Unable to bear looking at her, Simon glanced around. Dimmed lights reflected on the gilt walls and pillars gave a distinct impression of a golden cave: cosy, rich and decadent, where wayward, well-heeled civil servants danced and drank until dawn. The faces of the males exactly matched the decor, but the women were beautiful, clinging, overanxious, fearing they would soon be dumped.
The music changed to a slow foxtrot and Maria nestled closer. He could feel the warmth of her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs against his. Her body, so warm and supple, created an illusion of oneness. As her perfume wafted over him, Simon experienced a brief moment of regret. He sensed that he was becoming as decadent as the other regulars. He should have left long ago, but he was under orders.
The past six months had been packed with danger, guile and a hectic social life and Maria had proved invaluable. She worked for one of the ministers and she had been very useful in bringing home files and chattering about her bosses. Due to her indiscretions, he had located three homes with enemy agents and transmitters. All their messages were being successfully intercepted by CIA spooks. He was leaving for good in the early hours of the morning and he would never see her again, but how could he tell her this? He had warned her not to fall in love. He’d said he was a rolling stone, but she, with her dark beauty, her allure, her costly penthouse, her sports car and her amazing talent for dancing, had felt sure that she could hold him. She believed in his alias – that he was a disbarred American lawyer currently employed as a cheap legal clerk for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It was partly true. He gave them top legal advice for next to nothing, they provided him with the information he had been sent to uncover. Everyone was satisfied with the arrangement.
Simon had volunteered for the army a day after Pearl Harbour, abandoning a highly paid legal career in Manhattan. He longed to fight his way through Europe and help to rid the world of the scourge of Nazism, but he’d soon realized that he had picked a bad time. A prominent Chicago lawyer, Alfred McCormack had been called upon by the Secretary of War to set up and deal with the processing of communications intelligence. McCormack drew heavily on lawyers from elite firms. They were nabbed as fast as they volunteered, given reserve commissions, sent for minimum training and drafted into Military Intelligence. Simon had fallen into his lap.
Since then Simon had sent three urgent applications to the head of the Special Branch requesting a transfer to active service. He’d received his transfer, but not to where he wanted to go. He was sent to a special branch of the newly-established Military Intelligence Service (MIS), dealing with Axis penetration and subversion in Latin America. After a brief training, he was sent to Argentina where he had spent the past six months. He had been uniquely successful and his sudden recall spelled a reprieve. He hoped this was his chance to join a fighting unit. He was aching to go.
Maria raised her sexy arm to pull his head towards her. Her lips brushed his cheek. ‘Let’s go home,’ she murmured. When she laughed and pressed against him, Simon felt a startling rekindling of desire.
‘I can’t go home yet. Sorry. I have a meeting. It’s something I can’t avoid.’
‘I’ll stay awake. See you after the meeting. I don’t mind how late you are.’ Suspicion clouded her face, making her look older. She pursed her lips, removed her arms from the back of his neck and smoothed her long black hair, a provocative gesture, but behind her brave attempt at coquetry, he sensed her desperation. She had honed in on his elation, but he had not shared the reason for it.
Compassion surged, and then his guilt. He had no wish to harm her. He felt depressed, too, because he had no regrets at leaving her. He suspected he was lacking in some vital emotion. At forty-one he had never been in love. He had married young and their ensuing separation had been terrible and inevitable. What was love anyway? A load of hype dreamed up by advertising agents and romantic writers.
‘Maybe,’ he told her, avoiding her gaze. But this was not to be. By midnight he was on a plane to the States and by ten a.m. the following morning he was reporting for duty to his commanding officer in Miami.
‘You’ve done exceptionally well, Johnson,’ Major Norris told him. ‘It seems you lawyers have a talent for spying.’ He looked at him with distaste as he picked up his file. ‘I’m sending you to our newest Military Intelligence Training Center at Camp Ritchie, Maryland.’ Norris was a regular army guy, top on discipline, but lacking in charm. He was as solid and strong as a buffalo, his complexion, seared by years in the sun, had turned a russet brown, contrasting with his thin, ginger hair and pale grey eyes. Taking in an all round view of him, he was a bastard, Simon had decided.
‘Sir, I have repeatedly requested a transfer to active service,’ Simon said.
‘Forget it, captain.’ Norris barked his reply, splattering Simon in saliva. ‘You’re in a special branch of the army’s intelligence which is about to expand into some very unusual areas. You’re going to the Counter Intelligence Corps. These guys have set up new training facilities. You’ll study psychological warfare, propaganda and counter intelligence of the enemy’s propaganda. Crowd of odd balls, but you’ll probably fit in. After that you’ll go on to a new training facility at Camp Sharpe, Pennsylvania, for combat training underwater, using techniques which the Brits learned from the French. I hope you can swim.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. When you’ve completed this training, you’re going to Britain. On your arrival in London you’ll be met and taken to Lieutenant General Walters, part of the hierarchy of the European Theatre of Operations, US Army, known as ETOUSA.’ Norris broke off as his sergeant came in and pushed a file in front of him.
‘This is urgent. Take a look at the brochure they sent me, Johnson. Tells you all about the so-called SCUBA system.’
Simon skipped through the details. SCUBA was an acronym for Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, he read, which meant that divers carried their own supply of air. Mankind had been trying to find means of breathing underwater since 500 BC, when Xerxes cut the Persian fleet from their moorings by using a hollow reed as a snorkel. Simon flipped through the pages, stopping to read again that in 1936 Dr Christian Lambertsen, in the USA, had designed an underwater oxygen breathing apparatus for the US military, developed from recent French designs. It was a rebreather and the first device to be called SCUBA. This, the brochure read, was the system taught for combat training at Camp Sharpe. Its main disadvantage was that oxygen toxicity made it unsafe for depths greater than fifteen meters.
Norris meanwhile signed a paper, handed it to the sergeant, and leaned forward inquiringly. ‘Now where was I? You’ll be attached to the 29th Infantry Division, which is about to be sent over to Britain. Set up your base with the Reconnaissance Unit and choose a lieutenant and a sergeant to serve under you. You’ll also need to pick a special group and teach them these new techniques, which will be needed, I’ve been told.’
It was getting hot and stuffy. Norris wiped his forehead ‘God, I hate Miami. You’ll be invading Europe with the 29th right at the start of the invasion and you’ll accompany them on their fight through France to Germany. This is not going to be a picnic, Captain. You’ll be responsible for rooting out the SS and Nazi sympathizers wherever we go. They’ll go to ground all over Europe. If it’s action you want you’re guaranteed to get it.’
But hardly the kind of action he’d been hoping for, Simon reminded himself.
‘In the meantime we have a vital job for you in Britain. Axis propaganda is trying to spread distrust between the Allies, specifically between us and the Brits. This must be countered. It’s vital. Nazi sympathizers – they call them Fifth Columnists over there – and spies must be hunted out and handed to the British authorities. They hang them pretty smartly. You with me, Captain?’
Simon nodded politely.
‘Now listen carefully. You’ll need all the skills you’re about to learn at Camp Ritchie to bring about closer ties between our GIs and the British population. Th
ese skills will be vital to us in newly-occupied territories after we invade. It will make all the difference to our fighting power and our boys’ safety.’
‘But, sir . . .’
‘Listen, Johnson. After the war you can pick and choose what you want to do, but right now you’re under military command. MacMillan here will sort out all the details. Your first call is to Chicago for quick basic army training. From now on you will be in uniform, but you will remain in MIS throughout the war, so for God’s sake stop sending me applications for a transfer. Good luck, Captain.’
He might as well have stayed in Manhattan. Simon pursed his lips sullenly as he went in search of the canteen for a late breakfast.
Simon was met at Croydon Airport and driven to ETOUSA’s headquarters near Marble Arch. He had not come unprepared since he had studied all the statistics: 23,000 people killed by bombing in London alone, more than a million houses destroyed or damaged locally, a million civilians injured. The blitz on London had begun with widespread bombing for fifty-seven nights in a row. It was mainly over by now, but signs of the catastrophic bombing were all around. A similar story had unfolded over most of Britain’s cities. The good news was that the blitz had not affected Britain’s war effort and the civilian population had not been cowed. On the contrary, their determination to stick it out and eventually destroy the Nazis had hardened.
However, reading and seeing are quite different and Simon was saddened to see a city that he loved so much lying wrecked and bleeding. The depressed and shabby pedestrians, mainly female and old men, upset him, too. Lost dogs scurried around, white-faced children played amongst the ruins. Christ! He’d had no idea, despite knowing the statistics.
The building that housed ETOUSA’s top brass was half-smothered in sandbags, with sticky paper strips over the windows, smog-smudged walls that could do with a coat of paint and a general air of austerity. There was a strong smell of smoke and dust all around. Looking along the street he saw that several buildings were flattened towards the end. He’d get used to it, he guessed. He went inside and endured the stench as he waited in the hall for his appointment. An attractive, blonde lieutenant with a New York accent, showed him to Lieutenant General Walters’ office. It was a large room and it smelled as bad as the street. Simon couldn’t help thinking that he’d take the stench with him when he left London.
Walters stood up and glared at him long and hard before pushing his hand forward. ‘At ease, Captain. I haven’t got long. I have a meeting upstairs. Eventually you’ll be based with the 29th Infantry Division in Dorset. You probably know that Major General Charles Purnell is running the show, but they haven’t settled in yet. Meanwhile, I’ve detailed a driver to take you to Inverness, where you are to teach a group of Brits the underwater techniques you learned at Camp Sharpe in Pennsylvania. The equipment will go up with you and it’s due to arrive tomorrow morning, so you have the rest of the day off.
‘It’s quite a pretty place, I’ve heard, but maybe not as great as you’re used to,’ he added belligerently. ‘I hear you’ve been having a ball in Buenos Aires. Well, do your job, whatever it’s supposed to be, Captain. For my part, I’m more interested in your underwater training, so don’t waste too much time on Counter Intelligence, that’s my advice.
‘I’m counting on you to set up adequate training facilities around the coast. We need teams of men willing and able to conduct underwater fighting and sabotage. Good luck.’ They shook hands again and that was that.
Simon spent a lonely day mooching around London and an even lonelier evening in the Strand Palace Hotel where he was served a meagre dinner of Woolton Pie, consisting of carrots, turnips, parsnips and potatoes in an oatmeal stock, crowned by a pastry crust and served with brown gravy, but at least the wine was good.
At seven a.m. the following morning, a driver picked him up and drove him to Scotland. The journey took two days as they meandered along a maze of winding country roads, between fields and woods and funny little stone houses, and spent an uncomfortable night in a country inn. By the time they reached a hotel overlooking the sea, where he would be staying, it was dusk and a thick mist had fallen over the landscape. An old man, gnarled and bent, with eyes that looked fiercely in opposite directions, attempted to carry his gear, but Simon fended him off and followed him to his room. He dumped his gear on the bed and stared out of the window.
‘What’s the temperature of the water around these parts?’ he asked.
‘Close to freezing, sir,’ the old man replied, wheezing from the effort of walking and talking. ‘The current comes down from Iceland.’
‘I guessed as much.’
‘I believe you’ll be training in the loch, sir.’
‘Is that warmer?’
‘Not much, sir, but there’s a pub nearby.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ Simon said, trying to keep his spirits up.
He dined alone, but not unobserved. He assumed he was the first American soldier seen around these parts, for twenty pairs of eyes watched him surreptitiously. Eventually a man at the table by the door stood up and walked towards him. He seemed a little unsteady and Simon guessed he’d had too much to drink. ‘You guys took your bloody time,’ he growled, swaying precariously over him.
‘But now we’re here and we’re Allies,’ Simon answered smoothly, trying to remember something appropriate from his Counter Intelligence training.
The woman who had been sitting with the man hurried over and took his arm. She said something that sounded like an attempt to placate, but her strong, local accent prevented Simon from understanding her. He only caught the words ‘son’ and ‘Dunkirk’.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘You’re sorry!’ The man’s growl turned to a bellow. ‘Sorry is not good enough. Go to hell.’ He wrapped his dignity around him like a cloak and stalked out.
The diners kept their eyes fixed on their plates. For a few minutes there was absolute silence. Then a girl of about eleven stood up and approached timidly. She paused, trying to pluck up courage to speak and Simon didn’t know whether to flee or to smile encouragingly. He chose the latter.
‘My dad . . .’ she began. She paused and swayed onto her toes and back again. ‘My dad says we’ll win now you Yanks are coming over. He says you’ve got the men and the guns to flatten the Huns.’
‘We’ll flatten them together,’ Simon assured her.
‘Here, here,’ called the little girl’s father. A slow clapping began around the tables.
Simon stood up, ready to flee. ‘Well then, would anyone like to join me in the bar?’ he suggested, wondering if this was appropriate. Evidently it was, because everyone came, even the little girl, her eyes alight with excitement as she clasped her mother’s hand.
There were four Dunkirk veterans present from an infantry battalion, part of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. At first they were reluctant to talk, but after a while, one of them, called Ian Haig, began to reminisce and the others joined in. Simon pieced together their stories and what he came up with stayed with him in his dreams for months. All four of them were gunners in the Dundee Battery, which was ordered to hold the line, until the troops of the British Expeditionary Force were taken off the beaches at Dunkirk. When the Germans advanced on Dunkirk, the gunners drove them back three miles, but again they were ordered only to hold the line.
Retreating behind the main troops, they eventually arrived at the outskirts of Dunkirk. Again they were ordered to hold the line. ‘Heavy shelling hit us all day and the night and well into the next day, with huge explosions all around,’ Haig explained. ‘Only thirty of us made it to the beach.’
Haig shuddered. ‘Come on boys,’ he called. ‘This is supposed to be a birthday party. Let’s forget about the war.’
Simon slipped off to bed as soon as he could. He had to get up early, but he lay awake for a while. He’d read enough books about Dunkirk, but hearing eyewitness accounts had made it much more real.
Tonight, he thought,
I’ve glimpsed the grit that will save this nation.
Three
‘What’s wrong with you, Miro?’ Daisy asked. She had waylaid him in the cycle shed and he was trapped.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he lied. ‘Why should there be? I’m late, that’s all. Please mind out of the way.’
‘We’ve always been good friends,’ she said, hanging on to his handlebars. She leaned over the bike and scowled in mock accusation. ‘It’s like you’re someone else these past few days. You’re in a world of your own and it’s not a very nice one. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Miro tried to hide his alarm. He could not afford to let his foster sister read his mind and he would rather die than let her get involved. ‘It’s just . . . I’m behind with my work,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh, nonsense. You’re always top of everything and you never do any work. There is something wrong and now you’re lying to cover up. Look at your hands. They’re shaking. Why can’t you trust me? You know I’ll help you.’ She leaned forward impulsively and put one hand over his and he saw her breasts in naked detail, smelled her scent: a beguiling mixture of lavender water, toothpaste and the lanolin soap Helen, his foster mother bought for Daisy’s oversensitive skin.
‘Leave me alone, Daisy. You’ll get grease on your clean dress.’ He flushed at the thought of grappling with Daisy, yet he longed to touch her. She was so beautiful with her white skin, ash-blonde hair and eyes so blue you could get lost gazing at them. Impelled by his defensive pride, he pushed past her, very aware of his red cheeks and hoarse voice.
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