Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  “Who are you?” the agent asked, peering wide-eyed at the blade.

  “The ‘Mail’ man,” he answered quietly, pocketing the folded knife.

  “But why didn’t you show at the ‘Du..?”

  “Shut up!” Bayer snapped, glaring at the man’s stupidity at what he was about to reveal.

  “A bit touchy aren’t we friend, we are both on the same side you know?” the agent sniggered as he made to get up from the chair, but quickly changed his mind when he felt the knife blade against his throat for a second time.

  “Let’s get a few things straight, shall we. I’m not your friend and I’m not on anybody’s side, only my own. Also I don’t like the way you operate because you’re an unprofessional bastard who will get himself caught before long. You stood out like a spare dick at a wedding this lunchtime. You didn’t even know that I tailed you all the way here after you left the place, marked the house and even the room you were in all within half an hour… that’s why I’m a bit touchy,” he hissed in the man’s ear.

  “I see, I’m sorry. So what happens now?” the agent asked, in a subdued voice.

  Bayer looked down at the sorry state in front of him, straightened up and folded away the blade. “You get your coat and we take a walk… walls have ears,” he answered quietly.

  Walking side by side they followed the river in silence until they came to an area of industrial buildings devoid of people, at which point Bayer stopped and leaned against the railings.

  “So! What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Before I tell you that I have to be sure who you are first. What is your codename?” the agent asked, taking out a pistol from under his coat and levelling it at Bayer’s stomach.

  Bayer looked down at the weapon with its silencer pointing at him and had to admire the man’s forward thinking, even though he didn’t know there was a gun aimed directly back at him.

  “My code name is ‘Das Rabe’ and congratulations on your tenacity, it would have been rather interesting to see who would have fired first,” he replied, taking the P38 from his pocket.

  The making of a smile swept across the agent’s face as he looked at the Walther. “I’m Gerhard Metzger,” he answered, concealing his weapon under his coat and relieved when he saw Bayer do the same. “Your reputation precedes you within the department in Berlin, also the Fuhrer thinks very highly of you if I may say so.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” he replied, sarcastically. “So where are you from, Metzger?”

  “Dessau! My parents and sister are still living there, in spite of the air raids,” the agent replied, pulling his collar up against the cold night air.

  “Dessau! That is not far from Berlin, if my memory serves me right?” Bayer queried.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “I hear the bombing is very bad in Berlin?”

  “The Berliners can take it if the Fuhrer can,” Metzger replied proudly.

  Bayer had to smile to himself at the man’s smugness. “Yes I’m sure they can. So why this meeting?”

  “The orders I have got for you had to be delivered in person. They came from the very top, from Adolf Hitler himself.”

  “So what are these orders?”

  “You are to take the film you have taken of the British jet to the Fuhrer personally. I was told in no uncertain terms to stress to you the importance that you get back to Berlin at whatever cost.”

  “And how am I to do this?” Bayer asked, leaning back against the railings.

  “You are to make your way to Stracandra Island that lies off the west coast of Scotland.”

  Bayer stared into the agent’s eyes for a few moments. “And do what?”

  “You will await the arrival of a seaplane which will take you to Norway where there will be an aircraft waiting to take you to Berlin,” Metzger answered.

  “And this Stracandra Island, where exactly does it lie?” he asked, quickly stopping Metzger from responding as voices were heard coming towards them on the opposite side of the road.

  Retreating further into the shadows of the thickening mist they both waited until the voices receded into the distance.

  “It lies at the Southern end of the Western Isles. Boats sail from Oban to a place called Lochboisdale; from there you will have to make your own way to the island.”

  “Steal a boat you mean?” he answered, grinning.

  “Yes! I think that’s what headquarters had in mind.”

  “And how far is this island?”

  “I believe it’s about 60 Kilometres from the main port.”

  “And is it uninhabited?”

  “Yes! One of our gallant U-Boats had a little target practice there in the early part of the war destroying one of the keeper’s cottages, the other was left undamaged, since then the island has been left unoccupied by the British, probably because of its remoteness. Adjacent to the property you will see a storeroom; you will find the key to open the cottage door in there hanging on a hook.”

  Bayer lit a cigarette, shielding it with his hand as he smoked. “And if I make it to this island, how do I make contact with Norway?”

  Metzger took from his inside pocket a sealed envelope and handed it to him. “In there is all the information you need to make contact; memorise it, then destroy it.”

  After concealing the envelope Bayer leaned on the railings and looked at the cold dark water. “And what of you, Metzger?” he asked, flicking the part smoked cigarette into the water.

  “After I have told Berlin I have made contact with you I have to proceed to a new assignment in Southern England.”

  Bayer’s gut instinct had been to eliminate him and let the body slip quietly into the water and be carried out to sea on the outgoing tide. But that could cause problems for him following Metzger’s last remark about him contacting Berlin about their successful meeting. If the agent didn’t report back, Berlin could well assume that they both had been captured and that may well put his escape route in jeopardy, so he decided against the former and let Metzger go on living.

  Chapter Ten

  DAVE HAMILTON’S letter had been a first for Will, being the first time a fellow crew member had kept in touch. He had replied within a couple of days which turned into a regular correspondence and it didn’t take him long while reading Dave’s letters to realise that he was also finding it difficult to settle down to the humdrum life at Castle Kennedy after the excitement of being on an operational squadron. It had come as no surprise in one of the letters to read that he had applied for a transfer to No 68 Air Sea Rescue unit at Melruish, which had ultimately been granted and with some clever juggling on his part he had been able to marry-up his leave to fit in with Dave.

  Will stood on the open deck in the biting wind and pulled up the deep collar on his greatcoat as he watched the ferry manoeuvre into its berth; when secured he joined the orderly line of disembarking passengers whose identification cards were systematically checked before being allowed on their way. Dave had been waiting for him as promised and after a quick handshake and brief exchange of greetings, it was a relief to get into the car’s warm interior out of the cold.

  “It’s bloody perishing up here Dave, is it always as cold as this?”

  “Aye! It does get a bit raw in the winter, but you get used to it. It’s you lot from the south of the border, you’ve got no stamina, what you need is some haggis, tatties and neeps with a wee dram of whisky,” he laughed.

  Will looked out of the side window at the fast failing light. “Well I’ve heard of haggis, and tatties I presume are potatoes, but what the hell are neeps?”

  “Rutabagas! It’s yellow turnip mashed up. I’ll get my mam to make us a Burns supper before you go back, you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Sounds good, it will be a change from some of the mess food we get.”

  “We have to turn left somewhere here Will, can you see the turning?”

  “No! Hang on a minute, there’s something coming up now,” he shouted, above the
noise of the squealing tyres as the car was quickly turned onto its new course, making him brace himself hard against the door. “Hell Dave, slow down a bit, you nearly turned the bloody thing over then!”

  “Aye! That would cheer the old fella up if I pranged his car,” he laughed, bringing the vehicle down to a more realistic speed for the dimmed headlights. “So what’s it like on these Met flights Will, boring as hell I should imagine?”

  “Well, it beats being stuck in the armoury all day and I am doing what I like doing best, flying, and also I’m out of the way of Nelson; we’ll never see eye to eye, him and I.”

  “You’re not thinking of going back on ops again are you? Christ, you’ve done two tours now, let some other sod stick his neck out, I honestly think you’ve done your share Will.”

  He looked out over the car’s bonnet at the black countryside in front of them and in the distance he could just make out the white crests as they rode in on the Atlantic waves. “I’ve been thinking about it Dave, I was wondering if I could transfer on to the Met squadron at Tiree? I’ve got to know Barfield Walker quite well, he’s O/C flying, with doing these odd trips for him, no doubt he could pull a few strings for me if I asked him. There’s a lot less chance of getting the bloody chop on a Met squadron than there is on Bomber Command, the only thing you have to contend with up here is mainly the weather conditions.”

  “And the odd flying boat,” Dave grinned.

  Will looked at him. “And them,” he nodded.

  “Have you seen any more enemy aircraft since the one you wrote and told me about?”

  “No, not since that run-in we had with that Blohm and Voss.”

  “I’ve heard about these from some of the Air Sea Rescue boys; apparently one of our boats operating out of Stornoway was out picking up a crew that had come down in the drink, when they were attacked by one of these flying boats and a right battle ensued.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “By all accounts, it scurried off with an engine smoking, but there were several injured on the launch, with one of them dying in hospital a couple of days later.”

  “Yes, they are prickly devils to bring down when you tangle with them; the tactics of the Jerry pilots is to drop them down to wave-top height because like our kites, they are vulnerable from underneath, but they are well-armed topside.”

  “I can never understand why the RAF didn’t fit ball turrets in our bombers like the Yanks do?”

  “Well, you know why Dave, they sacrificed the defence of the aircraft for a heavier bomb load; our bomb carrying capacity has always been far greater than the Yanks has. Hell! A Mosquito can carry a four thousand pound bomb load to Berlin and that’s on two engines! Mind you I wouldn’t want to be in one of those belly turrets, you haven’t a cat-in-hell’s-chance if a night fighter latches on to you that is fitted with Schrage Musik.”

  “Aye! They reckon if you’re hit with a burst from those upward firing cannons, you’re a bloody goner.”

  “Anyway Dave that’s enough about the war, how much further is it to Melruish?”

  “Another five minutes or so and we should be able to see the bay. When we get there, we will have a bite to eat then we’ll go down to the Argyll for a pint or two, how’s that sound?”

  “Sounds good to me. Are the rest of your family going down?”

  “Och aye! They’ll not pass up a chance to have a dram or two. Mind you don’t be surprised if Isobel is a bit frosty with you, she has a low opinion of RAF bods at the moment,” he laughed.

  “Why’s that?”

  “She was going out with this Sergeant Roach from the marine craft unit; anyway to cut a long story short he sent her a ‘Dear John’ from his new camp, saying he had met someone else and he was ending their relationship. So airmen aren’t the flavour of the month at the moment. She has even been uppity with me of late.”

  “Oh!” Will answered, as he saw Melruish Bay materialise in the distance.

  The town was reasonably quiet as Dave negotiated the car down the hill and through the dark narrow streets, eventually bringing it to a halt in front of the double doors that led into the yard adjacent to the shop. Ushered indoors, Will noticed the house had a warm family feel about it as he was shown in to the parlour to meet Dave’s family.

  Duncan Hamilton was a true Scot in every way, tough-looking, sporting a full beard with piercing blue eyes with features prominent from years working the sea and whose hand held Will’s like a vice when they shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you lad at last, David often talks about you, this is my wife – Aileen,” he drawled, standing aside.

  “Pleased to meet you Mrs Hamilton.”

  She smiled at his politeness. “Nobody stands on ceremony in this house lad, Aileen is just fine,” she told him, going about her business of laying the table.

  “And this Will is my sister Isobel, who I warned you about in the car.”

  Isobel Hamilton shot her brother a look of annoyance at what he had said as she came forward and took hold of Will’s hand.

  Captivated by this handsome woman standing in front of him and looking into her sparkling eyes he took hold of her hand, “Isobel,” he said, smiling, but only getting the small makings of a smile in return.

  “Right, sit yourself down lad, dinner won’t be long, you’ll take a wee dram, will you not, while we’re waiting?” Duncan Hamilton asked, setting up the glasses ready for filling.

  “I’d be glad to Mr Hamilton, sorry, Duncan,” he answered, taking the seat by the fire as a glass of whisky was put into his hand.

  “So how are you getting on at Tiree Will? David tells me that you’ve been doing the odd flight over the last few weeks; no more encounters with German flying boats I hope?” Aileen Hamilton asked, her eyes holding his.

  “It’s not a bad station and I quite enjoy doing the occasional flight when they are offered, and no, we haven’t run up against any more German aircraft since that incident,” he said, noticing how Isobel was holding his eyes from the chair opposite; and trying not to make it too obvious that he found her terribly attractive he decided to try and not mention the RAF over dinner, knowing what Dave had told him. But try as he may it was only a matter of time before the conversation eventually came around to flying and the aircraft that were being used.

  Stretching out his legs as he sat in his favourite chair, Duncan Hamilton took a long draw on his pipe. “So Will what do you think is the best heavy aircraft we’ve got? David says, without a doubt it’s the Avro Lancaster,” he queried, blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air.

  “Well, I can’t argue with that! The Lanc is a first class aircraft, reliable as the day is long; mind you the Halifax is second to none, it’s very strongly made and can take a lot of punishment.”

  “Is that so, you’ve not flown in them, have you son?” Duncan Hamilton asked, as another cloud of smoke filled the room.

  “No, I haven’t dad.”

  “David tells me it’s the Halifax they are using for these meteorological flights?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Will answered, as he watched Isobel Hamilton come into the room in a dress that enhanced her figure, carrying her coat over her arm.

  “Well, they must be good to stand up to the harsh weather conditions up here.”

  “So are you three ready to go to the Argyll? It’ll soon be getting full and mum wants to get a seat before they are all gone,” she asked, breaking in on the discussion.

  “Aye we’re ready when you two lassies are?”

  A biting cold wind blew across the harbour and Will was thankful for the warmth of his greatcoat as he stuck his hands deep into its pockets. The Argyll Hotel was filling up fast by the time they got there but they did manage to find a cosy corner with the required amount of seats for them all where they could have a reasonable conversation and not get drowned out by the piano player, who hit the keys with such force that Will wondered if it would survive the night.

  With Dave and his fathe
r up at the bar getting more drinks and Isobel talking with friends, Will had been left in the company of Aileen Hamilton, who had picked up through the course of the evening Will’s interest in her daughter.

  “She’s a bonny lass isn’t she Will?” she smiled.

  His first thought was to try and play her remark down, but on second thoughts he knew he had been rumbled, Aileen Hamilton was a lot shrewder than he realised. “Yes, she certainly is.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out there lad.”

  “I didn’t realise I’d been that obvious,” he answered, looking at her before taking a drink.

  “Maybe not to the others, but I’m her mother Will and I can read the signs when someone is taking an interest in my daughter, but at the moment she doesn’t rate RAF airmen very highly after Trevor Roach.”

  “No! I can understand that after what he’s done to her.”

  “Have you got no immediate family Will? If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “No. I haven’t. My parents divorced when I was very young, my mother later remarried and now lives in Australia, my sister is married to a Canadian and lives near Calgary and I’ve no idea where my father is and to be honest I don’t much care.”

  “So what do you intend to do when the war is over?” she asked, noticing that Isobel, although in conversation with her friends, was also watching with great interest her talking with Will.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could stay on in the Royal Air Force if they’ll let me, I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “Well I should think it would be a good life in peacetime, you could do a lot worse, especially when there will be thousands coming out of the forces looking for work.”

  “Yes, I had thought of that and what’s more, I do love flying. This war can’t go on for much longer, we’ve got the Germans on the run now. That’s why I’ve been wondering if I could get onto a Met flight; I’ve got it on good authority that they will carry on collecting weather reports with aircraft after the war.”