by Alan Evans
Jimmy Nash pointed out over the port bow. The roar of the boat’s three big engines was to some extent left behind but he still had to raise his voice to be heard: “The fishing fleet!”
David nodded. The pin-pricks in the darkness were the masthead lights of a score or more of drifters out of St. Jean. They carried the lamps partly to illumine their work, partly to mark the position of each for the benefit of the German boat patrolling around them like a policeman. If her commander saw a light was missing then he would investigate, because drifters had been known to try to sneak away to England. One had succeeded and supplied the information that the German boat was a drifter like the others, no bigger nor faster but armed with a 20mm. cannon and equipped with wireless.
The lights were slowly sliding back from the bow down the port side. The boats would pass wide of the fishing fleet and about four miles to the south. David saw Chris Tallon climb onto the bridge and guessed that the soldier had been below to see how his commandos were faring. Jimmy Nash turned and called, “Are they all fit?”
Tallon nodded, then asked, “What are the lights over there?”
Jimmy explained and then told him, “We’re about twenty miles out. Won’t be long now.”
Tallon said nothing in reply to that, only stared out over the bow at the darkness hiding the distant, enemy shore where he was to risk his life again.
He would be thinking about Brent, standing near him now, and of the previous disastrous action from which they had barely escaped with their lives. David Brent was sure of that. And Jimmy Nash had asked, “You know this coast?” It would be more accurate to say Brent knew a part of it, had spent just one week of his life there and could not forget it, though God knew he had tried…
He brought his mind back to the present: “Pass the word for Cullen.” He heard the signalman relaying that message to the deck below.
Grundy thought: Cullen. Young for a leading seaman, smart up top but casual in his turnout. He liked to argue but Grundy would not have that. He knew the kind of ship Brent wanted and his own ideas were in accordance. Cullen would have to learn.
He had come aboard late, just before they sailed, and Grundy had demanded, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Had to phone one o’ me girls, ‘Swain.” Defiant. Insolent.
Grundy had not believed him but they were on the point of sailing so: “First Lieutenant’s report when we get back. Think of some better excuse before then.”
When Cullen came onto the bridge he saw Grundy at the wheel. The coxswain did not look around from the compass but Cullen thought: He knows I’m here. The bastard has eyes in the back of his head. If the skipper hadn’t brought him along I might ha’ been rated cox’n. Should have. I know my stuff, good on the wheel, get on well with the lads. He’s always picking at the rest of us: “Get your hair cut. Smarten up.”
And tonight Cullen had waited ten minutes in the telephone kiosk on the quay before he got his call through to his worried parents in the corner shop they kept in London’s East End. He tried to reassure them: “That’s all right, Dad. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Wangled myself a cushy number, haven’t I?” Cullen thought that maybe he should have told Grundy the truth, but the coxswain put his back up. He’d ask for a transfer to another boat after this trip.
Brent turned to him and said, “Cullen, the coxswain thinks you’re the best man to send in with the dinghy. Take one man with you, carbines for the pair of you. Look over the dinghy now and make sure it’s ready to put over the stern. You’ll be bringing back one agent from the beach, maybe two. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
*
Rudi Halder turned as Bruno Jacobi came onto the E-boat’s bridge. Bruno’s hoarse bellow cut through the deep boom of the big diesel engines: “Nothing seen yet.”
Bruno was talking of the enemy. Rudi answered, “The night is very young.” And you could go for nights on end without making contact. Then it was sudden.
Bruno said, “The fishing fleet.”
Rudi nodded. The lights were tiny, fine on the starboard bow and he reckoned the drifters were close on ten kilo-metres away. The three E-boats were cruising at thirty knots and were abreast of St. Jean, fifteen kilometres to port but invisible in the night. The spray flying in over the bow spattered the men at the 20mm. cannon just below and forward of the bridge. It drove into Rudi’s face.
He said, “We’ll run south for another twenty kilometres then lie still and listen for a while.” In this kind of night warfare, when visibility was severely restricted, it was a useful tactic to stop the big diesels, then in the quiet use another sense and listen for the sound of the enemy’s engines.
He recalled the night a year ago when he had stopped the boats at the mouth of the estuary and they had heard, then seen the two Tommi Schnellboote run in along the deep-water channel. Rudi had guessed they were going to make a landing and he sent a wireless signal to his base, reporting, saying he was going to follow them in.
That had been a mistake. He had been told to wait. The tactical geniuses at base had thrown together a trap to make certain, sent the army to the bank of the river with guns and an armed trawler to close the mouth of the estuary. They had been quick, efficient, he gave them that — but it was all unnecessary. Both Tommi boats were destroyed but Rudi would have seen to that anyway. The trawler was torpedoed by a third Tommi who got out those soldiers still left alive. Rudi’s neat operation had been elaborated into a cock-up. He scowled. But the basic tactic was correct: when you can’t see, lie quietly and listen.
It had been quiet in Ilse’s bed, just their breathing and their whispers. Her father, the Oberst commanding the Wehrmacht battalion stationed in St. Jean, had toured his area all that day. Rudi had gone to the house on the sea-wall in the afternoon and was passed by the sentry outside the front door; the young naval officer was a regular visitor. The other soldiers of the guard were in a room at the rear but never entered the house proper. Ilse was alone. She took Rudi to her room and he left her half-asleep and sated in her bed when it was time for him to go down to the boats.
Rudi grinned at Bruno, “I still feel lucky tonight.”
*
Suzanne ran crouched along the bottom of the ditch with the track on her right until she saw the ragged outline of bushes lifting on her left. She scrambled out of the ditch and into that cover. Looking back she saw the track bathed in the light of a dozen torches that blazed from the holes that were the windows of the ruined house. So the S.S. had waited there in ambush.
Louis lay as he had fallen, arms outflung and face-down in the mud. Michel stood on the track with his hands raised above his head. He had not known of the ditch, had been given no chance. Could she have saved him? No. A second’s delay would have cost her life and not saved Michel. The trap was complete. Figures were closing in on him now and others running up the track towards her hiding place.
She ran.
*
Michel stood frozen for vital seconds, squinting into the glaring lights, hands lifted to shield his eyes. Then the S.S. troopers swarmed around him, the stubby, short-barrelled Bergmann carbines held two-handed across their chests. They strapped his hands behind him and searched his body for weapons. Rough fingers probed his mouth for a poison capsule and he gagged from revulsion and fear. Then they hustled him away down the track between two of them, another close behind. Michel stumbled as they passed the mud-splashed body of Louis and he felt the muzzle of a carbine stab into the back of his neck.
He was English but had been brought up in France, where his father served in the diplomatic service, and he spoke French as a native. The shock of the ambush, the lights and the shooting — the capture — were wearing off now. He had always been prepared for the possibility of capture but that had only been a theoretical exercise. He had no practical experience because he had not been caught before. You were only caught once and that first time was also the last.
Finish.
The
first realisation that he was caught, would die, and quickly only if he was lucky had temporarily paralysed him. He was starting to think again now, though his breathing was still rapid and shallow and his heart thumped. He had a story ready, of course, but it would not be believed because they had been betrayed. This was not like being arrested on suspicion, when you might convince your questioner that you were the innocent man you pretended to be. This time someone had pointed a finger. Who had the girl told?
Two cars, black Citroëns with hooded headlights casting pools of light, bumped down the track. One of them halted by Michel and his escort while the other ground on. His guards threw him into the back of the car and crowded in after him. He lay on the floor and they rested their boots on his back and ground his face into the dirt of the carpet. His head bounced in erratic rhythm as the car turned and lurched away along the track.
*
Louis lay still in the glutinous clay of the wet, rutted lane outside the ruined house. The lights and the shots, when they came, had startled him although he had been ready and thrown himself down. He lay without moving as Michel was hustled past him by a group of S.S. troopers, listened to the retreating scuffle of their boots in the mud, then the distant grinding of the cars coming up from the road. He saw the glow of their lights but still did not move. Until Schleger said, “All right. He’s gone.”
Louis shoved himself up to his feet, brushed mud from his clothes with his hands then picked up the pistol. He checked that its safety catch was on, wiped it with a dirty handkerchief then put it into his jacket pocket. He still had that self-confident swagger but he was deferential when he spoke to Schleger: “It went well?” That was only half a question, sure of his answer and seeking congratulation.
He got it: “Excellent. Fine work.” They stood in the glare of the lights from the house and satisfaction showed in Schleger’s face. He now wore a grey-green service raincoat. He took off his high-peaked cap, with its badge of a spread-winged eagle above the death’s head, and mopped at the rain on his narrow face with a handkerchief. His thinning hair was oiled and brushed flat with a carefully straight parting. He was smiling now, delighted with the night’s work.
Ostmann, Schleger’s lieutenant, trudged up to them. He wore no overcoat and was jamming his pistol back into its holster on his belt. His service tunic was stained black with rain from his waiting in hiding under the holed roof of the ruined house. He rubbed his meaty hands together. “The girl got away but they’re after her. They’ll soon pick her up. I’m looking forward to getting hold of her.”
Schleger’s eyes shifted to Louis, “Where were they going?”
“Towards the sea.” Louis shrugged. “That’s all I know. She’s close, that one. She wanted Albert to come with her, so I made sure he couldn’t.” He chuckled, recalling how he had tapped Albert’s heel so that the old man’s legs tangled and he fell. That was an old trick Louis had often used in Paris when stealing wallets: trip the mug then help him up but slide your hand into his pocket as you did it.
Louis went on, “But then I had to persuade Albert that I had to know where the rendezvous was and why we were going there. He told me we had to meet somebody here. That was all. But I knew it had to be somebody special if she wanted my extra gun. I had hell’s own job getting to a phone to pass the word to you.”
That was a lie; it had been easy, standing in the corner of a crowded bar, noisy with talk.
Schleger ordered Ostmann, “Tell them to sweep towards the coast.”
Ostmann tramped away into the darkness and then his voice lifted, bawling at some N.C.O. Schleger walked to the car with its engine throbbing softly, and ducked into the rear. Louis waited until Schleger called impatiently, “Well, get in!”
Louis joined him in the back of the Citroën, but sat stiffly in a corner so that Schleger had most of the rear seat. Ostmann came hurrying back, swung into the seat beside the driver and the car rolled forward.
When Louis had talked with Schleger in Paris he had asked the Sturmbannführer, “What do you want me to do in Normandy?”
Schleger had replied, “I hope you might flush out the enemy agents operating there.”
“There are agents? How do you know?”
“I can smell them.” Schleger’s eyes were cold and unwinking, watching Louis. “I can sense when they are there: enemies of the State.”
Louis did not question that claim, only nodded acceptance at the cold stare.
Schleger went on, “Besides, they are using a wireless set. We have intercepted coded messages but the radio detection vans have not been quick enough to pin-point the area where the set was operating. And it moves around. But they must have friends, people — traitors — who hide them. I want you to pose as one of that sort, become one of them. Will you do it?”
He knew Louis had no option but to try, as did Louis. He needed the job to have the gendarmerie taken off his trail. They were seeking him for another offence. He was eager and boasted, “I think I may have a contact already.”
He had travelled down to St. Jean then north to the hamlet where Albert ran his tiny bar, and told the old man his story: “I am in trouble. The Germans in Paris are looking for me…” It had been easy for Schleger to arrange for the S.S. in Paris to put out calls for Louis’ arrest.
He had only hoped that Albert might have suspicions of those in the district who might be engaged in Resistance work. He could hardly believe his luck when Albert introduced him to Suzanne and she found forged papers for him. They denied being members of the Resistance but that only meant they were lying or up to something else. But what?
The luck seemed to run out then. Louis believed there must be others in the network but he was not told about them and dared not ask in case he raised suspicions of himself. He knew he was not trusted, at any rate by Suzanne. When she and Albert met they always talked alone and Louis was left out. They never let slip any mention of a wireless operator.
Louis reported regularly to Schleger in St. Jean by telephone, counselling patience, promising results soon, but saying only that he had made a contact. He refused to give any details, told nothing of Albert or Suzanne. It was wise to keep some cards up your sleeve.
Then he saw the chance to take Albert’s place as escort to Suzanne. He telephoned Schleger and told him of Albert, Suzanne and the rendezvous: “We can sweep them all up.” He wanted the job finished. The longer it lasted, the longer he was at risk. Besides, he was bored with life in the country, though he contrived to escape to St. Jean on occasion. And he wanted the money.
Now Schleger said, “We have had another success tonight. We pulled in the wireless operator. He was riding in a taxi with his wireless, presumably moving his hiding place, and his drunken driver ran into one of our cars.”
Ostmann turned to laugh at Louis in the back of the car. “You’d have been on your way to the rendezvous about the time we hit him. Poor thick-head was terrified. I put the boot into him and he knew that was only a sample! He’s being questioned in the cellar in St. Jean now.”
Louis knew what that meant. “It’s fortunate there is a cellar; quieter.”
Ostmann said, “All those houses on the quay have cellars. I hear the Herr Oberst keeps a good one.”
Schleger said coldly, “Is that so?”
Ostmann grumbled, “Stiff-necked swine. Regular army, officer corps.”
Because neither were invited to König’s house.
Louis sensed the change in atmosphere. If they sulked about something they would take it out on someone and he was nearest. He tried to restore the mood of elation, “The wireless operator asked for it.”
That brought the grin back to Ostmann’s meaty face. He nodded, “You know which side your bread is buttered.”
Louis grinned back, because it was expected, sat up straight in the corner, because it was expected. He thought: Bastards. Arrogant pigs. They held the whip hand. If you wanted money or power — anything — you had to toe the line they drew. You’ve done all
right, Louis, you were well paid while you worked for the S.S. in Paris and Schleger is being generous, maybe because it isn’t his money. But I still hate these bloody Germans…
Well, not all of them. Talk of the Oberst reminded him of the woman in the house on the end of the quay in St. Jean. The colonel commanding the Wehrmacht in St. Jean lived in the house and the woman, girl rather, was his daughter. Louis lusted after her, wanted to take her and not only to humble that German arrogance.
Schleger broke in on Louis’ erotic mental images: “I think we have uncovered a network of British agents. The man appears to be the most important, but we also have the wireless operator.” He ticked them off on his fingers: “We will have the girl soon and a squad will be picking up Albert any time now.”
Albert had been gruffly kind when Louis’ mother had taken him to Normandy on occasional, infrequent visits. She did not like the country, either, but Albert had always given her money when she left for Paris again and he never forgot a tip for Louis. The boy had not taken long to realise that Albert never knew how much cash was in the drawer he used as a till in the bar — and to profit from that knowledge. Now he shrugged, “He’s another one who asked for it.” To hell with him.
*
David Brent gripped the throttle levers and eased them back. As the power was cut the bow of the boat slumped from its racing lift to butt into the sea. David worked the handle of the engine-room telegraph. It was no use speaking on the voice-pipe because the engineer and his two stokers would not hear a word, shut up in that cavern below with the now muted but still rumbling engines. But they could see the repeater dial of the telegraph and its warning light. Now, obedient to that signal, the main engines died and the V-8 auxiliary motor cut in. The boat slid on quietly, no faster than a man trotting.
The other boats were still in the arrowhead formation and now matching the slow progress of his own. David took the torch from his pocket and flashed it astern, twice, an orange, ember glow. The three boats stopped and were slowly lost in the night as David Brent went on towards the coast of France, less than a mile away now.