‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Ashley said slowly. ‘Many of these rocks are covered except at dead low water. If one studies it carefully one can usually find a way through. Now, where roughly were you thinking of mounting your operation?’
Smithe-Webb put his finger on the coast north-east of Morlaix. ‘Somewhere around here if possible.’
‘Right, let’s look at the large-scale chart.’ He pulled out another chart and stared at it intently. ‘Yes, there are several spots that are possible from my point of view. But we have to find a place that’s good for your people too. Have they come up with any suggestions?’
‘Not yet. Communications are a bit difficult at the moment.’ Which meant he had no wireless operator there. Oh, that he had! It had taken long enough to persuade DDMI(P/W) that wireless operators were essential, then there’d been delays in finding volunteers and training them. After all, not everyone wanted to be a sitting duck for the Gestapo’s wireless detectors.
‘But you will be getting some local intelligence? On the siting of gun emplacements, and patrols and so on …?’
‘Oh yes, in due course.’
‘Right. Until then, let’s assume that the main headlands are to be avoided. That would give us this cove here, and this bay …’ He traced the coastline thoughtfully. ‘No, not this one. The cliff’s absolutely sheer at this point and there’s no path …’
Smithe-Webb looked up, astonished. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘I tried to climb it once!’
‘Good God!’ Smithe-Webb was impressed.
‘Here … this cove here …’ Ashley stabbed a finger at the chart. ‘This would be ideal. The approach is reasonably straightforward, there’d be no problem anchoring, and I can’t see the Germans having guns and sentries in the bay itself … Also there’s decent access to the beach from the cliff, or so it would appear. I’ve never been there myself so I couldn’t be sure.’
Smithe-Webb was staring in disbelief. It was too good to be true. The place was only a mile or two from Tregasnou. What a stroke of luck! But perhaps there were disadvantages he hadn’t spotted. He asked, ‘What do my people need to look for when they recce the place? What are the problems going to be?’
‘Well, we’ll only be able to operate on moonless nights so some sort of signalling arrangement will be essential – by shaded torch or whatever – so there really mustn’t be any Germans anywhere near by. It would be useful to know exactly how bad the surf gets too … You can never tell whether one spot’s going to be worse than another.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Also your people will have to be prepared for some long waits on the beach; we could never give a definite time of arrival. Some nights we might not be able to turn up at all. You know – weather or engine failure or whatever. They’d have to be prepared for that … have contingency plans to hide all the passengers again, and so on. Oh, and we couldn’t operate in high summer …’
‘What?’ Smithe-Webb frowned.
‘No, I’m afraid not. The nights in mid-summer just wouldn’t be long enough to get us over and back in time. From Dartmouth, where the MGBs will be based, it’s a hundred miles. That’s well over four hours even in a fast boat. Allowing one to two hours for approach and pickup and four hours back, that’s ten hours – call it twelve. We could probably operate as late as April with a bit of luck. In winter there’s more bad weather, of course, but at least you can slow down and take it easy and know you have plenty of darkness to hide under.’
Ashley looked up at Smithe-Webb and smiled cheerfully. ‘It’s August now. By the time the thing is set up we’ll be into autumn. So we’ll have at least six months. We could get an awful lot of airmen out in that time! All it needs is reasonably good communications and some efficient organisation at your end.’
Smithe-Webb stared back at the chart and wished he could smile as cheerfully. Organisation was the one thing he couldn’t guarantee. He hadn’t mentioned that, and didn’t intend to. No point in getting a sour note into the proceedings.
Richard Ashley said, ‘The pick-up must be fast and well thought out – on both sides – otherwise …’
Smithe-Webb nodded. He had the message loud and clear. If there was a muck-up then everyone would get caught.
‘… But I’m sure your people will be first class. The Bretons usually are.’
‘They’re good people,’ Smithe-Webb agreed. He wasn’t sure he could say the same for the Free French officer who was meant to be organising the line. Smithe-Webb hadn’t liked the chap at all. But no point in fretting about it; they’d been forced to use him. The Free French had to be humoured and that was all there was to it. But, Smithe-Webb thought sadly, it was not the same as choosing your own man, not the same at all.
But on this side of the operation he might be able to get the man he wanted. He asked Ashley, ‘Do you think you might be able to do the job yourself? You used to be on MGBs, didn’t you? It would be tremendous from our point of view.’
Ashley stroked his chin. ‘I was on torpedo boats actually, not gun boats. But … well, I am rather tempted. They say the new boats can do 30 knots. Very useful for getting out of trouble!’ He smiled. ‘Yes, I’d love to give it a go.’
He shot a glance at Smithe-Webb, and said mischievously, ‘We could fix it between us. If you tell the Admiralty that you need me and then I volunteer, they can’t refuse, can they?’ Suddenly he laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and Smithe-Webb had the feeling that few people refused Richard Ashley anything.
Smithe-Webb found himself smiling too. His feeling of optimism returned. If these MGBs could get there and back, then they were halfway there.
*
Ashley watched the launch heading back towards the jetty and wondered if he should have gone into the problems in more detail.
He walked slowly along the deck. God, he felt tired. He sat on the hatch coaming, and lighting a cigarette, inhaled deeply.
He tried to think, but the tiredness was clouding his brain. Or perhaps his mind was addled by the cigarettes and the brandy. Just as likely.
Problems … There’d certainly be a few. He’d made it sound easy and it wasn’t. He should have told the major about the navigation problems: the tricky tides and the lack of navigation aids. He should have admitted that it would be bloody difficult to find the right place at all.
Then there was the weather: he should have spelt out the problems in more detail. Even in fairly rough conditions they might have to cancel operations; in gales they most certainly would.
Damn. He should have made the whole thing plainer.
Still … they should be able to get across pretty often. A lot depended on the efficiency of the organisation on the other side, of course. The major had been a little evasive about that …
Perhaps the escape line was brand new, or badly run or perhaps it was a complete shambles. Yes, there was always that possibility, though he’d be surprised. The Bretons were a cool, determined, closely-knit people. He’d be surprised if they mucked things up.
Well, whatever the situation, he’d give it a go. It was a marvellous challenge.
Besides, he had been on the Bay run for over nine months now and it was getting to him. Pretending to be a fishing boat was too much like sitting waiting to be a target at the Germans’ convenience. The boat had an engine, to be sure – but it produced only six knots. As much good as a wound-up elastic band. And then there was the small problem about being captured when disguised as a French fisherman. According to the powers-that-be all you had to do was to pop a Royal Navy Issue cap on your head, show your papers, and you’d be treated as a prisoner of war. Ashley wasn’t so sure: he had the feeling the Germans would politely ignore the caps and line you up against a wall for target practice.
He thought back to the last trip … It had gone wrong from the start. They’d gone to the Scillies as usual, to their secret anchorage, and turned the boat from a grey MFV into a Concarnean trawler, complete with bright orange
paint and a few fancy patterns on the transom. But as soon as they’d left, the weather had turned bad and they’d had an uncomfortable trip. When they eventually got to the Bay it had taken far too long to make contact with the fleet, and a Raumboot had got suspicious and almost put a landing party aboard. Finally, on the way back, they’d been caught. Good and proper. In his mind’s eye he saw it all again: everyone reaching for weapons, the low-flying plane, the bullets tearing into Jean-Pierre’s body … He shuddered.
Perhaps he was losing his nerve. He took out another cigarette and lit it. He looked at the hand holding the cigarette: its fingers were bright yellow with nicotine and shook slightly. Too many cigarettes. Too much booze. Definitely time for a change.
A tern called overhead and he looked up. He followed it as it soared towards the river mouth and the open sea. Any time now it would be flying south to its winter quarters on some Atlantic island. This summer there had been thousands of terns on Scilly.
The islands: that was the one thing he would miss.
Whenever they’d sailed to the secret anchorage in the north of the islands, to paint the fishing boat, he’d been happy.
The secret anchorage lay between two islands – Tresco and Bryher – in the small inlet known as New Grimsby Harbour. He had remembered coming there before the war – when was it?—’35? Some time then. The narrow inlet had been empty then, not a fishing boat or islanders’ gig to be seen. He had anchored Dancer in the centre of the basin, and rowed across to Bryher and made a camp on the shore, and walked round the island and watched the incredible surf in Hell Bay and wondered what it would be like to be shipwrecked. In the evening he had made a fire and cooked a couple of mackerel and slept under a tarpaulin in the shelter of a rock. The dawn had been still and yellow and he had watched a cormorant diving into the cool depths of the secret harbour. Later an oyster-catcher had appeared, its long yellow beak probing the stones uncovered by the falling tide. He had sat for a long time, quite motionless, not wanting anything to change, hoping it would be like that for ever.
He’d been twenty-one then, fresh out of Dartmouth, and greedy for everything, preferably all at once. Strange how everyone told you there was no going back, that the simplicity of your youth could never be recaptured; strange how right they were. But one day, when the world was sane again, he’d go back. One day, when there were no grey ships of war to ruin the quiet of that marvellous place, only Dancer tugging gently at her chain …
In the meantime he would miss the place.
He rubbed his eyes. His head ached terribly. He got wearily to his feet. He found himself reaching automatically for a cigarette and stopped in mid air. He must get fit. Soon he’d be running a proper ship again, crewed by the lads in blue. He was rather looking forward to it.
Chapter 14
JULIE DREW THE curtains over the tiny window and took a last look at the child in the bed. Peter was already fast asleep, his mouth slightly open, his breathing slow and steady. She pulled the covers up round his neck and kissed him softly on the cheek. He was such a big boy now, five and a half, and tall, oh so tall. She could hardly believe it – the time had gone so quickly. It seemed only yesterday that he was a baby.
She took a last look at him, then, picking up the flickering oil lamp, went down the steep staircase to her room. She paused and listened carefully. There was quite a wind; it was blowing round the house in long sighs. Outside, one of the cattle moved noisily against the side of the barn. Somewhere down in the village a dog was barking. Then, from almost overhead, a creaking noise. Julie stiffened, then relaxed as she recognised the sound of Peter settling more comfortably in his bed.
It was a habit now, listening. And not just for Peter – that was instinctive – but for other human sounds. The sounds of people arriving with messages or sometimes even ‘parcels’: foreign airmen with pale, frightened faces who were taken off into the night to some other more welcoming farmhouse. The comings and goings went on all the time now that autumn had come. She dreaded them; they made her horribly nervous. Yet – she had an awful urge to know. It was like being punished: the sooner you knew what was in store the easier it was to cope with.
And now she heard something. The sound of the back door opening. Someone had come then. Her heart sank. She opened the bedroom door and went quietly through into the kitchen. The figure of her uncle was leaning against the open doorway talking quietly and urgently to someone outside in the darkness.
Julie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eight o’clock.
They must have forgotten the time. They must have! She hovered uncertainly, wondering whether she should interrupt.
Now the person outside was speaking. The voice was louder, less secretive. Julie recognised it: the voice of the stranger, the leader, as he was meant to be. He was making no attempt to be discreet; he never did. But at this time of the evening Julie could hardly believe it. The man was mad … or stupid! Worse, from the way he was talking, Julie had a feeling he wasn’t going to stop.
The voice was saying, ‘… No, no, there is no problem there. I have Gaston from Plouga in charge. I have given him orders to bring the ten parcels from Madame Lelouche’s place. It is all organised, I assure you …’
Julie sighed with frustration. Surely Jean must realise the time and how dangerous it was … She looked at the clock again. It was two minutes past eight. She could bear it no longer. She came up beside her uncle and looked worriedly at the leader, waiting for a break in the conversation. But he continued to speak and Julie suddenly realised that he was doing it to impress her, to show her how important he was. She bit her lip with the effort of staying silent. Eventually the man said, ‘Ah, Madame! Good evening. I am sorry to disturb the household …’
‘Monsieur, … please, the soldiers will be back soon. You … your visits here put us in danger! Wouldn’t it be possible to come back later? Please!’
The stranger smiled thinly. ‘Madame, our business has to be properly planned! You obviously don’t understand what is involved … And I assure you that there is no danger.’
Julie thought: This man is impossible, like a brick wall. ‘Monsieur, surely the planning could be less – public!’
Jean shuffled uneasily and the stranger began to look annoyed. Julie couldn’t help feeling glad; at least she was getting through to them. The stranger said coldly, ‘Madame, you would do better to keep out of matters that do not concern you!’
Julie felt a surge of anger. ‘Monsieur, they concern me directly – which you seem to forget at your convenience!’
Jean put a hand on Julie’s shoulder and said gently, ‘It’s all right, he’s just going. Really.’
‘Not a moment too soon!’ She turned and strode over to the stove. She began to stir the soup too quickly and immediately slopped some of the liquid over the side of the pan. There was a spitting and hissing as the soup hit the hotplate. Julie reached impatiently for a cloth and dabbed the remaining liquid off the stove. She was shaking with anger. She hated losing her temper. She knew she should try to calm down but while this dreadful man was still at the door she just couldn’t. A pity Tante Marie was looking after Madame Gillet for the evening: she would have given him short shrift.
The burning soup was hissing loudly; Julie missed the sound of the front door opening and the steps crossing the front parlour. The rap on the parlour door made her jump so much that she jerked at the spoon and hot liquid spattered over her apron. She stared in horror as the door opened and the two familiar uniforms appeared. The two soldiers smiled politely at her as they always did, then looked curiously past her to where her uncle and the leader stood at the open back door.
For a moment they were all frozen, like a tableau: Julie at the stove, the soldiers in the doorway and the two men at the open back door. Then Jean gave the Germans a slight nod, turned his back on them and said to the man, ‘Well, I’ll deliver that grain in the morning, then. But I’ve only four kilos to spare – and I’ll have to charge you
a good price for it!’
The man smiled. ‘Fair enough. I know how it is – we must be commercial about this! Oh, and you won’t forget the other matter?’
Julie realised with dismay that the leader was enjoying the scene. He was going to play it out! He thought he was being so clever. Julie thought: What conceit! And she had the feeling he was fooling no-one: the two soldiers looked distinctly suspicious. Julie clattered some plates and said rather too loudly, ‘The soup is ready. Please go and sit down.’
The soldiers looked surprised: normally Julie never spoke to them. They shuffled back into the parlour and as soon as she heard them drawing up their chairs, she took in a tray with two bowls of soup and some bread on it. As she put the bowls on the table she heard the distant sound of the back door closing. The horrid man had gone. At last!
One of the soldiers started to speak to her, something about what a cold day it was. She ignored him as she usually did and he fell silent. Good. One might have to provide accommodation and two meals a day for them, but there was no law that said one had to speak to them. Julie left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Her uncle was standing by the stove. He made a wide expansive gesture with his hands, as if to say, What could I do?
Julie slumped into a chair and her uncle drew up another close beside her. They sat in silence until, finally, they heard the sound of chairs being scraped back in the parlour and the front door opening and closing again. The Germans had gone out for their customary drink. After a few minutes Julie spoke.
‘That man …’ She shook her head. ‘He is a danger. I know it – everyone knows it.’
‘Yes, but … Julie, please realise, we have to put up with him. He’s the only contact we have, the only hope of getting all the parcels away.’
‘Yes, but at what cost?’
The old man sighed. ‘I know, I know. But you must understand that there are no fewer than thirty parcels waiting to be sent away. If we can’t make contact with the British and have boats sent over, we’ll be stuck with them. The longer these parcels are here, the greater the risk for those hiding them. And there are more arriving every day! We must, we must, keep that contact, otherwise what are we to do? Give them over to the Germans, eh? Wait until our houses are bulging with British airmen and pretend they’re really French. Eh?’
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