“You just leave the details to us, Richard,” Kelly grinned from his seat near the door. “Southern Command’s organised everything. We’ll be safe ‘n sound across the River Finn in an hour, don’t you worry.”
“There’s bloody patrols all over the countryside, Eoin” Michaels griped, the lack of sleep over the last few days making him more irritable than usual, “and I’ll tell y’ right now what they’re doin’ out and about on a night light this, Seán, they’re bloody well lookin’ for us…! The fookin’ SS is turnin’ over every bloody farmhouse from here to Belfast and back, and Eoin reckons we’ll just waltz right over the Urney Road Bridge like we’re off to Sunday Mass?”
“I told you… it’s taken care of…” Kelly snapped in return, tension showing faintly in his tone also. “Hayes himself has laid this one out for you…” Even as he spoke that last sentence, the conviction in his words wavered, knowing full well the reaction it was likely to receive from some of those present.
“Oh yes?” Michaels shot back with a vague snort of derision, quickly picking up on the doubt that had surfaced in the other man’s voice. “Well, there’s a cast-iron guarantee then if ever I heard one! At least with Hayes involved, the bloody Garda will be less likely to shoot us when we get to the other side… no doubt they’ll know all about us already…!”
“No one bloody mentioned that bastard bein’ involved!” McCaughey snarled angrily, rounding on Kelly in surprise. “Northern Command’s had our eyes on that shifty bugger for a good while now… ever since the Garda tumbled on the ammo dumps in Wexford.”
Stephen Hayes, current Chief of Staff of the Irish Republican Army, had taken over the position from Seán Russell following the man’s untimely death from a gastric ulcer two years earlier, just a month prior to the German Invasion. There were some within the IRA, particularly in the Northern Command, who’d long suspected Hayes of being an informer for the Garda Síochána, the police force of the Irish Republic.
These rumours had become particularly prevalent following a series of police raids in Wexford (Hayes’ home county) during August of 1940 which had netted a huge haul of IRA weapons and ammunition across a number of supposedly secret caches. Some, like McCaughey, strongly suspected the involvement of Hayes in these discoveries, along with the failure of many other IRA missions in the south during the years leading up to the German invasion of the UK.
“There’s no proof of any of that,” Kelly growled in exasperation. “No proof at all!” At once stage a highly-placed intelligence officer within the IRA’s Southern Command prior to his own internment at The Curragh, Kelly had already been imprisoned prior to Hayes’ having joined the IRA in 1939. Nevertheless, he’d heard much of the man’s abilities and positive attributes and was loathe to believe such unsubstantiated rumours.
“Oh aye…” McCaughey gave a hollow laugh “…no proof all right! And why d’ye think that is, seein’ as they pinned the whole lot on that poor bloody Devereux fella only a month later, then hauled him away in front of his own bloody family and executed him under orders from Hayes himself…? Nice and convenient, that, ain’t it now?” He lifted his gaze toward Michaels and Kelly now. “I’ll tell y’ this, fellas: if that bastard’s had his hand in this, I’d keep a weapon handy and no mistake! I hope to Christ I’m wrong, but mark me words all the same!”
“You’ve nothing’ to worry about, fer Christ’s sake!” Kelly growled plaintively. “We don’t ‘shop’ our own boys… we don’t do that…!”
“Aye, we don’t do anything; o’ the sort up here in the Northern Command, Eoin; I bloody make sure ‘o that,” McCaughey shot back with more venom that even he expected. “I only wish I could say the same about what I’ve seen south o’ the border lately.” The younger man began to realise that perhaps there was more than just defence of one individual behind Kelly’s insistence… that perhaps the accusations were being received more as an indictment of the IRA’s Southern Command as a whole.
“You’re a good man, Eoin,” McCaughey continued, attempting a slight change in tack, “but you’ve been out o’ circulation for too long to have seen how bad it’s become these last few years. You’ve no idea how much damage the movement suffered while you were in The Curragh. I’m the OC of the entire Northern Command, man: you’re fine gentlemen, every one o’ ye, but you think I’m here tonight, alone, because I want to be? These bloody SS raids are stretching us paper thin all over the six counties, and that’s a fact!” He forced a faint smile that was almost genuine. “I mean y’ no offence, Eoin – you’ve worked as hard as any of us since you’ve been back – but the Germans invadin’ England was a bloody Godsend, make no mistake. If things had gone on much longer back here the way they were goin’ before September Eleven, I’m not sure there’d have been many Volunteers left!”
Kransky, Lowenstein and even Michaels were watching the exchange with great interest, however any response the man might’ve given was cut short by the faint flicker of lights on the windows at the opposite end of the church and the soft sound of engines down on Mourne Park.
“They’re here…” Brendan announced brusquely, silencing any further discussion as he peered out through a crack in the opened door once more. “Wake the young’uns up… it’s time we were away!”
They stepped out into the open three minutes later, the Evie still groggy from sleep and being guided carefully between the headstones by Levi as the group moved quickly down the hill toward the Mourne Park road. At the head of the procession, Kransky stopped for a moment as he took note of the vehicles parked on the street, engines running. One was an Austin Seven sedan – at the tail of the ‘convoy’ – with a 4-door Opel Olympia at the centre and, at the head of the formation, a Kubelwagen staff car with its canvas roof deployed against the elements. The two leading vehicles both carried SS registration plates, with the Olympia also flying Nazi flags from its front fenders, implying it was carrying an officer of high rank. Inside the Kubelwagen, two uniformed and, more importantly, armed troopers awaited their arrival.
“Keep yer bloody knickers on, Yank…!” McCaughey grinned, coming to a halt beside the man and resting a hand on his arm as Kransky instinctively reached for the MP2K hidden beneath his oilskin coat. “That’s our boys down there – we thought it less likely we’d be ‘interrupted’ by the local Wehrmacht units if it looked like we were somebody important.”
“Jesus, you need to let a guy know what he’s walkin’ into, buddy!” Kransky shot back, hiding his annoyance in a forced grin. “Another step or two and ‘your boys’ down there woulda been feelin’ real draughty.”
Completely unfazed by the thinly-veiled threat, McCaughey gave a barking laugh and slapped the American on the shoulder before setting off again toward the waiting cars at a good pace. Kransky stood for another moment as the rest of them filed past him, shaking his head and managing a genuinely wry smile before taking up the tail and jogging to catch up.
Choosing headroom and visibility – what little there was – over comfort, Kransky slid into the rear of the Kubelwagen, moving across to the far side and propping the rifle bag upright in the middle, the MP2K held ready for any eventuality beneath his great coat. It was a tight squeeze to say the least, with his knees bunched right up in the limited space afforded in the vehicle’s rear, but it was a short journey anyway and Kransky had put up with far worse than a little leg cramp in his time.
McCaughey climbed in beside him, a large Webley revolver in his hands as he patted one of the uniformed men in the front seat on the shoulder.
“Good t’ see y’ made it, Pearse!” McCaughey exclaimed, the man ahead of him barely nodding in response. “Have Southern Command confirmed their assets on the other side?”
“Aye, Seán, it’s all set… all y’ need t’ do is give the signal.”
“You boys have done well.” McCaughey acknowledged, turning back to make sure the rest of the group were inside their respective vehicles then tapping the driver on the shoulder once more. “Le
t’s go…the sooner we’re out o’ this awful bloody weather the better…!”
The three vehicles pulled slowly away in convoy, winding their way north around the Mourne Park toward Strabane Road as the damp, misty rain continued to fall.
30,000 feet above the Persian Gulf
Saudi Arabia, north of Al Jubail
Thorne slowly opened his eyes, groaning as he rolled over onto side in an attempt to ease the cramp that had developed in his lower back and subsequently interrupted his slumber. The first images he took in were at the same time both familiar and unexpected, leaving him with a groggy feeling of disorientation that wasn’t helped greatly by the overall dimness of the room he was in. He shifted onto his back once more as the cramp eased, staring vacantly at the underside of the metal bunk bed directly above him and scratching absently at his lower abdomen through his shirt. The sudden rush of memories flooding back caused him to snap bolt upright a moment later, cracking his head savagely on that very same upper bunk frame.
“Fuckin’ hell…” He swore softly, clutching at his forehead as he turned and moved into a sitting position with his legs off the side of the bed, this time very careful that he made no further contact with the furniture. Apart from the two bunks against the rear wall of the room – upon one of which he was seated – there was also seating for a dozen or so more, and the type of chairs and the curved nature of the walls on either side were as much of a confirmation that he was on an aircraft as the soft, vibrating drone of engines he could also hear and feel through the floor.
He looked up and saw the bulkhead door at the far end of the room open. Rupert Gold stepped through, closing it behind him, and walked over with an expression of genuine concern.
“How’re you feeling?” He ventured, seating himself sideways on the arm of one of the nearer seats.
“Like shit,” Thorne answered with blunt honesty, rubbing his face with both hands as if that might scrub away the fuzziness within his mind. “How long have I been out?”
“Oh…” Rupert consulted his wristwatch “…about three hours, give or take… we’ve only been in the air about an hour or so.”
“Where the hell is everyone?”
“Well, the flight crew’s through there, naturally, and Evan has gone down the back to watch while they refuel the Lightning – it took a little longer for Alec to get into the air as he was getting extra fuel tanks fitted, but he’s caught up now, it appears.”
“Eileen…?” The fear and true concern in his voice and expression were painfully clear.
“She’s fine…” Gold assured with a smile. “She woke up just before we left, but she decided to stay and keep an eye on your friend, Captain Davids. Apparently it will be a day or two at least before he can be moved and she decided she’d fly on later with him on the Galaxy.
“Is that so…?” Thorne remarked, making a face as if vaguely surprised. “He did save her life, so I suppose that’s fair enough.” Even he was surprised that he sounded faintly jealous, and dismissed the feelings as ridiculous a second or two later.
“Was taking the Extender Alec’s idea or yours?” He asked, changing the subject.
“Alec’s, actually…” Gold confirmed with a smile. “Evan and I were of the opinion you should get some sleep before we went anywhere, but Alec was adamant we leave as soon as possible. He was of the mind that if you thought it was important, it was important, and he had no intention of going against your wishes…”
“Good man…” Thorne nodded approvingly.
“His solution was to load you onto the Extender so you could have a good sleep on the way,” Rupert continued, taking no offence from his employer’s muttered remark. “Other than a short stopover at China Bay to pick up the relief flight crew, it also means we can now fly non-stop from Ceylon back to Tocumwal, cutting two stops out of the trip.”
“Sounds like ‘win-win’ to me,” Thorne declared, suddenly feeling his exhaustion return and electing to lay back down on the bunk. “We need to send a message on ahead to Tocumwal too – they gotta lock that bastard, Leonski up ASAP!”
“Already done, Max, although I think Alec was having a bit more difficulty with that one… there not being any evidence or valid reason he could give to have the man taken into custody.”
“The details can be sorted out when we get there,” Thorne growled, shaking his head as if dismissing the argument out of hand. “…Just so long as the son-of-a-bitch has been put on ice in the meantime.”
“Already done, Max… already done…” Gold repeated with an exasperated smile. “Can I get you anything… something to eat?”
“Maybe later…” Thorne replied, staring once more at the underside of the upper bunk. “I’d kill for a cold drink though,”
“I believe there may be some Coca-Cola in the refrigerator…”
“That will do nicely!”
By the time Rupert returned with the opened bottle, Max Thorne was again snoring softly on the bed, rolled over so that he was facing the back wall of the bunk. With a faint chuckle, Gold shrugged and took a swig of cold Coke, deciding it better to let the man get as much sleep as he could.
USAAF 3rd Bombardment Group
RAAF Tocumwal, New South Wales
October 4, 1942
Sunday
It was no simple feat to have a message sent half way around the globe – a distance of almost thirteen thousand kilometres between the air bases at Habbaniyah and Tocumwal. Voice radio transmissions sent as far as Ceylon were then converted over to Morse code and continued their journey via the ‘Red-Route’ submarine telegraph cable, relayed via Singapore and Darwin before completing the final leg of its journey through to Tocumwal.
The nature of telegraph being what it was, Trumbull had been forced to keep the original message brief, something that wasn’t a huge problem in any case as he honestly had very little information he could provide. He was on good terms with the commanding officer or the US 3rd Bombardment Group however and was confident that his unusual request would be honoured at least long enough for them to arrive and explain further.
Coincidence and just pure dumb bad luck of course played no favourites.
It was near dawn a cold October morning that Sunday as the telegraph key in the radio room of the USAAF 3rd BG began chattering away, a rather unexpected occurrence at such an unlikely time of day. The signalman on duty immediately grabbed a sheet of blank paper and began taking it down, extensive training and many months of practice meaning he was able to translate the dots and dashes of Morse code on the fly. He started writing the message out in English, initially quite intrigued by the phrases “EXTREMELY URGENT” and “SENSITIVE INFORMATION” that were included in the first two sentences. His hand halted its feverish writing about halfway through however, the pencil beginning to shake in his fingers as he took in the rest of the signal.
After just a moment taken to recover himself, he took the time to key a brief acknowledgement of receipt of the transmission before slowly and quite deliberately crumpling the sheet of paper in his fingers and tossing it into the metal waste-paper basket beneath the desk, at the same time casting a guilty glance around despite knowing full well he was the only person in the room. Drawing the waste container out from the desk, he steeled himself and then forcibly jammed a finger down the back of his throat. Within seconds he was vomiting up what little was left in his stomach from the dinner he’d eaten earlier that evening.
As soon as he’d finished, shoulders still heaving as he shuddered from the after-effects of a final bout of dry retches, Private Eddie Leonski drew a sleeve across his lips and rolled his chair across the concrete floor to the phone mounted to the wall beside the door on the far side of the room. His fractured ribs, heavily bandaged beneath his shirt, were in agony from the act of vomiting but he forced the pain into the back of his mind as he dialled a short extension number and waited patiently for a response.
“Hello, Sarge…? This is Leonski, Sarge… I think I musta eaten somet
hin’ bad… I’m feeling real sick, Sarge, and I just lost my lunch… I think I need to report to sick parade…”
He was prepared for the barrage of angry swearing he received by way of reply from the other end of the phone – his platoon sergeant was as unimpressed at being woken in the middle of the night as the next man – but he also knew that’d he’d be relieved in a few minutes all the same.
PFC Mickey Salmon entered the room perhaps ten minutes later, muttering to himself “…Like I didn’t need that sleep anyway…” intentionally loud enough for Leonski to hear. Salmon was Boston Irish; a huge bear of a man with beet-red hair and an almost stereotypical Boston accent. He screwed up his features in disgust a moment later at the smell of fresh vomit that assaulted his nose as soon as he opened the door.
“Christ, Eddie, it fuckin’ stinks in here! Couldn’t ya at least open a window, ya dirty son-of-a-bitch?”
“Gimme a break, Mickey…” Leonski replied plaintively, playing the part to the hilt. “I couldn’t help it… I’m sick!”
“You’re an asshole is what you are! I was right in the middle of a beautiful dream with me and Betty Grable, and lemme tell ya; in my dream, she weren’t acting…!” Salmon shot back, continuing to wave a hand in front of his nose as Eddie passed him, heading for the door and making sure he held the stinking waste-paper bin right under his Salmon’s nose. “Get that thing outta here, Goddammit!”
“I owe ya one, Mickey…” Leonski grinned at the doorway, miraculously feeling better already “…you’re a real brick, you know that…?”
“Fuck you, Eddie,” Salmon retorted, flipping his friend the bird as he leaned across the main instrument panel and threw open the nearest window, desperately seeking fresh air.
“I love you too, buddy,” Leonski grinned in return, giving him a wink before closing the door behind himself.
Outside the radio room, as the coolness of the early morning freshened his mind and sharpened his senses, Eddie leaned against a nearby wall and paused for a moment, waiting until the shaking of his hands subsided once more. They knew! Somehow, beyond all possibility, someone knew something, and now the base commander was asking Eddie’s CO to confine him to barracks pending their arrival back from somewhere in the Middle East. A dark expression passed across his features in that moment as a sudden and unpleasant thought crossed his mind.
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