by Conor Bender
***
Hambro chewed his lip in silence. He was annoyed that twice in twenty-four hours he was forced to deal with Combined Operations. He glowered at Mountbatten who sat across from him. The casual look on Mountbatten’s face as he reviewed the brief Hambro had brought for the meeting infuriated him to no end. “So you have a man on the ground in Normandy?” Mountbatten asked in surprise as he closed the brief.
Hambro glared at General Montgomery, who was sitting between them, but nodded. “Should have landed a few hours ago.”
Montgomery remained silent throughout the discourse, avoiding Hambro’s gaze, still feeling guilty for the situation Hambro was now in.
“Incredible,” Mountbatten said in awe. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how damn impressed I am with SOE.”
“We aim to please.”
“How soon will we begin receiving intelligence?”
A vein started to bulge on Hambro’s forehead but he kept his calm. “Difficult to say. Could be a week, maybe a month. My agent is one of our best. He’s thorough, and if the report takes some time it will be all the more worthwhile.”
“Leigh-Mallory tells me his aircraft will be able to gather sufficient information about the town alone. We may not even need your man there.”
Before Hambro could fire off a violent retort, Montgomery cut him off. “Dickie. Only amateurs dismiss the opportunity to gather more intelligence. You’d do well to use Hambro’s intelligence in your decision-making process.”
Mountbatten shrugged, closing the brief with finality. “Of course, my dear fellow. I am merely saying Hambro’s man may not need to skulk around Dieppe as much as we thought.”
“If you wish to plan this raid without SOE, you need only say so.” Hambro had never been a man for physical violence, but he leaned forward in his chair hoping for Mountbatten to offer a glib response.
“It seems I’m out of the frying pan and into the fire,” a familiar voice grumbled behind them.
Hambro, Mountbatten, and Montgomery stood up as the Prime Minister walked in.
“Just a discussion of strategy, sir.”
Winston Churchill grunted and shook each of their hands. He walked over to his desk and sat down heavily, giving them a wave of his hand signaling for them to sit.
“Where are we with the Africa Campaign?”
Hambro cleared his throat and replied, “Not good, sir. We got a good thrashing at Gazala, the commander was a man named Erwin Rommel.”
“Who?” Montgomery asked.
“Erwin Rommel. He’s a tank commander and a clever tactician. Heavily decorated in the Great War and wrote a book on military strategy called Infantry Attacks. He’s a huge proponent of blitzkrieg tactics, and I think he’ll give Field Marshal Wavell a hard time.”
“What makes you say that?” Churchill asked as he lit a thick cigar and began puffing on it.
“He’s an unorthodox fighter, and when he invaded France he was in the lead of the entire German army the whole time and took 10,000 prisoners in seven days.” Hambro handed Churchill a sheaf of documents. “The chaps call him the Desert Fox.”
“Sounds like your kind of man, Monty.”
“Just say the word, sir.”
The Prime Minister chuckled deep in his throat and started to investigate the sheaf of papers. “What is this?”
“Latest intelligence on the Empire of Japan’s conquest of China. Mao Zedong has started a vigorous defense and has halted the Japanese advance. At the moment Japan has a firm control of Manchuria and the north, but I don’t think they’ll be able to push any further south.”
Churchill scanned the documents and placed them on his table. “What about India?”
“It’s difficult to say. Before they can even contemplate India they’ll have to take Burma.”
“Why Burma?”
“They need to secure their supply lines, sir,” Montgomery furnished. He placed his fingertips together and looked intently at the ceiling. “The Japanese have grossly expanded their empire. Before they can go any further they need to solidify their supply lines.”
Churchill nodded slowly. “I’ll want to hear more about this, but let’s get to the matter at hand.” He turned and looked at Mountbatten. “Dickie, what is the latest on this Dieppe business?”
Hambro watched as Mountbatten flashed his Cheshire cat grin. “Good, sir. Monty has promised us some of his Canadian troops and we’re looking at June for execution.”
“What is the purpose of this raid? I’ve heard we’re committing thousands of troops to land and take the city. Why do this if we aren’t staying?”
A thin smile formed at the corners of Montgomery’s mouth, but he said nothing.
“The Army Chief of Staff has voiced some worries,” Churchill continued. “What makes Dieppe so worthwhile to invade?”
“Sir, a good question. But it’s not an invasion, it’s a raid. It will only take fifteen hours.”
“Nevertheless, I have some initial concerns. Can the raid be done in fifteen hours?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Churchill’s gaze slid from Mountbatten to Montgomery. “What do you think, Monty?”
“I think Combined Operations will need to figure out how to land the whole raiding force within an hour, and retreat just as quickly if they only have fifteen hours.”
Churchill nodded as he read through Hambro’s brief. “Charles, you have a man in the area?”
“Yes, sir. He was inserted last night. He should be en route to the safe house right now.”
Churchill nodded slowly and looked up at Mountbatten. “If experience has taught me anything, you don’t just jump into the fray when it comes to an amphibious landing. Too many things can go wrong if not properly prepared. I think we need to build up to this.”
“An excellent idea, sir. It’s interesting you say that. I was thinking the same thing!” Mountbatten exclaimed.
Hambro rolled his eyes and looked over at Montgomery who had a similar disgusted look on his face.
“We were looking at the town of Saint-Nazaire as a possible raid location. It would be ideal to conduct a medium-size raid as a proof of concept prior to Dieppe.”
Hambro couldn’t believe his ears. He truly wondered if Combined Operations had done any investigation into Saint-Nazaire or if Mountbatten was just making this up as he went.
“What’s at Saint-Nazaire?”
“A dry dock, sir. We could go in and disable the dry dock and attack any other targets of opportunity.”
The Prime Minister stayed silent for a time. Hambro wondered what was going through his head. Surely, after his experiences with Gallipoli and the fiasco at Dunkirk, he was wary of committing troops to an amphibious landing on the shores of Normandy or Brittany without a well-thought-out and objective plan. Hambro suspected that Churchill did not see Mountbatten as the most objective individual when it came to planning and risk assessment.
The Prime Minister cleared his throat, plucked the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward in his chair. “Dickie, as always, you have something up your sleeve. We’ve known about Saint-Nazaire for some time, but before I authorize a large-scale raid, I want to know more as to why it needs to occur.”
“Of course, Prime Minister, but might I point out that every day we wait is an opportunity for the Russians to broker a peace with the Nazis.”
“Dickie, I’m grateful that you concern yourself with the political ramifications of our military actions, but leave those concerns to me. Give me a plan and a reason why we must go after Saint-Nazaire now rather than later.” The Prime Minister looked over at Montgomery and Hambro. “Any questions or concerns, gentlemen?”
“No, sir,” Montgomery and Hambro chorused.
Churchill nodded and turned to Mountbatten, who had a disappointed look on his face. “It’s a clever idea, Dickie, but I n
eed the details for something this . . . grandiose.”
Mountbatten bobbed his head eagerly, stealing a quick glance at Montgomery and Hambro. “I will have the particulars within a fortnight, sir.”
Churchill smiled and gave a nod. “Good man.” He rose from his chair and the three of them followed suit. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time, but if you’ll excuse me I have a meeting with the Home Secretary right after this followed by my weekly meeting with His Majesty.”
The three of them nodded and quickly departed the Prime Minister’s office.
“Well, that should slow Dickie down,” Montgomery murmured when they were outside the Prime Minister’s office.
“It’s just another raid we may have to assist,” Hambro groaned.
“Yes, but he has to do his homework before he can bring it to the PM. It’ll take months for a Saint-Nazaire raid to occur. There’s still a chance that the Dieppe raid will die in the planning stages.”
“I hope so,” Hambro said soberly. He had significant concerns about Mountbatten’s cavalier way of running Combined Operations.
***
Cutter arrived in Quiberville just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. He said a silent prayer in thanks for the thick fog that had rolled in almost out of nowhere. It had made it all the easier to avoid being spotted as he walked to the village.
He ambled up the dirt road toward the edge of town and spotted his safe house. “Perfect,” Cutter muttered in satisfaction, surprised that he wasn’t lost or in the wrong place. It was easy enough to spot, it was the last in a row of houses that lined an alley that led to the main street of Quiberville. He walked up to the front door of the cottage and knocked. As he waited, he looked around and surveyed the area. The town was charming, like something out of a postcard from a relative on holiday. Cutter breathed in deeply. The smell of the sea coupled with the smell of the fields was something he had sorely missed. Of all the regions of France, Normandy was his favorite.
He stopped looking around as he heard footsteps moving toward the door from inside the house. Cutter half expected a German soldier to open the door and was surprised by the woman who stood in the doorway. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, Cutter guessed. She was tall, lithe, and very pretty with dark brown hair and gray, almond-shaped eyes. She took Cutter off guard, and alarm bells went off in the back of his head. His contact at the safe house was Francois Crevier, not some girl.
“Bonjour?” The girl looked at Cutter questioningly.
Cutter quickly recovered from the shock. “Bonjour, how are you?” he said in French.
“Bien, can I help you?”
“Yes, I hope so, I was told—” he said, then paused and looked around in confusion. “Forgive me, maybe I am in the wrong place. I’m looking for Monsieur Crevier.”
The girl nodded. “This is his house. Who are you?”
“Olivier Deschamps. Who are you?” Cutter said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He wasn’t in the mood to sit around outside talking this early in Nazi-occupied France.
“Talia Crevier.”
Cutter didn’t hesitate. He had no idea who she was, but his occupational specialty was improvisation. “Pleasure to meet you.” He tipped his hat to her. “I’m a good friend of your father’s. If I may say so it is quite rude to not invite me in. It’s rather cold out here.”
Talia made a face, a cross between annoyance and anger, but let him in. Cutter walked into the kitchen and put his case on the kitchen table. “I need to see your father. I—” He stopped talking as he turned around. Talia stood by the doorway, her eyes fixed on him, a Walther P38 trained on his chest.
“Who are you?”
“Olivier Deschamps. Where is your father?” Cutter slowly put his hands up. Goddammit. A sinking feeling crept into the back of his head. Just once he wished things would go smoothly. Cutter kept his cool and eyed Talia for a long moment, studying her body language, trying to estimate what she would do next. He had drastically misjudged her, and he wondered if that was common for her. Cutter could tell by the way she held the pistol and asked him questions that she wasn’t afraid or uncertain; two things he had hoped to use to his advantage.
“Francois is dead. He was my uncle.”
Cutter looked at Talia but said nothing. His face remained emotionless as his mind raced. Francois Crevier was the only person in Northern France who knew him by sight. No one else had ever met him, and the Resistance had already had numerous cells destroyed from the inside by Abwehr agents posing as SOE agents. There was a good chance the Resistance would kill him if he couldn’t prove who he was quickly. “How did he die?”
“Gestapo raided one of our meetings. Francois was shot. I helped him escape, but he bled out in the woods. We knew you were coming, but I need some proof that you are who you say you are.”
“‘Our,’ ‘we’?” Cutter asked suspiciously. Francois must have told his compatriots that an SOE agent named Olivier Deschamps was coming. At least he was expected by them, he thought. Cutter’s eyes narrowed as another thought entered his mind. For all he knew Talia could be a German plant and the entire cell was dead.
“Yes, I am part of the Resistance.”
Cutter eyed her coolly, but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t what came to mind when he thought of a Maquis fighter. She was young, maybe a year younger than he was.
“Is it that difficult to believe? Because I am a woman?”
Cutter remained silent, but he found his opening. A chink in the armor! If he could get her to lose her temper, maybe he could get her close enough to disarm her. He sat down slowly, keeping his hands visible to Talia. “No, it’s just you aren’t even old enough to drink.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Cutter looked about the room. If she was a plant, the Germans would be in the area, and he would be better off trying to shoot his way out than being captured. She still hadn’t searched him and he still had his knife and pistol. On the other hand, if she was in fact part of the Resistance, then she was the only friend Cutter had at the moment. “Where are your parents?”
“Killed by the Gestapo in Paris. I was brought here by my uncle when they died.”
Cutter nodded and slowly stood up. “Right. Well, take me to the Resistance.” He kept his hands visible but started to walk slowly toward the door.
Talia shook the gun, reaffirming her willingness to shoot him. “Stop moving.”
Cutter stopped. He was arm’s length from her. “Come on, let’s go.” He motioned to the door.
Talia’s eyes followed the motion and looked at the door for a split second. Cutter took full advantage of the misdirection and grabbed Talia’s forearm and the top of the pistol with both hands; he swiftly pushed her forearm away and ripped the gun in the opposite direction simultaneously. It was over in an instant; Cutter grabbed her by the forearm and propelled her into the wall. He covered her mouth suppressing a scream. “Stay quiet and I’ll take my hand off your mouth.”
She squirmed for a moment, then stopped. She glared at Cutter in cold fury. Her gray eyes betrayed the frustration and anger she felt, but it wasn’t directed at Cutter so much as at her own carelessness.
Cutter slowly removed his hand and nodded to her. “Look, I honestly don’t have time for this rubbish. Take me to the Resistance. Someone there can verify who I am.” He sat back down at the kitchen table and field-stripped the P38.
Talia looked at Cutter in contempt, but sat down across from him.
“Nice to know we can be civil.”
Talia murmured something under her breath that Cutter didn’t quite hear, but assumed it wasn’t a compliment.
Cutter looked around the kitchen. It was small but it had the essentials, and he was ravenous. While in the C-47, he had emptied his stomach twice over the Channel when they had hit turbulence. His stomach growled and he walked over to the stove and lit it. “Tea?” he asked Talia as he filled the kettle with water and t
ore a piece of bread from the loaf that sat on the kitchen counter.
She shook her head. Cutter shrugged and put the kettle on the stove and sat back down. She was being difficult. Whether it was the stubbornness that came with adolescence, or the genuine distrust of Cutter, she wasn’t being cooperative. It was time to play rough. Cutter didn’t want to stay in Normandy any longer than he had to, and he had a schedule to keep. “Alright, Ms. Crevier, the way I see it we have two options. I can kill you and go out on my own and find the Resistance or you can help me.” He leaned forward in his chair, his hand moving slowly toward the F-S knife in his waistband. “So what’s it going to be?” It was an empty threat, but she didn’t know that.
Talia eyed Cutter, surprised by the ease with which he threatened her with death. “We’ll meet with the Resistance this afternoon.”
“Splendid.” Cutter flashed a warm smile and got up as the water began to boil in the kettle, mixed in tea leaves, and let it steep. “Do you have milk?”
***
The morning went by in a relatively civil fashion. Cutter spent the better part of their time asking about the surrounding area, getting an understanding for the village and their relationship with the Germans. Talia had stonily answered his questions, but had refused to give much in regard to her own personal history. By the time they left the safe house to meet with members of the Resistance, Cutter had a fair understanding of the town and felt like he could pass as a local.
Before leaving, Cutter had worked out a solid cover story with Talia. If anyone asked who Cutter was she was to tell them that he was a family friend from Cherbourg. Cutter had given Talia details to his own legend, and had made sure not to give any information about who he really was. As far as she was concerned he was a history student without a school because of the war. He suspected that Talia knew he was lying when he told her he was a French native, but she said nothing. As they left the safe house, Cutter inquired about the neighbors, “Anyone I need to worry about?”
“No. Madame Delacroix lives in the white cottage down that alleyway.” Talia pointed out the kitchen window toward it. “She’s nosy and loves to watch people from her window, but is for the most part harmless. She hates the Germans.”