The Complete Navarone

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘So where are the U-boats?’

  Guy shrugged. ‘This is a very big fish factory,’ he said. ‘There was an American, a Basque who made a lot of money in the Pacific salmon fishing, and wanted to help his home town. He built four quays, with a dry dock, and many boats, and wanted to make a big sardine fishery. Naturally, it failed. There were not enough sardines in those years, or ever, on that scale: this was a madman, an American, need one say more? But the buildings are there still. It is a perfect place to make repairs on a ship, or a submarine, bien entendu.’ He drew with a matchstick, extending a puddle of red wine on the table. He drew four quays like the tines of a fork, forming three bays parallel to the shore. The innermost quay ran along the base of the rock. On the crosspiece connecting the tines, he hatched in a group of sheds. ‘There are the quays, the buildings, even the cranes. And it is an easy place to defend.’

  Mallory’s eyes rested on the chart and the spidery puddle of wine beside it. It was indeed an easy place to defend; and a difficult one to attack. But there were glimmers of light. The brightest was the fact that it was in a neutral country. He said, ‘What size is the garrison?’

  Guy shrugged. ‘It is not a good place to visit, to count soldiers. Perhaps five hundred. Some Wehrmacht. A certain number of SS. The crew from the U-boats. And the technicians, the dockyard people who make the repairs. They came in from Germany, they say, on these so-called Uruguayan ships in the harbour. Perhaps two thousand men in total. They are under the command of a man of importance. A man with a black uniform, I am told. A general, I think; or an admiral. SS or Kriegsmarine, nobody could tell me.’

  ‘They get their supplies from the ships,’ said Mallory. ‘Where do they get their power?’

  ‘They brought it with them,’ said Guy. ‘Behind the fortaleza is a little town of wooden huts where the men live. Between the huts and the fortaleza is a building that was once the laundry. Now they have installed many diesels, with generators. Naturally, it is heavily guarded. There is also a magazine, in a cave in the rock.’

  Andrea had been sitting back in his chair, eyes closed, as if asleep. Now he said, ‘You know a lot about this place, monsieur. How?’

  ‘My friends work on the fishing boats out of San Eusebio. They tell me.’

  ‘There is still fishing at San Eusebio?’

  ‘But naturally,’ said Guy. ‘It is a port in a neutral country. There is a railway, to take the fish to San Sebastian. The town, it was destroyed by the Fascists. But the quay is a good quay. And the customs … well, there is always a need for money, so close to the border.’

  Andrea said, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘There are those who have business with the inhabitants. Business not strictly legal, and for which the cooperation of the customs is important.’

  Jaime cleared his throat. ‘This I know to be true,’ he said.

  ‘You know this place?’ said Andrea.

  ‘In the course of business,’ said Jaime. ‘I did not know about these submarines, of course. For me, it was only a useful harbour for cigarettes, wine, commodities of this kind. There was only a little of the town left standing, after these Fascist bastards had finished with it. I have business contacts there.’

  ‘Had,’ said Guy.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You are speaking of Juanito,’ said Guy. ‘It was Juanito who told me all these things. Two months ago.’

  ‘I was last at San Eusebio four months ago,’ said Jaime, his eyes on Andrea. He was deeply conscious of what Andrea could do to a traitor. He wished passionately for Andrea to be quite certain that he was not holding out on him.

  Andrea nodded. He said, ‘This knowledge will be useful.’

  ‘Bon,’ said Guy. ‘So Juanito was found on the Cabo. He had been there two, three times before. This time he was selling Cognac to the troops. The Germans caught him. They hanged him from the top of the fortaleza. He is still there, what the gulls have left of him. On the flagpole. Pour encourager les autres.’ His eyes strayed to the tin of bank notes. ‘So this is a dangerous game.’

  Andrea nodded, his great neck creasing and uncreasing like a seal’s. ‘In war,’ he said, ‘there is unfortunately a great deal of danger.’

  There was silence, except for the sough of the wind in the tiles. The Frenchmen seemed improbably interested in their hands. Andrea’s presence occupied the room like a ticking bomb. Mallory waited. This was the crucial moment: the moment when the running stopped, and the troops had a chance to draw breath and reflect; reflect on the fact that now they had deliberately and with their eyes open to walk out over the abyss, and jump. The time for hot blood was passing. The time for cold blood had begun.

  Mallory let Andrea’s presence sink in for a moment, as he had done so many times in so many small, hushed rooms these last eighteen months. When the silence had gone on long enough, he said, ‘And the seaward defences?’

  The change of subject earthed the tension in the room like a lightning rod. Guy laughed, a short, scornful laugh. ‘Round the quays they have put anti-submarine nets. Beyond the nets are the cliffs,’ he said. ‘Eighty metres. And at the bottom of the cliffs, the sea, with waves that come all the way from America.’

  ‘No fortifications?’

  Guy’s eyebrows rose under his beret. He smiled, the smile of a man who has the welcome sensation that he is once more on familiar ground. ‘Mon Capitaine,’ he said. ‘With such cliffs and such seas, fortifications are not necessary. Only four months ago, Didier Jaulerry was blown onto the base of the cliff, under the fortifications. He drowned, with his crew. His boat is still there, what is left of it. You can see it at half-tide.’

  Mallory nodded. He said, ‘What time of tide was it when he went ashore?’

  ‘High water. A spring tide.’

  ‘And the boat is still there, you say.’

  Guy’s mouth opened and closed again. ‘Monsieur. You are not –’

  Mallory did not seem to hear him. He was looking at the chart, rubbing the stubble on his chin with a meditative thumb. At its narrowest, the neck of the peninsula was no more than a hundred yards wide. It would unquestionably be fortified.

  ‘What are the cliffs made of?’ he said.

  ‘Granite,’ said Guy. ‘But rotten granite. Many birds nest there.’

  ‘And at the bottom of the cliff?’

  Guy looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Rocks. The sea. A big sea, with big waves. Listen,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I would think about the town. It is destroyed, this town. I told you. In the Civil War, the Republicans held out there. The Fascists burned everything. So there are not too many people, and those who remain live like rats in the ruins. No food, no water. Now that would be your place to land. If you could pass the fortifications in the harbour, you could make an attack …’

  Guy fell into an uncomfortable silence. These men gave him the idea that he said too much, too lightly; that he was a child in the presence of his elders, babbling. ‘So,’ said Mallory, finally. ‘Your boat.’

  Guy’s eyes moved to the flat tin box of bank notes under Mallory’s hand.

  ‘You will be paid as we land,’ said Mallory.

  ‘But, monsieur –’

  ‘These are the conditions. And of course, you will be inspired by the idea that you are helping make a world in which it will be possible to spend this money.’

  ‘Ah, ça,’ said Guy, shrugging with a smuggler’s realism. War was part of politics. Money was money; money was different.

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘When can we leave?’ Mallory watched him with his cool, steady brown eyes.

  Guy was not an impressionable man. But he found himself thinking, thank God this one is not my enemy. ‘There will be water in the harbour at four o’clock,’ he said. ‘The sentries do not pay big attention then. The hour will be too early, the port too small. They will be half-asleep. Be in hiding near the quay. When it is time for you to come aboard, I will show lights for five se
conds, by accident.’

  ‘And if there are Germans watching?’ said Andrea.

  Guy smiled, a weary smile, the smile of a man who has already gone further than he intended and sees no way of getting back to safety. ‘I am sure you will know what to do with them,’ he said. ‘And once you are aboard … well, we are a fishing boat. We are one hour from the border here. I shall fly the Spanish ensign. The Germans will respect a neutral flag on the high seas, in territorial waters. It is not the same as the things that happen in secret on the Cabo de la Calavera.’

  Andrea nodded. Guy was glad he had nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mallory, and reached for the bottle of wine. From the direction of St-Jean-de-Luz there came the sound of gunfire, mingled with explosions. Mallory lay back in his chair and listened to the clatter of the rain on the roof, the bluster of the gale at the windows, and closed his eyes. Miller and Jaime were already snoring; Wallace was quiet. The gusts seemed to be losing their force, becoming more widely separated. Miller will be happy about that, thought Mallory. And so will I. Miller hated the sea as much as Mallory hated confined spaces. Mallory did not hate it, but he did not understand it, and did not want to –

  Then he was asleep.

  When he woke up, it was dark. He had been asleep for no longer than four hours, by the taste in his mouth and the ache of his head. There was a voice in the darkness near him: Andrea’s voice.

  Andrea said, ‘There are people outside.’

  Knuckles rapped the door. A voice said, ‘L’Amiral Beaufort.’ Hugues’ voice.

  Guy said, ‘Entrez.’

  Hugues came in. Lisette was with him. She looked round at the grey, fleshless faces, pouched and deep-shadowed in the yellow lamplight. She said, ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘Bonjour,’ said Mallory, urbane and polite.

  There was a silence.

  Finally Hugues said, ‘Miller has told you, I think. Lisette was released. We have evaded pursuit. For some hours we have been hiding in a barn above the village. I kept watch. You can see the road from there. Nobody approached. The Germans have lost sight of us.’

  Mallory rested his head on the back of the chair. Hugues looked pale and nervous. Lisette was holding his hand. ‘There was shooting,’ said Mallory.

  ‘The Commandant and his men,’ Hugues explained. ‘They are clever, those ones; clever and stupid, at the same time. They will occupy the Germans.’

  Mallory nodded. Once again, he had the feeling that events were moving beyond his control. But at least Guy’s boat was a means of getting them back in hand.

  The wind had become a series of squalls now. Between the squalls there was calm, except for the distant rustle of the sea.

  ‘Guy,’ he said, as if he were proposing a game of tennis. ‘I think it is time you went to fetch your boat. And the rest of us should move out of here. How long?’

  Guy said, ‘I could be alongside in half an hour. There will not be much water. But maybe there will be enough.’ He pulled a large, tarnished watch from the pocket of his greasy waistcoat. ‘At four-thirty.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As I said, it will be important for you to be discreet.’

  ‘Zat right?’ said Miller.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Guy. ‘I assure you. The sentries may be sleepy, but they make reports at five minutes to every hour, via a field telephone. I suggest you be very careful.’ Guy smiled, a nervous, perfunctory smile. He slid out of the back door and into the night.

  Mallory looked at his watch. It was half-past two. Once again he was in a room, with his back to the sea, relying on other people to get him out of trouble. He hoped it would be the last time. He said to Andrea, ‘Bring Wallace. We’ll get out of here.’

  Hugues said, ‘What will you do about the Commandant?’

  Mallory had the sensation that he had not slept enough. He said, ‘The Commandant?’

  ‘The Commandant will be arriving before dawn, he said. With seventy men.’

  ‘The Commandant was drunk,’ said Lisette.

  Hugues sighed. ‘I know this Commandant,’ he said. ‘He will arrive at dawn.’

  Wallace said, ‘You’ll have a rearguard then.’

  Lisette said, ‘Commanded by the Commandant? You’re crazy.’

  Wallace said, ‘The Commandant is retired. I am a serving officer. I’ll take command.’

  Mallory turned his head, and looked at the papery face, the glassy, fever-bright eyes.

  ‘I’m not up to a ride in a boat, sir,’ said Wallace. ‘Maybe one of these chaps can get me to Spain when the fuss dies down.’

  Jaime said, ‘It is possible. Certainly, these old fools need orders. But monsieur cannot stay in Guy’s house. The Boche will destroy it.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Mallory. ‘Seventy men arriving at dawn?’

  ‘Commanded by a drunk,’ said Hugues.

  Mallory looked at Wallace. He would be no good in a boat. His only hope was to rest, and get over the border later, in discreet silence.

  Mallory said, ‘We will send you the Commandant. We will tell him that you are his commanding officer. You will tell him to go home, and collect you when the fuss has died down.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wallace.

  Hugues looked at him, then at Mallory. ‘The barn where we stayed is quiet. There is a loft. You can see the road, the harbour. It’s a good command post.’

  Mallory looked at the transparent face, the cracked lips, the glittering eyes. He walked across the room and shook Wallace by the hand. ‘Best of luck, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘It’s been good having the SAS along. We wouldn’t have got this far without you.’

  Wallace grinned. ‘I think you probably would,’ he said.

  Mallory said, ‘I’ll send up the Commandant.’ Then he beckoned Miller, and said, ‘Help Lieutenant Wallace up to the barn.’

  They separated, leaving Mallory with the memory of a handshake that had been no more than a touch of icy bones.

  ‘Brave man,’ said Andrea.

  Lisette was watching them. She nodded. There were tears on her face.

  Miller’s steps faded on the path.

  Wallace was gone.

  Miller threaded across the dark vines and potato-ridges. He carried his burden up the road, into the barn and up the stairs. In the loft, he propped Wallace on the dusty, sweetish-smelling mow. ‘No smoking,’ said Miller.

  ‘Sure,’ said Wallace. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Miller, arranging three canteens of water within reach.

  In the yellow light of the lantern, Wallace looked like an Old Master painting: wounded soldier, with pack, Bren, Schmeisser, grenades and sulfa powder. His face wore a faint smile; a weird, faraway smile, Miller thought. ‘Give my regards to England,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be there before us,’ said Miller, cheerily. ‘You can buy me a bourbon at the Ritz.’ He went down the stairs in two strides of his beanpole legs, and paused by the door. The view from the barn was excellent. The village lay spread out at the end of its road. Nothing moved in the potato-ridges. The night was still: the wind had dropped flat, and the stars were out. In the loft, Miller heard Wallace stir, a stifled moan of pain. Then hinges creaked.

  Miller walked onto the road and down towards the houses. After fifty yards he glanced back. When he had carried Wallace up, the shutters of the loft had been closed. Now, a shutter stood open. From that open shutter Wallace would command a view of the road leading down to the quay.

  Miller raised a hand in salute, and walked quietly down to the village.

  Hugues said to Mallory, ‘Lisette will come on the boat.’ Mallory watched him from under his heavy brows. The eyes were tired, but they seemed to Hugues to see everything. ‘If we leave her, she may talk,’ said Hugues. ‘And there are often women on fishing boats. She will be … camouflage.’

  A pregnant woman, thought Mallory. A hell of a member of a penetrate-and-sabotage expedition.

  Lisette did not know where they were going, or why. But if she was picked up, sh
e would talk, all right. This time, the Gestapo would make sure of that.

  If she had not talked already.

  He said, ‘Bring her along.’

  It was twenty to four by the time Miller got back to Guy’s house. There was one dirty glass and one plate on the table. There was no sign that seven men and a woman had spent part of the night there. Mallory was waiting, pack on back, Schmeisser in hand. Miller shouldered his boxes. The Storm Force filed out of the back door, across the garden walls, until they came out onto the field at the top of the cliff from which Andrea had watched the sentries. The wind had dropped flat. The water was smooth as satin, the swells slopping against the jetty with a small roar. One of the rowing boats was gone from the outhaul. From out of the hazy darkness of the bay there came the pop and thump of ancient diesels as the fishing fleet got ready for the tide. Of the sentries there was no sign.

  Mallory said to Andrea, ‘We’ll wait till the sentries give their all-clear at 0355. Then we’ll take care of them. That’ll give us half an hour to get clear.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ said a voice at his side. ‘Monsieur, you have my personal guarantee that you will have all the time in the world.’

  Mallory spun round.

  ‘Mon Capitaine,’ said the figure, in a gale of old Cognac. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. Le Commandant Cendrars. At your service.’

  ‘I was telling you about the Commandant,’ said Hugues. ‘A valuable résistant.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ hissed the Commandant, shirtily, in French. ‘Chef de la Résistance of the region –’

  ‘Ah, ça!’ said Hugues, scornfully.

  Mallory cut off whatever it was he was going to say next. ‘Commandant,’ he said, ‘I am most grateful to you. Hugues, please interpret. Tell the Commandant that his arrival is most timely. I am exceedingly grateful to him for his assistance. I am putting him under the command of Lieutenant Wallace, Commander of His Majesty’s rearguard. Rearguard HQ is the barn above the village. He is to report there immediately for orders. I would remind him that stealth and silence are of the essence.’