by Ian Blake
‘HE continuing to recede, sir. Bearing green zero-eight-zero.’
There was a slight haze in the control room and an acrid smell. The submarine still seemed askew, too, the floor tilting slightly; but then Woods gave orders for her internal trim to be altered and she slowly righted herself.
‘No HE, sir.’
The First Lieutenant and the navigator returned to say that there was no major damage, though one of the engine-room artificers had been knocked unconscious when he had been thrown across the engine-room by the force of the explosion. However, there was plenty of minor damage, mostly to the electrical wiring and the compressed-air pipes. Temporary repairs were carried out to the latter, but the damage to the wiring made it difficult to continue the attack, and rather to the relief of everyone in the control room Woods decided not to pursue the coal-burner.
They waited an hour and then the Captain ordered the submarine up to periscope depth. Everyone waited while he scanned the whole horizon before settling on an area off the port bow. He racked up the periscope to high power, then ordered it to be lowered.
‘We got her all right,’ he said. At this everyone cheered. ‘She’s about to go down. The destroyer is standing by her. The coal-burner’s legged it. Let’s go home.’
13
Major Pountney covertly watched his general’s face as Pountney’s chosen elite for No. 2 Special Boat Section demonstrated their latest skills on the chilly October waters of the Firth of Clyde off Ardrossan-Saltcoats. The section had officially come into being the previous March and was now fully operational.
‘You seem to have done a good job of collecting as fine a bunch of hooligans as I’ve ever laid my eyes on,’ Laycock said as they were driven back to the officers’ mess after the demonstration. Pountney knew the commander of the Special Service Brigade well by now. ‘Hooligans’ was a term he used sparingly, for it was one of praise.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘How do you do it?’
The guard at the gate presented arms smartly and the other raised the barrier and saluted. Laycock acknowledged them by saluting briefly.
‘Select the right men and let them get on with it,’ Pountney replied promptly. ‘Choose your other ranks with more care than you would a wife and keep them in the picture as to what is going on as much as you can. I won’t tolerate creepers. I don’t allow petty charges to be brought against any man. If he’s no good, I return him to his regiment pronto. Above all, I make sure I’m accessible to my officers and men at all times. I’m Daddy. If anyone has to be bawled out, I let my second in command do it. It seems to work.’
‘I’m told,’ said Laycock, the amusement he felt showing in his voice, ‘that you have a notice on your desk saying . . . well, what does it say exactly?’
‘"Are you tough?"’ Pountney quoted promptly. ‘"If so get out. I need buggers with intelligence."’
Laycock laughed. ‘I like that. Very good, very good indeed, Roger.’ He paused and went on more seriously: ‘I’m glad you’ve found them, as we’re going to be needing them before this war is won.’
Laycock’s staff car drew up by the steps of the officers’ mess, one of the smaller stately homes which had been requisitioned for the duration. All the officers who were sitting in the ante-room rose to their feet as Laycock entered, but he immediately waved them back into their armchairs and approached the bar.
‘Two large pink gins,’ he said to the barman, then turned to Pountney. ‘It seems to me, Roger, that the new section works very well together. Most of them came from No. 6 Commando. Am I right?’
Pountney nodded, added a modicum of water to the pink tincture in his glass, raised it to Laycock in thanks, and swallowed most of it in one gulp. The warmth of the near-neat gin fuelled the glow inside him which had been caused by Laycock’s words of praise. Now, at last, he was pretty sure the General was going to tell him what was in store for the new SBS unit.
But if this was so, Laycock was in no hurry to raise the matter. Instead he asked with genuine curiosity: ‘You say you choose your men with care?’
Pountney drained his glass and the General signalled to the barman to refill their glasses. ‘I do, sir. If I can, I choose ex-bandsmen.’
Laycock’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good God. Why?’
‘It’s their training, sir,’ Pountney explained. ‘They have to march and counter-march while playing an instrument and reading their music. They also have to watch their feet to make sure they don’t run into the musician ahead of them. Doing so many different things at once makes them excellent marksmen, as that’s what you have to do when you’re firing any weapon, as you know. Align the foresight, the backsight, and the target. It makes them nimble, too.’
Laycock laughed. ‘Any other favourites?’
‘I look out for anyone with Boy Scout training, as they’ve been taught self-reliance. They’re also taught to look carefully and to move quietly.’
‘And?’
‘If I can, I recruit the studious, artistic type,’ said Pountney promptly. ‘He is infinitely better than the swaggering, tough individual who can usually only display his toughness in pubs. You’ve got to be super-sensitive and alert if you’re going to land successfully on enemy-occupied coastlines.’
‘From what I’ve seen this morning, Roger, you’ve chosen well.’
Laycock paused as if making up his mind to say something. Pountney knew better than to prompt him. He waited in silence. Outside, on the parade-ground, he could hear the drill sergeant shouting at the Special Service Brigade’s latest batch of recruits. Laycock emptied his glass, indicated that Pountney should do the same, and said: ‘Let’s take a stroll outside, shall we?’
A cold, autumnal, north-westerly wind blew in off the Firth. Pountney turned up the collar of his greatcoat as they walked briskly around the edge of the parade-ground.
‘I’m under pressure to regularize the Special Boat Sections,’ Laycock said abruptly. ‘They’re neither fish nor fowl as far as the Admiralty and the War Office are concerned. The Admiralty seems to be winning the argument for your lot to be absorbed into the Royal Marines. What’s your view on that?’
‘May I be frank, sir?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bugger that, sir.’
Laycock laughed. ‘I thought you might not agree.’
He turned to look at Pountney and his face became grave. ‘But we have a war to fight, Roger, you know that. Personal preferences have to be put aside. Becoming part of the Marines would mean the survival of the SBS. If such an integration is opposed, then you could be disbanded before your section has even seen action.’
Pountney hesitated. ‘What about No. 1 SBS?’
Laycock shrugged. ‘One of life’s little ironies, I’m afraid. Ayton’s a Marine but it looks as if Stirling and his SAS outfit are about to put in a take-over bid.’
Fuck the lot of them, Pountney thought. But he said: ‘Put like that, sir, I have no alternative.’
Laycock smiled. ‘Good man. I shall report back that you concur. No point in getting up their nostrils. However, between ourselves I have every intention of hanging on to your section for the immediate future, as I want to use them for cross-Channel raiding.’
‘Sounds interesting, sir,’ Pountney said eagerly.
‘But I am sending you back to the Med, Roger.’
‘Into the arms of my old mate Stirling, sir?’
Laycock shook his head. ‘No. I’ve been asked to provide three reliable SBS officers for an important clandestine mission. I want you to be one of them. Do you have a good man to take command of the section here?’
‘Yes. Captain Montanaro. My number two.’
‘Chap who sunk that freighter in Boulogne harbour in April?’
‘That’s him, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll have a chat with him in due course, but it’s your role I want to tell you about. So far as I can.’
They left the edge of the parade-ground and took the path to the sea
shore. The north wind sharpened.
‘It won’t have escaped your notice that a large number of American troops have arrived here and in Northern Ireland during the last few months.’
Pountney nodded. It hadn’t. You’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know the Yanks had arrived. Having the Yanks here made one wish one was deaf, dumb and blind. The local female talent was the best source of information about them.
‘They’re commanded by a chap called Eisenhower. Heard of him?’
Pountney shook his head.
‘He’s tough and he’s bright. And he’s got a grin that even Brooke, who’s no admirer of the Americans, admits is worth a couple of divisions.’
Pountney knew Laycock was referring to Field Marshal Brooke: the Chief of the Imperial General Staff – the head of the British Army – the chairman of the British Chiefs of Staff, and Churchill’s right-hand man. Laycock was certainly moving in exalted circles, Pountney thought, but he knew Laycock wasn’t a name-dropper; he didn’t need to be. He knew that the General, without breaking any of the ground rules about secrecy, was trying to give him some background to whatever it was he was going to tell him.
Laycock paused on the path and looked straight at Pountney. ‘I had to get you the highest security clearance to tell you this, but I insisted you knew, as naturally I must give you the opportunity to volunteer for the job that needs doing. There’s going to be an invasion by Allied troops somewhere in the Mediterranean shortly.’
‘Somewhere?’
Pountney couldn’t help echoing the word. The Mediterranean was a large place.
‘Somewhere,’ Laycock repeated firmly. ‘I can’t give you more details than that. But the job is a top-secret operation which entails ferrying ashore a group of high-ranking American officers by folbot. They will, hopefully, negotiate terms with the French military authorities so that the invasion will be unopposed.’
That narrowed the options and Pountney’s mind raced through the likely places. There was the southern half of France, which was under Marshal Pétain’s Vichy regime, which collaborated with the Germans; but there were also the French colonies of Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia in North Africa.
Pountney was well aware that what Laycock had told him was pure dynamite.
‘Who do I do this with, sir?’ he asked cautiously as they resumed walking towards the shore.
‘That’s up to you. They’ll have to come from No. 1 Section. You can choose them, but they must be officers and they must be utterly discreet. Any ideas?’
‘Ayton, for one,’ Pountney said immediately.
‘But he’s a Royal Marine, Roger,’ Laycock said jokingly. ‘I know what you think about Marines.’
‘There are always exceptions, sir.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. He helped pull off an invaluable task for us in the summer by indulging in a little kidnapping. Who else?’
Pountney thought for a moment, then said: ‘Bob Harmon would be ideal. He’s a strong paddler and he’s as cool as they come. He’s a Marine, too, but he knows how to keep his mouth shut.’
‘Good. So you’ll do it?’
Pountney misunderstood. ‘You mean, arrange their transfer, sir?’
Laycock gave Pountney an amused look. ‘No, Roger. I’ll arrange that. You won’t be speaking to anyone until you arrive at Gibraltar tomorrow night.’
Pountney whistled. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘I meant, you’ll volunteer?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Pountney felt momentarily aggrieved that the General felt it necessary to ask. But Laycock was punctilious in following the rules. He had already asked too many men to go on operations from which they had never returned.
‘Your batman has had orders to pack all your belongings. They’ll be at RAF Leuchars by the time you arrive there. A Liberator is on stand-by to fly you straight out. Ah, here we are.’
The path petered out by the coastal road. A little way down the road Pountney saw a jeep and a dun-coloured staff car drawn up behind it. The jeep was full of Military Police, their red caps and blanco standing out against the olive green of their vehicle.
A lieutenant in battledress with a revolver strapped to his belt was leaning against the staff car. When he saw Laycock he jumped to attention and saluted. They crossed the road.
‘Here’s your charge, Merrick,’ Laycock said. ‘Major Pountney understands he is not to talk to anyone.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Laycock turned to Pountney and extended his hand. ‘Sorry, for the rush, Roger, and for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ He waved his hand apologetically towards the two vehicles and their armed occupants. ‘Is there any uncleared business you want me to deal with?’
Pountney grinned. ‘No, sir. My tailor is just going to have to wait a bit longer for his bill to be paid, that’s all.’
He shook Laycock’s hand, then saluted him. Laycock returned his salute, and said: ‘Good luck, Roger.’
The driver of the staff car held open the rear door. Pountney ducked his large frame into the back seat and the lieutenant slid in beside him. The car, preceded by the jeep, moved away smoothly and Pountney settled back and wondered what the hell it was all about.
‘How long is it going to take us to get to Leuchars?’ he asked his escort after they had driven in silence for ten minutes.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘but I am under the strictest orders not to allow you to talk to anyone. That includes me, sir.’
The autumn day faded. Darkness wrapped the countryside and the staff car’s shaded headlights just about picked out the rear of the jeep. Pountney’s training, to relax when you can – a lot of war is about hanging around waiting for something to happen – allowed him to stop his mind speculating on what he had let himself in for. He closed his eyes and slept until he was woken by a shake on his shoulder. He glanced at his watch. It was after ten o’clock.
‘We’re here, sir,’ said the lieutenant.
The airfield’s guard commander, a sergeant in the RAF Regiment, bent down and briefly shone a torch in Pountney’s face, then switched it to a piece of paper in his hand. He handed back the paper to the lieutenant through the car window and saluted.
‘I’ll give you an escort, sir. Corporal Stammers,’ he shouted. A corporal appeared out of the darkness and climbed into the staff car beside the driver.
‘Officers’ mess, Sarge?’ the corporal queried.
‘No. Hut B for these gentlemen.’
They drove round the airfield perimeter, past a line of hangars with the large, black outline of bombers parked outside them, and eventually reached a far corner where two Nissen huts stood side by side in the darkness.
Pountney climbed out and stretched as the RAF corporal fetched the officer in charge, who turned out to be an elderly captain in the Pay Corps. The lieutenant had a short conversation with him, saluted Pountney and drove off.
The reception room of Hut B, the larger of two, was empty. Blackout blinds covered all the windows, but otherwise it was surprisingly bright and cheerful. There was even a small bar and a gramophone playing jazz records the Americans had brought with them.
The Pay Corps captain introduced himself, offered Pountney a drink and said: ‘No flight tonight, I’m afraid. Bad storms coming in from the Atlantic. They’ll clear by dawn, so it will be an early start. I expect you’d like something to eat before turning in.’
Pountney found all his kit in his room. He sorted out what he thought he might want to take with him and packed the rest in boxes that had been provided.
It was still pitch-black when he was wakened, given eggs and bacon, and driven to the Liberator B-24 bomber, easily identifiable by its twin tailfins, which was standing at the end of the runway with its four engines warming up. Pountney found he was the only passenger, though there was a lot of cargo.
The Liberator’s engines bellowed into a deafening roar and the whole fuselage shook as it began trundling down the runway. It g
athered speed and lifted off, climbed right into the first glimmers of dawn, gained height over the North Sea, then turned to head south-west.
It was a long, tedious journey, broken only by coffee from a vacuum flask which one of the crew brought to him, and by the invitation of the pilot to visit the cockpit. But there wasn’t much to see except the tops of the storm clouds and Pountney soon returned to his seat. Later the clouds began to break up and eventually he saw, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight, the Rock of Gibraltar, the only foothold the Allies had retained in Europe.
Pountney had never landed on Gibraltar’s airstrip, but it had a fearsome reputation, as there was little room for error. However, the Liberator pilot touched down right at the start of the strip and had plenty of time to stop before he ran out of runway. He turned and taxied to the concrete apron which lay right under the shadow of the Rock.
Pountney climbed out of the bomber just as a staff car drew up alongside it. A naval commander in white drill shirt and shorts jumped out and shook his hand. ‘Roger Pountney, I presume. I’m David Garnett.’
Pountney gestured to the mass of aircraft that were assembled in every corner of the airstrip. There were row upon row of them.
‘What goes on?’
‘Something big,’ said Garnett. ‘Very big. You’ll hear soon enough.’
They drove through the town with its yellow stone buildings and crowded pavements, and down to the harbour. This was packed, too, with warships of all sizes. Freighters, moored alongside one another, crammed the wharves. Barrage balloons floated in the blue sky above this extraordinary armada. Beyond the confines of the vast harbour with its stone piers lay the curve of neutral Spain’s Ceuta Bay.
‘Where to, sir?’ the driver glanced over his shoulder.
‘The Maidstone,’ said Garnett. He turned to Pountney. ‘Depot ship for the Eighth Submarine Flotilla,’ he explained.
HMS Maidstone was an old freighter which had seen better days. Even the Navy, with its reputation for keeping everything spick and span, seemed to have given up on her. She was moored to a quay and on her outboard side lay three submarines which Pountney immediately recognized as identical to the ones he had operated with the previous year.
