by Nevil Shute
Marshall began to fumble with the buttons impotently. In the background Gervase scrambled to her feet, straightening out her skirt.
‘Do you know who I am?’ the Air Commodore demanded.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Report to me at Group Headquarters, Charwick, tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. What’s your name?’
‘Flight Lieutenant Marshall, sir.’
There was a momentary pause.
‘Nightingale Marshall?’ the Air Commodore demanded.
The pilot hesitated. ‘Yes, sir.’ Gervase slipped up behind him, reached round, and did his buttons up one by one from the top. Marshall said: ‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t button things yet.’
‘I see.’ The Air Commodore thought for a moment, and then turned to Gervase. ‘What’s your name?’
She said in a small voice: ‘Section Officer Robertson, sir.’
Baxter stood looking out over the millpool at the chestnut trees in bloom, at the thermos and the paper bags upon the grass. They had picked a pleasant place, he thought. He turned to them again. ‘Finish your tea and then take that truck back to Hartley,’ he said. ‘You ought to know better. I think you’re a couple of damn fools. If you’d run it in behind those bushes there I’d never have seen it.’
The pilot grinned faintly.
‘Come and see me at Group, ten o’clock tomorrow morning, Marshall.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The Air Commodore turned and walked back to his car, and got in, and drove off. Gervase and Peter stood and watched it go, the pilot white and shaken. ‘First time I’ve ever had a thing like that happen to me,’ he said.
Gervase said, ‘He won’t do anything, Peter. It made a difference when you told him who you were.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ the pilot said gloomily. They turned and walked back over the short grass to their tea. ‘Conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman, and conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentlewoman,’ he said.
‘It was pretty unbecoming,’ said Gervase. ‘I had to stop behind and do my tie, or I’d have come with you. I never knew that people did such silly things when they were in love.’
He laughed and took her arm. She glanced up at him. ‘Anyway, Peter,’ she said, ‘your hands are much better . . .’
They sat on for an hour beside the stream and finished all their food, and then, still hungry, they took the truck and Gervase drove it back on to the road. They were only three miles from the station by the lanes, but the direct road from Oxford to the aerodrome passed by the ‘Black Horse’ in Hartley Magna, so a halt at the ‘Black Horse’ was clearly permissible upon a Service journey from Oxford to the station. It only made a detour of ten miles or so to get back on the Oxford Road, and they drew up in the market-place at about half past seven.
At the bar Marshall asked Nellie to ask Mrs Simpson if he could have a word with her, and when the fat landlady came he asked her to take a glass of sherry with them, because they had got engaged. And while all that was going on he asked if she could do them bacon and eggs because Gervase was feeling a little faint, and presently they were sitting down to quite a comprehensive supper in the back parlour.
On their way out they looked into the lounge bar, and Proctor was there, and Pat Johnson, and Davy. They went in to thank the surgeon for his truck. ‘It was terribly nice of you to let us have it,’ said Gervase. ‘It got us into a most frightful row, but that’s not your fault.’
‘Another row?’
They nodded and told him. ‘That makes two in two days,’ said Marshall.
Davy said: ‘And if you stay here tomorrow it’ll be three in three days, old boy.’
Proctor said: ‘I told you what happens when you get engaged. It’s just row after row.’
Gervase said thoughtfully: ‘Ma Stevens told me the same thing. But it’s all right — we’re going off on leave tomorrow.’
Marshall said. ‘I’d like to use the truck again tomorrow morning, if I may. I’ve got to go to Group to get my raspberry before going off on leave.’
They drove back to the station in the truck and parked it in the transport yard. In the close privacy of the little cab they said good night in suitable manner; then they got out and went each to their own quarters.
Next morning Gervase drove Marshall over to Group Headquarters at Charwick. She parked the truck outside the Headquarters office; Marshall got out and went into the offices simultaneously with a civilian who arrived in a car labelled Ministry of Aircraft Production. Both deferred to each other at the door of the Secretary’s office; the civilian went in first.
‘Air Commodore Baxter?’ he enquired.
The WAAF Flight Officer evidently knew him. ‘He’s expecting you, sir.’ She turned to Marshall. ‘Who is it you want to see?’
The pilot said: ‘The Air Commodore told me to report to him at ten o’clock. Flight Lieutenant Marshall.’
She said: ‘Just one minute.’ She went through into the inner office, closing the door quietly behind her. In a minute she came out again and said to the civilian: ‘Would you mind waiting for a few minutes, sir? The Air Commodore will see this officer; then he’s free for the rest of the morning.’
Marshall went forward into the inner office; the door closed behind him. Air Commodore Baxter was writing at his desk. He laid down his pen and looked up at the young man standing on the carpet in the middle of the room.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘First, about that truck. I’m not going to have Service transport used for personal excursions, and you chaps may as well understand that right away. There’s been a good deal of slackness about that recently, and it’s got to stop. The Battle of the Atlantic isn’t fought to bring oil to this country so that you can use it to go courting. I’m sending a reminder out to all commanding officers today. I hope I shan’t have to make an example. Understand?’
Marshall said: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right. Now about yourself. Wing Commander Dobbie tells me that you’ve done twenty-eight operations of your second tour of duty, and that you’re going off on sick leave. I understand you’ll have to go before a Board before you fly again.’
‘That’s what the medical officer told me, sir.’
‘That may take some time. Do you want to do a third tour in bombers?’
‘Not very much. I’d like to be transferred to Coastal if I could. I was in Coastal before.’
‘All right. Any particular preference in Coastal? I don’t promise that you’ll get what you want, you know.’
‘I’d like to be on Liberators, sir. And I’d like to be in Scotland or the north somewhere. I don’t want to go overseas much.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m just getting married.’
‘So I observed.’ The Air Commodore made a pencilled note upon his pad. ‘Do you want to finish off your tour in bombers — two more operations?’
Marshall looked up in surprise. ‘Not specially. I’ve done fifty-eight.’
‘Wing Commander Dobbie tells me that your crew will have to be re-formed. It’s hardly worth coming back to form up a new crew for only two operations, and then break it up again. You can go to Coastal right away, as soon as you are through your Board, if you like. You’ll have three months ground duty, before operations, of course, after this tour.’
‘I’d like to do that, sir.’
‘All right, Marshall. Anything you want to see me about?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Air Commodore Baxter got up from his desk. ‘How are your hands now?’
‘Oh, they’re getting better. I can move them a bit more each day.’
‘I’m sorry we’re going to lose you. That was a good show you put up the other night. I’m having it marked up on your record.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Air Commodore moved forward and held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Marshall. Best of luck in Coastal. We shall miss you here.’
* * *
The pilot came out through the door. I got up from t
he chair where I had been sitting with my briefcase on my knee, subconsciously uneasy that I might lose the beastly thing. The secretary said: ‘The Air Commodore will see you now, sir.’
I went through into the inner office. Air Commodore Baxter was standing by the window looking out; he turned as I came in.
‘Very good of you to come down,’ he said. ‘You’ve brought the drawings with you?’
‘I’ve brought the installation drawings,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think you’d want the manufacturing details, and they’re rather a responsibility to have about the place. The first three equipments should be here tomorrow.’
I put my briefcase down upon the table, and unlocked it, and unfolded my white prints and sheets of typescript. When I looked up again he had moved back to the window, presenting his back to me as he studied something outside.
I hesitated, then moved up the room to see what he was looking at. All I saw was a little Service truck, and the young pilot who had come out of the room before me standing by it, talking eagerly to a WAAF Section Officer in the sunlight. There was nothing else but that.
Baxter turned from the window. ‘The very stuff of England,’ he said quietly.
I smiled. ‘Those two?’
He nodded.
I was intrigued. ‘Is there anything particular about them?’ I enquired.
‘Nothing particular,’ he said. ‘Just an average good pilot, marrying one of the girls from his station. He did quite well the other night. I’m putting him in for a DFC.’
I glanced back at the couple by the truck. ‘I’d like to hear about that,’ I said.
The Air Commodore picked up one of my white prints. ‘Is this the bit that sticks down under the rear fuselage?’ And then he glanced back at the window. ‘Remind me, and I’ll tell you about that chap some time,’ he said.
We turned to the drawings.
Most Secret (1945)
First published in the UK in 1945 by Pan Books, Most Secret had been completed by August 1942, but due to highly stringent wartime censorship laws, Shute was unable to release it until after the war had ended. The author had a very successful career in engineering, which included his involvement in the R100 airship project as Chief Engineer. His experience and expertise in engineering meant that during the Second War he worked for the Navy in the ‘Department of Miscellaneous Weapons Development’ (DMWD). He was the Head of Engineering and was instrumental in adapting and developing a variety of weapons, including flame throwers and anti-missile rockets, as well as being involved in the somewhat disastrous Panjandrum project. Shute’s work for the DMWD directly influenced Most Secret and such was the intensity of the author’s annoyance at the censorship of his novel in 1942 that he considered leaving his position in the Navy.
Most Secret is set after the fall of France in 1940 when Britain (and its Empire) faced a seemingly triumphant Germany in Europe. The book is narrated by a commander in the Royal Navy, who relates the tale of a daring secret commando mission. It involves launching a surprise attack on German gunboats off the coast of France, using a fishing boat and the type of vicious flame throwers that Shute helped to adapt and develop during his time at the DMWD. The attack was intended to send a message to the Germans that they have not won and that there is still a significant resistance to their total dominance of Europe.
The first edition of the novel
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Flame throwers being demonstrated at an Army War Show, November 27, 1942
A burnt child dreads the fire.
PROVERB
1
SO MUCH HAPPENED in the two years that I spent at the Admiralty, I had a finger in so many pies, that I have found it difficult to say exactly when it was that this thing began. From my engagement diary it seems to have been about the middle of July in 1941, and I should say that it began with a telephone call from McNeil.
I reached out for the receiver. I remember that it was a very hot day and I was flooded out with work. There was dust all over my desk because I had the window open, and outside the bricklayers were repairing what the Luftwaffe had done to us. I said irritably: “Six nine two.”
“Is that Commander Martin?”
“Speaking,” I said shortly.
“This is Brigadier McNeil. I am speaking from one hundred and sixty-four Pall Mall.”
“Oh, yes, sir?” I replied. The address meant nothing to me, and I wondered sourly why the Army could not say in short time who they were and what they wanted.
“Captain Oliver gave me your name. We’ve been talking about an operation this morning. I think perhaps I’d better come along and see you.”
“Very good, sir. When would you like to come?”
“About three o’clock this afternoon? Is that convenient to you?”
“That’s quite all right for me. I’ll expect you then.”
He came to me in the afternoon. He was a man of forty-five or fifty, a typical soldier, very smartly dressed. His belt, his buttons, and the stars and crowns upon his shoulders were beautifully polished; his uniform sat on him without a crease, and the red staff tabs blazed out immaculate from the lapels of his tunic. He had short, greyish hair and china-blue eyes. He looked pleasant enough, determined, absolutely straight, and — I thought at first — rather stupid. You felt to look at him that he would be wonderful upon a horse.
I got up as the messenger showed him in. “Good afternoon,” I said. “Will you sit down?”
He laid his hat and gloves upon the corner of my desk, and dropped his gas-mask on a chair. He said: “I understand that Admiral Thomson is away?”
“He’s away a good deal, sir,” I replied. “We deal with routine matters from this office in his absence. Anything that’s beyond us goes down to V.A.C.O. by the courier.”
He sat down on the chair before my desk, and I went back to mine. “V.A.C.O.?” he said.
“Vice-Admiral for Channel Operations. Admiral Thomson.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “That’s his proper title, is it? Just wait a minute, and I’ll write that down.” He slipped a pencil and a notebook from his pocket; I watched him as he wrote, slightly amused.
He put them away again, and turned to me. “Well now,” he said. “Let’s start at the beginning. You know the office that I come from?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t, sir. One hundred and sixty-four Pall Mall, did you say?”
“That’s right. Well...” He paused for a moment, considering his words. “We do various things from that office,” he said at last. “We come directly under the War Cabinet.” He hesitated again. “One of our jobs is to do what we can to keep up the morale of the French.”
I nodded, and waited for him to go on.
“That’s Cabinet policy, of course,” he said. “We mustn’t let them lose faith in a British victory. They never have lost faith, taking it by and large. Even in the worst days they believed that we would win. It’s our job to keep their faith in us alive.”
I passed him a cigarette. “I suppose our wireless broadcasts help in that,” I said. “Do they — the average Frenchman — does he listen to them much?”
“Oh, everybody listens,” he said. “The B.B.C. is doing a good job, for all that you read in the newspapers. But that’s not my concern. You’d never keep their heart up upon broadcast talks and news alone. But something concrete, any little bit of activity or sabotage that can be contrived — that puts new life in them. Just any little thing to show them that the Germans aren’t having things all their own way. These daylight sweeps that the R.A.F. are doing over France help us enormously.”
I knew now what was coming, more or less. “This activity and sabotage,” I said quietly. “You mean, you send people over to the other side?”
�
��Sometimes,” he said shortly.
He blew a long cloud of smoke, and seemed to consider for a minute. “What I came over to see you people about was this,” he said. “One of our young men produced a scheme the other day — a proposal that we thought rather well of. But what he proposed was so much a naval operation that I put it up to Captain Oliver. He sent me over here to see your admiral.”
I took a cigarette myself from the packet on my desk and lit it. “This is all a bit outside my line,” I said. “Anything like this would have to go to V.A.C.O.”
“Yes, I expected that.”
I was curious, of course; anybody would have been. I said: “If you care to tell me about it I can probably tell you straight away if it conflicts with anything that we are doing. Or if you’d rather, sir, I’ll put in a call to Admiral Thomson right away and make an appointment for you to go down and see him.”
“He won’t be in London very soon?”
“Not before Thursday of next week,” I said. “I could fix up for you to see him then.”
He shook his head. “I’d better not wait so long.” He thought for a moment, and then said: “I think I’d better have your view on it. It has to do with the fishing fleet based on Douarnenez.”
I wrinkled my forehead; few naval officers know much about the coast of Brittany, for all that it is only just across the way. “Douarnenez?” I said. “That’s the place just by the Saints, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s on the west coast, twenty or thirty miles south of Brest. There’s a long bay running inland just north of the Île de Sein, and Douarnenez lies at the head of that bay. It’s time we did something for Douarnenez. They’ve been having the hell of a time.”
“Why is that?”
He knocked the ash off his cigarette. “Well,” he said, “they’re a very independent sort of people round about those parts, and they don’t like the Germans. And they don’t like being conquered, either. You know, the Bretons never really think of themselves as French. They have their own language and their own customs, just like the Welsh in this country. There’s always been a Separatist movement among their intellectuals, never very serious — Brittany for the Bretons, and all that sort of thing. And now the Bretons don’t regard themselves as having been defeated. They say that the rest of France ratted on them, and let them down.”
