The scene was a reassuringly familiar one. Harpenden had become his home; their first home, his and Mary’s, following years of a nomadic existence, first with his father then the army. Harry Walsh was trying to put down some roots; and he would continue to try.
A passer-by nodded at Walsh. He knew the middle-aged woman by sight but not acquaintance and she offered him a cautious smile. If she perhaps wondered why this able-bodied man still walked her Hertfordshire town, while so many others were away fighting, then she at least had the decorum to hide it.
Some of Walsh’s neighbours knew he’d fought at Dunkirk but not all; far fewer that he now held some unspecified, inherently mysterious post that required regular, often lengthy absences from home. Certainly no one had the poor taste to ask questions, for by now everybody instinctively knew that careless talk costs lives.
It wasn’t always like that. He well remembered the day a pasty-faced spinster marched up to him in Dean Street and handed him the white feather. It had happened to much older men than Walsh and he was hardly in a position to publicise his contribution to the war effort but he was aggrieved by the gesture nonetheless. He at least managed to infuriate the woman with a smile, as he accepted her ridiculous feather in a seeming good grace, even as the shame burned into him, for he was only human after all. He could have berated her, told her about Dunkirk, rearguard actions and Tom Danby but what good would that have done?
They had posters now, which showed a red-faced father unable to look his son in the eye when the boy asked, ‘What did you do in the war, daddy?’ Walsh had cheated death by inches with Emma Stirling, yet most of his neighbours thought the closest he came to peril these days was riding the morning train into London.
Walsh was home earlier than usual, in good time for dinner. Mary would pronounce herself pleased. There would be time to sit in the living room and talk beforehand, though he was unable to tell her anything about his day, and she would not enquire. The meetings with Clavelle and Jago would go unmentioned, the afternoon spent with an SOE tailor similarly so. Walsh had ordered the clothing they would take with them. All items would be shorn of manufacturer labels and altered to make it appear they were purchased in occupied France. Then the garments would be aged, so they did not stand out, as new clothes could be conspicuous in occupied territory. None of this could be discussed with Mary.
Walsh decided to call in at the Cross Keys to postpone the stilted conversation; the mundane digesting of Mary’s day into its constituent parts, each with its own inconsequential drama; the queues in the grocery store, the woman trying to cheat her way to extra portions of this and that, the barely whispered pregnancy of that weekend’s supposedly virgin bride; and he needed time alone to think about his mission. Walsh told himself that was the real reason for diverting into the pub.
He ordered a pint of bitter, counting out coins on the pock-marked wooden bar as the landlord pulled the ale. The price had gone up again – you could no longer buy a pint with a round shilling, it now required an additional penny. ‘Cost nine pence when the war started,’ observed Albert Anderson sadly from his usual stool at the bar. The doctor had called into the Keys at the end of every working day since anybody could remember. ‘Bloody Germans have a lot to answer for,’ grumbled the old man.
Walsh nodded his agreement, ‘We’ll add it to their list of crimes,’ but he picked up his freshly poured pint from the bar and walked deliberately away to sit in a corner. Another time he might have indulged the curmudgeonly general practitioner with a conversation but not today. Walsh spread his copy of The Times on the table before him and pretended to read it while mulling over the events of the past few days. Something was not quite right.
For some time Walsh had been out of favour, despite his record. Lately he’d been limited to missions of a routine, unimportant nature; courier jobs that could easily be entrusted to a recent graduate of Arisaig not a three-year veteran like himself. This sidelining was down to Price and both of them knew it. The man wanted nothing less than to have Walsh thrown out of ‘F’ Section and did little to disguise the fact. Price was hardly head boy at Baker Street but he still retained the influence that came automatically with his rank and social position. Walsh could appeal to more senior men, they might even make a show of listening to his complaints but it would be a fruitless exercise. Going over his commanding officer’s head was not the done thing. It would merely serve to confirm that Walsh was far from the right sort.
A week ago, he’d have considered himself fortunate if he continued to pick up scraps of work here and there, usually when Price wanted him out from under his feet. Eventually the Major would tire of the younger man’s presence at Baker Street all together and consign Walsh to a training school graveyard. He would probably spend the rest of the war teaching novices how to duff up a German sentry.
Then, out of the blue, he is suddenly sent for by the CD himself, taken out to lunch by the top boy, a man he had never previously exchanged two sentences with. Walsh had been entrusted with a mission he would normally have been fifteenth in line for. Something was clearly amiss and it left him with a bad feeling. Walsh could feel the familiar cold draft of betrayal? He had always trusted his instincts but this one made no sense to him. Gubbins hardly knew Walsh but he appeared genuinely committed to making the Jedburgh teams work and the very real threat of the Messerschmitt jet plane meant his mission had to succeed, so perhaps Gubbins was sincere and Walsh really was, however implausibly, back in favour.
Walsh knew he still had a great deal to contend with. They would enter France in darkness, yet another night-time parachute drop on to a landing zone that might already be compromised to the Germans. The moments just after impact on touching hostile soil were always the worst. Walsh would feel his heart stop as he froze and waited for the sounds of ambush; the blowing of a whistle, the barking of an attack dog, the cocking of rifles and shouted German commands. He had not forgotten the traitor responsible for Emma Stirling’s aborted mission and would be sure to keep the cyanide capsule close at hand; anything to avoid the horror of capture.
If they survived the jump they would rendezvous with a disparate band of the Maquis and must earn the respect of what would doubtless be a rough and ready lot, who would view him with distrust. If they disagreed with his tactics and methods, they might be tempted to kill him to remove the hindrance from their midst. It would be all too easy to blame the Germans for his demise. The memory of the partisans in Yugoslavia and the cheapness they afforded life was ingrained on Walsh.
He took another swig of beer to offset these sobering thoughts. His mind went to Cooper and Valvert. The latter was a completely unknown quantity; a quiet little man, who could be entirely suited to covert life or might just as likely crack at the merest hint of danger. As always, Walsh would have to trust his life to strangers and ultimately the men who had selected those individuals to work with him. He hoped this time they had chosen well.
Sam Cooper was no stranger. Walsh might even have held a grudging respect for him, if he had not come so close to death because of the American’s deeply ingrained desire to put his country’s interests first. Would he have really done the same thing as Cooper if he had been in his shoes in Yugoslavia, leaving the man alone and hunted in a foreign land with only his wits and a side arm? Perhaps; who knew for sure? This time at least, their interests were the same and Cooper would have to depend on Walsh’s experience of occupied France to get them all safely through.
This mission was no routine sabotage job but an attack on a man who was probably guarded by a battalion of SS. Only now in the sanctity of the quiet, little pub could Walsh allow himself to consider something he’d placed firmly at the back of his mind since the first briefing with Buckmaster; he hadn’t the faintest clue how to carry out this mission. How in hell were they going to get anywhere near the scientist let alone kill him; and if they failed? It was not just the safety of three men at stake here. Many
more would die if the Komet was perfected.
The doubts returned to plague Walsh now like a child’s bad dream. Was he still up to the job? It had been a while since Walsh had been on an extended operation behind enemy lines. True, the hand that steadily gripped his pint hadn’t shaken uncontrollably in a while. During his rescue of Emma Stirling he was able to keep the, now familiar, paralysing terror for the most part at bay but he suspected this was temporary. It merely fought a losing battle over his concern for this woman he knew he could never have. His life had seemed inconsequential compared to hers. But Walsh was fatalistic and he knew his extraordinary run of luck had to come to an end eventually, so the fear would stay with him.
It was not too late to pull out but if he turned his back on this one he might as well pack his bags and pay his own train fare to Arisaig. He would spend the rest of the war cooped up in a draughty barracks, teaching trainees how to set time fuses and prime Gammon bombs.
Walsh took another sip, the beer already nearly gone. He did not normally drink so quickly. One more pint then and he counted out the coins on the table in front of him before rising to catch the landlord’s eye. It would give him more time to think things through. The peace the pub provided in early evening was just what he wanted.
Walsh was sure his sudden need for solitude had nothing to do with Emma Stirling, even if he seemed incapable of banishing the girl from his thoughts. He had always known there could never be a future with her. Not while Mary Danby wore his wedding band and he’d been right to end it, should never have started with her in the first place. Even so, since the night of their escape from France, in the few idle moments he had permitted himself, he couldn’t help wondering what life would be like if he was free to be with her.
‘I just can’t get ten across,’ said Dr Anderson glumly as he looked up from his crossword, ‘you any good at solving puzzles, Harry?’
‘Sorry,’ answered Walsh flatly as he claimed his pint, ‘not these days.’
17
‘They were in no way conspicuous; the last thing we
wanted in them was eccentricity. We denied them glamour,
in their own interests; we made them as homely and unremarkable as we could.’
Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, Head of ‘F’ Section, on the agents of SOE
The house was a simple two-up two-down, red-brick dwelling on a gable end. A white painted fence bordered a tiny front garden in a criss-cross. Rose stems and rhododendron bushes pushed impatiently through it like spectators vying for the best view of a parade. A hand-painted wooden sign on the gate bore the enigmatic name ‘Fallow Field’. A previous owner had named their home and Walsh had never bothered to remove it. A slow pall of smoke rose from a single chimney as Walsh pushed the gate open hard and cleared his throat to signal his premature return.
Mary was reading at the kitchen table. A pot simmered on the stove behind her. The door of the walk-in pantry was open and a vegetable pie cooled on a ledge. She put down her book, a much-read copy of Far From the Madding Crowd, and rose to greet him. Walsh had read Hardy’s novel. He vaguely recalled the story; a woman falls for a dashing soldier with predictably tragic consequences. Walsh realised when he thought of his wife the image he invariably conjured was of her holding a book.
‘You’re home in good time,’ she kissed him automatically. Could she taste the beer on his lips? If so, she said nothing. Drinking was just something men did.
They ate in near silence, struggling to find something from their respective worlds that might interest the other. It was as good a time as any to explain he would be leaving soon.
‘They are sending me back to Scotland, Mary. Of course, I’m not allowed to tell you exactly where. They want old hands like me around to show the new ones how it’s supposed to be done.’ The training school was as good a lie as any and would spare Mary fretful nights.
She took a moment to digest the news, ‘They obviously appreciate you, to send you up there again.’ Then she added, ‘I’ll miss you though, of course,’ and he wondered if she would truly miss him, surrounded by her books, or if he was somehow an impediment to the neat, well-ordered running of their home.
‘When will you leave?’
‘Quite soon I think.’
‘Oh,’ she rose to clear the plates from the table before pronouncing, ‘well, we will just have to make the best of it then. I’ve been saving my coupons. Before you go I’ll make you your favourite.’
They had been through this scene before. The night before he left she would make a cottage pie. Afterwards they would make love. It was her wifely duty after all and Danbys knew about duty. Hadn’t they all made sacrifices of one kind or another?
Walsh had been on a bus once when two gossiping, middle-aged women behind him were discussing the condition of a seriously wounded neighbour, newly returned from the war. The unfortunate fellow’s wife had confirmed the difficulties in looking after an invalid. This was relayed to the other busy-body in a whisper that was far less discreet than normal conversation. Walsh stared out of the bus window as the woman concluded this tale of woe with its solitary silver lining.
‘Still, at least he has stopped “bothering” her,’ she said.
At the time Walsh could not help but wonder if Mary saw his need for her as a ‘bother’, judging by its infrequency. There were some obvious contrasts, the French girl at Dunkirk before his marriage for one. Her need for him had been at least equal to his own desire. Then there was Emma Stirling, who did not seem in any way bothered by Harry’s attentions, positively welcomed them in fact. What could they, and the others he had to admit to, see in him that his wife could not, and what, if anything, could be done about it?
‘How was dinner?’ she asked.
‘Perfect.’
She smiled then, ‘You’re easily pleased.’
Over the next two weeks, Walsh continued his preparations for the mission. Valvert and Cooper were still at Beaulieu, so his time was his own. A priority request for a plane had been formally submitted to the Royal Air Force. One could become available at any time and there was still much to be done. A return visit to Clavelle was his first priority. Walsh had learned never to take anything for granted. The regular army was all about delegation to trusted subordinates. SOE was the opposite. Walsh had learned to trust no one. Whenever possible he would carry out tasks himself, avoiding a reliance on untried strangers. If he had the wherewithal to forge documents himself, then he would not have had to put all of his faith in a small-time con man living in a draughty room above a library of fake books. What would keep Clavelle from discreetly sabotaging his papers one day? The wrong stamp or watermark and the next document check would be Walsh’s last. In one simple act the spectre of Harry Walsh could be removed from Clavelle’s life forever. What then would it take to insure against this? Fear, thought Harry, with sudden certainty. Fear and greed. Clavelle would be terrified of retribution if Walsh escaped the trap and he was not in the habit of enlisting the German state police to murder his paying customers.
As always, Walsh avoided the underground station closest to his destination. A short walk from Baker Street and soon he was in the West End. The weather was fine enough for it to be more of a pleasure than a chore.
Walsh reached Charing Cross Road and the antiquarian bookstores that lent the street its fame. He fully intended to walk straight into ‘Dickens, Templeman & Marlowe’, but something made him pause. There was no real reason beyond instinct, a nagging feeling that something was not quite as it should be, that made Walsh walk on past the shop door.
He continued south for a time then cut down a narrow side street that led to St Martin’s Lane. Walsh did not turn to look behind him. Instead he finally halted by Trafalgar Square, at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields. Walsh took out a cigarette and lit it. Standing on the church steps, he faced the square, as if newly impressed by the towering monument to
Nelson’s victory. He took a couple of drags on the cigarette then glanced about him. Walsh stole a look back the way he had come and spotted him.
There, standing back from the road, staring too intently into the window of a violin-maker’s, was a lone, male figure. The man was assiduously ignoring Walsh, though the window’s reflection or perhaps his peripheral vision would probably afford him an outline view of his target. It was not that Walsh had met the man before, merely that he recognised the outline: the brown raincoat and grey cap he wore. For the same man had been standing in the doorway of the Sherlock Holmes hotel in Baker Street that very morning as Walsh passed by. The fool had followed him all the way to Trafalgar Square on his own. Walsh would not have expected such an error from a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice, so perhaps even MI6’s resources were strained to the limit these days. Maybe Six weren’t used to spying on their own side on home ground. That was something their counter-espionage colleagues in MI5 were more adept at but Five wouldn’t care about Walsh and his operations in France. No, this was Six alright. They were always desperate to know what SOE were involved in and hell bent on stopping it if they could. Probably someone recalled from occupied Europe just before the Germans marched in and now they were finding him a job to do; keep watch on Harry Walsh to see what he’s up to.
Walsh experienced contrasting emotions. The momentary feeling of triumph at spotting his tail soon evaporated, along with the sudden realisation that Six must know at least something of his mission. Without knowledge of the operation, Walsh was not worth the watcher’s shifts. What they knew about him and how they knew it would remain a mystery for now. Walsh would just have to hope the entire mission had not been blown before it had begun. Even if he could trap and question his shadow, the man would probably know nothing; his brief merely to report back on Walsh’s movements.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 10
