Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  “What was the hold-up?” she enquired, holding out her ticket for the inspector.

  “I don’t know mam, we had a red light against us so we had to wait. It shouldn’t be too long now before we reach Coaley Junction,” he replied, clipping the ticket and handing it back to her.

  “Thank you,” she said smiling as she watched him close the door behind him. Waiting a few seconds she quickly transferred to the corner seat near the door so she could see into the corridor and took particular notice that he bypassed the adjacent compartment to her left that she now knew must be unoccupied. Steadying herself against the swaying carriage she slowly slid back the compartment door and made her way forward to the front of the carriage and with her back against the polished woodwork she now had a clear view down the entire length of the corridor. There was no further sign of the mysterious figure as the train rattled on towards its destination and when it finally slowed and came to a shuddering halt she took note that nobody left any of the other compartments in the carriage before she opened the door and stepped out on to the platform. Wartime stations such as Coaley were ominous places, small and poorly lit by lanterns; dark shadows seemed to lurk everywhere. Walking towards the ticket hall she stopped briefly to look along the platform to see if anybody else was alighting. Hearing the sound of a carriage door being closed she stood to one side to light a cigarette and acknowledged a young couple's gesture as they emerged out of the darkness.

  The ticket hall felt warm as she entered, remnants of a fire’s dying embers still glowing amidst the grey ash that spilled over onto the tiles below. Using the light from the solitary lantern, she rummaged through her bag until she found her torch. Passing the ticket office window, Griselda noticed that the ticket clerk was far younger than the regular older man who was normally on duty when she came home on the earlier train. There was no sign of the couple when she emerged from the ticket office entrance; how could they have vanished so quickly? she thought, straining her eyes in the direction of the lane that would take her to the main Dursley road. A sudden loud hiss of steam startled her as the train began to move off and slowly disappear into the night; the silence after it had gone left an eeriness that was made worse by the soft rustle of the trees as they shivered in the late evening breeze. At the end of the lane she turned right onto Draycott road and on reaching the railway bridge was suddenly enveloped in smoke from a southbound express, its whistle screaming as it thundered through the station. Cursing out loud at her misfortune, she was partway across the bridge when she thought she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Switching off her torch she stood and listened but the sound of heavy traffic in the distance made hearing difficult. Quickening her pace to reach the far side of the bridge she took out the Walther and receded back into the bushes to wait. The sound of voices and laughing coming from the direction of Dursley and heading towards the railway station made her breath more easily but all the same, she waited until the revelry had died away in the distance before breaking cover. A further fifteen minutes walking found her rounding the bend in the lane where she could just make out the dark outline of the roof and chimney of the cottage against the night sky. Opening and closing the gate behind her she made her way around to the rear to let herself in via the kitchen door. What met her as she pushed open the door was a dark empty room and Guntram nowhere to be seen which did not worry her unduly; what did was finding the rear door unlocked and a roll of film on the kitchen table when she switched on the light. Swiftly taking the Walther from her bag she stood quite still and cast a careful eye around the contents of the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place and knowing Guntram’s temperament it would have been; he wouldn’t have given up without a fight if something unexpected had happened. Moving towards the door that led through to the front of the house she had just put her hand on the door handle when she felt the cold feel of a gun barrel pressed firmly against her neck. Pushed roughly against the door and her right arm pulled quickly around her back, the Walther was taken from her. Griselda found herself breathing hard as the seconds ticked by wondering what the opposition’s next move would be. Was she going to be arrested… or even shot? Where the hell was Guntram when she needed him, had he escaped the trap and left her to face the consequences? All this had been flashing through her mind when she suddenly felt her hair on her shoulders being gently pushed to one side and a kiss planted tenderly on her neck.

  “You’re late!” a voice whispered softly in her ear.

  Recognising her lover’s voice she tried to twist around to face him but found she was still being held firmly as he pressed against her and slowly slid his left hand under her skirt until he reached the top of her stockings. Griselda was annoyed with herself for being caught like she was and twisting and wriggling, tried to show her annoyance, but to no avail. Guntram was skilful at whatever he did, she’d known that since the first night they had slept together, his masterfulness and constant appetite to make love soon melted away any resistance she had towards him.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he said, releasing his hold on her.

  Straightening her ruffled skirt she watched him take a seat at the table and pick up the roll of film. “How did you know I was coming?” she asked.

  “You’ll have to learn to close the gate more quietly in future, I heard you close it from here. If I’d have been M15 you know where you would have been now? Arrested,” he answered sharply, without looking up.

  “Where were you hiding?”

  “In the first place you should have thought of when you came in and saw that the room was empty… the pantry,” he replied, coldly.

  “Oh! I’d forgotten about there.”

  “Well, you don’t forget you stupid bitch. Mistakes like that will get you taken or killed,” he snapped angrily, pushing back the chair which tipped over as he stood up.

  His sudden outburst and the way he was looking, frightened her; this was a side to him she hadn’t seen before and for a brief moment she wasn’t sure what he was going to do to her until she saw his eyes soften and he picked up the overturned chair.

  “Did you manage to photograph the documents Berlin asked for?” he queried, crossing the room to lock the door.

  “Yes! That’s why I’m late home, I had to wait until everyone had gone,” she answered, taking the camera from her bag and handing it to him.

  The makings of a smile spread across his face as he removed the film from the camera. “Right! I’ll go down to the basement and develop these while you get some food ready. After we have eaten we will contact Berlin for further instructions.”

  *

  Henry Maynard picked up his pipe from his desk before closing the office door behind him. Too old for active service but with a razor sharp mind acquired from his days in commercial banking, he had been recruited by Military Intelligence at the War Office in the spring of 1940. The door to Clifford Granville’s office was ajar when he got there and he smiled to himself when he saw his old friend surrounded in the usual halo of cigar smoke staring out through the window.

  “Morning Clifford,” he said, tapping on the door out of courtesy as he entered.

  “Morning Henry, close the door and have a seat.”

  Maynard could see the closed file on Granville’s desk. “Is that the Filton file?” he asked, as he watched Granville re-take his seat and stub out the cigar butt into the half-filled ashtray.

  “Yes! Here, take a look,” he replied, sliding the folder towards him. “Information is getting to the Germans somehow, Henry, and we’ve been given the task of finding out how and by whom.”

  Maynard carefully went through the documents which were all to do with modifications that had been carried out on the radar which was fitted in to the Bristol Beaufighter.

  “Disturbing reading, isn’t it Henry?”

  “Yes, it is. So our boys haven’t been able to get a fix on where the information is being sent from?”

  “No! Whoever he or she is, they are professional. When tr
ansmitting they never stay on long enough for us to get a fix on the position. But this is the most interesting part; when the Germans replied they used the code name… Das Rabe, at least we have a name now to work with.”

  Maynard sat quietly for a few moments while he filled his pipe. Lighting it, he sat back in the chair to savour the aroma. “So we are looking for somebody called ‘The Raven’,” he answered, studying the fragments of the messages they had at their disposal. “There’s not a lot to go on here Clifford and the chances of catching who is getting this information out and sending it is very slim with what we’ve got.”

  “Yes, I know! But we might have had a break-through Henry, albeit a small one but worth looking into… Read this,” Granville said, handing him part of a message that had been picked up.

  “Hell’s bells, they have been watching and photographing the test flights of the Meteor! When was this intercepted?” Maynard asked, handing back the paper and re-lighting his pipe.

  “Late last night, but again the sender didn’t stay on long enough for our chaps to get a fix. But what the message does tell us is what area it’s being sent from.”

  “And that is?” Maynard queried.

  Granville sat back in his chair and lit another cigar and took a long draw before answering. “The Gloucester area, because that is where the Meteor is now being made ready to undergo test trials at Moreton Valence airfield. So whoever he or she is, they must now be operating from around that area.”

  Maynard blew a cloud of tobacco smoke towards the ceiling before leaning forward and tapping the Filton file with the end of his pipe. “But that still doesn’t help us with how they’ve managed to get hold of the A1 Mark VIII radar information – that’s top secret stuff, Clifford. The Germans now know how the RAF is carrying out these all-weather and night-time attacks with such precision. The torpedo Beaufighters of The North Coates Strike Wing have had great success with their low level attacks on German shipping since they adopted the practice.”

  “Yes, I know Henry, that’s why I want you to go across to Filton and have a quiet nose about. It’s been arranged with their top people over there. They’ve agreed to fix you up with an office within the personnel department so you can go through their staff files and see what you can dig up. There may be something you might pick up on that their people have missed.”

  “Alright! When do you want me to go?”

  “There is a train leaving Paddington early tomorrow morning for Bristol. See Amy next door, she has all the details. Filton will have transport waiting for you when you arrive. I know it’s a bit short notice Henry, but the sooner we can nail this sod, the better.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. So what are you going to do about Moreton Valence?”

  “Well, by all accounts the airfield is fairly well-guarded but from what we now know, it looks like we are going to have to increase it. This Raven character might well be bold enough to try and get on to the place during the hours of darkness and try a bit of sabotage now he knows the lay-out of the place.”

  “It’s possible I suppose. But you know Clifford my gut feeling tells me that the Raven is a male operative and that there are two separate incidents going on here,” Maynard answered, but immediately breaking off the conversation when there was a tap on the door.

  “Come in!” Granville said sharply, annoyed at the timing.

  Silence fell across the room as a young girl appeared carrying a tray with two cups of tea on it.

  After she had left the room Granville took a drink before speaking. “So what you are really saying Henry is that there are two separate agents at large in close proximity to one another?”

  Maynard nodded as he put his cup back on the saucer. “Yes! And I wouldn’t mind betting that one is a permanent fixture at Filton, the other is a field agent, an information gatherer. If he is, it is unlikely he will try his hand at sabotage if he is attached to the counter-intelligence division.”

  Chapter Five

  ISOBEL HAMILTON followed the windswept path that ran along the cliff edge, stopping to admire the view out to sea. The stiff breeze ruffled her jet black hair across her shoulders and forehead. Of medium build with fine features and sparkling blue eyes she had all the attributes men found attractive in a woman and one such person was Sergeant Trevor Roach, their relationship having blossomed during his time with the Air Sea Rescue unit which was stationed in the harbour. Slipping her hand into her coat pocket she felt the letter; taking it out she unfolded it and read it through for the fourth time, its contents short but to the point. He had met someone else at his new station and he had written to tell her he was ending their relationship. Wiping away the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand she screwed the letter up and thrust it back in her pocket. “To hell with you Roach,” she shouted loudly, her words carried away on the wind. Reaching the point where the headland turned back towards Melruish Bay, giving her some respite from the Atlantic wind, she stood and took in the beauty of the picturesque town and its harbour. Her father’s fishing boat rode gently against the quay amidst the array of the other colourful boats; how she loved the remoteness and beauty of the Western Isles. It was the sound of powerful engines starting that drew her attention to the opposite side of the bay where the Royal Air Force had commandeered a large section of the harbour for their Air Sea Rescue boats. She could just make out its number behind the RAF roundle as it was slowly manoeuvred away from the one adjacent to it; once clear, its three Napier Sea Lion engines were opened up as it glided smoothly out of the harbour, its speed increasing as it left the bay taking it up to its cruising speed. Resuming her walk down the path that brought her to the eastern edge of the town she cut through the narrow streets of stone lined cottages, built to withstand the harsh Atlantic gales to where her parents shop was.

  “Oh! There you are, had a good walk?” her mother asked, coming from behind the meagre display due to wartime rationing.

  “Yes, thanks. It’s a bit wild up on the cliff path,” she answered, lifting up the counter flap and making her way into the kitchen. “Where’s David?” she asked, while going through the motions of making some tea.

  “He’s gone down to the boat with your father to help him put on a new part that it’s been waiting for since I don’t know when, something to do with the winch I believe,” her mother told her as she came through to join her.

  “Are you okay here if I go down to the boat after I’ve had this drink? It will be nice to spend a bit more time with that brother of mine before he leaves on Tuesday. Is he still determined to put in a request to join the marine craft unit here when he gets to his new camp?” she asked, handing her mother the cup and saucer.

  “Oh! I’ll be okay on my own, it’s not been very busy this morning, and yes, he seems very keen on the idea of the Air Sea Rescue boats, but you know yourself Isobel, his love for the sea has always been there ever since he was a small child just like you. That’s what comes with having a father who’s a fisherman.”

  She looked at her mother and nodded in agreement. “Yes, I suppose it is. I never understood him joining the RAF as against the navy.”

  “That took us all by surprise! Where the love of wanting to fly came from I’ve no idea, and in those big bombers as well.”

  “I asked him that, the other night when we were walking down to the pub together; he told me after seeing on the Pathe news in the cinema what the Germans were doing to our cities he felt flying in the Royal Air Force would be a good way of hitting back at them.”

  Aileen Hamilton frowned at her daughter’s remark. “Is that what he thought!” she said softly, replacing the cup back on its saucer.

  Isobel smiled at her mother’s shrewdness before changing the subject. “He seemed to get on very well with the rear gunner in his crew, this Will Madden? By what David was telling me he has completed two tours of duty on Bomber Command and shot down several German aircraft in the process.”

  “Yes, your father did mention something ab
out it a couple of days ago, and by all accounts this Will Madden is stationed up here on Tiree, but like David, he’s not flying.”

  Isobel studied her mother’s expression for a few moments. “Has David told you that after he has had this rest period he can be called back to do a second tour of duty and if he gets through it okay he’s finished flying then, unless like this friend of his, he volunteers to do more?”

  Aileen looked at her daughter. “Yes, I did know that, it wasn’t David who told me though, it was Trevor who mentioned it one evening while he was waiting for you to get ready to go to the pictures.”

  Isobel pulled a face at the mention of Roach’s name, which was seen by her mother.

  “What’s the matter, have you and Trevor had a falling out?” she asked, cautiously.

  “A little bit more than that,” she answered, taking the screwed up bundle from her coat pocket and giving it to her mother to read.

  After straightening it out Aileen read it through slowly until coming to the part about him meeting someone else and ending their relationship. “Oh! I see,” she said quietly, lowering the letter and looking at her daughter, “I’m so sorry darling, I know you had grown very fond of him over these past few months, but as they say, there’s plenty more fish in the sea and I’m sure some nice young man will eventually come along and steal your heart, you mark my words.”