by Seb Spence
The corporal was about to start operating the transmitter when Vaughan spoke: “On second thoughts, this might not be necessary.” The corporal stopped what he was doing and looked enquiringly at Vaughan. “I think I might have the necessary authorisation here,” he continued, putting his hand in the map case. Quickly, he pulled out the automatic with its silencer and fired two shots into the man, who slumped forward across the radio desk, a look of surprise on his face. Vaughan slipped the pistol back into the case.
Despite the silencer, the Colt made a loud, metallic, clinking sound when it was fired, but to the three MP’s standing a few yards from the radio truck, this noise was barely noticeable against the background of the engine drone, for Lukasz, as instructed, had left the lorry idling. Unspeaking, the redcaps stood watching Lukasz and Drechsler. Lukasz had lit a cigarette and was leaning back against the side of the cab as he smoked. He held the cigarette in his left hand, while his right hand was in his trouser pocket. To the MP’s, he gave the appearance of a man simply enjoying a casual smoke. From time to time, he cast a glance towards them, a faint smile on his lips, and all the while his right hand clasped on the hilt of the throwing knife concealed in his pocket. Drechsler stood by the verge on the passenger side of the cab. He was a couple of paces from the MP nearest him and appeared to be taking in the view across the fields.
Vaughan appeared from round the end of the radio truck, and simultaneously the three MP’s looked towards him. He was smiling amiably and held the map case in his left hand. “I’m afraid we’re not going to get permission to pass, so we’ll just have to make other arrangements.” As he spoke, he looked first at Lukasz and then at Drechsler. Turning to the MP standing nearest to him, he continued: “Perhaps you could show me on our map the best route into Stirling?” He put his hand in the leather case as he said this, but instead of producing the map the redcap was expecting, he pulled out the Colt automatic and shot the man twice. Immediately the other two MP’s went for their revolvers, but it was too late. Before they could open their holsters, they were attacked. Lukasz pulled out the knife he had in his trouser pocket and threw it at the MP nearest him. It struck the man in the throat and he staggered backwards and fell against the side of the radio truck. At the same time, Drechsler had put his arm around the neck of the third MP and plunged his gravity knife into the man’s back. It was all over in an instant.
“Hauptmann Drechsler, distribute the weapons in the crate to your men,” Vaughan ordered, returning the Colt to the map case, “and get them to take off the Dutch uniforms. There’s no point in continuing this masquerade – if we encounter any more road blocks we’re going to have to fight our way through them. Once your men are ready, have them push the radio truck onto the verge.” He took the walking stick from under his arm and pointed its tip towards the bodies on the ground. “And I suppose you’d better get them to dump those in the ditch at the side of the road. Make sure the remains are well hidden, and don’t forget the body in the rear of the truck.”
In the back of the lorry, Grace Harrison heard someone giving orders in German, and after this she became aware that suddenly there was a lot of activity going on. The tarpaulins were lifted from the two women, and as Grace stood up, she saw the Brandenburgers were taking off the camouflage oversuits that concealed their own uniforms. Some of them were jumping down from the back of the lorry, and two had opened the crate and were distributing the rifles and machine pistols that were inside. Alarmed, she looked at Vivian Adair, who was standing next to her, watching the proceedings. “What’s happening?”
“The blood-letting has started,” she replied quietly without looking at her.
#
As they set off from the checkpoint, Grace noted that the mood in the back of the lorry had changed. Gone were the looks of resigned boredom or preoccupation that she had seen on most of the faces. The men were now alert and focussed, and were engaged in organised activity as they prepared for the job at hand. They sat checking their weapons, putting on their helmets and other equipment, distributing grenades and ammunition. They were professionals setting about their trade.
Grace had guessed earlier that the Brandenburger sitting next to Vivian was an NCO as on several occasions he had issued orders to the other men. Now that he had removed his Dutch oversuit, she could see that she had supposed correctly, for there were rank badges on his sleeves. Just before leaving the checkpoint, Drechsler had smashed the window at the back of the cab so that he could communicate with his men and he was now giving the NCO a series of instructions. Grace gathered from the conversation that the NCO’s name was Hahn, and though she did not understand some of the technical terms being used, she was able to comprehend that Drechsler was telling him to prepare explosives.
Grace had not seen what happened to the MP’s back at the checkpoint, but from Vivian’s comment she expected the worst. As she watched the men working with their weaponry, she prayed there would be no more encounters.
Chapter 11
1.
Wednesday, 21st May, 1941, 09.15hrs: West of Callander
The checkpoint at Callander had been set up at a road junction in the countryside about half a mile beyond the western edge of the town. At this point, a minor road to Aberfoyle branched off in a south-westerly direction, while the main road continued west for a mile or so, through the Pass of Leny, before swinging north along the banks of Loch Lubnaig. There were fields all around the junction, the only buildings nearby being a couple of cottages abutting the main road on its north side.
On this main road, a few yards beyond the junction, the Morays had erected a makeshift barrier consisting of a red and white banded pole resting at each end on trestle supports. Two privates in khaki battledress and Kilmarnock bonnets stood in front of the barrier, their rifles slung over their shoulders.
A full company of the Morays – about a hundred men in total, under the command of a major – was deployed at this location. As well as manning the checkpoint, they were there to carry out any search of the hills that might be necessary, should the fugitives decide to proceed on foot across country. Just by the junction, they had set up a temporary encampment in the grassy field that lay to the east between the main road and the spur to Aberfoyle. A command tent had been put up and next to it, on the side nearer the main road, was a radio truck. The lorries that had transported the company there were parked along the Aberfoyle road.
The relief convoy from Stirling, with General Cunningham’s car at the front, arrived just after nine. Cunningham ordered his car to be driven into the field while his own radio truck and the three lorries following it parked with the others on the Aberfoyle spur. Bronx and Barton were seated by the tailboard in the rear of the first lorry and jumped down as soon as it came to a halt. They walked round to the front to meet up with Lieutenant MacGregor, who had been sitting in the cab with the driver. As they passed down the offside of the lorry, Barton looked over to the north where the broad mass of a mountain towered above a line of trees in the middle distance. It was a warm, sunny morning and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed such a spectacular prospect.
MacGregor, having got down from the cab, came round the front of the lorry and noticed Barton taking in the view. “Impressive scenery, wouldn’t you say? That’s Ben Ledi over there,” he said, pointing to the highest peak. “It’s nearly 3000 feet. Sir Walter Scott immortalised it in his poem ‘The Lady of the Lake’.” MacGregor stared at the mountain pensively for a few moments before continuing, his eyes fixed on the summit: “At school we had to learn great chunks of verse from it in our English class. Can’t remember much of it now, though.” He began to recite softly, his gaze still focused on the distant peak:
“Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking”
“There’s a track that goes over the mountain,” he went on, “and leads down to a church by Loch Lubnaig, which is a couple of miles north west of here. The track is called a ‘co
ffin road’ because they carried the bodies of the deceased along it for burial at the church. At one point, the track goes between two of the summits, through a pass known as ‘Bealach nan Corp’ – ‘The Pass of the Dead’.”
This observation was followed by a long silence, which Moncur eventually broke: “Well, thanks for that cheery snippet, MacGregor. We’ll know not to employ you as our travel guide if we ever come back here on holiday.”
The quip dispelled MacGregor’s reflections, and he snapped out of his reverie.
“Well, I suppose we’d better go over and see the boss,” he said. The three men walked along to the gate that led into the field and headed over to the command tent.
#
General Cunningham’s car had drawn in alongside the radio truck next to the tent. On alighting, he and Colonel Minton were greeted by the major in charge, a wiry, middle-aged man with a craggy face and ruddy complexion.
“Major Simmons, sir,” the man said, saluting crisply. “Nothing to report so far – it’s been a very quiet night.”
Cunningham looked over to the major’s men, who were milling around near the lorries, awaiting the order to embus. They were mainly standing, though some were sitting or lying on the grass. A few were smoking, most were chatting, and one group sitting in a circle were playing cards. To Cunningham, there seemed a certain slackness in the way things were being organised. He had been in the army long enough to know when a man was not trying as hard as he should be. The major, he surmised, was probably a career soldier who had reached his peak and realised he was going no further.
“I detect something of a holiday-camp atmosphere, Major,” Cunningham observed sourly. “Your men appear to be relaxing in the sun.”
“There’s not a lot for them to do at the moment, sir. They’re standing by.”
“You don’t seem to understand the importance of this operation. This is the only road north for fifteen miles either side, and there is a very good chance our quarry is going to attempt to get through at this point. Your men should be ready to set off in pursuit at a moment’s notice.”
The major sensed there was no point remonstrating. “Of course, sir,” he agreed.
At that point, a sergeant ran over from the nearby radio truck. Saluting, he addressed Cunningham. “There’s an urgent call for you, General. If you would come with me over to the truck, sir.” The two officers watched in silence as Cunningham went off with the sergeant.
In front of the command tent was a large folding trestle table with maps pinned to its surface. “Perhaps you could fill me in on our dispositions while we’re waiting for the General,” Minton suggested, indicating the maps.
“Certainly,” Simmons responded and led the way over to the table. He pointed to a road junction at the centre of one of the maps. “We’re here, at the southern end of Loch Lubnaig. If this German agent is driving up north through Callander, she’ll then have to pass through Lochearnhead, which is the next major junction. It’s about 14 miles from here. There’s another company of the Morays deployed there. Five miles further north of them, there’s a small detachment at Lix Toll where a minor road branches east, through Killin. The next major junction beyond that is at Crianlarich, where there is a company of The Cameron Highlanders. That’s the limit of our bailiwick: Northern District take over from that point onwards.”
Minton noted on the map that on either side of the road north there were huge tracts of land with no roads or other signs of habitation. He estimated there were upwards of 200 square miles of uninhabited, mountainous terrain on each side.
“Do you think we have enough manpower to launch a search of the hills if our prey decides to try going it on foot?”
“Yes, I believe we have sufficient resources to hunt them down. We have dog teams we can bring in, and there are spotter planes in the air. We can also rely on the local knowledge and tracking skills of the people who live in this region.”
“You sound confident, Major. I hope you’re right. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be easy.”
At that juncture, Cunningham reappeared, a forbidding look now on his face. “You said it was quiet here last night, Major. It seems it was not so quiet elsewhere – Cobalt has been active. She’s on the move and leaving bodies in her wake. That was a call from the police superintendent coordinating the search in the Borders. Last night he assigned some of his men to follow up a lead that Cobalt might be holing up in a farmhouse in the St Boswells area. One of the patrols he sent out – a squad car with three police officers – didn’t report back. He knew which farms the men had been tasked with checking, so he sent another squad car round the same route to look for them. They found the missing car half an hour ago at a farm not far from St Boswells. It was locked in a barn. The bodies of the three patrolmen were still inside; they’d been shot dead. A black Hillman saloon was found in another of the outbuildings.”
“What about Miss Harrison?” Minton asked, looking concerned.
“There were just three bodies found, so either she is still with Cobalt, or she has been disposed of elsewhere.”
“They must be using another vehicle then, if the Hillman’s been abandoned.”
Cunningham shook his head. “I told you, Minton – Cobalt’s slipped through the net. We can’t allow it to happen again.” Letting out a snort of frustration, he bent over the map. “What would we do in Cobalt’s position? She must know now that we are close on her heels. Will she keep to the original plan, or change her itinerary?” The three officers stared down at the map in silence and tried to assess the pros and cons of the various routes north. It did not help that they had no idea where she was heading.
They had been poring over the map for a minute or so, when they were distracted by the sound of a lorry that was coming along the main road from the direction of Callander. Simultaneously, all three men looked up towards it. At first, their view of it was obscured intermittently by the trees and bushes along the side of the road, but they could make out that it was an army three-tonner and was moving at a fair pace, though not fast enough to attract suspicion. Minton wondered what it was doing: bringing supplies and equipment to them, or more men perhaps? As it drew nearer, it was possible to see into the cab, and they scrutinized the bespectacled face of the officer in a Glengarry cap who was sitting next to the driver and staring back at them. Suddenly, Minton burst out: “My God, it’s Vaughan! Cobalt must be in the lorry! She’s in the lorry!”
As if to confirm this, the lorry began to accelerate. “Stop that vehicle!” Cunningham yelled out to the two guards standing in front of the barrier. They began to unsling their rifles, but there was no time to use them, for, to save themselves from being run over, they had to dive out of the lorry’s path.
The barrier might have been effective against a car; however, it was easily brushed aside by the hurtling mass of the three-tonner. The two guards recovered quickly and, along with several other Morays who happened to be near the junction, ran out into the road and raised their rifles, intending to fire at the lorry. But it was an ill-judged move, for half a dozen of the Brandenburgers in the back – three kneeling at the tailboard and three standing behind them – opened up with their machine pistols. In the ensuing hail of bullets most of the men who had run onto the road were cut down before they could fire a round.
MacGregor, Bronx and Barton were nearing the command tent when the incident erupted. They stopped and looked over towards the junction, but it all happened so quickly there was little they could do except stand and watch, stunned. Cunningham’s voice boomed out again, and MacGregor turned in his direction. “Don’t just stand there, Lieutenant,” he yelled and then, pointing to the rapidly receding lorry, ordered: “Get the troops back in the transport and follow that truck! Hurry, man!”
MacGregor, Bronx and Barton immediately ran back towards the recently parked lorries, from which the newly arrived troops had now all alighted. Cunningham turned to Simmons: “Major, get your men embussed and follow us. I want
everyone in pursuit of that truck, immediately! And tell your radio operator to contact the unit at Lochearnhead – order them to keep a squad manning the roadblock but to send the rest of the company down the Callander road. Warn them that the enemy – at least ten strong – are coming their way in a three-tonner and they’re armed with machine pistols.”
“Very well, General.”
“Minton, you’d better come with me.”
Cunningham and Minton strode off to the staff car parked nearby; Simmons walked with them, on his way to the radio truck. “Who were those men in uniform in the back of the lorry?” he asked Minton. “They looked like paratroopers?”
Minton recalled the last message that had been sent to Elliott: ‘ ... the firemen will attend the ball.’ Suddenly he realised what it referred to – ‘The Firemen of the Front’. “My guess is,” he replied, as he walked round the car to get in at the far side, “they’re a German special forces unit – they must have been parachuted in to help extract Cobalt.”
“The Germans are taking this pretty seriously then – she must be important.”
“Haven’t we been saying so all along?” With that, Minton got in the back of the car and shut the door. It set off immediately and headed across the field to the gate that led onto the Aberfoyle spur. They drove onto the road and turned towards the junction, passing down beside the parked lorries and the groups of men clambering into them. Minton noted that the lorries were all facing the wrong direction and would have to turn or reverse to the junction in order to head north in pursuit of the Germans. One of them had already done this, and just as Cunningham’s car reached the junction, it set off up the road, so that the staff car had to follow on behind it.
As they drove through the junction, Minton noted that the dead and wounded Morays had been lifted onto the verge to clear the road for the vehicles. The sight of these military casualties brought back to him depressing memories from his time in the trenches some twenty years earlier. He had a hunch he might soon be reliving those experiences.