by Seb Spence
Despite the substantial resources being devoted to the hunt for Cobalt, it seemed to Barton that little headway was being made. He looked around the room. Now that all the arrangements were in place – the checkpoints and roadblocks set up and the search teams moved to their various locations – everyone in the operations centre just seemed to be sitting, waiting for something to occur. But, apart from the occasional phone ringing or runner coming in with a message, very little seemed to be happening. A few of the people at the desks even looked on the verge of dozing off, not that Barton could blame them: he had been up all night himself and was feeling fairly exhausted.
“I’m fed up sitting around, sir,” he eventually said to Minton. “I need to do something – anything.”
“Have patience, Barton. It’s just a matter of time. We’ll get a break soon, and then things will really take off.”
Barton exhaled, and Minton could see he was not satisfied with this response. “I’ll tell you what: give it another hour and if nothing’s happened by then, I’ll ask Cunningham if you can go off to Callander. There’s a detachment of the Morays going out there at eight-thirty to relieve the ones who’ve been on duty west of the town overnight. Callander is on Cobalt’s itinerary; there’s no other road north for fifteen miles on either side of the town, so unless she’s drastically changed her route, there’s a good chance she’ll be passing through it.”
Barton nodded. “Sounds good to me, sir.” He turned to Moncur. “Are you coming too, Bronx?”
Moncur yawned and shrugged. “Whatever you say, Barton. I’m happy enough here, but if you want to go to where there’s some action, count me in.”
8.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 07.30hrs: near Carnwath, Lanarkshire
Once they had driven out of sight of the checkpoint, Vaughan knocked on the cab’s rear window to signal that the alarm was over. In the back of the lorry, the men sitting towards the cab end lifted the tarpaulins off the two women, who got up from the deck and returned to their places on the bench. Grace did not like to admit it, but she was relieved that Vaughan’s ruse had not been detected, for if it had, she felt it would almost certainly have led to bloodshed. She did not doubt that the Brandenburgers were as resolute in their purpose as she was in hers, and she knew they would not hesitate to use their weapons if need be.
She could not see how she could prevail in these circumstances: if they were discovered by the police or the army there would be a bloodbath; on the other hand, if they managed to reach their destination unchallenged, she herself would have to stop Vivian Adair from leaving, and that would almost certainly be a suicidal course to take. Cautiously, she slipped her hand into her pocket to check the knife was still there.
It was daylight now, and there was sufficient light in the back of the lorry to see what was going on. Grace examined the unsmiling faces of the men sitting in silence around her: some looked preoccupied, others looked bored, and a few had closed their eyes in an attempt to grab a little rest. She noticed that on the left shoulder of the camouflage oversuits that the men were wearing was a badge with, in orange stitching, a lion rampant below the word ‘Nederland’.
#
As they passed through the village of Carnwath, Vaughan looked at his watch and noted it was just after 7.30am. They were making reasonable progress he felt. A few miles beyond the village, Lukasz turned the lorry onto a smaller road that headed north, and Vaughan was relieved to find that this new route was practically deserted: in the first few miles they encountered no other traffic apart from a farmhand on a bicycle. Vaughan began to feel that it might be plain sailing now for the rest of their journey, but he was soon to be disappointed in this expectation. They had been travelling along the road for ten minutes, when they encountered their second checkpoint: rounding a bend, they saw in the distance that a police patrol car was parked across the road, and there were two policemen standing in front of it.
Vaughan sighed. “This is annoying. If there’s going to be a checkpoint on every damn road we go down, we’ll never get to the rendezvous on time.”
“There are only two men,” Lukasz observed as he began to decelerate, “do you want me to fix them?”
Vaughan examined the landscape on either side of the road: they were going through a valley, and he could see there were a few cottages and farmhouses dotted about through the fields that spread up the sides of the hills. It was just possible that some curious inhabitant had a pair of binoculars trained on them.
“Only as a last resort,” he replied after a pause. “We’ll try to bluff our way through first.” He knocked on the rear window of the cab, and once more the two women were hurriedly concealed beneath the tarpaulins.
Lukasz stopped the lorry a few yards in front of the police car. “You’d better wind down your window,” he said to Drechsler, sitting on the other side of Vaughan. “They’ll want to talk to us.”
Drechsler lowered his window, and one of the policemen, a sergeant, came up to his side of the cab and asked in a pronounced Scottish accent, “Where are you headed?”
Vaughan leaned across from his seat in the middle and replied: “We’re bound for Cultybraggan Camp, Perthshire. We’re already running late. I hope this isn’t going to take long, Sergeant.”
“Aye, well, that depends. I’ll need to look in the back of your lorry.”
“It’s just my men in the back. We’re going to a training exercise.”
“I’ll still need to check, Major.”
“OK, we’d better get out then.” Vaughan nodded to Drechsler, who opened the cab door and jumped down. Vaughan followed.
The sergeant, a stout, middle-aged man, noticed the lion shoulder patch on Drechsler’s uniform. “Nederland, eh? You’re a long way from home, laddie.”
“My men are all from the Royal Netherlands Brigade,” Vaughan interjected, trying to sound affable. “It’s a free Dutch unit. They escaped the occupation and found their way to Britain. They’re fighting on our side now.”
The sergeant did not seem impressed. “If you could just let me see in the back, Major.”
As the three of them walked down the side of the lorry, Vaughan asked casually, “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Two women in their twenties – one blonde, the other brown haired. They may be driving a black Hillman, but there’s also the possibility that they may have dumped the car and tried to get a lift north. You haven’t seen anyone answering those descriptions on your way here, or come across any female hitch-hikers?”
“I’m afraid not.”
When they got to the rear of the lorry, Drechsler barked out an order: “Pull back the canopy flaps. We’re being inspected.” The sergeant noted the foreign accent.
After a slight pause, the two flaps were pulled aside. Vaughan and Drechsler lowered the tailboard, and the sergeant examined the fifteen faces looking out towards him. He saw no sign of any women but, being thorough at his job, he was not entirely satisfied. “What’s in the crate?”
“Just our weapons and equipment,” Vaughan replied.
“I need to see in it.”
Drechsler looked at Vaughan, who nodded assent. “Open the crate!” he ordered. Two of the Brandenburgers at one side lifted the lid and held it open.
The sergeant moved close to the tailboard. “Well, help me up then!” he said, raising a hand towards one of the men sitting nearest the end. The Brandenburger assisted him up onto the back of the lorry. The sergeant, hoping to find the two fugitives in the crate, stared down disappointedly at the collection of weapons and equipment neatly packed within: rifles, machine pistols, stick grenades, a heavy machine gun and various other items he could not identify. He turned and was about to jump down when something suddenly registered with him. He looked into the crate again to confirm he had seen the distinctive outlines of some Schmeissers.
“Wait a minute, aren’t these German weapons?”
Vaughan had his answer prepared. “That’s right, they w
ere captured at Narvik, I believe,” he replied instantly, maintaining his jovial tone. “It’s a scandal that my men have to use second-hand weapons, but our foreign allies seem to be at the back of the queue for getting new kit.”
This speedy response, however, was not enough to extinguish the glimmer of suspicion that had been aroused in the sergeant’s mind. With a sly smile, he addressed the men in the lorry: “So, you lads are all Hollanders, eh? My daughter went out with a Dutchy at the start of the war – a fly boy he was. I managed to pick up a bit of the lingo from him. Goedemorgen, heren. Het is een mooie dag. Lang leve de Koningin, Wilhelmina!”
After a pause, a couple of the men responded half-heartedly: “Lang leve de Koningin!” It was not a convincing performance. Then suddenly, one of the Brandenburgers further back in the lorry grinned and started to talk rapidly. The sergeant, though understanding little of what was being said, recognised the language as Dutch. He held up his hand: “Alright, alright. You can stop gabbling! I didn’t ask for your life history.” He jumped down. “Everything seems to be in order, Major. Sorry to have detained you.”
9.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 08.30hrs: Stirling Castle
General Cunningham was standing by himself, looking up at the large map of Scotland on the wall of the room that he had turned into his operations centre. Lost in thought, he was unaware that Minton had just come up to him and was standing at his side. Minton waited for some sign of acknowledgement, but when none was forthcoming, he just began: “Excuse me sir, Pilot Officer Barton and his colleague would like to go out to Callander with the relief unit. The inactivity is making them restless. I don’t think we need them here, so is it alright if–”
“Yes, yes, Minton,” Cunningham interrupted testily without taking his eyes off the map, “Lieutenant MacGregor is in charge of the relief detachment – let him know that the two RAF men are to go with him.”
Colonel Minton was about to turn and set off to find MacGregor, when Cunningham continued, still staring at the map: “I have a bad feeling about this – I think Cobalt has slipped through the net.”
“Surely it’s too early to say? Have you heard from the police who were investigating the farms around St Boswells?”
“So far they have drawn a blank. It’s been daylight for almost three hours – she must have set off by now. But there hasn’t been a single sighting.” Cunningham shook his head and then, after a pause, seemed to snap out of his preoccupied state. He turned towards Minton. “I think your man Barton is right – it’s time for action. I want to see what things are like on the ground. Come on, let’s go with MacGregor out to Callander.”
“Is that a good idea, sir? Are you not needed here to coordinate things?”
“There’s nothing to coordinate at the moment. Besides, we can take a radio truck with us, so I’ll be contactable at all times. Callander’s only 15 minutes up the road: I can soon be back here if necessary. It’s important we ensure that the units manning these checkpoints are doing their job properly. The people at the sharp end must be on the ball: ultimately, they’re the ones who will catch Cobalt.”
#
At 08.40hrs hours, a convoy of five vehicles passed out of the main gate of the castle. At the front was a staff car with General Cunningham and Colonel Minton. Behind this was a radio truck followed by three lorries, each carrying a platoon of Morays. Barton and Moncur were among the men in the back of the first lorry.
10.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 08.50hrs: on the outskirts of Stirling
Brigadier Vaughan was in ebullient mood, for they had travelled without interruption since leaving the checkpoint near Carnwath, and he now felt confident they would reach their destination in good time. He looked over to the distant battlements of Stirling Castle, which had just come into view about a mile away on their right. An expanse of flat fields separated them from the long, eighty-metre high, volcanic outcrop on which the stronghold was built, and a further mile beyond it, to its left, Vaughan could see the tower of the Wallace Monument standing on top of its wooded hill.
“It’s not far now – that’s Stirling over there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the castle. “Another fifteen minutes and we’ll be in Callander.”
Shortly after this, they turned left onto the Callander road, and soon they were speeding down a long, straight section that headed north west. Through the windscreen they could see in the distance a line of hills stretching across their field of view.
“See those peaks?” Vaughan said, pointing to a group of summits straight ahead. “That’s where we’re aiming for. The one on the left is Ben Ledi; it’s at Callander. The ones on the right are Stuc a’Chron and Ben Vorlich – they’re further north, closer to our final destination. That, gentlemen, is the same view William Wallace had when he looked out from the Abbey Craig before defeating the English army at the Battle of Stirling Bridge. 1297, I believe.” Lukasz and Drechsler, having no idea what he was talking about, did not respond.
Everything proceeded smoothly for the next five miles, but then Vaughan’s hopes for an uninterrupted final stage to their journey were shattered. As they emerged from a series of bends, they could see that a small army truck was parked across the road at a junction a few hundred yards ahead of them, and standing from side to side of the roadway in front of it were four men wearing khaki uniforms and red caps. They had on white Sam Browne belts, attached to which were white holsters.
“Damn! This could be tricky,” Vaughan observed. “Military police! You’d better get your weapons ready, gentlemen.” After rapping on the rear window of the cab to warn the others to hide the women, he picked up a leather map case that was lying at his feet and slid his hand into one of its compartments. Without taking his eyes off the redcaps ahead, he released the safety catch on the silenced, army-issue Colt automatic concealed in the case. He turned to Lukasz. “When we stop, make sure you keep the engine running.”
Hearing Vaughan’s signal, two of the Brandenburgers in the back of the lorry stood up immediately and lifted the tarpaulins from the floor. For a third time, Grace Harrison and Vivian Adair had to drop down to the deck to be covered by the grimy canvas sheets that stank of gasoline and some acrid substance. One of the two Brandenburgers, looking through the cab window, saw the MP’s manning the roadblock ahead and exclaimed in an urgent undertone: “Feldgendarmerie!” Grace, hearing this, realised immediately that they were about to be stopped by the military police. There would surely be a confrontation now, she thought.
As soon as they had come to a halt at the roadblock, Lukasz wound down his window, and the redcap in charge, a corporal, approached. Seeing there was an officer in the cab, the man ignored Lukasz and addressed Vaughan: “Your movement orders, please sir.”
Vaughan pulled a document from one of the other compartments in the map case and passed it across to the corporal, who scanned it briefly and then returned it.
“I’m afraid we can’t permit you to pass. You’ll have to turn around.”
“Why can’t we proceed? These movement orders are valid,” he asserted, knowing full well they were not – he had forged them himself.
“They may have been when they were issued, but they’re not now. No-one is permitted to pass this point without express authorization from the District Commander.”
“Since when?”
“As of 0100 hours today.”
“But we’ve driven all the way up from the south of England. We’re going to Cultybraggan Camp – it’s only 40 minutes away. We’re practically there.”
“You’ll have to go back to Stirling and find an alternative route, although I warn you, you’re likely to find that blocked as well. Currently all routes north have restricted access.”
At that moment, the distant drone of an aircraft became audible, and Vaughan looked up through the windscreen to locate it. He soon caught sight of it above the trees lining the road and estimated it was one to two miles from where they were. It was flyin
g low and slowly in a south easterly direction but then banked round sharply and began to retrace its path. Vaughan got a good view of it as it turned, and from its drab olive colour, rectangular wings and fixed landing gear he guessed it was an army spotter plane, no doubt on the lookout for suspicious vehicles that might be conveying Vivian Adair. He had the feeling that the further north they went, the tighter the security was going to become.
Exhaling, Vaughan lowered his gaze and looked beyond the MP’s at the vehicle that was barring his path: he recognised it as a Morris 8cwt truck. Its back was covered in, and he surmised from the antenna mounted on top that it was fitted for wireless. He looked again at the corporal and smiled affably: “Are you in radio communication with your headquarters?”
“Yes, we have a radio in the truck.”
“Perhaps you would allow me to speak to them to see if we can get the necessary authorisation?”
“Very well,” the corporal responded without enthusiasm. “If you’d come with me, sir.”
Vaughan addressed Lukasz and Drechsler in a jovial tone: “OK chaps, you might want to get out and stretch your legs. This may take a while.” All three men got out of the cab, and Vaughan, carrying the map case and with his silver-topped walking stick under his arm, went with the corporal round to the back of the Morris. The corporal climbed in and sat down on a seat that faced a bank of radio equipment mounted down one side of the truck. Vaughan, standing at the lowered tailboard, glanced round to satisfy himself that the other three MP’s could not see him.
