Fox from His Lair

by John Harris

  The sky was sad and quiet and curiously ominous, the water like shot silk, the air soft and misty and full of unexpected breezes. The Fox walked on the deck, keeping to himself. As he leaned on the rail, he saw other ships, also grey and edged with the same khaki fringe along the rails.

  Staring at the land with narrowed eyes, he wondered just what was to become of them all. The men around him muttered quietly – chiefly of women or drink or baseball and football scores. Meals were served, the officers in shifts in the saloon, the men using their mess tins for stew and tea which had been cooked ashore. Afterwards, they all stood along the rail again, staring at the shore and the iridescent water alongside.

  The CO called a conference after they’d all eaten and they gathered together in the saloon of the ship with the sergeants. Maps were produced, exactly the same as the ones they’d been studying for some time, but this time the maps had names on them, and opposite the names, ‘Dog’, ‘Easy’ and ‘Fox’, he saw the French towns of Vierville, St Laurent, Les Moulins, Colleville, Grand Hameau, Ste Honorine and Port-en-Bassin.

  As the conference finished and they went on deck again, he realised that the ship was moving into the river and that a wind had got up from nowhere to put a popple on the water. Girls in Wren uniforms manning small boats around them were waving, their cries of ‘Good luck’ coming thinly across the water. Everyone was quiet and tense, uncertain what to expect. A few still played cards; a few sang softly to themselves.

  A man standing by the incendiary bin which had been placed on deck for burning unwanted papers, letters and documents, sniffed the increasing wind, his eyes worried.

  ‘I hope to Christ it’s not a rough crossing,’ he said sadly. ‘I can be sick in the bath.’

  Twelve

  Lying straight and narrow in his bed, the sheet tucked up neatly to his chin, Pargeter stared at the ceiling. Second Officer Wint alongside him made little delicate snuffling sleep noises that went with her good looks and her good breeding.

  He had long since tackled her about the night he’d rung Iremonger at the hotel in Portsmouth. ‘Where were you?’ he’d demanded.

  Her wide blue eyes had stared up at him innocently. ‘Sleeping, of course. Stayed the night with a girlfriend.’

  He didn’t believe her and, knowing he didn’t believe her, she smiled disarmingly. ‘Would it help if I cried a little?’ she asked. ‘Quietly? With ladylike tears?’

  He didn’t argue. He wasn’t one to worry about the niceties of what they got up to. War and the likelihood of being killed had destroyed a lot of old moralities. All the same, it was pleasant to feel that, through him, the British Empire was holding its own with the United States of America.

  He frowned. There was so little time. The waiting couldn’t go on much longer. There were so many men and machines in southern England the coastline seemed to bulge. The pace had noticeably quickened in the last few days and there had been a warning that trains might be unexpectedly and suddenly cancelled, which could mean only one thing. Even the songs of Vera Lynn and Anne Shelton had grown more sentimental of late, and comedians like Tommy Handley and Max Miller were careful to avoid using jokes which, with death just over the horizon, might be in doubtful taste.

  It had been a depressing day. The morning’s post had brought a letter from his mother to say his sister’s fiancé was missing over Germany with the RAF, and during the afternoon a strange American voice had rung up with a message for Iremonger. ‘Just tell him that General Orme’s dead,’ it said. ‘There was an accident with a grenade.’

  Everybody in the world seemed to be getting killed or preparing to get killed, he decided. As the pace increased, so the accidents increased and men were dying even before they saw the enemy. He had no idea who General Orme was but he assumed he was sufficiently close to Iremonger for it to make some difference.

  A lorry ground past outside, and he moved restlessly, wishing the thing could be over. The tension couldn’t last forever. Before long, nerves would start to get frayed and if something didn’t happen soon people who so far had managed to avoid grumbling would start wondering what the hell it was all for.

  Another lorry ground past, then another and another. He held his breath and heard shouting outside. He had heard lorries in the night before, but now there was something in the urgency of the voices that convinced him that this time was different.

  Crossing to the window, he looked out. The hotel stood at the bottom of a long curving slope and a long line of lights twinkled on the hills. The whole of England seemed to be on the move.

  As Iremonger had set off on his return journey from Bletchley, he had found himself impeded all along the route by the lorries moving south. Some of them, he noticed, had barbed wire strung along their sides and sometimes a notice, ‘Do Not Talk To The Troops’. At first it puzzled him, but then he saw a convoy stopped by a village green and sentries keeping away the girls and the children who had swarmed round as usual with their cries of ‘Any gum, chum?’ Immediately, he knew what it meant. He was witnessing the first rumblings of the great avalanche that was to lead to France, the first heave that was being felt in every corner of the British Isles.

  The knowledge filled him with awe. Remembering what he had just learned about Ultra, and what he knew of the Fox’s knowledge of Ultra, he was horrified to realise they might be too late to stop him. Automatically, he began to drive faster, forcing his way out of the convoy, his hand on the horn button of his car as he screamed alongside the lorries in a cloud of dust tinted golden by the last of the sun.

  It was dark when he started to climb the South Downs and, as he dropped down on the other side, he saw lights and the figure of an American soldier waving a torch. There had been an accident on the edge of a village where a lorry rounding a corner a shade too fast had sideswiped a small private car driven by a doctor and, as the soldiers had jumped down to see what had happened, in the dark another lorry had run them down.

  There seemed to be injured men and bodies lying all over the road. A harassed village policeman long beyond the age of retirement was struggling to sort out the mess and the doctor from the car which had been involved in the first accident was kneeling over one of the GIs, a pair of broken glasses on his nose. A young officer was trying to organise transport for the injured and had found a tarpaulin which he was helping to stretch over three silent shapes which lay by the roadside, their heavy boots lopsided in the grass.

  ‘Goddam war,’ he was saying edgily. ‘I wish the lousy invasion was over.’

  They all looked strained, and Iremonger realised just how much the coming attack was taking out of everybody. Nerves were on edge; people were jumpy. Every man in the army tried to pretend he didn’t care but, despite all the reassurances that all would be well, the thought that when they crossed the Channel the Germans would be waiting for them couldn’t be made to remain at the back of the mind out of sight.

  It was well after dark when he reached Portsmouth. There was no sign of Pargeter in his room. Headquarters was silent and the man on the telephone was sitting with his feet on a chair, dozing. Iremonger swept the heavy boots to the floor with a crash. ‘Where’s Weinberger?’ he demanded.

  The man came to life with a jerk and was on his feet at once, staring dazedly at Iremonger.

  ‘He’s asleep, sir, Colonel, sir.’

  ‘Get him.’

  Weinberger appeared within two minutes, heaving at his trousers. ‘Colonel? What’s on?’

  ‘Where’s Major Pargeter?’

  ‘Off duty, sir.’

  Iremonger’s arm flung out. The grind and roar and rumble of vehicles outside seemed enormously loud. The whole house seemed to quiver with it.

  ‘Hear that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sure, sir. Convoys, sir. Military convoys.’

  ‘That,’ Iremonger snarled, ‘is the invasion!’

  Weinberger was sceptical. ‘American correspondents think the invasion’s only a hoax,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to
one.’

  Iremonger’s pointing finger quivered. ‘Listen, you goddam dope! Listen for yourself! What do you think it is?’

  Weinberger looked shamefaced. ‘The invasion, I guess, Colonel!’

  ‘Sure it is! Now get me Cuthbert! He’s not in his billet!’

  It was quite obvious the telephone had failed to startle Pargeter, as Iremonger had hoped. His voice sounded edgy but he seemed well in control of himself.

  ‘Get your ass down to headquarters!’ Iremonger’s voice was harsh. ‘Things are happening.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I was already on my way.’ Pargeter sounded as infuriatingly cool as he always did.

  ‘Then get a goddam move on! I need you! I need everybody. I want every member of the staff, including Second Officer Wint. I dare say you know where she is. Get a burr under your tail. We have to move fast!’

  Iremonger slammed down the receiver and lit a cigarette, then he tried to ring Southwick Park, but it was impossible to get through and their very inaccessibility seemed a confirmation of what he had already guessed. He picked up the telephone again to contact an officer he knew in Movement Control at Portland but, this time, though he could hear the number ringing out, there was no reply. Portland appeared to have disappeared into thin air.

  He banged down the instrument once more, now thoroughly frustrated and aware that the sound of traffic outside had increased. Jumping to his feet, he went to the door and looked out. There were vehicles as far as he could see in every direction, all full of men and equipment. Military police had materialised from nowhere to see them on their way. He dived back to his desk.

  ‘Weinberger,’ he yelled. ‘Get hold of Southwick! If necessary, sit on the telephone!’

  When Pargeter appeared Liz Wint was with him, looking faintly dishevelled.

  ‘Picked her up on the way,’ Pargeter said.

  Iremonger gave him a malicious smile. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  Weinberger appeared. ‘Southwick, sir,’ he announced. ‘I got ’em.’

  Iremonger snatched at the telephone. An unknown voice answered, deep and suspicious.

  ‘Who’s that?’ it demanded.

  Iremonger started to explain but the man on the other end of the wire had clearly never heard of him. ‘Get off the line,’ he snarled.

  ‘Listen–’

  ‘Get off the line!’

  The wire went dead, as, without waiting for Iremonger to say any more, the speaker slammed his own instrument down. Iremonger stared at it for a moment in a fury, aware that like everybody else he was being carried along willy-nilly by the first forward surge of the invasion.

  ‘Goddam!’ he said.

  He began to shout again for Weinberger and the sergeant, caught up in the excitement as much as Iremonger, put his head round the door, looking worried.

  ‘Where the hell’s de Rezonville?’

  ‘He ain’t appeared, Colonel.’

  ‘Find him.’

  ‘I’ve tried, Colonel. He’s vanished, too, I guess.’

  ‘Godammit, what’s happened to everybody?’ Iremonger paused and drew a deep breath as he realised he was letting his excitement run away with him. ‘Find out what happened to him, Weinberger,’ he said more calmly.

  ‘Sure, sir.’

  Iremonger reached for a cigar and forced himself to light it slowly. Pargeter was still waiting by the desk. He looked faintly supercilious at all the noise and fuss, as though, if he’d had his way, be would have conducted the war in a much more gentlemanly fashion. Iremonger grinned at him, curiously pleased to see him in spite of everything.

  ‘We’re in business, Cuthbert,’ he said. ‘This goddam invasion’s come too goddam soon. We weren’t ready for it, and if we’re not careful we’re going to get snarled up and the Fox’s going to dodge us. All the same–’ he jabbed a finger ‘–we have permission to search ships. We better start searching.’

  The drive to Portland at dawn was a replica of the drive from Bletchley. On every road there were strings of lorries, guns, armour and marching troops. There were no bands, no fluttering flags, no crowds to shout ‘Farewell’. Just women offering cups of tea when the lorries halted, and a fervent ‘God bless you’. Everybody knew now.

  British, Canadians and Americans were rolling southward through the villages and towns, countless columns of troops and convoys of steel vehicles converging on the ports. All night nothing had been heard but the thump of army boots on the paved streets and the ‘’Eft! ’Ight!’ of sergeants. All night long there had been the rattle and roar of engines as vehicles rolled in an ever-thickening stream to the water’s edge to board the beaching craft on the hards or the transports at the docks. The men threading their way through the assembly areas of tanks, guns and vehicles looked brown and fit and curiously relaxed, like athletes before a contest. There was little sound beyond their boots and the noise of engines and they were not talking, simply smoking and chewing gum to stay awake.

  As Iremonger edged the jeep past a British convoy, a whistle blew and the men began to climb into the lorries in an orderly confusion. Iremonger was frowning heavily. The message about Orme, coming on top of the accident he’d witnessed, troubled him. If generals could get killed, what goddam hope was there for people of lesser rank at the sharp end of the army?

  When they reached Portland, the fine weather of May seemed to have gone completely and they found they had even less time than they thought. Troops were pouring aboard the ships, and there was tremendous activity with the loading of tank landing craft. There was difficulty even in getting into the loading area, and security police, their helmets glistening in the thin drifting rain that had started, tried to turn them back.

  ‘I have authority to be in there,’ Iremonger snapped.

  The MP called a sergeant who immediately sent for an officer. The officer stared at Iremonger’s authority and didn’t believe it.

  ‘How do I know it’s genuine?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve never seen one of these passes before.’

  Iremonger glared. ‘Where’s General Bradley’s headquarters?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I guess if you don’t know what the hell to do, he will.’

  But Bradley had already left to go aboard the cruiser, USS Augusta, and there was only a small cadre of officers left to run the place. ‘You’ll have to move damn fast,’ one of them pointed out. ‘Every vessel in Portland’s supposed to be under way by 0315. And the good Lord help ’em, too,’ he ended fervently, ‘because the weather forecasts show what looks like the worst gale for twenty years coming in from the Atlantic.’

  Their explanations were accepted, however, and a brigadier-general got on the telephone to the loading area. But still nobody wanted to know them.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ a harassed lieutenant-colonel told them, ‘we’re loading for an invasion! The biggest sonofabitching thing that’s ever happened either in this war or any other. The thing’s been worked out to the minute. If I halt it to search for this guy of yours, the whole goddam invasion’ll be late!’

  Every hardmaster seemed to have much the same answer and, since a search at this stage was clearly impossible, they returned to Bradley’s headquarters and sent out a signal requesting all units to state if they had a Captain Kechinski with them.

  It was well into 4 June now and the first vessels were already heading for the rendezvous area south of the Isle of Wight. When the replies began to come in, they were all the same. No one knew Captain Kechinski. Three Kechinskis appeared – all lieutenants, none of them named Jack, John or Jan, all in their early twenties, and all well and truly vouched for by their colonels.

  ‘Think the bastard’s already at sea?’ Iremonger asked.

  ‘More likely he’s changed his name,’ Pargeter said, ‘and he isn’t Kechinski any longer.’

  By the time daylight arrived, what Bradley’s aide had said was clear. The forecast in the G-2 Journal looked alarming and the weather map looked lik
e a day in December. Outside, the thin rain had changed to a downpour.

  ‘There’ll be a low ceiling tomorrow,’ the meteorological officer predicted. ‘It’ll ground the air force and swamp the landing craft. They should postpone until the 6th.’

  ‘At this rate, until the 7th!’

  ‘They can’t postpone until the 7th or every goddam ship will have to come back and refuel. The plan’s tied to the moon and a delay could mean next month. And you can’t keep all those men aboard till then. It just isn’t possible.’

  The atmosphere was one of uncertainty, anxiety, and even dread. Every available allied fighting man had been channelled into the invasion and there was a feeling that instead of victory the assault could turn into a disaster. Like a juggernaut, once in motion it could not be stopped, yet suddenly it looked like ending in the most unholy and bloody catastrophe in the history of warfare. With the gale, the chances of success, with swamped landing craft and no air force, looked slender, yet they dared not delay; surprise would be gone because the date and landfall were already the common property of thousands of men.

  ‘Christ,’ Iremonger said. ‘The weather was perfect in May. Why didn’t we go then?’

  As they argued, an aide appeared. ‘The code word’s arrived,’ he said. ‘It’s been postponed for a day – unless it’s cancelled altogether, as it ought to be.’

  Iremonger’s own anxiety matched the more general sense of depression, defeat and anger. Despite the authority to search that he carried in his pocket, he was in fact powerless because no one was sufficiently interested to be helpful. Unit commanders had more on their minds at that moment than identifying an unknown officer. Vessels already at sea were being chased home by destroyers in the grey dawn after a black night during which radio silence could not be broken. By midday they were back and churning it out off Portland Bill, the luckier of them inside the harbour, the men sealed inside their cramped craft for a second day and wearily reconciled to the ordeal of waiting.