The Best of Our Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘Ever thought of asking your wife?’

  ‘Of course not, sir. I never discuss my work with her.’

  Archibald was nodding his head in a pensive manner, as if something was occurring to him.

  ‘Well, you’re absolutely right not to ask her. Makes sense at one level, it would certainly be convenient. But not really on I’m afraid. Essential that you keep this work and your private life completely separate. What I will do is find a decent translator for you though, someone to come in here. Anyway, I’d hoped I would catch you while no one was around. My office?’

  Archibald had an ability to frame an order so as to make it sound like a reasonable question. Quinn followed him into his office.

  Archibald eased himself into his chair and gestured for Quinn to do likewise on the one on the other side of the desk.

  ‘You are not in a hurry, are you, Quinn?’

  Not that it would not matter if he was. It was Archibald’s way of saying this is going to take some time. Quinn shook his head.

  ‘As you know, General Morgan was appointed as Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander in March. Three months ago. He’s really got his foot on the accelerator now. His brief is to plan cross-Channel operations. That means the Second Front, the liberation of Europe. I’ve seen the brief. There is not much room for doubt as to what they’re after. Morgan has got to plan for a full-scale assault against the Continent. Now they did want him to look into the possibility of that being this year, but he had ruled it out pretty quick. Out of the question. But they insist it will have to be in 1944. Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt promising that to each other, so hardly for Morgan to refuse. The only question is — when – and where?

  ‘Morgan has pulled a group of senior officers together to plan it and I am on that group. About fifty of us altogether, British and American. Free French are being kept out of it. Churchill insists, doesn’t trust them. De Gaulle will be furious when he finds out. We’re called COSSAC: nothing to do with Russians on horseback, comes from Morgan’s title, Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander. Explains why I’m not here all the time.

  ‘The area that I am most involved in is where the landings will take place, which is where you come in. Come over here.’

  The whole of one side wall of Archibald’s office was taken up with a large map showing the southern coast of England and the northern coast of France and Belgium, up to and just beyond the Dutch border. Archibald had moved over to stand in front of the map. Quinn joined him.

  ‘There are a number of factors we have to take into account. Perhaps the most important is that once we get over here,’ he was holding the pencil delicately between his thick fingers, waving it in the air over France, ‘then we’ve only just begun. There will be plenty of fighting to come and we must not lose sight of the fact that the objective is Germany. Of course, we want to liberate occupied Europe, but Germany is the key. So, as near as we can land to Germany, the less fighting there will be on the way there. Which rules out ...’ his pencil was now waving above Brittany and the Contentin peninsula around Cherbourg ‘… this area. Too far away.

  ‘There are two factors we need to take in to account before deciding where to land, as you know. Many other subsidiary considerations, of course. But they will all stem from the main two. Fancy having a guess?’

  Quinn was rubbing his chin with his right hand, a frown across his forehead.

  ‘I would say distance from the British coast, sir.’

  ‘Ten out of ten, Quinn. Distance from the British coast.’ Archibald’s pencil was now somewhat unnecessarily hanging over Hampshire. As a Navy man, Quinn was aware of the location of the British coast.

  ‘Normandy is a hundred miles away. Too far, perhaps. Calais, twenty-five miles. Ideal. Belgium, getting further away again. Remember, we need to ship an army across the Channel. Morgan is talking about twenty-four Allied divisions, so the shorter the crossing, the more chance we have got of not being spotted en route and the less chance of something going wrong. The chaps have to get ashore in the landing craft and then come out fighting. Being army chaps, many of them will get sea-sick, so the shorter the journey, the better the state they will be in to face the bullets at the other end. Don’t forget too, we need air-cover. Range of a Spitfire, Quinn?’

  ‘One seventy-five, one eighty, sir?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty miles. Important figure to remember that. Need to fly over there and back and have plenty of fuel to be of some use in keeping the Luftwaffe at bay while they are over there.

  ‘So the favoured location is here ... round the Pas de Calais.’ The pencil was now drawing an imaginary circle around Calais and where the coastline dropped south, just to the west of it.

  ‘Perfect distance. Of course, the Germans will be expecting us there, which is why they’ve got von Salmuth’s Fifteenth Army in that area with five Panzer divisions to support him. If we go west of the River Orne, here ...’ Archibald’s pencil pointed at Ouistreham at the mouth of the Orne and then glided left over the Calvados Coast: Lion sur Mer, St Aubin sur Mer, Arromanches, Port en Bessin ‘… then we come up against the Seventh Army. General Dollman. Not in the same league as the Fifteenth and he’s only got one Panzer division backing him up.

  ‘So there is a temptation to head for the area that is not as well defended. But then even if we went to Normandy because it is defended by the weaker army, the Germans will send reinforcements over there quickly enough, so we would not hold that advantage for very long.’

  Archibald stepped back from the map in a surprisingly sprightly manner.

  ‘Would you care to guess the second important factor, Quinn?’

  The younger man hesitated. There were so many considerations.

  ‘I suppose it would be where do we land — on a beach, or a port.’

  ‘Good. As you know, it is not just the troops we have got to land. There’s the tanks, vehicles – all the supplies. So a port would be the obvious place – but if we learned one lesson from Dieppe as you know it is that attacking a well-defended port is just too risky. All the aerial reconnaissance photos we’re getting in show just what we’re up against and the resistance is telling us the same too. All the ports would be death traps. Too well defended and heavily mined.

  ‘The solution then would appear to be a beach landing. Tricky, of course. You still have to land an army and get them and all their equipment off the beach in more or less one piece. And it is not as if the Germans have not defended the beaches. As you know, they’re mined, booby-trapped – and there are plenty of bunkers and gun emplacements. Rommel has done a good job, but he has had three thousand miles of coastline to worry about. Even he cannot defend every stretch of beach in northern France. The beaches have to be our best bet. There’ll be a chink in his armour somewhere. Our job is to find it.’

  There was a long pause. Archibald was standing in front of the map, about a yard away from it. His arms were folded and his pencil sticking out, waving in the air like a conductor’s baton during a particularly sombre piece of music. He moved closer, until he was stood just inches from the map. Quinn moved in with him.

  ‘Come here, Quinn. Lots of pros and cons, as you can see. Do we go for north west France?’ He was tapping the Normandy coast again. ‘Longer route, further from Germany, but not as well defended. Or do we go for the north east?’ The pencil was now hovering somewhere south of Calais. ‘Better defended, but shorter crossing and, of course, puts us much nearer Germany.

  ‘But then it is also where the Germans will be expecting us. They have the same maps as we do, after all. But if we are going to plan a successful invasion, a decision needs to be made as to where we are going and COSSAC has made its decision. This is where the Second Front will be, Quinn, between here ...’

  Archibald’s pencil was resting on Boulogne sur Mer. As he continued to speak, the pencil followed the coast down as it fell south west.

  ‘... and here.’ His pencil had rested in the Baie de So
mme.

  ‘Ever been to the Bay of the Somme, Quinn?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Beautiful place. Full of wildlife. Quite stunning. Hope we don’t ruin it, but I expect we will.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘So that is where it will be. Between Boulogne and the Bay of the Somme. We need to decide the best stretch of beach to go for. Morgan’s preference seems to be here ... avoid the cliffs between Cap d’Alprech and Équihen- Plage,’ he was indicating a point just below Boulogne, ‘but no further south than Le Touquet. It’s a seven mile stretch. ‘

  His pencil rested on the small town of Plage de Ste Cécile.

  ‘But we need to keep our options open. Still need to check out the whole coast down to the Bay of the Somme, another twenty miles or so. But concentrate on this top area.

  ‘So this is now your job, Quinn. By the time you’ve finished, you are going to know every inch of that stretch of coastline. You will get to know every grain of sand. It’s about seven miles, but you will see it in your sleep and as you walk along the streets here in London. We need to know about the beach gradients, whether the sand can take tanks and our heavy armour. We need to know about tide, about unusual currents. We need to be aware of every sandbank, every rock. We need to know that even if a beach is ideal to land on, what are the exit routes like? We need to know what the weather is like. In short, Quinn, we need to know everything – and then a bit more.’

  Quinn was not sure whether he was meant to say anything. He realised that everything that they had been working on up to now had been leading to this. The work had felt at times that it lacked focus, he felt like a sportsman who had been warming up for the big event. In the course of the past hour, he had been told the location of the Second Front, the biggest secret of the war.

  ‘Come with me, Quinn.’

  Archibald had walked out into the central office area.

  ‘You’re not alone in this, you know. Plenty of units like this working on the planning across London. But we have something to help us.’ Archibald was unlocking a large metal filing cabinet. There was a central lock and then each of the three large drawers had a lock.

  ‘Do you remember after Dunkirk the BBC broadcast an appeal for people to send in anything they had on the northern European coast? We were after whatever they had, maps, holiday guides, postcards, photographs.’

  Quinn nodded. He remembered the fuss his mother made about sending in some dog-eared postcards her sister had sent from her French holidays. She had asked Owen to see what he could do to ensure they would be returned to her.

  ‘Thought we’d get a few thousand. Millions of them came in. Literally millions, Quinn. I’m told that people have been driven quite crazy sorting them all out, but they’ve done that now. And here ...’ he was pointing at the now unlocked filing cabinet ‘... are the fruits of their labours. All the material sent in to do with that stretch of coastline. A surprising amount.’

  They both stared at the cabinet, daunted by what lay in it.

  ‘And there are more, they’ll be brought in over the next few days. My guess, Quinn, is that perhaps no more than two, perhaps three per cent of all that will be of any use. But that two or three per cent will be invaluable. Look at this picture here.’

  It was a snapshot of a boy and a girl standing against a wall, self-consciously close to each other, their faces partially obscured by ice creams. Archibald turned the photograph over and read the caption.

  ‘Ian and Wendy. Le Touquet. August 1937.’ Now this exactly the kind of thing that we need. Someone in Intelligence followed this up. Contacted the parents. Sure enough, they had measured the height of Ian and Wendy every birthday, so we know how tall they both are in August 1937 – four foot nine and four foot six it says here – and from that we can get a very good idea of how high that wall is. And because we can pinpoint it thanks to this sign next to it, we know that at this point, our boys would need to get over a wall that is approximately four foot high.

  ‘I think that you are going to be very busy, Quinn.’

  ooo000ooo

  It was not in Owen Quinn’s nature to be anything other than optimistic. ‘You’re a glass half full man,’ his grandfather had often remarked; always of a most positive disposition. But an event at the end of June did give him cause to wonder.

  It was a balmy summer evening and he was enjoying the stroll home through St James’s Park. Nathalie was working late at the hospital and he was in no hurry. He had just entered the park when he heard his name being called. He turned round to see a large figure in RAF uniform running across the road to catch up with him.

  ‘Quinn. I refuse to believe it! You’re alive!’

  ‘Well, I was this morning when I last looked in the mirror!’

  ‘It’s me, Linwood. Remember?’ He had removed his RAF officer’s cap.

  ‘Of course, Linwood. Good God. Didn’t realise you were in the RAF. I had no idea what you were doing.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ve seen you since we left university, eh? Joined up in ’39. Didn’t fancy your lot, tendency towards sea-sickness. Army sounded a bit dull and flying just up my street.’

  ‘Battle of Britain?’

  Linwood shook his head. ‘Bomber Command. Giving them a taste of their own medicine. Now what about you. Last I heard, you were dead. Drowned at sea?’

  ‘Almost, Linwood. Not quite though. Was on HMS Gloucester when it was sunk off Crete in ’41. Damn near didn’t make it. Don’t remember an awful lot, to be honest. Spent months in a hospital back here. Not fit enough for active service, apparently, but serving behind a desk. You understand.’

  ‘Of course I do, old chap. Glad to see you alive. Look, I’ve got to go back up to Lincolnshire tonight – getting a lift. Fancy a drink first? Bit of catching up to do.’

  The pub in Victoria was emptying of civil servants and they found a quiet table at the back. Linwood negotiated his way over, doing his best not to spill the beer.

  ‘Like navigating through German flak, eh? There you are, Quinn. Pint of best mild. Does you the world of good. Now then, tell me everything.’

  ‘Not an awful lot to say I’m afraid, Linwood. Don’t really keep in touch with many of the chaps from university. Joined the Navy, as you know. I am married though.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Linwood had stood up to reach over the table and warmly shake his hand, spilling some of the beer in the process. ‘You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Never had you down as much of a ladies’ man. Now: tell me all about her.’

  ‘Well, what can I say? She’s French, came over at the time of Dunkirk. And she’s a nurse. She was working at the hospital in the country that I was sent to when I came back here – that’s where we met.’

  ‘What does she look like, Quinn?’

  ‘Well, perhaps not for me to say, but …’

  ‘Come on old chap, if you can’t say what she looks like then who on earth can!’

  ‘What I mean is I don’t want to appear boastful, Linwood, but she is rather beautiful. At least I think so.’

  Linwood moved his large frame and fleshy face across the table. He was looking very interested. ‘Description please, Quinn.’

  Quinn blushed. ‘Super figure, lovely long hair, remarkable eyes.’

  ‘Too good to be true, Quinn. Refuse to believe you. Got a photograph?’

  ‘I do actually,’ he said, taking his wallet out of his top pocket. He passed over a small photograph somewhat sheepishly. ‘Here we are.’

  Linwood went silent and studied the photograph carefully from different angles. He turned it over. Owen, all my love — amour — Nathalie xxx.

  ‘Quinn – she’s beautiful. Totally beautiful. You were telling the truth.’ Linwood was speaking in almost reverential tones now. ‘How on earth did a chap like you …’

  ‘A chap like me what?’ Quinn was slightly offended.

  ‘No, no, no – don’t take it like that. Just that when we were at university you were the fairly
quiet type. Would never in a month of Sundays have thought …’

  Linwood couldn’t say much more. He just waved the photograph, before looking at it closely again. Would never have thought that a chap like you would end up with a girl like her. That’s what he means to say, thought Quinn. I sometimes wonder that myself, if I’m honest.

  ‘And is it true what they say about French girls?’ Linwood was looking quite flushed now.

  ‘What is it that they say about French girls, Linwood?’

  His friend leaned towards him and lowered his voice.

  ‘What is it they say about Frenchwomen, Linwood?’

  ‘Oh come on, Quinn! You know. Great lovers and all that. No inhibitions.’

  ‘Linwood! You’re talking about my wife!’ Quinn had defused any tension by laughing.

  ‘Does she have any sisters over here or friends? If so, I insist on meeting them next time I’m on leave. Tell me everything!’

  ‘Not a lot more to say, actually. Told you most of it.’

  ‘Where is she from?’

  ‘Somewhere in Paris, not exactly sure.’

  ‘And family, what about them?’

  ‘Look, Linwood. Don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve learned not to ask. It’s different with the war. She’s had to leave her own country and that’s not easy. I suppose I need to be sensitive, can’t ask too many questions.’

  ‘Don’t get upset, old chap. Just seems a bit ... odd that you know so little about her.’

  ‘Well, as I say, that’s the war for you.’

  ‘Understand,’ said Linwood, though Quinn had the feeling that he didn’t really.

  They left the pub soon after, Quinn to go home and Linwood to head back to Lincolnshire. They exchanged addresses and promised to keep in touch.

  For the rest of that evening he was unsettled by his encounter with Linwood.

  Despite what he had said, in his heart of hearts he knew that it was odd that he knew so little about his wife.

  He was determined to find out more. He needed to be more assertive – Nathalie herself had told him that.

  The opportunity came the following evening. Nathalie had not been at work and when he arrived back at the flat she was walking around, wearing nothing but his dressing gown. The front was open and she was smiling. An hour later, after they had finished making love for the third time, they both lay in bed, exhausted and happy. Nathalie had managed to get hold of a bottle of French wine which was meant to be very good and it now lay empty on their bedside table. Empty bodies, empty wine bottle. He felt decadent and totally relaxed.