Operation XD

by James Barrington as Max Adams

  Inside were two bottles of British beer, presumably part of the supplies shipped out with the British forces a few weeks earlier, a couple of bottles of red wine and two packets of sandwiches that he had watched one of the cooks prepare. So it wasn’t any great surprise to him when Michaels opened one of the packets and looked slightly disappointed with what he found inside.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Dawson said apologetically, ‘but cheese was all they had. They’d finished breakfast, see, but not started lunch.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Dawson. It’s food, and that’s what’s important. So get stuck in.’

  But the corporal hadn’t quite finished his explanation.

  ‘The other thing is the wine, sir. When the cook gave it to me, he said it wasn’t the best vintage, whatever that means.’

  ‘Ah.’ Michaels picked up one of the bottles and looked critically at the label. ‘Not very helpful,’ he said. ‘About all it tells me is that it’s red wine, ordinary red wine – vin rouge ordinaire – and I could have guessed that from just looking at it.’

  He opened the rear door of the car and rooted around in his kitbag which he’d placed alongside Dawson’s on the back seat. After a few seconds he walked back to the bonnet of the car holding a tin mug and a metal gadget that looked like a large penknife. He pulled open one of the blades to reveal that it was actually a corkscrew, and with the deftness born of long practice he screwed it into the cork and eased it out of the neck of the bottle, the cork coming free from the tight embrace of the glass with a loud pop.

  Michaels lifted the neck of the bottle to his nose and gave a cautious sniff.

  ‘It doesn’t smell too bad,’ he said hopefully, then poured a couple of inches of wine into his mug and took a sip. Immediately, his face contorted into a grimace, and he shook his head. ‘God, that’s rough,’ he said. ‘It tastes more like vinegar than wine, and vinegar that was only bottled yesterday. Still, it might take the edge off the taste of those cheese sandwiches. Or vice versa. Do you want some of this, Dawson?’

  Michaels proffered the bottle, but Dawson shook his head firmly.

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ he said. ‘But I think I’ll stick with the devil I know, rather than that rotgut. This is British beer, so it shouldn’t be too bad.’

  ‘Good decision.’

  Michaels unscrewed the cork from the end of his gadget, snapped it shut, and then opened a different blade, at the end of which was a bottle opener. He passed the tool to Dawson, who levered the cap off one of the bottles and then passed the tool back to the captain.

  ‘Useful gadget, that,’ he said. ‘I normally whack the cap off with a bayonet, or just snap the top off the bottle.’

  ‘I’ve had it for years. I think it was made in France, oddly enough.’

  They ate the rest of their snack meal in virtual silence, Michaels taking small and cautious sips of red wine from his tin mug, while Dawson drank his liquid refreshment straight from the bottle.

  ‘We should save one sandwich each,’ Michaels suggested, ‘because we don’t know if we’re going to find anywhere in Rouen where we can get a meal tonight. I don’t know how close the Germans are to the city, or what the situation is there. I know we’ve got our standard ration packs, but eating anything out of those really has to be a meal of last resort.’

  ‘Are you taking the wine with you, sir?’ Dawson asked, gesturing towards the opened bottle that was still over half full.

  ‘Might as well, I suppose. It seemed to get better after the first few mouthfuls,’ Michaels said, pushing the cork back into the neck of the bottle. ‘Probably because it has completely anaesthetized my taste buds. And we can always try running the car on it if we get short of fuel.’

  Dawson put the unopened bottle of beer and the two bottles of wine back in the cardboard box, along with the packets of sandwiches, both now much smaller because of what they had eaten.

  Then they got back on the road again, making the best time they could towards Rouen, which would be where they would start their surveillance operation of the tank farms and refineries that lined the north bank of the River Seine.

  Chapter 20

  24 May 1940

  France

  Unbeknown to either Michaels or Dawson, the tactical situation had changed with dramatic rapidity within just hours of their departure from Portsmouth on board the Royal Navy destroyer.

  Motorcycle messengers had ridden through the night from the Director of Military Operations at the War Office in London to the KFRE base at Gravesend, arriving just before midnight and bringing urgent sealed orders. The reconnaissance operation being conducted by Michaels and Dawson, an operation that hadn’t even started, had already been rendered pointless and obsolete by the escalating speed of the German advance across the fertile fields and flat countryside of northern France.

  Suddenly, it wasn’t just a matter of surveying the concentration of tank farms and deciding how best to demolish them and destroy the oil stocks if it should prove to be necessary in the future. Now, there was absolutely no doubt in the minds of the Allied planners that the oil had to be first secured, and then fired, well before the first German divisions could arrive and seize it. And the Nazis were already pushing back the Allied forces far quicker than anyone had ever expected.

  At the KFRE barracks near Gravesend, the officers were roused from their beds and the men from their bunk rooms, and in the darkness of the camp, illuminated by the light from the almost full moon shining through the clouds, augmented by the lights of the surrounding buildings, the sections were formed up on the parade ground and checked off with a roll call. At the same time, lorries were started in the motor pool, the locked magazines opened and arms, ammunition and explosives loaded into the backs of the trucks. The officers and men followed the stores into the lorries and the convoy, hastily assembled by men who’d had too little sleep and too much to do, rumbled out of the camp gates and got on the road in the early hours of the new day.

  From Gravesend they headed south-east, passing through Chatham, going on to Canterbury and finally arriving in Dover at just before six in the morning. The convoy was expected, and the lorries were waved straight through to the harbour. There, the men rallied round and as quickly as possible they unloaded the stores from the backs of the lorries and piled them on the quayside. Once the loads had been emptied, the vehicle engines were started again and the lorries drove away from the harbour, back towards the Gravesend depot.

  Minutes later, a tender appeared out of the gloom beside the group and the stores were moved again, this time down a set of concrete steps and onto the deck of the fairly small boat, passed down a chain of men, hand over hand. With their equipment loaded, the tender then began ferrying both men and munitions out to one of a pair of Royal Navy destroyers riding at anchor in Dover’s large harbour. The other ship was also the destination of a demolition party, but that one was formed by naval personnel.

  For not quite the final time – they would obviously have to be unloaded when the ship reached its destination, wherever that was, because none of the soldiers knew for certain at that stage exactly where they were going – they transferred the boxes of explosives and other stores from the tender up ladders and onto the deck of their destroyer. There were too many boxes and cases to be stowed below deck, and the same applied to the members of the demolition party itself. A powerful force, there were far too many of them to be accommodated in the messes and wardroom below on such a small ship so, just like the stores, they were dispersed around the open decks in safe and sheltered spots.

  The destroyer on which the KFRE group was being accommodated showed the unmistakable signs of recent frantic activity, with discarded weapons, ammunition clips and spent cartridge cases scattered across her decks. One of the ship’s officers confirmed to Captain Rochester, the officer in charge of the KFRE detachment, that the vessel had been involved in an evacuation job during that night, and that the crew were still doing their best to clean up after the hectic no
cturnal activity that had taken place.

  The KFRE officers were invited down to the wardroom for breakfast – not a cooked meal, but only a selection of sandwiches, because even the chefs were busy helping clear up after what had been going on. As was the norm on Royal Navy warships, the wardroom had been used as both a dressing station to tend to minor wounds and as a makeshift operating theatre to handle more serious cases during the evacuation: the area was still littered with bandages and pads and the like, and smelled quite strongly of medical disinfectant overlaid with other, even less pleasant aromas. And, again in the naval tradition, the sandwiches provided to them were washed down with mugs of hot and strong tea.

  With everything and everyone secured, both destroyers then had to wait for the signal that they were clear to proceed, which was passed to them at a few minutes after nine in the morning. With permissions granted, both ships raised their anchors and nosed their way slowly out of the harbour and out into the surprisingly smooth waters of the narrowest part of the English Channel. They turned south-west, away from the sun that had now risen, took up station in line astern formation and began to increase speed.

  That confirmed the destination for those in the party who knew the basics of navigation, and there were several men who could claim that particular skill. Within minutes, the rumour that they were heading for France had gained considerable weight. What they were all certain about was that they would only be on board for a fairly short time, simply because they were being accommodated on the open decks. If they were heading for the Mediterranean or Africa or some other distant destination, they would have been sent there on board a troopship, because not even the Royal Navy would expect them to spend three or four days or more on the open decks of a ship and totally exposed to the elements. No, it had to be France, and some part of that expansive country that was reasonably close to the shores of Britain.

  France, after all, was where all the action was taking place, with the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) having moved to France in September of the previous year to strengthen that country’s defences and support the French military. And it was the BEF and the French forces that were now in such trouble in France, being pushed back far quicker than anybody had ever anticipated by the seemingly unstoppable advance of wave upon wave of German troops and armour.

  The sea was almost unnaturally calm as the two ships headed south-west, and there was barely a cloud anywhere in the sky, the beautiful day contrasting sharply with the scattered evidence of the night’s evacuation that was lying all around them.

  And it was the calm sea that perhaps saved the leading destroyer from sustaining serious damage. A couple of hours after leaving Dover, a dark circular object was spotted from the bridges of both ships at almost the same moment, clearly visible in the placid water. It was a floating mine that would have been near invisible in the more normal choppy conditions generally experienced in the English Channel. The leading destroyer made a slight turn to keep well clear, while marksman on the second ship clustered near the stern of the vessel with their rifles, waited until the mine had floated far enough away not to be a danger to them, and then detonated it with a sustained volley of fire from their Lee-Enfields.

  Not long after that, a lone aircraft appeared in the clear sky some distance ahead. Immediately, klaxons sounded on board both ships and the steel decks echoed to the pounding of running feet as the gun crews closed up and manned the anti-aircraft batteries.

  The aircraft stayed high, but turned towards the two destroyers, the pilot presumably intending to confirm their identity. As it came closer, lookouts on the bridge of the leading ship used their binoculars and confirmed that it was friendly, a Royal Air Force aircraft. It descended to a lower level, circled around the two destroyers, waggled its wings in salute and then climbed away and disappeared from view further down the Channel.

  To the surprise of everyone on board, and particularly some of the KFRE soldiers who had endured extremely unpleasant voyages on the decks of Royal Navy vessels, having been tossed around by the waves, flung from side to side as the ship manoeuvred to avoid bombs or strafing by enemy fighter aircraft, those two incidents – the floating mine and friendly aircraft – were all that happened on the entire voyage. Even the approach to the French harbour of Le Havre was without incident, the destroyer coming alongside the jetty just after three o’clock in the afternoon.

  As soon as the ship had berthed, the soldiers were on their feet and getting ready to leave the vessel. With the gangway down, they began shifting the piles of boxes containing their explosives and other munitions from the ship and onto dry land. Lorries were available for onward transportation, and almost the entire group, together with their stores, were then driven to a somewhat dismal and unpleasant destination: a transit camp. There was a significant British military presence in the town, because the River Seine formed a part of the essential communication lines that had been put in place by the BEF to support their combat operations.

  As the OIC – the Officer In Charge – Rochester made his way through the town to the building housing the headquarters of the British forces, where he was given a general intelligence report detailing the situation in the surrounding area and an appreciation of the overall tactical picture. He was also told that for more detailed and accurate information, and also for the authority to carry out demolition operations along the north bank of the Seine, he would need to report to Rouen, and to the GOC, the general officer commanding.

  That hadn’t been what he’d hoped or expected, but there was clearly no alternative. He obtained a staff car and, accompanied by the adjutant of the Gravesend KFRE detachment, Lieutenant Barber, behind the wheel, they set off to drive the 60 or so miles from Le Havre to Rouen. It was not a long journey, but it took them far longer than either officer could have anticipated. The problem was that the speed of the German advance had clearly alarmed the French military authorities in the area, and they had responded, somewhat strangely, by positioning makeshift roadblocks at dozens of locations on the road linking the two towns. In the main, these consisted of derelict cars, farm wagons of various types and sizes and other objects which had clearly been chosen because of both their weight and their relative ease of movement: almost every part of each roadblock was a wheeled vehicle of some description. Quite how the French authorities believed that these temporary blockades, manned by a motley collection of soldiers, sailors and in some cases members of the Garde Républicaine – the French Republican Guard, more used to carrying out ceremonial duties than handling weapons loaded with live ammunition – would fare against an assault by a division of Panzer or Tiger tanks was far from clear.

  In fact, the only purpose being served by these blockades was to delay the progress of people on a legitimate mission, people like Rochester and Barber. Every time the staff car was brought to a halt at one of these roadblocks, both men were forced to get out of the vehicle and then try to explain to the people manning it that they were Allied soldiers on a legitimate mission. This task was made significantly more difficult because neither man spoke more than a few words of French, and all their documentation was of course written in English, a language not spoken or read by any of the roadblock guards.

  So despite the fact that the journey only covered some 60 miles, it took over eight hours to reach Rouen having passed through – eventually – about twenty roadblocks. By the time they drove into the town, it was almost midnight.

  Clearly, there was no chance of seeing the general officer commanding at that time of night, so Rochester and Barber made their way to the railway transport officer, a remarkably useful person to get to know in unfamiliar surroundings. He was able, after making a couple of telephone calls, to arrange an appointment for them with the GOC at eight o’clock the following morning.

  With that achieved, they found what they hoped was a reasonably quiet road where they could safely leave the staff car, which was the only way they could get back to Le Havre. As a precaution, Barber imm
obilized the vehicle by removing both the distributor cap and the rotor arm, as well as the plug leads. And then they set off on what they expected would probably be a fruitless search for somewhere to spend the night.

  But they were surprised – very pleasantly surprised – to find there was room at the inn, in fact at one of the best hotels Rouen had to offer. They both appreciated the chance to spend a night, possibly the last night for some considerable time, in such unexpectedly civilized surroundings.

  Chapter 21

  24 May 1940

  France

  Michaels and Dawson reached the outskirts of Rouen early that evening, their progress slowed considerably for the last few miles by the greatly increased level of traffic they encountered on the roads, both fleeing civilians and military vehicles. And, inevitably, there were roadblocks that they had to talk their way through. Michaels spoke reasonable French, and that helped, as did the fact that the car they were driving was clearly owned by the British army, and that they were wearing British uniforms. But of course all their documentation was written in English, so getting through each checkpoint still took some time, and there were frequently longer delays when they found themselves in a queue of other vehicles that all had to be checked and cleared through, before they could take their turn at the barrier.

  As they got close to Rouen, the road ran parallel to a large river on their left-hand side, and Michaels pointed it out to Dawson.

  ‘That’s the Seine,’ he said. ‘But of course we’re on the south bank. We need to get through the town and then turn to head back more or less the way we’ve come, but along the north bank.’

  The city appeared to be in a state of somewhat confused tension. The military presence, both French and British, was obvious everywhere they looked. Squads of soldiers marched along the streets, more roadblocks were manned on many of the junctions, and military cars and lorries were parked haphazardly along almost every road.