by John Harris
‘Outside, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Round the back. Set the Bren up on the corner and be ready to give those windows opposite a good pasting. I’ll give you two or three minutes. You’ll see where to fire.’
As the sergeant disappeared, Cazalet warily studied the next building. It was made chiefly of wood and the outside wall consisted of the same wire mesh in frames on a low stone construction to keep out the mosquitoes as that of the building he was in.
Taking off his cap, Cazalet placed it on the end of his swagger stick then, ducking behind the stone-built lower half of the wall, he crawled along, holding the cap on the stick so it could be seen through the mesh.
Immediately two men rose from behind the low wall of the building opposite and there was a roar of firing. The mesh above Cazalet’s head twanged and pinged and the cap flew into the air as a cloud of dust and dozens of dead flies, mosquitoes, spiders and other insects showered down on him. At once the Bren started and he heard someone scream, then he heard Hubbard’s men shouting and the pounding of feet.
This time they found two men, one dead, one a black man with a terrible wound in his head, muttering in French. They seemed to be in a group of offices but beyond there was a central chamber from which they could hear muttering and they knew that there were men waiting to ambush them as soon as they appeared opposite the door.
They were standing now pressed hard up against the whitewashed wall in the corridor. Positioned as they were the men in the central chamber could stop them on their route towards the next hut. Cazalet stared at the white-painted wall, frowning. The only entrance to the room was via the open door, behind which the enemy waited.
Hubbard was fingering a grenade when Cazalet put a hand on his arm.
‘Not that,’ he said. ‘Not this time.’
Hubbard frowned. ‘What other way do you suggest, sir? A grenade in there will stop the lot.’
‘It might kill the lot, too. And I’d prefer a few of them alive. That way we might learn a few useful names.’
‘I’m not having my men throw their lives away, sir.’
‘No need,’ a voice behind them said and Cazalet turned. A scruffy shadow stood beside them, the same scruffy shadow they had seen earlier, ginger hair on end, grubby shorts drooping over sagging stockings and scuffed shoes. He still carried the large cane and raffia basket and forked stick.
‘Where did you come from?’
‘I stuck around,’ Ginger said. ‘I wondered if you could use these?’
He held up the basket and Cazalet eyed it, intrigued.
‘What have you got in there?
‘Snakes. Green mambas. Big ’uns, too. Right poisonous.’
Cazalet was curious. He’d already learned that this strange grubby creature carried surprises up his sleeve. ‘What have you got in mind?’ he asked. ‘We can hardly train ’em to attack an enemy.’
‘Oh, no!’ Ginger seemed shocked at the suggestion. ‘Just unfasten the lid and chuck the basket inside. Seven mambas ought to put ’em off a bit. Good as a grenade, you ask me.’
Cazalet stared at Ginger, then it occurred to him that Ginger had the glimmerings of an idea.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It’s surprisin’ ’ow scared folks are of snakes. All you got to do is wait for ’em to start yellin’. And they will, because these is big snakes and they’re pretty mad at the moment. They didn’t want to come to this ’ere party and they’re feeling a bit spiteful. They’ll be madder still if they get chucked ten feet through the air to land on their ’eads in there. They’ll come out fightin’ and while everybody’s yellin’ and dodgin’ the bites, you’ll be able to go in.’
Beyond his concern to get the job done, Cazalet was even amused.
‘Where did you get ’em?’
‘I told you. I know the snake charmer.’
‘You seem to know a lot of people.’
‘Yeh, well, I do, don’t I?’
‘Well, I don’t know much about snakes and I doubt if Hubbard here does either. Will you be coming with us?’
‘I might as well.’
‘Like a gun in your hand?’
Ginger produced a club. It was made of iroko wood and was as hard as iron and heavy as lead. ‘This’ll do me,’ he said.
Cazalet nodded. ‘All right,’ he suggested ‘Let’s give it a go. Are you sure those snakes are in a bad temper?’
Ginger grinned. ‘Never seen worse,’ he promised.
As they stood pressed up against the wall, Ginger unfastened the cord that held the lid and lifted the basket. Hubbard had a look of contempt on his face.
‘It’ll not work,’ he said.
‘You wait,’ Ginger retorted. ‘Nobody I’ve ever met takes well to ’avin’ ’alf a dozen big mambas chucked at ’im. You ready?’
‘As ready as we’ll ever be.’
‘Right. ’Ere goes.’
Swinging his arm back, Ginger hurled the basket round the corner of the open door as hard as he could. There was an immediate burst of firing that removed chunks of plaster from the wall opposite, followed by a dead silence. Then there was a yell of fright, followed by more yells, and a rifle was thrown out. A man appeared and one of Hubbard’s men grabbed him. The second man to appear tried to bolt but Ginger kicked his feet from under him and, as he fell, hit him at the side of the head with his iroko-wood club. He was flung against the wall and as he bounced off Ginger hit him again. This time he fell to the floor and didn’t move.
As the last man appeared, his hands in the air, Cazalet eyed Ginger. ‘I begin to understand,’ he said, ‘why the African native tribes were such formidable enemies when we opposed them in the last century. You don’t have a blow-pipe, do you?’
Ginger wasn’t very quick to latch on to jokes. ‘No,’ he said, busy with his forked stick rounding up angry snakes and dropping them back into the basket. ‘I don’t ’ave a blow-pipe.’
They were hidden from Harder’s group now by the parked diggers and bulldozers and seemed to be in the main office. There were files, typewriters and desks, a waste-paper basket containing the charred remains of documents, and in the corner a radio transceiver on a bench. On one of the desks there was a list of names and addresses, some of them in Freetown, some of them in the villages along the border and, guessing they were the names of agents, Cazalet slipped the list into his pocket. Underneath it was a chart of the coast of Sierra Leone and a copy of the West African Pilot. Positions were marked on the chart and passages ringed in the book. Comparing the two, Cazalet decided the marks on the chart indicated the positions of submarines, so he folded the chart, placed it inside the book and tucked the lot under his arm.
Hubbard was peering warily from the hut towards the last big building, a thatched structure overhanging the edge of the river Bic. ‘Some time soon, sir,’ he ventured, ‘they’ll start throwing their hands in.’
Cazalet frowned. ‘There may be one or two at first,’ he said. ‘But nothing worth a damn. From what I saw of the buggers in France, if there are Nazis among them – and there will be, or they wouldn’t be here – the bastards will be fanatics and try to fight on. I’m going back to the radio. I think someone ought to see this chart. It might be important.’
Inspector Yorke was still waiting near the radio link for instructions and he grasped at the list of names and addresses Cazalet had found with a whoop of delight.
‘These bastards are agents,’ he said. ‘German agents.’ He jabbed with his finger. ‘We’ve suspected this chap, Suleiman, at Hawkinge Town, for instance, for months but have never been able to get anything on him. I must get this down to the commissioner as fast as possible and set up an operation to round the sods up.’ He stared at the list again. ‘That one,’ he said, his voice awed. ‘I’d never have believed he was one.’
He was about to turn to his car when Cazalet stopped him.
‘Hang on a moment,’ he said. ‘There are other things to go to Freetown besides your precious list.’ He gestured with th
e chart he held. ‘I imagine this is what the admiral’s been panting for, for days. I’m going to see if we can get it down by boat.’
Concerned that the operation was becoming too long drawn out, Molyneux was beginning to contemplate the use of aircraft with bombs to clear it up but, as soon as he saw the chart, its importance was clear at once. The small circled crosses could only be submarines, because there were numbers alongside them and what looked like radio call signs. Curving towards them from the north ran a long red arrow-headed line, joined by another line, which began over in the west, together with the numbers AS29 and WS24. Marked in the margins were the numbers RS15 and OS12. The Germans had amassed their information without error.
As the seaplane tender swung away from the loading jetty and headed downstream, the radio operator turned from his set to Molyneux. ‘Wing Commander Mackintosh, sir,’ he announced. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
Mackintosh sounded excited, his voice coming from the radio strained and metallic. ‘It’s on!’ he said. ‘Those bloody convoys of ours are sailing straight down our throats! Date of arrival – the fourteenth!’
Molyneux explained what had happened. ‘I’m on my way now,’ he said. ‘With a chart showing everything. We’ve Just picked it up. I count twenty-four U-boats across the route to Freetown harbour and others moving up from off Takoradi. Ask the admiral or the AOC to have the boat met in Freetown. They’ll want to act on it. You got all that down?’
‘Sure have, sport.’
‘Right. Have a car meet me and warn the boys to stand by. We’ve got the bastards this time, George, and I think we’re all going to be flying.’
Six
By this time, Lorenz had left the area of the mine behind him and, edging down the Bic, heaving the dinghy across the black water, it occurred to him that it wouldn’t be long before it was dark. If he were to go, he realized, that would be the time to do it. He remembered the launch and scowled at the memory of its uselessness. He was soaked with his own sweat by this time but he knew he must continue rowing. If the British he guessed were down the river heard the outboard engine, they’d be waiting for him.
The water was not moving, covering the mud and lapping well up the mangroves so that he knew it must be around high tide, so he shipped the oars and allowed himself to drift under the boat’s momentum, keeping close to the shore among the shadows of the overhanging trees.
It was dark now, with the swift darkness of the Equator, and to his surprise as he steadied the boat, he saw a light flash through the mangroves ahead of him. It was Fox examining the hawser they’d strung across the river, to make sure it was not too low in the water, and Lorenz actually saw the shallow curve of wet wire as the light fell on it.
The light remained on for a moment or two and he decided he could cross the wire if he stayed in the centre of the river. At that point the hawser would be below the surface and the dinghy surely didn’t draw much more than sixty centimetres. It would have to be done fast, however, and he stared at the outboard, suddenly realizing it could be his salvation.
Drawing a deep breath, he reached towards it, switched on the petrol, and primed it. Then, winding the rope round the flywheel, he grasped the toggle, set the motor central, and heaved. As it failed to respond, he cursed and with trembling fingers wound the rope on again. This time, it coughed but still failed to fire, and, with the perspiration in his eyes and dripping from his nose, he wound the rope on again in a panic of frustration.
‘Gottverdammter Aussenbord,’ he snarled.
Twice more, the motor refused to fire and, cursing, the sweat running off him, he almost dropped the rope in the water. Forcing himself to control himself, he paused, drew a deep breath and decided to try once more before he drifted on the tide within sight of the waiting British. Going through all the motions, slowly and painstakingly, carefully advancing the throttle, he wound the rope on yet again, praying silently that this time it would work.
The engine fired unexpectedly and, because the throttle was advanced, started to scream as the propeller thrashed the air. His heart leaping, Lorenz flung down the starter rope and dropped the propeller into the water. It was revving so fast the boat leaped forward with a jerk that nearly flung him over the side, then began to head smoothly down the river, the bow lifting with the speed.
Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Lorenz sat back, trying to peer through the darkness.
‘Gott sei Dank,’ he said aloud. ‘Thank God for that!’
‘They’re coming out!’ Kneller’s tenor voice, coming over the buzz of the outboard, was almost falsetto with excitement.
Fox was in the wheelhouse talking to the padre, who had had himself brought back on board the pinnace to discuss what they might safely do next, and for a second they stared at each other. Then, while the fitter dived for the winch brake, Fox leaped for the deck and started shouting to the men with rifles still ashore to shoot.
Their eyes narrowed, they waited as the searchlight came on. But Lorenz, roaring out of the shadows at speed, the outboard howling, the bow of the dinghy high, knew exactly where the hawser was. Swinging the tiller, he swept out of the darkness to the centre of the river.
‘There he is!’ Feverel yelled, his arm flung out.
The men with rifles on the opposite shore started firing and a few bullets whined over the pinnace. One of them, better aimed than the rest, whacked into the wheelhouse above Fox’s head.
‘Christ!’ he said, diving for the deck.
None of the bullets went where they should. The dinghy was moving swiftly and the men with the rifles weren’t trained marksmen.
‘He’s going to run smack into the wire!’ Kneller yelled.
They could see the dinghy now, its bows wet with spray from its own bow wave and gleaming in the light, and they all became silent as they waited for the crash as the propeller was torn off.
‘He’s hit it!’ Fox yelled.
But, just as the dinghy swept over the wire, Lorenz lifted the outboard from the water. It screamed as the propeller whirred free and he heard the wire scrape along the bottoon of the boat as its forward momentum carried it over, then he knew he was past and let the motor drop back. It went in with a flurry of spray and the dinghy immediately picked up speed again, followed by a few badly directed shots from astern.
‘The bastard’s got away!’ Kneller was almost dancing with rage.
‘It’s only one man,’ Fox yelled.
‘How do you know it isn’t bloody Hitler?’ Kneller spluttered and began to scramble into the punt.
‘What the hell are you up to?’ Feverel demanded.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ Kneller yelled furiously. ‘Leave it to me! Just pass the torch and keep the searchlight on until I can get ashore.’
Feverel handed over a heavy rubber-covered torch. ‘What the hell are you going to do, you mad idiot?’
‘There won’t be any more Germans coming down here. You see.’
Put ashore by Feverel, Kneller began to push through the undergrowth. He knew exactly where he was going and a few minutes later he was staring with the torch down at O-Orange’s two depth charges which he and Ginger Donnelly had placed near the bank some time before.
Studying them, he saw that the fins had broken off, leaving canisters two foot long, their noses concave, looking no more deadly than two small oil drums. Dragging them to the edge of the basin, where it needed no more than a push to roll them down the bank and into the water, with the torch he inspected the basin. The tide was up and he knew that at high water it was around thirty feet deep and that the pistols went off at twenty-five.
The capture of the last building had been held up again and, growing bored with the slow progress, Ginger had wandered off. Moving through the bush at the back of the buildings, he delivered the basket of angry mambas to their rightful owner then, pushing through the trees, headed for the Bic. There might, he decided, be something worth pinching.
As the trees thinned, he saw the glin
t of water and realized he was close to the artificial lagoon that the Dutchmen had constructed at the end of the river. He couldn’t imagine what he might find there, but at least it was better than ploughing round Makinkundi with the Wet Boiled Egg ordering him about. Ginger had never been able to accept being ordered about.
As he stepped out of the trees, he stopped dead. To his surprise, over a slight rise in front he could see a woman not far ahead of him. And, by the look of her, she was a bit of all right, too. Blonde, plenty of before and plenty of behind, and very interesting-looking. He wondered what she was doing there.
Magda Fallada was still kneeling on the path alongside the catamaran. Around her sprawled the bodies of five dead Dutchmen. Another was in the water, trapped beneath the catamaran and ever since Lorenz had disappeared she had stared numbly at the hand that protruded from beneath it as if appealing for help.
Shocked and dazed, her mind crawling with loathing for Lorenz as she churned over the tragedy, she began to see for the first time that the driving force that propelled Lorenz came from the principles of the régime for which he worked. She had been only a girl when Hitler had come to power and had seen only the good he had done and the fact that Germans, humiliated by the earlier war, were once more able to hold up their heads.
She had not been aware of the other things but now, kneeling on the bank alongside the silent basin at the end of the Bic, unaware of the smell of mangroves or the waning heat, unaware of the whining mosquitoes and the raucous clatter of the frogs and crickets, it dawned on her that she had not been aware of those other things because she hadn’t wanted to be aware of them. Like many other German women who had idolized Adolf Hitler, she had shut out of her mind the things that were done in his name, and, on the occasions when she’d been unable to do so, had told herself that he could never have known about them. Now sitting by the dead Dutchmen, her mind stiff with the memory of the butchery, it dawned on her that she had been deceiving herself. The demi-god knew! He must have known. Everything that had been done in his name he must have condoned and perhaps even ordered. Thinking about the men who surrounded him, she began to feel a repugnance she had never felt before. She had heard rumours about perversion, corruption and cruelty, but had forced herself not to believe them. Now she knew she’d been deluding herself for years.
