by Seb Spence
“There are the signal lamps,” he exclaimed. “The welcoming committee are in place. It’s time to go.”
The green jump light in the fuselage came on and the external door was opened. It took less than half a minute for the sixteen men to exit the plane. The pilot watched the line of parachutes descending for a few moments, then banked the aircraft and started on the return leg to Woensdrecht.
3.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 23.30 - 01.00hrs: Stirling Castle, Headquarters of the Moray and Caithness Highlanders
Shortly after Minton had phoned the rectory at 5 o’clock, Barton had received another call: it was from a FANY transport officer in Newcastle to say that a vehicle and driver would not be available for two hours, and, allowing for the journey time up the A68, their lift would not reach them until 8pm at the earliest. In view of this delay, the vicar at Holy Trinity had kindly made his guest room available to his two visitors so that they could rest. Moncur had made the most of this opportunity and had stretched out on the bed and dozed off almost immediately.
Barton, however, had found sleep difficult to come by, for his mind was troubled with concerns for Grace. Sitting in an armchair at the window, he gazed out at the skyline and tried to come up with a plan for finding her. But it was no good: he realised there was nothing they could sensibly do by themselves. At the end of two hours, he drifted off into a fitful and uneasy sleep.
Their car arrived just after eight, and Barton and Moncur left almost straightaway, delaying only long enough to thank the vicar for his hospitality. The FANY driver who collected them was a petite, red-haired girl who spoke with a slight Scottish accent. She told them her orders were to take them to Edinburgh, from where they were to get a train back to London. However, on arrival at Edinburgh Waverley Station, a transport officer had passed on to them a message from Minton – it said they were to continue on to Stirling Castle. Barton was bemused by this development but assumed something had happened to necessitate the change of plan.
It took them another hour and a half to get to Stirling, so it was nearly 11.30pm when their FANY driver finally deposited them at the guardroom by the main entrance to the Castle, headquarters of the Moray and Caithness Highlanders, or the Morays as they were known. They were met there by an officer of the Morays, a Second Lieutenant MacGregor, who had been detailed to look after them. Barton guessed from his fresh face that he was slightly younger than they were, probably twenty or twenty-one.
For some reason, MacGregor seemed pleased to meet them. After shaking hands and exchanging a few pleasantries about their drive up, he told them they were to attend a briefing in the castle at 00.45hrs and asked if they would like anything to eat while they were waiting. Apart from tea and biscuits at the rectory, Barton and Moncur had had no food since breakfast and accepted his offer appreciatively. MacGregor escorted them up the steep, cobbled roadway that led from the front gate, through the inner defences, to the main castle buildings and took them into the officers’ mess. Sitting down with them at the end of a long table, he asked the orderly on duty for supper for two. Within minutes, the man reappeared with two large mugs of cocoa and an ashet stacked with thick bacon sandwiches.
“I’m afraid this is all that’s available, sir,” the man apologised to MacGregor.
“Well, it’s not cordon bleu fare, but I suppose it’ll keep the hunger pangs at bay,” MacGregor said with a smile.
“No, no, it’s spot on,” Bronx asserted eagerly, helping himself to a sandwich.
MacGregor did not eat anything himself but stayed and chatted to them as they worked their way through the contents of the plate. He had a pleasant manner and regaled them with interesting titbits about the history of the Castle and the locale. The room they were now eating in, they learnt, had been used as a boudoir by Mary Queen of Scots. MacGregor also asked them about their journey and whether it was their first time in Scotland, which for Barton it was, although Moncur had been born and brought up north of the border.
Once the last sandwich had been consumed, the conversation switched from small talk. “So, what’s going on, or can’t you say?” MacGregor asked, looking from one to the other, a glint of excitement in his eye. “Our CO told us that there are two senior officers from Military Intelligence presently flying up from London to give us the briefing at 00.45hrs. Apparently, we’re going after some German agents. The word is that three of them have already been hunted down and killed by a couple of RAF men – I suppose that’s you two?”
If MacGregor had a fault, Barton thought, it was perhaps that he was a little overenthusiastic. He seemed rather fired up by what was happening.
“To tell the truth, it wasn’t planned,” Barton explained. “We blew up a lorry to create a diversion and they got caught in the blast. I have to say, this is a deadly serious business. It’s not to be treated lightly.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right. Still, I think most of us here at the Castle would be grateful for a little action and relief from the monotony of depot life. I’d be interested to hear the background to all this, although I don’t want to get you into trouble – you don’t have to say anything if it’s classified information.”
“Well, it is all hush-hush, so we can’t tell you everything, but I suppose we can give you the general gist of what’s been going on.” Together, Barton and Moncur filled him in on the story. They felt it was the least they could do in return for the supper.
#
At about twenty to one, MacGregor took them across to a large room in one of the main buildings of the castle. It had a high ceiling supported by wooden beams. Forty or so chairs had been laid out in rows facing a huge map of Scotland that had been hung on the wall at one end of the room. To one side of the map, a projector screen on a tripod stand had been set up. Most of the chairs were already occupied, mainly by army officers, though there were a few navy types and half a dozen uniformed policemen present as well. The only trio of vacant seats was at the back.
“Looks like we’re in the rear stalls tonight,” MacGregor said, indicating the three empty chairs at one end of the last row.
Studying the assembled crowd, Barton got the impression that a few of those present were less than pleased at being there. “Some of them don’t look very happy,” he said in a low voice to his two companions.
“You’re right,” MacGregor responded, “they’re the ones who don’t like being dragged from their beds at this time of night. Still, I think the majority of the people in the room are glad to be here. Like I said earlier, it’s a break from the daily routine.”
General Cunningham and Colonel Minton had flown up from Northolt and had then been driven straight from the local airfield to the Castle. They entered the briefing room together and were greeted at the door by two senior officers from the Morays. After a brief conversation, the two officers sat down with Minton in the first row while Cunningham strode out in front of the assembly and stood before the map of Scotland. Barton noticed that at the back of the room, near where they were sitting, a corporal had started up a slide projector.
Cunningham began his briefing. “I’ll try to keep this as short as possible, gentlemen: there’s a lot of work to be done and I don’t want to hold things up. Yesterday, a German agent drove up from England to the Borders, on her way, we believe, to rendezvous with a U-boat somewhere off the Scottish coast, probably on the west side, but exactly where, we don’t know. However, we do know she intended to come up via Stirling and Callander. She is in possession of highly classified information and must be prevented from leaving the country with it, or from passing it on.
“This is our quarry gentlemen,” he continued and nodded to the corporal by the projector. The head-and-shoulders picture that Cunningham had shown Minton earlier in the day came up on the screen. “She goes by the name of ‘Vivian Adair’, although I expect she will almost certainly be using false papers and may also have changed her appearance. I emphasize that you are authorised to use deadly force to stop this
woman. If you positively identify her, you may take whatever steps are necessary to prevent her from carrying out her mission.”
“Shoot to kill, eh?” Bronx whispered. “He’s fairly got it in for her, hasn’t he?”
Leaning against the wall at the side of the map was a billiard cue that served as a pointer. Cunningham paused to pick it up and then went on: “She knows we’re right on her tail, and we believe she’s gone to ground in a safe house somewhere in the Borders.” As he said this, he circled the area around St Boswells with the tip of the cue. “At some point in the next twenty-four hours – possibly at first light – she will almost certainly attempt to continue north. She was last seen driving a black Hillman saloon, but she may have access to alternative transport. We have put in place a solid cordon around the Borders region where we think she is, so it’s odds on we’ll catch her before she gets far. But on the off chance that she slips through the net, we need to ensure that her route north is barred. That’s where you come in, gentlemen. All roads north are to be blocked. No northbound traffic will be allowed past the blocks unless it has been authorised by the District Commander personally. I repeat, absolutely no traffic is to be permitted to pass northward without his permission. To ensure complete security, roads will have multiple blocks, located at strategic junctions.
“In the event that she ditches her vehicle and tries to make it across the hills on foot, we are arranging to have additional mobile units and manpower available in order to mount searches across open country. These will be stationed at various key points: Lochearnhead, Crianlarich, Ballachulish, Inverary ... ” Cunningham recited a list of places throughout the highlands, and as he called out each name, he tapped its location on the map using the tip of the cue. “All units will have radios so that the search can be fully coordinated. I have also arranged for spotter aircraft to be patrolling. Are there any questions?”
A captain in the front row asked, “Is the Adair woman alone?”
“There is a possibility she may link up with one or more accomplices. She may also be accompanied by another woman, who is in fact one of our own intelligence officers – a Miss Grace Harrison.” Cunningham again nodded at the corporal by the projector, and a head-and-shoulders picture of Grace appeared on the screen. It was one that Barton had not seen: it looked like some sort of publicity shot, possibly taken for Miller’s act.
“So that’s the ex-girlfriend, eh?” MacGregor asked Barton in a low voice. “Bit of a stunner.”
Cunningham continued: “If possible, Miss Harrison should not be harmed, though I emphasize our main priority is to stop Adair and any of the gang members with her.”
Barton did not like the sound of that. “What does he mean ‘if possible’?” he whispered to Bronx.
One of the police officers stood up and asked if the gang were armed.
“They are likely to be carrying small arms, and Adair may have a machine pistol. They are extremely dangerous and are believed to have killed several times before.”
A man in a dark suit – CID, Barton guessed – stood up and asked: “There are several rail routes through the Highlands – is it possible that this woman may try going north by rail?”
“All scheduled north-bound train services in the Highlands have been suspended for twenty-four hours. Where the movement by rail of military personnel or materiel is deemed essential by the District Commander, special trains will be laid on.”
After fielding several other questions, Cunningham handed over to a major in the Morays who began going over the detailed arrangements for the operation.
#
At the end of the briefing, Minton stood up and glanced around the room. Seeing Barton and Moncur at the back, he immediately walked over to them and shook hands.
“It’s good to see you’re both still in one piece. How are you?”
“None the worse for our escapades, although Moncur is still grieving for his car.” Moncur made a grunting noise. “How did you get up here?” Barton asked.
“We flew up in an Avro Anson from Northolt.”
“Has Grace been in contact yet?”
“No, Barton, I’m afraid not. It’s all gone quiet. We’ve had no sighting of them since you called from that rectory in Kielder. As I said when I phoned you there, one of Elliott’s stooges, Mitchell, broke under interrogation and has told us about their plans: the gang were to hole up somewhere in the borders tonight and then head north via Stirling and Callander. Assuming Vivian Adair sticks to the plan, she and Grace, and whoever else may be with them, will set off first thing tomorrow morning. With luck, we’ll pick them up then. If not, we’ll stop them further north – as you saw in the briefing, we’ve got every route north covered.”
“General Cunningham seems to be suggesting a ‘shoot first’ approach. I’m worried that Grace may be hit accidentally.”
“Miss Harrison is a capable girl; Cunningham has great faith in her. I’m sure she can look after herself. Anyway, it may not to come to a shoot-out. Hopefully, when they see the scale of the operation mounted against them they will realise they haven’t a chance of getting through and will just throw in the towel.”
4.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 01.00hrs: Monksford Farm, near St Boswells
Grace was the first to hear it: straightaway, she recognised the sound as the distant hum of an engine – moreover, the engine of a large vehicle. At that moment, she and Vivian Adair were bent over the kitchen table, looking at an Ordnance Survey map of Stirling and the Trossachs that the latter had spread out on the surface.
“What’s that noise?” Grace asked in a whisper. “It sounds like a truck.”
They straightened up simultaneously and listened in silence for several seconds, after which Vivian Adair ran to her jacket, which was hanging on the back of the kitchen door, and pulled her Walther out of one of the pockets. She then stepped over to the light switch and put her hand on it. “I’ll turn the light off, then we can look out and see what it is.”
Grace walked over to the kitchen window and, as soon as the light went off, pulled back the blackout curtain a fraction and peered out into the darkness. The noise was getting steadily louder. It was the unmistakeable transmission whine of a lorry moving in low gear, and she felt certain it was coming towards them along the bumpy, unmade farm road. She hoped to God it would be the police or the army.
Soon, the slits of its masked headlights were visible as it drew near the farm. Her eyes had adjusted quickly to the dark and looking across to the other side of the window, she saw that Vivian had taken up position there and was also looking out. Grace felt her heart start to pound again for she realised that if these were her rescuers approaching, she might have to try disarming Vivian Adair.
Turning her attention back to the lorry, she could just discern its outline as it passed slowly by the window and came to a halt in the middle of the farmyard. Almost immediately, the engine was switched off and a shadowy figure jumped down from the passenger side of the cab. Someone began to whistle a tune softly.
“It’s them!” Vivian Adair announced. “That’s the signal – he’s whistling ‘Lillibulero’. Come away from the window, and I’ll put the light back on.” No sooner had she finished saying this than there were two smart raps on the front door, as if someone had knocked on it with a hard object. Vivian Adair went out into the vestibule, partly pulled back the blackout drapes that hung behind the door and unbolted it. She opened the door just enough to allow entry. A stocky figure in a British Army uniform quickly stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. Along with his officer’s khaki tunic, he was wearing a Glengarry cap and tartan trews. He also carried a silver-topped walking cane.
Dazzled by the light inside, the man squinted through his round-rimmed glasses and smiled at Vivian Adair. “Good to see you again, Vivian. We’re right on schedule, I believe.” He turned his head slightly and caught sight of Grace standing in the kitchen. His plump, shiny face took on a quizzical look.
/> “I don’t think you two have met,” Vivian Adair said, leading him into the room. “Grace, this is Brigadier Vaughan.”
“Major Vaughan, please,” he said, patting with the silver top of his cane, the crown on his left shoulder strap, “I’ve demoted myself. I thought it might be less suspicious – brigadiers don’t generally ride in lorries, they usually swan around in staff cars.” He beamed at Grace. “And you must be Miss Harrison. I’ve heard a lot about you from John. He speaks very highly of you.” He looked around the empty kitchen. “Where is John? Don’t tell me he hasn’t arrived yet.”
Vivian Adair paused before replying. “He’s dead, and so are Len and Hugo.”
Vaughan’s jovial mien vanished. He seemed genuinely shocked. “What happened?”
“Remember that RAF man, Barton, we told you about? He and a friend of his tailed us when we left Northampton. We confronted them on a forest back-road just south of the border. Barton got lucky and managed to kill John and the other two by blowing up a lorry they were in.”
Vaughan looked alarmed. “Where are these RAF men now? They couldn’t have tracked you here, could they?”
“No, they ran off after the incident. They had no transport, so they weren’t able to follow us for the last part of our journey here.”
“That’s a relief. You’ve informed Hamburg about Elliott?”
“Yes, we exchanged messages a couple of hours ago.”
“And what about the documents?”
“Elliott’s set was destroyed in the explosion; mine is still intact.”
“It looks as if John was wise to have two teams carrying the goods. What did Hamburg have to say about the arrangements for the pick up?”
