Avenging Steel 5: The Man From Camp X

by Hall, Ian

  “James Baird, reporting.” I gave my name at the main door, and the six of us were directed to the bar, again I shook my head, finding the whole scene somewhat bizarre. I drank a beer, wondering what on earth could present itself to be more garish, more spy-like.

  “Who’s from Palestine?” I turned to see a man in full highland uniform, kilt, glengarry, sporran. In fact he was the spitting image of ‘Arthur’, the Lieutenant Colonel in Camp X. He seen six heads rise in unison, and startled in mock fright. “Bloody Nora. Okay, one at a time, come with me.”

  I’d never had such a heavy de-briefing after such a nonsense journey, but nevertheless I got one.

  Yes, we’d just left from STS102. Yes, I wasn’t actually on a mission, just going home. And yes, I had pulled rank to get my dad sent with me.

  Oh, and yes, I was in the STS103/Camp X crew that had captured General Crüwell.

  “You chaps are in luck.” He said, with no trace of Scottish accent; I was betting he came from London, Essex, somewhere way down south. “There’s a Club Run tonight, we’ll get you aboard.”

  The ‘Club Runs’ he described were supply dashes between Malta and Gibraltar to bring supplies to the beleaguered island.

  And of course, his version of ‘luck’ meant that we were going onto another submarine. From one Nazi bomb target to another.

  HMS Porpoise was about the same size as Talisman, but it sure felt narrower. Our berth, however had four beds for the six of us; what a luxury.

  We got spotted just two days out of Valetta. Boy, if I thought I’d suffered in the bombings in Malta, I soon disabused myself of my foolhardy notion. Being depth-charged was the single most fearful happening in my life.

  We dived deep, I could hear the submarine’s sides protesting the depth, and I heard the distant detonations as the Italian destroyer tried to gauge our depth. Even the distant explosions shook the ship to a huge degree. We levelled off, and I sat shaking, waiting for the final blow.

  The next four charges varied in distance, the last one exploding nearest us. I felt the ship shake like the devil himself had gripped us by the tail and shaken us ferociously in the water. I felt the nose rise as we tried to out-fox the warship far above.

  There would be no Hollywood glory shot here, no captain twisting to rise and fire torpedoes at our tormentor; we just dived and rose, twisting, trying to get away.

  “Run Silent!” the captain’s voice sounded distorted and strained. I felt the ship twist suddenly to the right, to the starboard, then the engines died. I’d never lived through such an eerie silence in my life, and never wanted to repeat the act. I heard every creak of the metal plating, giving our position away as the destroyer listened for us. At ten mile per hour and slowing, we drifted away.

  For over an hour we heard nothing, then a distant whooshing noise grew louder, then faded.

  We’d survived.

  Two days later, it happened again. Talk about tearing my hair out.

  We lived through an entire three hours of bombardment, cat and mouse maneuvering, twists, silences, deep dives that squeezed the ship’s hull and built pressure in my ears. But we got out the other side. By the time we eventually came to the surface, I’m positive there wasn’t much oxygen left inside the hull for us to breathe. The air was stale with the stench of us all, leaking oils and fluids, and by the smoke of electrical fires caused by near misses of the depth-charges dropped on us.

  When the air changed, we stood in the corridor and gulped it down like we’d almost drowned.

  The next day, although I lay on my bunk terrified of another attack, I fell asleep immediately, exhausted from our ordeal.

  On the 16th of January, 1942, I walked off the deck of HMS Porpoise determined never to set foot on another submarine ever again.

  I did, however, fall immediately in love with Gibraltar.

  A tiny peninsula, a quarter of the size of Edinburgh, stuck out southwards towards Africa, just eight miles away. On one side of its huge angular rock sat the Mediterranean Sea, on the other, the Atlantic Ocean.

  A runway ran right across the thin strip of land, roughly marking the border with Spain.

  If it hadn’t been for the jagged peak of rock, I could have walked across its widest part in fifteen minutes, driven its length in just five.

  I could not believe that this tiny fragment of the British Empire had survived so long against an onslaught of German and Italian forces. Its ships and aircraft controlled the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. It was crucial to the war, and everyone knew it.

  Within an hour of setting foot on its shores, I had a grudging admiration for its defenders, and an overwhelming urge to stay and help.

  It was in this state of wonder that I was approached by a fat, almost corpulent figure. “Excuse me, old bean, are you James Baird?”

  An enquiry that would change the course of my life.

  Undercover into Africa

  “I’m going home.” I told him, sipping a glass of wine so full of flavor, it almost defied my taste buds.

  Thomas Sewell was a jovial man; with a girth that defied a tight belt under a huge belly, he had to be. Only in his thirties, his hair had long since slipped back past his crown, and he wore small round glasses almost as an afterthought, constantly looking over their rims. If anything he modeled himself on a young Churchill, but had the paunch way too early in life.

  “I know, but your expertise would be of immense value to us.”

  I shook my head. Sewell had announced himself as head of the SOE in the Mediterranean, and technically my boss, although it meant little to me at the time; I was on my way home.

  To Alice, to Mother, to Frances.

  I’d supposedly left for eight weeks training in London… I’d been gone for four months.

  Now, I’m pretty certain that either my immediate Edinburgh boss, Ivanhoe, or Alice’s superior, Lilith, would have given her some explanation of my lateness in getting home, but at four months, my patience was wearing pretty thin.

  “My expertise?” I held out my glass for more, which he filled. The wine was the deepest red and seemed to capture all the richness of the world for me to taste. A dirty plate lay on the table between us, the last vestiges of my Paella dinner, another delicacy I was reluctant to leave. “I hardly think I can be of use; you must have others far more qualified than me.”

  “Ich bin der Meinung man sich unterschätzen,” Sewell said, his statement irritated me; I certainly did not underestimate myself.

  “Ich bin nur ein Zuschauer,” I said dryly. It was a few sentences later I realized I’d slipped into German without knowing it. “Shite.”

  “Yes, Herr Baird,” Sewell grinned widely at me falling into his clumsy trap. “You’re a natural. It’s only for a couple of days.”

  “I’ll be home in a couple of days.” I reminded him.

  Thomas Sewell settled back on his armchair. “I don’t think so, old bean. It’ll be a week before HMS Porpoise can be re-armed, its bulkheads checked. She’ll be your transport back to Blighty.”

  That put me in a bad mood. Yet another submarine ride.

  And he forced his point home like a Sykes-Fairbairn knife to my gizzards. “But do this job for us, and I’ll get you on a corvette; a surface ship.”

  I shook my head. “How are you going to manage that?”

  “Hitler’s U-boats might be biting our asses, but the Royal Navy still rules the seas.” he grinned. “Well, with the help of the Canadian Navy, the Aussies, Kiwis and the Americans, we’re winning the war at sea. I can get you to ten miles offshore. We’ll do the rest with a motor launch.”

  “I don’t know.”

  But like a prize-fighter who’s got his opponent on the ropes, he hit me again.

  “I agree it’s a difficult choice. Going home at ten miles per hour in a sub, or sailing home at twenty-five on a warship covered in guns, the wind in your face.”

  “Difficult choice my backside.” I grinned, supped some more. “And you can organize
this?”

  From the bar’s terrace veranda we could see most of the bay. Ships of all shapes and sizes littered the port. There was no rationing here; they had a glut of everything. What didn’t arrive across the Atlantic from Canada and the USA, slipped across the Spanish border, just a mile away.

  “And dad?”

  “We’ll put him up in style, he’ll keep his room until you return.”

  I could hardly complain there, we were living in excellent conditions, despite the daily bombings. Gibraltar was, however, the best equipped RAF base in the world, six squadrons of fighters sat ready for any mission, two squadrons of light bombers; I’d seen them. Well, it was difficult not to see them, the place being so small.

  Two more days passed, I got wined, dined, and more of the mission was disclosed. And of course, the more information I got, the more questions got asked. Before too long, I had the whole story.

  The Germans had built up a spy network in French Morocco to undermine the allied cause. Newsletters were springing up, and surely a spy like myself with newspaper experience would be perfect to break the spy ring, find the big players, and bring the information home.

  In the end I had to chat it over with dad, not the details of course, but the change of plans, the possible surface travel home as opposed to the underwater one.

  “I can’t say either way,” he said as we climbed the famous Rock of Gibraltar. I’d never been up anything so steep; it dwarfed Arthur’s Seat by quite a margin and the view was stunning.

  “Why not?”

  “Hell, James, how can I say ‘yes’, and send you into danger.”

  “I never mentioned danger.” I think I managed a grin.

  “The cloak-and-dagger brigade don’t get easy missions, son. They go out and do stuff that would make another man pale in fear.”

  I managed a weak ‘Come on, Dad. Don’t be so dramatic’, but I knew he was right. It didn’t matter that Germany had no real jurisdiction in Morocco, they’d be there, and if I got discovered, the operatives would like nothing better than to put me in a pine box.

  I didn’t sleep well that night, my head turning the whole matter over, the possibilities churning in my mind. But I did wake with a firm thought; I couldn’t stand another submarine ride. It was that one factor more than anything else that forced my hand.

  That very afternoon I got briefed for the job.

  The map on the table was mostly bare, just a few towns named, the rest barren desert.

  “You’ll be crossed to Tangiers, the trip is just ten miles; you could almost swim over.” Sewell grinned but I caught no warmth from it. “From there you’ll make your way to Rabat where we reckon the German spies are trying to influence the locals.” He handed me a list of names, which I memorized, and a couple of grainy photographs of the major players.

  Rupert Dijold was a French shipbuilder in Rabat with ties in both Morocco and Algeria. Sewell suspected him of building for the Germans, and actively using his company as a base for the leaflet distribution.

  Geneviève Salou, Dijold’s girlfriend, was definitely a German spy, linked to both Himmler and Heinrich, and having extensive ‘education’ in Munich. Sewell had no doubt of her involvement, and seemed to think that she was the main link between the German and Moroccan governments.

  Max Schönhausen was a German spy, posing as a rich playboy. He was perhaps the biggest player and sat in the Hotel Descartes, conducting his ring like a master. Sewell admitted that apart from Schönhausen’s major role, they knew virtually nothing about him.

  I sat and looked at the photographs; I had little to go on but Sewell’s rather flimsy biographies, but it didn’t matter. I’d go, I’d spend my week in Rabat and I’d make the rendezvous to get picked up again.

  I’d sail home, and be safe in Alice’s arms in a fortnight.

  The password for the mission was ‘Auntie Anne’, the answer being ‘Bob’s your Uncle’.

  It was a rather straight-forward plan, but considering Sewell had mentioned nothing but information gathering, I gathered myself for the task.

  I spent a whole day assembling my cover story.

  I’d go back to being Eric Volland; I was used to the name and answered to it naturally. I had used it in Camp X, and if it were checked, it would stand up to a rudimentary check. They made me up an ID card and provided a well-used passport, while I browsed a large room of clothes for something suitable for an entrepreneur to wear.

  When I looked in the mirror, I looked a bit of a spiv, but didn’t mind. I grabbed as many French Francs as they would give me, and set off for the harbor. The last thing I needed was a teary send-off from dad.

  I had a week to complete my mission, before getting picked up by a Moroccan boat from Rabat on the 27th January.

  “Auntie Anne, and Bob’s your Uncle” I whispered to myself as I boarded the boat.

  I’d never actually been on a sailing ship before, and the Moroccan sloop was a whole century apart from my recent nautical excursions. The boat creaked, yes, but it was a quiet friendly protest, not the manic shift of metal under extreme pressure.

  The passage across the short stretch of water between the two continents was smooth, effortless and almost silent. I wished I could have bribed the crew to take me to Britain. Anywhere in Britain.

  I landed in the small fishing village of Qued El Marsa, flashed some francs and cadged a lift to El Shadiq, where I hung around a tiny café until the morning bus arrived.

  I shook my head as I got onboard.

  To call it a bus was a vast disservice to all other buses in the world. This abused van with holes in the side had little resemblance to anything I’d ever seen. Before long I shared the vehicle with old men, drunken sailors, two sheep, a baying oat that wouldn’t shut up, and a host of children who stared at me with sullen distrusting faces.

  Tangiers was only twenty miles away, along a winding coastal road, but it took three hours to get there. By the time we’d arrived at our terminus, I was ready to jump ship into a bath of sharks.

  The first thing I noticed was the host of people watching everybody. Tangiers, it seemed, was a community of distrust. I booked myself into the Hotel de Elysée and I swear my entry was witnessed by a hundred men, all trying hard to look natural, none of them managing it well. I wondered how many intelligence agencies they reported to.

  “Eric Volland,” I said to the French uniform behind the counter. “Un nuit,” I managed in guttural German laced French.

  I carried a small suitcase with some of my money and clothes. The rest of my cash I wore in a belt high around my waist, under my shirt.

  I spent my morning in the bazaar, buying small fragments of printed silks, my cover for my trip. Bartering proved easier than I’d hoped, helped by the use of my fingers. Ten? No three. Six? Four. Easy stuff.

  I’m quite certain I still got ripped off, but it didn’t matter. When I returned to the hotel for lunch I had over twenty good samples, all rich in color and the best quality silk I’d ever seen. I hoped to take some home for Alice and mum.

  Sitting at my table for lunch I got hit almost immediately with a peddler selling beads who was beaten away by a waiter wielding a switch. I could hardly believe my eyes. The poor beggar just shifted his attention to his next mark, uncaring of the stick’s sting.

  “Terrible, isn’t it.”

  I turned to see a thin tanned man in a white suit. His German had been perfect, but he couldn’t hide his local accent. “Quite unnerving,” I replied.

  “Do you mind?” he pointed to the other chair at the small table. His slender moustache twitched as he spoke.

  “Not at all,”

  “Ramsai Monique,” he held out his hand. “Personal assistant.”

  “Volland.” I said, shaking his hand, not forcing the grip. “Eric Volland. And you are the personal assistant of whom, exactly?”

  “Why, you, sir, if you need my guidance.”

  “And why would I need your ‘guidance’?” Despite the obvious
brass neck of the little man, I quite liked his forthrightness. Finding bluntness in a world of intrigue is sometimes refreshing.

  “You buy like a novice, you don’t haggle enough, and you don’t speak the local languages. That puts you at a disadvantage.”

  I nodded. He’d obviously been observing me. “And if I don’t care? If I’m spending my client’s money not mine, why would I care?”

  “For the money you wasted today, you could have paid my daily wage.”

  I shook my head, deciding to put our conversation to bed. “I leave tomorrow, sorry my friend.”

  “Where do you travel?”

  Gathering information is worth money, and he seemed to be a bit of an expert. I gave him a cautious stare. “I’m off to Rabat. Why?”

  “For silk?”

  I nodded. “And other things. I have many clients.”

  “I could help.”

  “No thanks, Ramsai.”

  “That’s okay, I come anyway.”

  Rabat

  Have you ever tried to get rid of a tick that you can’t quite reach?

  That’s what Ramsai felt like the next morning.

  I was up bright and early, ready for the bus, when he appeared, standing to attention at my table. “Good Morning, Monsieur Volland.”

  “I…”

  “I have arranged a German breakfast for you, instead of this Moroccan/French rubbish.”

  I sat speechless, yet when the sausage, cheese, and bread with marmalade arrived, I did tuck in. Thankfully he left me alone to eat.

  There was a taxi at the door at eight, which cost me a franc, and it took us both to the bus terminal, where he haggled the cost of the fare, and insisting on the right hand side seat, getting me a whole double seat to myself. I can’t say I particularly liked his attention, but Ramsai’s constant chatter on the journey gave me insights into life in this northern corner of Africa. He pointed out old Corsair forts, and gave a reasonable history of the Barbary Coast pirates of the 1600’s.

  Having only looked at Sewell’s map, I hadn’t quite got the idea of distance yet, but by the time noon arrived, the bus’s seats had already eclipsed the LRDG’s jeeps as the worst thing I’d ever had under my backside. When Ramsai pulled one of his small cases from the rather rickety overhead storage, and produced a bottle of wine and paper-wrapped sandwiches, I almost kissed him.