Operation XD

by James Barrington as Max Adams

  And Rouen, of course, wasn’t their objective: it was the north bank of the River Seine and the oil refineries and tank farms that were clustered along it all the way to Le Havre. Those vital assets were what they had been told to reconnoitre, and they had to get through Rouen and out of the other side of the town before they could start doing so.

  ‘This place is a bit of a bloody mess, sir,’ Dawson said, as they drove slowly away from yet another roadblock. Michaels was sitting beside him, studying the map and providing directions. ‘Do you want to press on and get out of here, or find somewhere to bed down for the night?’

  ‘Bedding down might be a bit of a luxury,’ Michaels replied. ‘It’ll be dark quite soon so we can’t do any useful investigation tonight. I know there’s still plenty of petrol in the tank, but I think it would be a good idea to fill it up anyway while we’re here, and then we need to get through the town so we have a clear run tomorrow morning. So the first thing we need to do is find a British army fuel depot.’

  They hadn’t passed any filling stations on the route they’d been following, which Michaels had plotted so as to avoid the majority of the main roads and hopefully most of the roadblocks, so Dawson stopped the car beside a group of British soldiers standing near an army truck to get directions.

  It turned out that they were quite close to a British army fuel station. Dawson drove only a short distance down the street and then around a couple of corners and onto the main road, where they joined a queue of about half a dozen vehicles at the station, each of their drivers waiting his turn at the pumps.

  While Dawson sorted out the fuelling, Michaels got out of the car and walked over to the other side of the road where a couple of British officers were standing and talking. He showed them his identification and exchanged a few words with them, and then walked back to sit down again in the passenger seat of the staff car, at the same time Dawson, again, took his seat behind the wheel.

  ‘Learn anything useful, sir?’

  ‘Not much. According to those two, the French high command here seem to be pretty certain that their military will be able to stop the German advance well before it reaches this area. The British are equally convinced that Adolf’s blitzkrieg tactics and sheer weight of armour will punch a hole through the Allied lines any day now. Between you and me, the British generals are believed to be formulating plans for a mass evacuation from Le Havre and probably from Cherbourg as well once the Germans get a bit closer, and I think that’s probably true. We genuinely haven’t got anything to stop them, and that’s why those tank farms are going to have to be destroyed. We can’t afford to let the Jerries get their hands on that oil.’

  Dawson steered the staff car down the street, again following Michaels’ directions.

  ‘So what do we do now, sir?’

  ‘We get clear of Rouen and head towards Le Havre, and then we find ourselves somewhere to sleep.’

  Getting out of the centre of the city took even longer than getting in, entirely because of the number of roadblocks they had to negotiate. There were several bridges spanning the Seine in Rouen, and Michaels directed Dawson to the most westerly crossing point, near what looked like a small dockyard. It was one of the biggest bridges they’d seen over the river and there was, inevitably, a roadblock guarding it on the southern side, with another queue of vehicles waiting to cross.

  ‘I don’t know what the French are hoping to achieve with all these blasted roadblocks,’ Michaels said. ‘The Germans aren’t here – or not yet anyway – so all they’re doing is slowing up movements within the city. And that seems pointless to me.’

  By the time they finally saw the open road in front of them, on the north bank of the river, it was almost dark. The main road headed north-west, but that wasn’t the way they needed to go, so Dawson steered the car west towards a village called Canteleu, which was only a few hundred yards from the riverbank.

  ‘Right, this should be far enough,’ Michaels said. ‘We’re a few miles short of the first tank farm, but we’ll be able to see what we’re doing much better in daylight. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to sleep.’

  They drove through a wooded area just before they reached the village, and when they emerged from the clump of trees there didn’t seem to be much in the place, just a few narrow streets dotted with houses, many of them seemingly deserted. They saw a handful of cars, all parked, and no pedestrians.

  ‘It looks as if this place has been abandoned,’ Dawson said.

  But what they were seeing didn’t seem to surprise Michaels.

  ‘I’ve been to France a few times,’ he explained to Dawson, ‘and the French, particularly those who live outside the towns, always seem to go to bed really early. I’ve stayed in villages which were really quite lively during the day, but by about eight o’clock in the evening all the lights were extinguished and every door was shut and locked. God knows what they do with themselves each night.’

  They drove around the village and then, over on the western side, Dawson spotted a large building near an open square that had a couple of lights showing on the ground floor.

  ‘That could be a hotel,’ he said, pointing at it.

  Michaels nodded.

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Dawson stopped the car outside and switched off the engine. Then they both climbed out and walked over to the door.

  ‘We could be in luck,’ Michaels said. ‘This is what the French call a pension, a kind of small hotel or boarding house. Let’s see if they have a couple of rooms available.’

  Before he left Gravesend, Michaels had been supplied with enough French francs to cover their anticipated expenses, so paying for a room would not be a problem.

  The solid wooden door of the building was both closed and locked, unsurprisingly, but a minute or so after Dawson hammered on it they heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn, and then the door was eased open cautiously and they found themselves looking at a small, hunched man with a wispy grey beard and an overly large nose who regarded them suspiciously with a pair of surprisingly blue eyes. He addressed them in high-speed French, clearly asking their business.

  Michaels replied in a slower version of the same language, with what sounded to Dawson like a very English accent, but the proprietor obviously understood exactly what he was asking, because he shook his head firmly and began pushing the door closed. Then Michaels fished a large wad of francs out of his pocket and waved them in front of the Frenchman’s face.

  The man hesitated, with his hand on the half-closed door, and then he nodded and opened it wide. Money was money, even in wartime. He and Michaels exchanged a few more sentences, all incomprehensible to Dawson, and then the three of them trooped up a narrow staircase, the treads of which squealed alarmingly under Dawson’s weight, to the first floor. There, they were shown two bedrooms, each with a small double bed, and minimally equipped with a scarred wooden table on which stood a china washbasin and a pitcher of cold water, and with a chamber pot underneath it.

  Michaels nodded his satisfaction, produced his wad of currency again, peeled off a few notes and handed them over.

  The proprietor nodded, bowed to them and backed out of the room.

  ‘That’s good,’ Michaels said. ‘Now we have a bed each. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to bunk down in that blasted car. And, talking of which, before we make ourselves comfortable here, we’d better nip down and immobilize it. Take off the rotor arm or something. We absolutely need that car for what we have to do tomorrow. If somebody steals it, we’re buggered.’

  That didn’t take long and, with Michaels holding a torch so that he could see what he was doing, Dawson removed the distributor cap and the plug leads as well, as an additional safeguard, from under the bonnet of the Morris. Then they climbed back up the narrow staircase to their bedrooms, each man carrying his kitbag, Dawson also carrying his Lee-Enfield and Michaels their box of depleted rations.

  ‘The proprietor told me they had no food here,’ Michael
s explained, ‘but what he probably meant was that we’re too late to eat an evening meal because he’s sent the cook home. Or maybe he’s the cook and it’s too much trouble to open up the kitchen again. Either way, it doesn’t matter because we still have these delicious cheese sandwiches we can enjoy. And you’ve got your beer and I’ve got a bottle and half of wine. Or what looks like wine, even if it tastes like vinegar. So we’ll manage.’

  They parted at the top of the stairs, each taking their half of the ration pack.

  ‘Get a good night’s sleep, Dawson,’ Michaels said. ‘Tomorrow could be a long day, and we’ve got a hell of a lot to do.’

  His mattress was hard and somewhat lumpy, and somewhere outside Dawson’s room an owl apparently felt the need to serenade him, which kept him awake for some time. But eventually the bird departed on business of its own, and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 22

  25 May 1940

  France

  In their spacious and comfortable hotel, Rochester and Barber slept rather better than their compatriots in Canteleu, only a couple of miles distant. They were up, washed, shaved, dressed and breakfasted by 7.15 am, and waiting outside the British headquarters building half an hour later.

  The meeting with the general officer commanding was short, friendly and frustratingly inconclusive. For some reason the additional information they were hoping to be given about the current tactical situation wasn’t available, and the required permission to commence the demolition operations was vested in the general in charge of the French district headquarters, not the British authorities, simply because they were French strategic assets. The British GOC himself arranged an appointment for the two officers with his opposite number, and then personally escorted them over to the French headquarters later that morning.

  This was clearly a very different establishment to the British HQ. There, battledress was the order of the day, and the whole place had hummed with a kind of bustling quiet efficiency as the preparations for combat or evacuation were being planned and executed. Above all, there had been an almost palpable sense of tension, of knowledge that the enemy was approaching the gates, and that the peaceful atmosphere of Rouen was soon going to be shattered by bombs raining down from the sky and the crump of heavy artillery.

  Inside the French headquarters, the atmosphere was utterly dissimilar. The pace was much more relaxed, almost languid, as staff officers in formal dress uniforms, most wearing a chest full of medals, strolled along the corridors. There was no sense, as far as Rochester could tell, that any kind of attack was imminent, or even that there was a devastating war being fought outside the elegant surroundings of the large and imposing building in the centre of the city.

  Just like his staff officers, the French general was dressed as if he was about to go on parade or take a salute, his uniform immaculate and bristling with medals and decorations. As Rochester and Barber were conducted into his presence, they were both very conscious that their somewhat crumpled battledress made them look entirely out of place in such fine surroundings, like a pair of tramps at a garden party.

  The general, a handsome, elderly man, spoke good English, as did his adjutant, who stood beside the general’s desk, ready to carry out any orders the senior officer might care to issue. They were received graciously, and the general listened politely as Rochester explained the demolition mission that he and the KFRE soldiers, waiting on standby in the transit camp at Le Havre, had been tasked with performing. The general seemed almost amused by the notion that the Germans would be able to defeat the Allied forces.

  ‘You may take it from me, Captain. With the entire might of the French army defending the Hexagon, Adolf Hitler and his jackbooted thugs will never get anywhere near Rouen. I expect them to be driven back across the border into Germany any day now.’

  ‘Hexagon?’ Barber asked quietly, as the French general paused for breath.

  ‘France. I think it’s a colloquial name for France,’ Rochester murmured.

  ‘So your mission here,’ the general continued, ‘is a waste of time. I am slightly surprised that London would bother sending over soldiers, and especially part-time soldiers, on such a foolish errand. Those oil stocks are vital to the French war effort, and I will not countenance their destruction.’

  And that seemed to be that, but Rochester seized on the last remark the general had made and offered his own interpretation of the situation. Everyone appreciated exactly how important the oil was, he agreed, and even though the possibility of the German advance reaching Rouen was incredibly remote – and he was proud to be able to stand there and say that with a straight face – there was still the possibility of sabotage, of fifth columnists or German spies creeping into the tank farms at night and setting fire to them or doing other damage. As his soldiers were just sitting around at Le Havre doing nothing, wouldn’t a reasonable compromise be to station them at the tank farms to ensure that they were guarded against any such sabotage attempts?

  That proved to be a much more difficult argument to refute, and after a few minutes of further discussion, the general agreed to this suggestion.

  ‘Very well, Captain. You may station your men at the installations as we have discussed. However, you will be directly under my command, and I will be issuing written orders specifying your duties and responsibilities in due course.’

  ‘Am I to liaise directly with you, sir?’ Rochester asked.

  ‘No. I will delegate my authority to my technical officer, the man who is responsible for the safety of the plants and the supply of fuel and oil.’

  The general turned to his adjutant and issued a brief order in high-speed French. The officer saluted crisply and marched out of the room.

  A couple of minutes later he returned, followed by another be-medalled junior officer, who was introduced by the general as an artillery captain named Laurent, and the man responsible for the supervision and safety of the tank farms.

  The general briefed the new arrival in French, neither Rochester nor Barber understanding most of what he said, and then Captain Laurent escorted them out of the office, and the building, and they accompanied him in silence to his own office, located in a different building some distance away.

  When they sat down opposite the captain, Rochester realized that their problems were only just beginning, because Laurent spoke only a few words of English, and both he and Rochester were a long way from being fluent in the language. That was an obvious difficulty, but the bigger problem was that the French captain clearly regarded them as English interlopers, and was both highly suspicious of their motives and extremely hostile to their stated mission.

  He had his orders from the general, but Rochester knew he would not make their task easy, and the next thing Laurent said just confirmed his view. It took several attempts by the French officer, with Rochester suggesting words at intervals, but eventually the Frenchman made his position very clear: he was the man responsible for the safety of the plants – les usines – and he had already formulated all the contingency plans and actions necessary to achieve this. In his opinion, there was no need for the British troops to be on French soil at all, and certainly not to be involved in the defence of his tank farms and installations.

  That, of course, was in direct contravention of the general’s orders – or what Rochester assumed the general had told Laurent – and for a few moments he considered walking straight back to the headquarters, with the captain, to get the matter clarified. Then he rejected the idea. He would be one Englishman arguing with a whole building full of French officers, most of whom probably would as a matter of course agree with whatever the general said and not with him, and who didn’t want him there in the first place. After all, the general had already told him that the Germans would never reach Rouen, so he might as well just pack up and go home.

  But he had a job to do, and so he and Barber opted for diplomacy over confrontation, pointing out that it had been the general’s idea to station th
e British troops at the tank farms – which was a lie, but Rochester knew he could plead a misunderstanding because of the language barrier if he were ever to be questioned about it – that it would be a sensible use of available forces, and that it could release French troops for other duties.

  The discussion seemed to last for hours, punctuated at intervals by the supply of cups of French coffee – thick, black and bitter, and to Rochester’s taste almost undrinkable as a committed tea lover – but eventually they seemed to come to a form of understanding. Despite the clear impossibility of German forces ever reaching Rouen, Laurent finally agreed that a few British troops could be placed at each of the refineries and tank farms, with a caveat that Rochester could not get him to drop.

  Laurent insisted that the stationing of troops at the installations had to be agreed, on an individual basis and in advance, with the director of each establishment. All twenty-nine of them. Furthermore, he also insisted that he would have to be present at each of these negotiations because of his overall responsibility for the sites, and as he was a busy man, it would take a long time – Rochester guessed Laurent was thinking in terms of months or even years rather than days – to obtain agreement for every establishment.

  That was the best they could do, and Rochester and Barber left his office feeling both frustrated and irritated.

  ‘I almost wish a bloody German Tiger tank would roll down this street and put a shell through his office window,’ Barber said. ‘That’d shake up the complacent little bastard.’

  ‘I’m with you on that,’ Rochester replied. ‘Now, we need to get an intelligence briefing on the tank farms, and then head back to Le Havre. It’s a bloody shame Andrew Michaels didn’t know how urgent his mission had just become. I don’t suppose he’s even started his surveillance yet.’