Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  The infiltration operations mounted so far had been amateurish – and that was putting it kindly. The SD had sent two of its men into the Belgian countryside dressed as Canadian airmen. They were found four days later, dead. It was no surprise to Vasson; the two men probably spoke English with a German accent and didn’t know what maple syrup was. The line must have an interrogation centre somewhere, where airmen’s credentials were checked. Well, even if they hadn’t they certainly would now, after that little fiasco.

  Another time a Belgian-born SD agent had infiltrated the line as a courier, had sprung his trap far too soon and managed to catch only two people. The agent had then run like hell out of Brussels and was never seen again. An amateur.

  One operation had been quite successful, however. Twenty arrests were made. But Vasson couldn’t find the details; the report was marked: Refer to Luftwaffe Intelligence. He must ask about that.

  He looked at the current situation report: there appeared to be only two leads at present; a young girl, the sister of a girl in custody, plus an older woman whose address had been found in the apartment of a minor courier. Both women had gone to ground. Nothing about this surprised Vasson: the Gestapo had probably gone straight round to their homes in full view of all the neighbours and waited for them to return. Subtlety and patience were not the Germans’ strong points.

  He noted the names of all the suspects to date and took brief details of addresses, possible roles in the line, and probable leads. It didn’t add up to much. In their usual blundering way the Germans had fouled up everything that might have been worth pursuing.

  Vasson went back to Mueller’s office. Mueller was his liaison man: quite senior, a colonel in the SD. For some reason Vasson didn’t understand, here in Belgium escaping airmen came under the Nazi security service or Luftwaffe Intelligence, and not the secret police.

  Mueller was pale and fat, rather like a large slug. He looked as though he had indigestion; from time to time he unhappily patted his obscene stomach which pressed relentlessly against the field grey cloth of his uniform. ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Have you seen everything you need to see?’

  ‘I think so.’ Vasson sat down, though he had not been invited to do so. Mueller would not object. Mueller, for all his arrogance and impatience, was not a problem: he was a realistic man. He wanted results and he’d made it clear he was prepared to pay for them. Vasson’s anger at being put in the seedy hotel was forgotten when Mueller had agreed to all his requests.

  Vasson said, ‘But there is one thing. An operation involving Luftwaffe Intelligence. The report’s not in the file.’

  ‘Ah yes. That was a joint operation. Extremely successful. For a week or so we operated a loop in the escape line.’

  ‘A loop?’

  Mueller looked patronisingly at Vasson. ‘Ah? You do not know? No, why should you. We invented the idea!’ His fat face crinkled up in what Vasson realised was a smile. ‘A loop is an extra link in the escape chain which the organisers do not realise is there and which we create to extract intelligence. We pretend we are Resistance interrogators who must check the bona fides of the airmen. We ask them to tell us everything about their units and operations so we can check the facts with London.’ He shrugged. ‘It works every time. During this last operation they told us everything … Most useful for the Luftwaffe and most useful for us too; we got several good descriptions of the people harbouring airmen. We made a number of arrests.’

  Twenty to be precise. But, Vasson thought, they can never use that one again, not with this line anyway.

  ‘One more thing,’ Vasson said. ‘Is the line in direct communication with Britain? Can they actually check the airmen’s identities by radio?’

  ‘We believe not. At one time we picked up clandestine radio transmissions from this area, but no longer … We must have got the operator.’

  ‘So they have no contact …’

  ‘But they have back-up from London; a department of the British Ministry of Defence, called MI9, sends them money regularly, and probably arms too. The British have a name for the line – they call it Meteor.’

  ‘Meteor …’

  Mueller sat upright and looked impatient again. ‘Now! We have provided you with cash, we have provided you with information; what else do you require, may I ask?’

  ‘A work permit in the name of Paul Lebrun. My occupation should be given as Engineer and the place of employment as some engineering works in, say Lyons. Then in brackets it should say: On secondment duties to Wehrmacht.’

  ‘You want to say you’re working for the Wehrmacht?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll also need a special travel permit which allows me frequent journeys between my base in Lyons and the occupied territories.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now!’ Mueller said disparagingly, ‘How exactly do you propose to bring off this amazing success that I am told you will achieve?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mueller’s face showed uncertainty: he wasn’t sure if Vasson was purposely misleading him or just being difficult. ‘I suggest you inform me when you do have a plan.’

  ‘Certainly. But for a few days I want to get to know the city and feel my way around.’

  Mueller eyed him suspiciously. ‘You will not start anything without informing me, will you, Lebrun?’

  ‘No.’

  As Vasson left, Mueller repeated, ‘And you have no plan at all?’

  Vasson shrugged. ‘In good time. You didn’t give me many leads …’

  Mueller nodded abruptly. ‘Please report back in two days.’

  Vasson hurried out, thinking: Like hell! He would report only when he was ready, and even then he wouldn’t tell Mueller a damn thing about what he was doing. The Germans would only foul it up. Anyway he loved to have it all to himself; he hated to share it until the last possible moment.

  His plan was the same as always: he had it all worked out. But this time it would take longer, he realised that there were so many people involved, so many contacts to make. Yes, it would take time … But he didn’t mind; it added to the challenge and the excitement.

  This one would be the best one yet, he felt it in his bones. This would be his greatest triumph.

  Chapter 13

  FALMOUTH. AT LEAST it should be. Since the first invasion scare all the railway signs had been removed, so one had to use timetables and guesswork to decide your location. Smithe-Webb stepped off the train, sniffed the sharp, salty Cornish air and thought how wonderfully refreshing it was after the smoke and grime of London.

  It was Falmouth: there was a naval staff car outside the station, waiting to take him to Helford. The Major settled back in his seat and admired the rolling green countryside. He only wished he could get away from London more often. But his department of MI9 was based at the War Office in Whitehall and he hardly got away at all.

  In his year at MI9 he’d heard a few whispers about Helford and the naval unit there – but nothing very definite. It was a clandestine outfit, and, although he’d guessed that they went over to what was known as the Other Side, he’d heard little else. He’d had few dealings with the Navy: almost all the Allied servicemen stranded in Europe – his customers, as he called them – were airmen and soldiers.

  But since MI9 had asked for the Navy’s help, Smithe-Webb had been finding out a bit more. The DDOD(I), the head of the Navy’s Irregular Operations Division, had told him a bit about the Helford operations and, what was more important, had promised to help. He had, however, suggested that the major go down to Helford and talk to someone who knew the Other Side well, someone who could advise him on the practical problems his people were likely to meet. The inference was clear: the Navy could manage their end of the operation all right, but could MI9 control theirs?

  Smithe-Webb took the point; that was why he was here.

  After half an hour the road descended steeply towards the dull glint of water visible in the distance. T
hey passed through a picturesque village and came to the banks of a wide river. The car stopped and Smithe-Webb got out. A launch with two ratings was waiting at the jetty and, as soon as he had climbed in, it set off towards a cluster of vessels moored in the main stream of the river. There was a large three-masted yacht which had a number of dinghies tied to it – some kind of mother ship perhaps; then, moored around it, four or five largish fishing boats. Most of them were painted regulation grey, but one had a strange combination of colours. Her superstructure and most of her topsides were grey, but her aft end was bright scarlet with some kind of pattern on it. There were several men standing in a small boat, painting the scarlet with grey. The launch made a neat semi-circle and approached the many-coloured boat. As they drew near Smithe-Webb saw the shadow of a name on the stern. It read: Marie-Claire. Brest.

  The launch came alongside and a rating threw a line to someone on deck. Smithe-Webb looked up and stared in amazement. The fellow was a sight: unshaven, dirty and dressed like a fisherman. If they were playing at pirates, Smithe-Webb thought, they certainly looked the part.

  Smithe-Webb put a foot up on the rubbing strake and hoisted himself over the gunwale onto the deck. He looked expectantly at the piratical figure, but after making fast the launch’s painter the fellow sauntered off down the deck.

  Suddenly there was a voice from behind. ‘Good morning!’

  Smithe-Webb turned and was met by a pair of penetrating blue eyes and an outstretched hand. Like the other fellow, this chap looked a mess: his clothing was shabby and oil-stained, he had two days’ growth of beard, and, if the major wasn’t mistaken, his breath reeked of alcohol. Smithe-Webb asked uncertainly, ‘Er – Lieutenant Ashley?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Ashley. But, if it doesn’t seem impolite, who on earth are you?’

  Richard Ashley smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, but we’ve just got back and … we’re not at our best. Come and have a cup of something. I’m not sure what we can offer you …’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Smithe-Webb hastily. ‘Don’t want to put you out or anything.’

  ‘No, no. Must find you something, This is after all a ship of His Majesty’s Navy and traditions must be upheld …’ He laughed and Smithe-Webb saw that, despite the smiling mouth, the face was strained and drawn.

  Smithe-Webb followed Ashley down the deck. He noticed that two men were grafting a plank of wood into a gap in the gunwale and that the deckhouse was riddled with bullet holes. Ashley turned and caught his gaze. ‘We were badly straffed. One dead and two wounded. We’ve never been caught like that before.’ He led the way into the deckhouse and indicated that Smithe-Webb should take a seat. ‘That’s the problem with going down to the Bay: it’s fine once you’re there, looking like any other old fishing boat, but it’s an awful long way there and back. We get some air cover on the way out, but …’ He smiled thinly. ‘… well, it’s awfully lonely on the way home.’ He reached down into a locker and pulled out a bottle of cognac. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like a glass of this delicious brew?’

  Smithe-Webb shook his head. ‘A bit early for me.’

  Ashley nodded. ‘I’ll order you a tea then – I think that’s all we’ve got.’ He opened the door and shouted down the deck. He came back in and smiled. ‘For myself, I’m going to have a large one of these. One of the few perks of the job. The fishermen with whom we, shall we say, trade, they give us this stuff. And magic it is too!’

  A minute later one of the crew brought the tea, which was dark brown and very sweet and had obviously been brewing for some time. Smithe-Webb gritted his teeth and took a sip. The tea was ghastly and he grimaced. Ashley was talking to the sailor about the repair work and didn’t see.

  Smithe-Webb took the opportunity to take a look at the lieutenant. He reckoned the chap was somewhere in his late twenties, though he looked older, probably because of the tiredness. He was average-looking: of medium height, unremarkable features and, Smithe-Webb guessed, with a tendency to put on weight. But the blue eyes were extraordinary; you noticed them straight away. Another unusual thing was the way the man talked. His face was immensely alive and – what was the word? – magnetic. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

  The sailor was asking a couple of questions. Like the rest of the crew he was fairly unkempt and Smithe-Webb noticed he had a strong foreign accent.

  When the sailor had gone the major asked, ‘Your crew, are they – RN?’

  Ashley laughed. ‘Most of them! The rest could be loosely described as on loan. Free French, ex-fishermen and very fine lads they are too.’

  Ashley sat down, the brandy glass at his elbow, and lit a cigarette. ‘I must apologise again for my rudeness. Quite honestly, I forgot you were coming. They did tell me, but you know how it is …!’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘In this kind of operation, you ignore half the rules – and the other half don’t apply. Orders never get written down … Besides which my memory is—’ he laughed, ‘– not of the best!’ Smithe-Webb felt sure it was perfectly adequate, but smiled nonetheless.

  Ashley asked, ‘So how can I be of help?’

  Smithe-Webb said, ‘Right. Perhaps I’d better tell you a bit about my department first. Basically, our job is to help our chaps to get out of Occupied Europe. Immediately after Dunkirk most of our customers were soldiers who got left behind after the evacuation. Quite a few made it back by getting help from the locals and making their way to neutral territory. Since then it’s been mainly airmen, though we still get quite a few soldiers and even the odd sailor. Obviously it’s pretty difficult for chaps to escape once the Germans have got them, but some do manage to get over the wire and our job is to try to make it easy for them once they’re out. Having said that, by far the greatest number of our customers are evaders – men who’ve been shot down or whatever and have managed to keep out of German hands. We encourage the locals to look after them and get them back to us safely. Obviously I can’t give you the details of how this is done …’

  Ashley nodded. ‘No, of course.’

  ‘Our problem is that our present … er, methods … are under a lot of pressure, both from the Germans and from the sheer scale of the operations. The number of evading airmen is increasing and quite apart from not wanting to let our men fall into enemy hands, we need them. Those pilots are absolutely invaluable to the war effort. We have to get them back.’ Without thinking Smithe-Webb sipped at the mug of tea and immediately choked.

  ‘Bloody awful, isn’t it?’ Ashley smiled. ‘But try and persuade Leading Seaman Evans to make it any other way and there’d be a mutiny. Change your mind and have a brandy?’

  Smithe-Webb raised his eyebrows. ‘No, really.’ Ashley poured himself another drink and Smithe-Webb wondered if the fellow always drank like this. He brought his mind back to the matter in hand. ‘So … we’re trying to open up more routes. There’s an idea under consideration which would involve your outfit. At this point we’re having a good look at the plan to see if it’s really on or not. And that’s where you come in …’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard something about it. Glad to help, of course. I’ve already picked up quite a few airmen. I never know when they’re coming, mind, they just get bundled aboard. But there’s never any problem.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But this would be more organised, and the numbers much greater. Also … we weren’t thinking of the Bay … Rather, we were thinking of going straight across. To North Brittany.’

  Ashley sat up. ‘Ah! I see!’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me what would be involved.’

  Ashley frowned, but he was obviously excited by the idea. ‘Well of course the whole thing would have to be organised differently. It’d be no good using these boats, for a start. MGBs would be much better.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what your department suggested.’

  ‘We’re getting two, did you know that?’

  The major nodded.

  ‘They’ll make a lot
of difference to your sort of operation. We can go in at night, really fast, do the job and then be out again before anyone knows we were there. In fact, it has already been tried once or twice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Dropping off the odd person with their luggage, that kind of thing. Not your department, of course?’

  Smithe-Webb shook his head. ‘No, one of the others. SOE, in all probability, sending in agents.’

  ‘The only real problem has been to get the passengers from the boat to the shore in one piece and not half-drowned. Even in a fairly sheltered spot the surf can be pretty rough. But that’s being looked at … Our chaps are trying to come up with a special surfboat.’ He paused. ‘But having said that, MGBs are definitely the answer. We could pick up ten, twenty, maybe even thirty men in a night.’

  The major smiled. ‘That would be excellent. But what about the North Brittany coast? Your CO thought it might be difficult …?’

  ‘Oh, did he? Well, let’s have a look, shall we?’ He called out of the door. ‘Evans! Get over to Spray and fetch me some charts, would you? North Brittany and English Channel.’ He said to Smithe-Webb. ‘We only carry three charts on this boat and they’re French. Wouldn’t do to be caught with a set of best Admiralty charts, would it?’

  Ashley was enjoying himself, Smithe-Webb could see. The signs of strain had gone from his face. The major found himself liking the chap. He was a straightforward sort of person, which Smithe-Webb always admired, and he had a sort of easy charm that made you warm to him. Just as long as he knew what he was doing. Smithe-Webb had the feeling he did.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Smithe-Webb softly. There were rocks everywhere. Unless he was reading it wrong the chart showed the coast to be completely impenetrable. Even the estuaries seemed littered with dangers. ‘Good Lord!’ he repeated.