Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  “We could have a walk along the waterside,” he said, getting up and walking over to the window. “Anything is better than staying in here.”

  Stella followed suit and came and stood next to him. “And if the heaven’s open up, what then?”

  “I’m sure there must be a café we can use,” he replied, anxious to be on the move.

  Leaving the warmth of the guesthouse they made their way down towards the harbour passing several other adventurous souls who had been brave enough to endure the harsh winter weather. The road turned immediately left at the end of a row of brightly painted houses and shops, one of which, they noted, was a café being patronised by several of the locals. On the opposite side was an open area which Bayer assumed was the dock as there were several empty fish boxes stacked neatly in a row.

  “Shall we take a look?” he said beckoning with his head towards the quay.

  Pushing back her hair that swirled across her face Stella shook her head. “You can if you want to, the only place I’m going is back to that café to get warm and have a drink,” she shouted over the gusting wind.

  “Okay! I won’t be long,” he grinned, glad that he was on his own to do what he had to do. Not expecting to find anything moored alongside the deserted quay, it had only been when he reached the end of the line of fish boxes that he saw the ropes around the capstan going over the edge of the stonework to a fishing boat below. Looking down, the first thing Bayer noticed was the aerial that linked to a radio mounted in the wheelhouse and below the console, charts stacked neatly on a shelf. The boat was of a decent size and of sturdy construction and well within his handling capabilities. He had worked out a plan he was going to adopt during his long journey northwards and using his road map, he had calculated the distance between Lochboisdale and the island as being 60 kilometres, roughly 36 miles, which he was hoping to cover during the hours of darkness, weather permitting. Once there he would contact Norway using the radio, then after opening the seacocks, get ashore and hope the boat would drift far enough away from the island and sink in deep water. Then there would follow the waiting game and hoping the weather would stay calm enough to allow the Luftwaffe to land a seaplane to pick him up. At least he would have shelter from the bitter cold while he waited in one of the lighthouse keeper’s cottages. A thought had crossed his mind; if he was going to be there for any length of time due to the weather conditions, whether he dare risk lighting a fire after nightfall, that way the smoke from the chimney would be concealed by the darkness.

  Running a careful eye over the vessel for a second time it seemed ideal for what he had in mind; his main concern was whether the boat had been refuelled ready for its next voyage. There was no way of knowing that without boarding her and checking, but that wasn’t an option in daylight. He hadn’t been aware of anybody approaching from behind because of the strength of the wind, and it was only when a voice said, “I cannae see us getting much fishing done in this”, that he realised there was someone there.

  “No! It certainly is rough,” he said turning, whereupon he was confronted by a heavily built man who had all the characteristics of a seaman about him. A well-worn peaked cap sat upon a tangled mass of curly hair that continued down to a full beard. His broad frame was covered by a heavy woollen jumper and his black trousers were tucked inside sturdy sea boots. “Is she yours?” Bayer asked, pointing to the boat below.

  “Aye, and a fine craft she is. But in these winds there will be hell of a sea running once you’ve rounded the headland.”

  “So what have you been catching?” Bayer asked, being a keen angler before the war.

  Sitting down on the capstan the sea captain took out his pipe and patted out the old tobacco into the palm of his hand then set about refilling it. “Now let’s see! I brought in a good quota of pollock and whiting on my last trip, but y’know there’s some nice haddock around, it’s just a case of knowing where to look,” he winked, sucking contentedly on his pipe.

  Bayer smiled and nodded. “That’s the name of the game, knowing where to look,” he repeated, as his mind was carried back to a certain lake near his home in more peaceful times – the early mornings sitting by the water’s edge with his late father watching the sunrise over the treetops, its warmth making a grey mist rise from the surface of the water like steam. The aroma of hot coffee being poured from a thermos flask which could suddenly be interrupted by the dipping of the float as a fish took the bait, and the playing of the rod and line until it was safely in the holding net. Bayer smiled to himself; they were good days then, days he would repeat again when Germany had won the war and things got back to normality. But first he had more pressing matters to attend to, and that required more information.

  “So when do you think you will go out again, tomorrow?”

  The sea captain took his pipe from his mouth and pointed to the sea with it. “Aye! I’ll be away on the tide in the morning.”

  “So are you all ready to go, fuel and suchlike?” he asked in a casual tone.

  “Ach aye! I’d have gone this morning if it hadn’t been for this blow, but you cannae fish in this weather, too dangerous around these waters.”

  “Yes I’m sure it is,” Bayer replied, pleased with the information he had just been given. “Well I’d better be on my way, it’s been nice talking with you.”

  “Likewise laddie, and good luck t’ye.”

  “And to you,” he said walking away. “Shame you won’t find your boat there in the morning as I’ve other plans for it,” he said quietly to himself.

  He found Stella sitting at a corner table passing away the time over a cup of tea and a cigarette.

  “You’ve been a long time?”

  “I’ve been finalising arrangements,” he answered, sitting down next to her.

  “What arrangements?” she asked stubbing out the cigarette end in the ashtray.

  Bayer leaned back in his seat and gave her a look of encouragement. “The transport that will take us to an island where there is a cottage I have hired for a few days,” he replied hoping she would readily fall in with his plans.

  “An island! Where?”

  “Not too far from here,” he said getting up and walking over to the counter to get two cups of tea.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MAYNARD couldn’t help wondering what the information was that Gideon Soames had for him as he climbed aboard the tender that was to take him out to the waiting PBY Catalina. All he had been told by London was that Soames would already be aboard the flying boat when it landed at Oban. From there it would then take them to Stornoway where the operation would be conducted under his supervision to either apprehend or eliminate Bayer. Assisted by one of the aircrew, Maynard made the change over between the tender and the aircraft without mishap. With the hull door securely fastened he was taken to the rear of the aircraft to a cabin which had bunks. One of these was occupied by a rather debonair looking man, who on seeing Maynard enter got up from the bunk and came forward to shake hands.

  “Morning sir, I’m Gideon Soames.”

  Reciprocating the gesture, Maynard couldn’t help but notice Soames’s vice-like grip during the formality and quickly came to the conclusion that outwardly, although there was an ease-of-manner about him, he looked extremely fit and would be quite capable of taking care of himself if push came to shove. “Morning, had a good trip up?” he asked, sitting down on the opposite bunk.

  “Tiring! I was just about to go on an assignment when I was told I was coming up here, so I haven’t had any sleep for several hours,” Soames answered.

  “Did London brief you before you left as to what this is all about?” Maynard asked.

  “Not in its entirety sir. Only that it involved a spy by the name of Bayer and we need to either apprehend or kill him as soon as possible before he gets back to Germany with the information he has. London said you would fill me in with more details when I got here.”

  Maynard nodded. “Before I do that, I believe you have som
e information for me?”

  “Yes, I have sir. I’ll get it, it’s in my briefcase here.”

  Taking the document from him Maynard ran a careful eye over the first page. “So Latchmere has turned her,” he said, smiling.

  “Griselda Zweig!… Yes, by all accounts she was only too happy to cooperate with us. An easy option if you are going to get your neck stretched by the hangman,” Soames shouted over the noise of the two Pratt & Whitney engines being started.

  Maynard looked at him. “Where is she now?”

  “I’m not privy to that information sir. All I know is that she is going to feed the Germans with false information for us,” Soames replied, stifling a yawn.

  “I see!” Maynard replied, his eyes going back to the document he was holding. Reading the first two pages with interest, his attention was drawn to a paragraph part-way down the third page. They were the names at an address Zweig had given while under interrogation of those in the Manchester area that had helped her. So he had been right, he always thought she was part of a sleeper network that had been put in place long before the war had started. But why had she been picked-up on Manchester’s London Road Station with a ticket to Southampton in her possession? Looking up to think things over for a few moments the reason suddenly hit him why: Griselda had gone to these people for help, most likely hoping they would get her out of the country, that part was obvious. But after contacting German intelligence, Griselda’s request had been turned down to be brought home. The Warners must have been told to put her on a train to Southampton where she could be put to work there under another name, or better still eliminated. Maynard could see that Griselda must have caused a major problem for the Germans while she was free and on the run. Firstly, her making contact with the Warners put them in grave danger should she be arrested and talk and secondly, her intimate knowledge of the Raven and how he operated also posed a threat to his safety. He sat back against the bulkhead and looking across at Soames saw that he was asleep. The remainder of the page made disappointing reading. When the address where the Warners lived had been visited by the police they had found the place empty with no clues as to their whereabouts. Neighbours when questioned hadn’t been much help either, with most saying that they had seemed a friendly couple and they had gone about their daily business like everyone else. Putting down the document, Maynard massaged his forehead for a few moments before picking it up and reading on. There was no mention who Griselda’s contact was to be when she reached Southampton, just the name of an hotel she had been told to go to and wait until she was contacted. The hotel had been paid a visit and the owners questioned, but no arrests had been made. The remaining page and a half had been transcripts of messages sent between Germany and Britain, some of which was appertaining to Bayer and his movements. Putting the document in his briefcase he had just settled back to enjoy the remainder of the flight when one of the crew came and told him that they were nearing Stornoway and would be landing in around fifteen minutes’ time. Getting up from the bunk, Maynard went and stood next to the waist gunner manning the .50 calibre machine gun in the portside blister to take in the aerial view of the town and port. The Catalina not being of the amphibian variant, because the RAF preferred the pure flying boat type, made a wide circle of the port before making a perfect landing across the bay. After being skilfully taxied by the pilot to a mooring buoy, Maynard and Soames were then transported from the aircraft to shore by tender, then to a waiting car that took them to the operations room on the nearby airfield. Entering the room Maynard immediately recognised Trent and Carlton who he had met previously in Oban, plus one other, this being RAF Stornoway’s Commanding Officer.

  Taking off his top coat, Maynard sat down at the table and looked at the three men. “Thank you for coming gentlemen at such short notice, it is most appreciated. This here on my right,” Maynard beckoned with his hand, “is Mr Soames who works for the same department as myself in London and who has brought with him a dossier which contains some information in it that could be vital to the operation we are on, but before we start I believe ‘congratulations’ are in order Group Captain for the sinking of a U-Boat by one of your Wellington aircraft!”

  Carlton leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his face. “Thanks! That’s one less that won’t be going back to the Fatherland to gloat over its achievements,” he replied, to which they all agreed.

  “Right gentlemen! I won’t bore you all with too much detail of how we came by this information we have as it’s a long story, but what I will say is this. That it is vital that we stop this man Bayer now he has got this far north and within striking distance of getting home with the information he’s got in his possession. As you all know, the main routes into this country by enemy agents while we have been at war has been by a night parachute drop or by submarine, the latter you would think being the only means of getting out and back to Germany. But there is another way, not so common, but quite feasible if planned right, and that is by seaplane. With Norway and Denmark now occupied by the Germans there are plenty of places where they can use these type of aircraft to the best of their ability, with the likes of such machines as the Blohm and Voss 138, Dornier 26 and the Heinkel 115, these seaplanes with the range they have can quite easily reach our shores and drop-off or pick-up agents which is a lot quicker than by sea.”

  “So does London think this is the way the Germans are going to try and get this man Bayer out of the country, as against the normal way by submarine?” Trent asked.

  Maynard had the makings of a smile on his face as he sat back in his chair and looked at Gideon Soames to answer Trent’s question.

  “From intercepted communications it seems very likely. The only thing we don’t know is where the pick-up is going to be,” Soames answered, pleased with being given the chance to partake in the discussion.

  “I see,” Trent replied, a perplexed look on his face.

  Maynard turned his gaze towards Carlton. “So what are your thoughts Group Captain?”

  “Well! German air activity in the area has certainly been on the increase of late, with several encounters between our aircraft and their flying boats. Also our Air Sea Rescue boats have tangled with these blighters and being very well-armed they can give a good account of themselves when we engage them. So I would think, yes! Given good weather and sea conditions for landing, I’m sure the Germans are using these types of aircraft for clandestine operations. But then we come back to the same old question, where? With so many remote islands in the area they could make a pick-up from any number of places,” Carlton answered.

  “Thank you,” Maynard said while focusing his attention on Stornoway’s Station Commander. “And you Wing Commander, have you anything you want to add, or ask on the matter?”

  “This information that has been intercepted, how reliable do you think it is? Has it specifically mentioned this man Bayer during the transmissions?” the C/O asked.

  “I can tell you this much. We have only picked-up two references to Bayer. At the time of the first intercept we didn’t know who or what ‘Das Rabe’ meant, all we had was, ‘Das Rabe enroute to St 1s’, then the transmission ended. We know that ‘Das Rabe’ when translated into English means ‘The Raven’, but it was only after interrogating a certain young lady we had caught that it came to light that this was Bayer’s code name.”

  “So what makes your department think that he is going to be collected by seaplane instead of by submarine?” Carlton asked.

  “Well! Just over fourteen hours ago one of our listening stations on the east coast picked-up a signal sent from Stavanger to the seaplane base at Limfjord near Aalborg in Denmark. It read: ‘IMMEDIATE; Dispatch seaplane to Stavanger. Rabe pick-up imminent’. So now you see why we are pretty sure that’s how the Germans are going to get Bayer out, the only thing we don’t know is what relevance ‘St Is’ has in all this. So gentlemen if you have any theories, I would very much like to hear them,” Maynard concluded.

 
; Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SINCE FIRST BEING TOLD in the café that morning about their trip, Andrew had told her nothing more about where the island was, or how long it would take to get there. Stella knew very little about the man she was sleeping with, there was an air of mystery, a dark side to him that she hadn’t been able to penetrate which frightened her at times, so she had left well enough alone and not asked questions. To be whisked away in darkness by boat to an unknown island had cast doubts in her mind earlier in the day as to whether she was doing the right thing, but these doubts had been quickly eradicated by their lovemaking during the afternoon and now all she felt were feelings of excitement as to what lay ahead.

  The wind had dropped considerably as they made their way down to the quayside, and with very little talk between them, Bayer had time to think over a problem he could have when they reached the boat, and how he was going to resolve it. One added bonus was not meeting anyone en-route which could have looked suspicious, given the hour and carrying overnight bags; his main concern was if the wheelhouse door was locked and how he was going to break in with Stella there?

  Stella looked at the Mary Wade as it rode gently on the tide, the old car tyres that hung over her side squelching as they were compressed against the dock wall. “It’s quite big isn’t it, and where’s the crew to take us to this island?” she asked.

  “We are the crew,” Bayer said quietly climbing aboard. “Now pass the bags over,” he ordered.

  Stella was hesitant but did as she was told, passing them across in turn. “I hope you can handle a boat of this size? Because I know nothing about these things.”

  Bayer didn’t answer but made his way forward to the wheelhouse where, to his annoyance, he found the door locked. Looking towards the stern he could just make out Stella’s form deliberating over the best way to get on board. Taking out his knife he took the pressure of the blade with the palm of his other hand to keep the noise down when it sprung open, then sliding the blade in between the door and the woodwork, he gently pushed upwards. To his relief the catch released easily allowing the door to slide open on its runner and once inside, he took stock of the boat’s console and in particular the start-up method.