The beach itself ran for about a mile north, so Joe concluded that they must have hit the shore right on the point of the cape itself. That meant that the radar station was in the south-east corner of the field in front of him.
As he stared into the darkness the clouds slid slowly west and the moon came out, revealing the field in more detail. Looking around him, Joe could see the cliff edge curving around to the north and south, while on the far side of the field he could just make out something moving: it was the rotating metal grid of the radar station. So the hotel must be down the hill on the left about 400 yards from the cliff. A breeze was now coming in off the Channel, adding a salty tang to the smells of earth and grass that filled Joe’s nostrils. He crept to the edge of the cliff, where Black, Hill and O’Sullivan were waiting.
‘We’ve landed further south than expected, but it might work in our favour. Target Two is south east of here, the proposed ambush site for Target One is about a half a mile north, but we’ll have to find a way there without being spotted by anyone in the hotel. These woods should cover us. It’s 2000 hours now, we’ve got an hour to get into position for the ambush.’
‘Sir,’ interjected Hill, ‘we’ve got no timer or plunger. How are we going to set off the bomb?’
‘I’ve got an idea for that Hillbilly, but we have to take the Nazi first, he’s our main objective. Once we’ve got him we can take our time setting the charges and blow the place just before the gunboat comes to take us off.’
‘Won’t they sound the alarm if he doesn’t return to barracks tonight sir?’ asked O’Sullivan.
‘He’s an officer Sully, he can do whatever he likes, I reckon they’re probably used to him not returning every night anyway. The moon’s going behind the clouds in a few seconds, let’s get into position; we’re heading that way.’
Joe pointed towards a dark wooded area. As a cloud crossed the moon they began moving carefully and silently across the field.
~ ~ ~
Hans swung the staf
f car through the curved road that climbed the hillside and pulled up outside the Hotel des Mauves, nestled in the northern slope of Cap Gris Nez.
‘Here we are sir. I’ll return at 2300 hours sharp.’
‘Excellent Hans, I shall look forward to it,’ said Richter, snapping a quick salute as he stepped out of the car.
‘Oh and bring some cognac for the journey home will you?’ he asked through the window, then strode up the steps into the hotel.
In her room, Yvette pulled up the stocking and clipped it to the suspender belt. She surveyed herself in the mirror and saw a beautiful young woman with long dark hair, her body encased in a tight black lace corset. She slipped into her heels, the silk on her shapely legs flashing in the lamplight, then slid a black dress over the whole ensemble.
Pulling the lamp closer to the table, she began applying eyeliner, lipstick and a hint of blusher, then pulled her hair up and pinned it carefully into place it on the top of her head, so that ringlets cascaded down the sides of her face. Pressing the plunger on the perfume bottle, she applied a few drops behind her ears and on her wrists. It was a cheap eau de cologne and she hated its fragrance—he had given it to her.
She took another look in the mirror, scowled at her reflection, then practiced her fake smile. It was pretty convincing, and it had to be maintained for at least two hours. Her contact had told her that tonight would be the night the British came for Richter. All she had to do was act as if this were just another ‘normal’ night, in which he used her body for an hour, then left some sort of gift that he imagined a girl of her nature living in a rationed country would appreciate, usually silk stockings, chocolate, and on two occasions so far, money.
The first time he’d pretended that he’d left it there by accident and said she could keep it, but the second time it was clear that this was no wartime romance between conqueror and conquered, but a business arrangement in which she did not dictate the price.
She had her price though, and he had paid it many times over by divulging all manner of sensitive information about the movements of troops, promotions of officers, arrival of new equipment. Once he had sated his lusts he loved nothing more than to smoke a cigar and talk away about the things he thought made him important, things that no little French piece of ass would understand.
