by Conor Bender
“Why not just invade rather than conduct a measly raid?”
“We aren’t ready.”
Hambro gritted his teeth and struggled to keep his temper. Leigh-Mallory’s flippant answers and quickness to bat away any criticism or concerns weren’t inspiring confidence. With every question he circumvented or downplayed, Hambro could visibly see the confidence in this operation begin to erode on the faces of the commanders who would participate. He leaned forward in his chair and raised his hand. “Didn’t the Saint-Nazaire raid show the Russians our intentions?”
The question had its desired effect. Both Mountbatten and Leigh-Mallory paused and exchanged looks, unsure how to answer. If they said yes, then their audience would wonder why another raid needed to happen. If they said no, the most obvious question that would follow would be if the Saint-Nazaire raid didn’t soothe Russian concerns how would a raid on Dieppe?
“Well . . .” Mountbatten hesitated.
Hambro continued, “It seems like this raid is a frivolous expenditure of manpower and offensive capability.”
Leigh-Mallory took a step forward from the podium and pointed an accusatory finger down the table. “Now see here Mr. Hambro.” His face grew red with frustration. “This raid has significant political and military value.” No one was listening as he attempted to rebut Hambro’s claims. Churchill, Lovat, and Jacobs had broken into their own discussion, as had Montgomery and Commander Ryder.
Hambro hadn’t meant to derail the discussion, nor had he wanted to. He looked around the room and could hear Churchill and Lovat discussing troop deployment concerns, while Montgomery and Commander Ryder were arguing ship-to-shore movement of armor and vehicles.
Mountbatten shot Hambro a contemptuous glare and slapped the table. “Gentlemen, silence please!” He looked around the room. Satisfied that he was back in control, he turned and looked at Hambro. “Mr. Hambro, I understand your concerns, but I assure you that the benefits far outweigh the risks of this raid. Further, this raid has been approved by the Prime Minister and has been given the nod by the Canadian and American governments for Allied participation.” He let that final bit of information sink in.
Hambro looked over at Montgomery in confusion. The look of perplexed annoyance on Montgomery’s face told Hambro that this was news to him as well.
“What of the Joint Chiefs?” Montgomery asked, his beady eyes transfixed on Mountbatten. “Are they in agreement with this plan?”
Mountbatten smiled slyly and nodded, as though he had just moved a pawn across a chess board and captured his opponent’s queen. “They were informed this morning.”
Montgomery wordlessly nodded and leaned back in his chair. Hambro could tell by the fire in his eyes that he was struggling to keep his emotions under control.
Mountbatten looked around the room in Machiavellian glee. “We are not alone in this fight, gentlemen, and we cannot fall to rancor if we are expected to lead our allies.”
“You mean if Combined Operations is expected to lead,” Churchill murmured, and was elbowed by Lovat.
Hambro kept his expression blank, but his brain was already racing through all the possible ripples a raid on Dieppe would generate. First and foremost, he realized he needed to get Cutter out of Normandy before this raid went any further. He looked over at Montgomery one last time, hoping he was poised for a counter argument, but the resigned look on his face devastated him.
***
Cutter read the transmission a second time in surprise, and did his best to hide his joy. He was going home tomorrow; he couldn’t believe it.
Claude anxiously looked over his shoulder. “What does it say?”
“Saint-Nazaire was raided.” Cutter touched a lighter to the paper and let it burn. “More raids to come.” He knew Claude would not react well to his departure; he needed to make sure he left on good terms and peaceably.
“That’s good news!” Durand clapped his hands excitedly. “We can start attacking more Germans and blame your commandos for it.”
Cutter nodded silently looking at Talia, a pang of guilt overcoming him. As rocky as their relationship was he didn’t want to abandon her.
Talia read his face and frowned. “What else did it say?”
“I’m to be extracted tomorrow.”
Talia stared at him but said nothing. The room erupted into murmurs as the Resistance members started talking among themselves.
Claude motioned for them to be silent and looked at Cutter. “Are you being replaced?”
“It didn’t specify.”
Claude leaned against the wall of the barn, deep in thought.
Durand looked around anxiously as the radio operators broke down the radio. “We should go.”
Claude nodded absently but didn’t move from his spot. “I don’t understand.” His features were a combination of confusion and agitation. “Is England abandoning us?”
Cutter shook his head. “I’m sure they have their reasons.” He looked around the room and saw the look of alarm on everyone’s faces. “I’ll make sure supplies and munitions continue to get to you.”
Claude nodded slowly, not convinced. He looked over at Durand who was anxiously waiting for him to give the word to depart.
“We should go.” He turned to Talia. “Get Olivier back to the house. I’ll come and get him tomorrow evening for the pickup.”
Cutter was surprised there wasn’t more of a fight from Claude. He had expected at least a heated argument.
Talia nodded and wordlessly walked out of the barn, not bothering to see if Cutter was following her.
Cutter jogged after her and caught up.
“Looks like you’ll be escaping back to your home.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No, but you’ll be leaving us all behind without a second thought.”
“That’s not true. You know that.” They got in the car and took off away from the barn. Although Cutter was ecstatic about leaving, a part of him didn’t want to abandon Talia. Her words the other week still stung, and he wondered if there was a grain of truth in them.
“You’ve kept your emotions in check this entire time. I doubt you’ll slip up now and tell me what you’re really feeling.”
Cutter looked at Talia with sadness in his eyes. Was he really as apathetic as she thought? He downshifted and turned the wheel, putting the car on the main road. “I’ve already learned the cost of becoming close with previous contacts with the Resistance.”
Talia looked at him, the ice in her eyes thawing somewhat. “A woman?”
Cutter shook his head. “Victor Boucher,” his voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “He was my friend and I killed him.”
Talia stared at him in surprise, unsure what to say. They drove in silence for what felt like minutes before Talia finally spoke.
“Who was he?”
“He was my contact in Paris. We had been working together for months gathering intelligence on German plans to invade England. I lived in his house with his wife and daughter for three months. And to prevent him from being captured and interrogated by the Gestapo, I killed him in an alleyway and ran for my life.”
Talia looked at Olivier in surprise. This was the first time he had ever told a story that Talia actually believed was true. She had suspected that he had lost people. Who hadn’t in this war? But by his own hand. She wondered if she could have done the same in his position. Could she kill her friends for the Resistance? Am I willing to kill Claude? Durand? She gave Olivier a pitied look as she wondered if she could have killed Francois. Yes. She shivered at the self-revelation. It wasn’t something she wished to acknowledge, but she was willing to put the Resistance before her friends; it was what Francois had taught her to do. She looked over at Olivier and could see the discomfort on his face. Did his actions justify his distance from her? No. Olivier had shut himself out to others to save himself, not to do his job.
Cutter drummed his fingers on the da
shboard. He had told no one about Victor. It was something SOE advocated their spies to be willing to do. But as far as Cutter knew, he was the only one who had been willing to do it. He had always thought that only a ruthless bastard would be willing to kill not just a contact but an ally and accomplice in fighting the Nazis. He had never thought that he had the stomach or the will to do such a thing and it terrified him.
“This is why you’ve acted so distant with me? To be able to kill me if captured?”
Cutter shuddered and avoided her gaze. “I did it because the less you knew about me the less likely you’d be of use to the Germans.” He paused, the truth catching in the back of his throat. “Also, if you were killed, I didn’t want to be responsible for your death,” his voice cracked and he forced himself to turn and face her. The look on her face shattered any remaining barriers he was trying to keep up.
Talia looked at him in shock. Her mouth hung half open and her eyes shined as tears formed. She had never been willing to admit it to herself, but she had suspected his motives for being distant. Nonetheless, hearing them being confessed was like a vicious punch to the stomach. She struggled to control her breathing and fight back her tears. As terrible and painful as it was for her to hear Olivier say that, anger wasn’t her first reaction. It was pity. She caught her breath and struggled to control her voice. When she spoke her voice was firm and matronly, “Olivier, that is part of your job. That is the risk you inherit by being a provocateur and a spy!”
“This isn’t a responsibility I want. I didn’t ask to come here!”
“Do you think I asked for the Nazis to invade my country? We don’t always have a say in the circumstances that impact our lives. You may not want the emotional responsibility that comes with espionage, but it’s your burden.”
Cutter nodded but remained silent, unsure of how to respond. He parked the car in the alley behind the house and looked over at Talia. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apology.” Talia looked over at him, her eyes hard but gentle simultaneously. “You’ve let fear rule your life and I pity you for that.”
“I did this to protect you!” Cutter sputtered in protest.
Talia shook her head. “No, you did this to protect yourself.” She opened the car door and started to get out. “I wish you the best of luck in England.”
CHAPTER 10
SQUADRON LEADERS
Faraday landed his Spitfire and taxied to the flight line where he shut down the engine and started to clamber out of his aircraft.
Sergeant Roland, as usual, was the first to greet him as he hopped off the wing. “Good flight, sir?”
“All quiet on the Western Front. You’ll be happy to know I brought your aircraft back in one piece.”
“Marvelous, sir. It’s the one thing that gets me through the day, knowing I have less work to do on that plane.”
Cutter grinned and looked around. He spotted Squadron Leader King and a number of pilots, including a few of his own standing off away from the flight line staring at him. “What’s the squadron leader doing?”
“I believe he was giving a class on aerial tactics before you landed.”
Faraday shot Roland a look, suspecting some skulduggery.
Roland betrayed nothing and gave Faraday a look of innocence. Faraday shook his head and jumped off the wing of the aircraft and walked over to where King and everyone else stood.
“Had I known there was an audience, I would have charged for the spectacle of my landing!”
Squadron Leader King didn’t say anything but pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and squinted at them, preparing to read. “Attention to orders!”
The gaggle of pilots behind him straightened up and stood at the position of attention for the orders. The smile on Faraday’s lips faded and was replaced by a look of confusion.
“His Highness George VI by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland, and the British dominions beyond the seas, King, Defender of the faith, Emperor of India, etc. To our trusty and well-beloved Ian Nathan Faraday, greetings: We reposing especial trust and confidence in your loyalty, courage, and good conduct, do by these presents constitute and appoint you to the rank of Squadron Leader on this twentieth day of April 1942.”
King continued reading the promotion citation as Faraday’s head spun. He realized he was still gawking halfway through the presentation and quickly straightened up and looked straight ahead. The promotion took him totally by surprise. He wondered darkly if there was a shortage of squadron leaders and that was why he was being promoted.
Faust and Chambers walked up to him and replaced the flying lieutenant boards on his shoulders with those of a squadron leader. They saluted, shook his hand, and walked back to where they were standing behind King.
King finished by having Faraday recite the oath of office and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Ian.”
“Thank you. This is all a little overwhelming.”
King grinned wickedly and looked behind Faraday at something. Faraday turned to look and as he did so he saw King take a giant step away as Argyle and O’Brien ran up with a giant bucket between them and poured it over Faraday.
Faraday had no chance to dodge the bucket and felt the ice-cold water hit his neck. He cringed as they emptied the bucket over his head, and let out a yelp as the cold water hit him. As he breathed in, he caught a whiff of his drenched clothes and realized they hadn’t poured water on him, but beer.
He looked around at the gaggle of officers as they howled with laughter. “There better be an actual mug of beer on standby for me after that!”
Roland walked up to him and handed him a canned beer. “It’s not draft, but it’ll do the job, sir.”
Faraday took the beer and shook Roland’s hand. “Goddamn, you’re a good chief.” He cracked the beer and took a giant sip and poured the rest over his head much to the roaring applause of the squadron. “Everyone to the pub,” Faraday shouted, “first round is on me.”
“Now you’re talking, sir!” Argyle shouted.
“Everyone except you!” Faraday called, he crushed the beer can and chucked it at Argyle.
Everyone made their way across the flight line to the tavern that had become the de facto squadron-only social club. Faraday bellied up to the bar and threw a few quid down. “Richard, a round for the lads!”
Faraday grabbed two beers and handed one to King.
“Cheers.” Faraday took a heavy drought from the mug and looked over at Faust, who was explaining to Tombs and Stokes the details of his latest mission.
“So there I was at fifty feet above sea level,” Faust shouted over the din, making hand motions with both hands showing how close he was to the deck, “out of options . . . out of ideas . . .” He looked around the group and gave a cheeky grin before saying, “In a flat in London.”
“What was his name?”
“Come to think of it Billy, I think it was your mother’s house!”
Faraday and King both laughed hard and walked to the corner of the bar rather than witness Billy Hastings trying to kill Faust.
“I just got word from Group; they want me sent over to 121 Squadron. Their squadron leader got shot down a month ago.”
“Pete Bailey got shot down?”
King nodded. “Yes, but we confirmed that he bailed out and was captured. He is currently in a POW camp,” King assured him. “I forgot you knew Peter.”
“He ran the school I was an instructor at up at Turnhouse. We also were students together.”
“Don’t worry about him. Peter is a resourceful chap, I’m sure he’ll lead a blitz from whatever POW camp he is at.”
“Anyone talk to Sharon?”
“We take care of our own, you know that.”
“Who’s taking care of her?”
“Her father is a professor down at Oxford; she took their son and is staying with him. She has a brother, too, does some silly work with the War Office. She should be fine.”
“So who is tak
ing over 71?”
“You.”
Faraday snorted mid sip, beer shooting out of his nose. “What?”
“You’re a squadron leader now, Ian, it’s time for you to start behaving like one.”
“I don’t know the first thing about being a squadron leader.”
“Yes, you do. You’ve commanded a flight, now you just command two. I’ll see about diverting pilots here to stand Victor Flight back up before I leave.”
“Mike, I—”
But King wouldn’t have it. “Ian, you’ll do fine. Stop doubting yourself.” He looked up at the clock above the bar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late, I’m tired, and there can only be one squadron leader at this bar.” He grabbed his jacket from one of the bar stools and made his way over to the door without another word, leaving Faraday and the squadron to continue on without him.
***
“Hello, Arch.” Atkinson shot him a toothy grin. “Welcome back.”
Cutter made his way off the C-47 parked on the runway, and gave a weak smile. “Freddy, why the hell am I back in England?”
“I thought you’d be happy to be home.”
Cutter walked toward him and shook his hand. “I am. Just surprised.”
“Well, you set them up for success, we’ll send someone else in to finish your work.” Atkinson motioned Cutter to the car.
“Where are we going?” Cutter asked as he clambered in.
“Back to headquarters; the old man wants to see you.” Atkinson shut the car door and started the engine.
“What’s the rush? Last time I got back you drove me straight to my flat and told me to bugger off for the day and come in in the morning.”
“Well last time, you were a nervous wreck and skittish as a horse.”
Cutter gave a glib shrug. “Fleeing Nazi-occupied Paris tends to do that to you.”
So does killing a contact, Atkinson thought darkly as he started to drive back toward downtown London.
“I heard about the raid. What’s the damage?”
Atkinson grunted unhappily, “Politically or militarily?”