The car followed a drive for a few hundred yards, negotiated something dark and circular that might have been a pond, then crunched to a halt on gravel in front of a large house. Although familiar with the training area, Douglas had not been here before; in fact, he had had no idea that the place existed.
‘Where’s this?’ he wanted to know, as they got out of the car.
‘We call it the Jam Factory’, Colette told him. ‘The story is that it used to belong to a millionaire who made his fortune out of preserves. It really is a beautiful house, though, as you’ll see in a moment.’
They went up a broad flight of steps and Colette rang the bell. A few moments later there was the sound of bolts being drawn, then the big door swung back to reveal a huge foyer with carpeted stairs at its far end. It was lit by a chandelier. No attempt at blackout precautions here, Douglas thought; probably no need of them.
The man who had opened the door was a Military Police sergeant. Douglas saw that he was armed, and that the flap of his holster was unfastened, the butt of a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver protruding so that the weapon could be quickly drawn.
The MP stepped aside to admit the newcomers. ‘Oh, it’s you, miss,’ he said, nodding at the woman in friendly fashion.
‘Good evening, sergeant. This is Captain Douglas. He has been ordered to report to room 20.’
The sergeant made a careful scrutiny of Douglas. ‘Evening, sir,’ he said politely. ‘The order is on my desk, but if I could just see your ID?’
Douglas produced his identity card, which the MP examined at some length before handing it back. ‘Thank you, sir. That is all in order. Would you both follow me, please?’
‘Just a moment, sergeant,’ Douglas said. ‘I’d rather like to shed this lot before I go anywhere.’ He indicated his winter overalls.
‘Right, sir. You can leave it behind my desk over there. No one will walk off with it.
Douglas gratefully stripped off the overalls. As he did so, he was aware that the MP was looking thoughtfully at the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross which the SAS officer wore above the left breast pocket of his battledress blouse. The woman, too, took off her greatcoat and beret, which she also left behind the MP’S desk.
Douglas gave her an appreciative sidelong glance as the pair of them followed the MP up the stairs. Her shoulder-length black hair was glossy and tied back with a green band; her features, from the side, were somewhat aquiline, with high cheekbones and a curve of the nose that was not unattractive. This, together with a rather dark skin, gave her a Mediterranean look. She wore dark green slacks and a short blouson of the same colour, fastened at the waist with a finely-worked leather belt. The bottoms of her slacks were tucked into fur boots. She was petite, not much over five feet tall. Douglas found himself wondering what her body was like under the clothing, then mentally admonished himself for being a lecherous pig. All the same, he was suddenly uncomfortably conscious that he needed a shave, and that his battledress exuded an odour which was not unlike that of a wet dog.
At the top of the stairs they turned into a broad corridor, their footfalls softened by the thick pile of the carpet. The walls were hung with portraits of stern-looking bewigged men, some of whom wore the tartan. Douglas wondered whether they were the jam millionaire’s ancestors, or whether they had come with the house.
The MP halted at a door and knocked. An indistinct command of entry came to them through the oak panelling. He opened the door and snapped to attention, announced the arrival of the two newcomers and then stepped respectfully aside to let them pass.
They entered the room, Douglas following the woman. A man rose from a leather armchair to greet them. He and Douglas looked steadily at one another. It was a half-second, no more, before recognition flashed through the SAS officer’s mind — and with it came the certain knowledge that extreme danger must be in the offing.
CHAPTER THREE
Brigadier Sutton Masters extended his right hand as the MP closed the door behind Douglas and Colette.
‘Well, Douglas,’ he said, ‘our last meeting was in a somewhat warmer climate.’
Douglas murmured something by way of response. The last time he had encountered Masters had been nearly six months earlier, in Malta. It had been Masters who, as head of the Balkans Section of SOE, had briefed the SAS officer for the Yugoslavian venture.
There was another man in the room, standing with his back to a crackling log fire. Unlike Masters, who was dressed in civilian clothing, this man wore a uniform — the uniform of a very senior Naval officer, with several rows of medal ribbons making a splash of colour below his left lapel. Masters made the introductions.
‘Sir, this is Captain Douglas of the Special Air Service. The young lady you have already met. Douglas, this is Rear-Admiral Sir Richard Westerfield.’
Westerfield was a short man and very lean, obviously getting on in years but still possessing a considerable crop of grey, wavy hair. He regarded Douglas steadily out of eyes that were barely visible amid folds and creases, caused no doubt by the winds that had swept the world’s oceans.
‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Douglas,’ he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, with a hint of the West Country. ‘Please sit down, both of you. But first, help yourselves to a drink.’ He indicated a tray that stood on a sideboard.
The girl declined, but Douglas poured himself a generous measure of scotch before making himself comfortable in one of the easy chairs that had been placed by the fire. Westerfield came straight to the point.
‘Douglas, we have a big problem. It is one that has to be solved very quickly, otherwise enormous damage could be inflicted on certain operations that will be undertaken in the near future.’
He leaned forward and stared at Douglas intently, the heavy gold braid on his forearms reflecting the firelight.
‘Early in December,’ he continued, ‘one of our homewardbound convoys was subjected to a severe air attack off the Bay of Biscay. Losses were very heavy — about one-third of the ships involved, including an aircraft carrier. This came as a very nasty shock to us, especially as we had begun to get the upper hand in the Atlantic. Now, the thing that made this attack so devastating — and potentially frightening, as far as the future is concerned — is that the Germans used missiles, not bombs or torpedoes.’
‘Missiles?’ The word was an unfamiliar one, at least when it was mentioned in the context of weaponry. The rear-admiral nodded.
‘Yes. Or, if you prefer it, rocket-powered projectiles. Masters, hand Douglas that folder, will you?’
The brigadier obligingly passed over a buff-coloured Ministry file. Douglas opened it, and saw that it contained a selection of photographs.
‘Look at them carefully,’ Westerfield said, ‘and I will explain what they are all about. The first one shows the Italian battleship Roma on fire and sinking between Corsica and Sardinia after being attacked by the Luftwaffe. The weapons the Germans used were glider bombs, which we believe were steered to the target by some form of radio guidance. The attack took place in September last year, when the Italians were on their way to Malta to surrender to us after the armistice. Another battleship, the Italia, was badly damaged in the same attack. Now look at the next picture.’
Douglas did so. It depicted another warship, this time pictured at close quarters in harbour. Douglas recognized the unmistakable scenery of Valletta in the background. There was a massive hole in the warship’s hull.
‘That’s the battleship HMS Warspite’ Westerfield told Douglas. ‘She was hit by three glider bombs off Salerno and very severely damaged. She’ll be out of commission for months. Now, I want you to close the folder for a minute.’
The rear-admiral got up and resumed his stance in front of the fire. ‘Those glider-bombs are very accurate,’ he went on. ‘There was only one thing in our favour. They had to be launched from close range, a couple of miles or thereabouts. Moreover, the launch aircraft had to fly straight and leve
l over the target while the missile was guided after launch. So, as you may imagine, the Germans took heavy losses from our antiaircraft fire. Now you can take a look at the third photograph in there.’
It was an aerial shot, showing an area of sea dotted with burning ships.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’ Westerfield said grimly. ‘That’s the convoy that was attacked off Biscay in December. The photograph was taken by one of the RAF’S Sunderlands that went out to look for it. The convoy was heavily escorted, but there wasn’t a damned thing the escorts could do to prevent the massacre. It seems the Germans launched their missiles from nearly ten miles away. According to reports, the missiles came in low over the sea at incredible speed — some accounts suggest it must have been over six hundred miles per hour. We have a particularly detailed description from a lookout on board one of the escorting destroyers who tracked a missile with his binoculars; he said that it was leaving a white trail when he first spotted it — presumably the rocket exhaust — but then the trail cut out and the weapon seemed to coast over the final few hundred yards.’
‘It makes you wonder what else they’ve got up their sleeve,’ Douglas muttered, trying to imagine the nightmare of terror and suffering that lay behind the frozen, impersonal image of the photograph.
‘It does indeed,’ Westerfield agreed. ‘Incidentally, RAF Intelligence has identified the Luftwaffe unit that carried out the attack. It’s called KG 100, and it apparently exists to carry out special operations. We think that it was KG 100 that led the attack on Coventry back in November 1940. They acted as pathfinders, flying along a radio beam transmitted from a station on the French coast. They’ve been in Russia for the past couple of years, but now they’re back. A few days after the convoy attack. Intelligence pinpointed their base at Cognac, north of Bordeaux. We asked the Americans to obliterate the place with one of their daylight precision attacks. They did it with admirable thoroughness, as you’ll see from the fourth picture.’
Douglas stared at what had been an airfield, covered with hundreds of overlapping bomb craters. ‘Nice work,’ he commented.
‘Very,’ said Westerfield wryly. ‘However, there was only one problem: KG 100 wasn’t there any more. Over to you, Brigadier.’
Masters coughed and took out a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. He played with it, unopened, as he spoke.
‘Well, it now seems that KG 100 has turned up at Istres, in southern France, SOE has received reliable word to that effect from our main resistance contact in the area. This is worrying us a great deal, because from Istres they are in a position to interfere seriously with forthcoming operations in the Mediterranean.’
Masters paused to take out a cigarette and light it. Douglas took the opportunity to ask an obvious question.
‘Can’t the Americans do to Istres what they did to Cognac, and put the place out of action?’
The brigadier shook his head. ‘They tried, and suffered unacceptable losses. The Germans have moved a wing of fighters into Istres. The Americans just couldn’t get through. The RAF can’t carry out a night attack for fear of causing heavy casualties among French civilians in the surrounding area.’ He looked suddenly at Westerfield. ‘How much can I tell Douglas, sir?’
The rear-admiral sighed and passed his fingers through his hair, moving away from the fire and sitting down once more. ‘All right, Brigadier,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the chance, and the responsibility along with it. Needless to say, Douglas, anything you hear from now on does not go beyond these four walls.’
‘You have my assurance on that, sir,’ Douglas told him.
‘Good. The situation is this. Very soon — before the end of January — an Allied invasion force will go ashore at a location on the west coast of Italy. I’m not going to tell you where, but I can say this: the objective is to take Rome and cut off the enemy forces in southern Italy from those in the north. If we succeed in doing this, we can probably force a complete withdrawal of German forces from Italian territory, leaving the way open for a drive into Austria. Taken alongside other plans, about which I can say absolutely nothing at this stage, it could all add up to the possibility of the war being over this year.’
He smiled, a little wearily. ‘Then, Douglas, we can all go home somewhat earlier than we envisage.’
Douglas said nothing. He waited expectantly for whatever was coming next. Westerfield did not keep him waiting for long.
‘On the other hand,’ he went on, ‘unless we can nip this new enemy threat in the bud, and quickly, our plans for a speedy end to the war could face disaster. At this very moment, a large convoy carrying the United States reinforcements and material essential to the success of the proposed landing is assembling in various West African ports. In ten days’ time it will pass through the Strait of Gibraltar and head straight for its objective, joining up with other assault ships from North Africa en route.’
Westerfield paused for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts, then said: ‘Inevitably, the Germans must know all about the American convoy. Their U-boats tried unsuccessfully to attack it in transit, and they have plenty of agents still in West Africa. What they don’t know is the objective. Our Intelligence people have been doing their best to lay a false trail in the hope of persuading the enemy that a major landing is about to take place on the French Riviera. The idea is that the Germans, with luck, will remove some of their forces from northern Italy to the Riviera, although as yet we have no reports that they are doing so. Perhaps they think it no longer necessary.’
Douglas looked at Westerfield questioningly. ‘Sir?’
‘What I mean’, the Naval officer went on, ‘is that the Germans now probably believe that they can decimate the convoy by use of air power alone as it passes through the Mediterranean. I fear that with these new weapons, they are quite capable of doing so. They have got to be stopped. Back to you, Brigadier.’
‘As you have already heard, Douglas,’ Masters said quietly, ‘we cannot eliminate KG 100 by air attack. Clearly, the only way to accomplish it is by an assault from the ground. We want you to take in your SAS team, Douglas, and organize the local Resistance to do exactly that. And it has got to be done within the next ten days — less, for safety’s sake.’
Douglas leaned back in his chair and expelled his pent-up breath in a long exhalation.
‘Bit of a tall order,’ he said. His voice was completely steady, which surprised him; he didn’t feel in the least bit steady.
‘You have considerable experience in airfield attack techniques,’ Masters pointed out. ‘In that respect, your record in North Africa was outstanding.’
‘Well, sir, with due respect, that was a bit different,’ Douglas told him. ‘We would pop up out of the desert, hit the target and get out again. We knew the lie of the land, and we had plenty of air reconnaissance to tell us what we were looking for. Besides, the Germans’ desert airstrips weren’t very heavily defended. At Istres we would be going in blind, not knowing what we would be likely to be up against.’
‘Not entirely.’ Douglas looked round in surprise; it was the woman who had spoken. Masters looked encouragingly at her.
‘Please go on, Colette,’ he said. ‘But first, Douglas, I should explain that Colette will be going along with you.’
Douglas felt his hackles beginning to rise. ‘Now just a minute, sir,’ he said truculently. ‘For a start, I don’t think that any of this is feasible. And even if it were, I don’t want any unknown quantities tagging along.’
Masters held up a hand. ‘All right, Douglas,’ he said sharply, ‘just draw in your horns a little and listen to what Colette has to say. She is by no means an unknown quantity, as you will learn. She has our complete support; in fact, she is quite indispensable to this operation.’
There was a lengthy pause before Colette spoke again. She stared at Douglas, and the silence was laden with reproof.
At length she said in an even voice: ‘Captain Douglas, I don’t think you quite understand.
There is a very strong resistance movement in southern France, in some ways stronger than that in the north. In Vichy France we are fighting not only the Germans, but also the Milice, the pro-fascist police, who in many respects are worse than the Gestapo. Let me assure you that you will receive all possible help in your task; in fact, the groundwork is being prepared at this very moment.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself,’ Douglas interrupted, ‘and in any case, I haven’t said that I’m going to risk the lives of my men in this crazy venture. I assume’ — the question was directed at Masters — ‘that you aren’t going to order us to do this?’
The brigadier shook his head slowly. ‘No, Douglas. Of course not. It’ll be strictly a job for volunteers.’
Douglas was beginning to feel tired. He lay back in his chair and passed a hand over his eyes.
‘Look, gentlemen,’ he said, addressing both senior officers, ‘I think I would like to sleep on it. First of all, I want a bath and a shave and a change of clothing. That might be a problem, since my kit is over at Group A Headquarters.’
Masters smiled. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘I had it brought here. There’s a room for you. First things first: I suggest that when you have freshened up, you take dinner with Colette. We’ve quite a nice little mess room here, and there’s hardly anybody about just now, so you’ll be able to talk privately. Colette can tell you what she knows about the Resistance, and I hope set your mind at rest on a few matters. Then you can give me your answer first thing in the morning. Fair enough?’
‘Fair enough, sir. You’ll have my answer then.’
‘Don’t forget, Douglas, that thousands of lives may be in the balance here. I trust you will make the right decision.’
He’s putting me well and truly on the spot, Douglas thought. He’ll have his answer, all right. But what happens to me if it’s the wrong one? And what will happen to me anyway, and especially to my men, if we go?
Attack at Night Page 3