by Jack Higgins
Sophie lit a cigarette. "You've been here before?"
"Many times My mother was a de Ville. Half-Jersey, half-Breton. My grandmother was born at Paimpol. I used to come over to Granville from the island when I was a little girl. There was a fishermen's cafe on the quay that had the finest hot rolls in the world. The best coffee."
"Not anymore," Sophie said. "The war has changed everything. Look down there."
The harbor was crammed with shipping. Rhine barges, three coasters and a number of German naval craft. It was a scene of considerable activity as dockers unloaded the contents of a line of trucks on the quay into the barges.
"They're definitely sailing for the islands tonight?" Sarah asked.
"Oh yes. Some for Jersey, the rest on to Guernsey."
"How do you find them?"
"The Boche?" Sophie shrugged. "I'm a reasonable woman I don't want to hate anybody I just want them out of France."
"It's just that we hear such bad things about them in England."
"True," Sophie said. "SS and Gestapo are devils, but they frighten the hell out of the ordinary German soldier as much as they do anyone else. In any case, we've got those among our own people who are as bad as the Gestapo. Daman's milice. Frenchmen who work with the Nazis to betray Frenchmen."
"That's terrible," Sarah said.
"It's life, child, and what it means is you can never really trust anyone. Now get dressed and come downstairs and we'll have some lunch."
At Gavray in what had once been the country home of the count of that name, Heini Baum sat at one end of the table in the officers' mess of the 41st Panzer Grenadiers and smilingly acknowledged the cheers as the officers toasted him then applauded. When they were finished, he nodded his thanks.
The young colonel of the regiment, a veteran of the Russian Front, his black panzer uniform scattered with decorations, said, "If you could manage a few words, Herr Field Marshal. It would mean so much to my officers."
There was a worried look in Hofer's eye when Baum glanced at him, but he disregarded it and stood up, straightening his tunic. "Gentlemen, the Führer has given us a simple task. To keep the enemy off our beaches. Yes, I say our beaches. Europe, one and indivisible, is our goal. The battle will be won on those beaches. There is no possibility of our losing. The destiny of the Führer is God-given. So much is obvious to anyone with a grain of sense." His irony was lost on them as they gazed up, enraptured, drinking in every word. He raised his glass. "So, gentlemen, join me. To our beloved Führer, Adolf Hitler."
"Adolf Hitler!" they chorused.
Baum tossed his glass into the fire, and with a stirring of excitement, they all followed him. Then they applauded again, forming two lines as he walked out, followed by Hofer.
"Rather heavy on the glasses, I should have thought," Hofer said as they drove bark to Cressy where Rommel had established temporary headquarters at the old castle there.
"You didn't approve?" Baum said.
"I didn't say that. Actually the speech was rather good."
"If the Herr Major will excuse my saying so, it was heavily over the top, to use theatrical vernacular," Baum told him.
"I take your point," Hofer said. "On the other hand, it's exactly what they wanted to hear."
Crazy, Baum thought. Am I the only sane man left alive? But by then, they were drawing into the courtyard of the castle. He went up the steps fast, acknowledging the salutes, Hofer trailing him, all the way up to the suite on the second floor.
Rommel had locked himself in the study and only came out on Hofer's knock. "How did it go?"
"Perfect," Hofer said. "Passed with flying colors. You should have heard the speech you made."
"Excellent." Rommel nodded. "Everything progresses in the Channel Islands? You spoke to von Schmettow in Guernsey?"
"Personally. Herr Field Marshal. He's also had his orders in writing. As you were told by Naval HQ at Cherbourg, they do most of their traveling between the islands by night these days because of the enemy air superiority in the area. So they will travel from Jersey to Guernsey on Thursday night for the conference, returning on Sunday night."
"Good," Rommel said. "Which still leaves you and Berger flying in out of the dawn in a Fiesler Storch with all that RAF superiority in the area that you speak of." He turned to Baum. "What do you think about that Berger?"
"I think it could be interesting if the Herr Major and I went down in flames into the sea. The Desert Fox is dead." He shrugged. "That could lead to some strange possibilities, you must admit, Herr Field Marshal."
Gerard Cresson sat in his wheelchair at the table in the sitting room and refilled the glasses with red wine. "No. I hate to dispel your illusions," he said to Sarah. "But out in Jersey, just as in France and every other occupied country in Europe, the real enemy is the informer. Without them the Gestapo couldn't operate."
"But I was told there weren't any Gestapo in Jersey," Sarah said.
"Officially they have a Geheime Feldpolizei setup there. That's Secret Field Police, and they're supposed to be controlled by the Abwehr Military Intelligence The whole thing is part of the ruling-by-kindness policy, a cosmetic exercise aimed at fooling the people. The implication is that because you're British we won't sick the Gestapo onto you."
"Which is shit," Sophie said as she came in from the kitchen with fresh coffee, "because several of the men working for the GFP in Jersey are Gestapo operatives on loan."
"Do you know where they are?" Sarah asked.
"A hotel at Havre des Pas called Silvertide. You know it?"
She nodded. "Oh yes I used to go swimming at Havre des Pas when I was a child."
"Gestapo, Secret Field Police, SD, Abwehr. Wherever you go, whoever the man is who knocks on the door, it's the Gestapo to the poor devil being arrested."
"Exactly the same in Jersey," Gerard told him. "To the locals, they're Gestapo and that's it. Mind you, it's a Mickey Mouse operation compared to what goes on in Lyons or Pans, but watch out for a Captain Muller. He's temporarily in command, and his chief aide, an inspector called Kleist."
" Are they SS?"
"I don't know. Probably not They've never been seen in uniform Probably seconded from the police in some big city. Full of themselves, like all flics. Out to prove something." He shrugged. "You don't have to be in the SS to be in the Gestapo. You don't even have to be a member of the Nazi Party."
'True.' Martmeau said. "Anyway, how do you rate our chances of bringing Kelso over from Jersey?"
"Very difficult indeed. That's one item they are very tight on, civilian traffic. It would be impossible in a small boat at the moment."
"And if he isn't able to walk…" Sophie shrugged expressively.
"They'll be standing by at SOE for a call from you at any time this weekend," Martmeau said. "The Lysander can pick up on Sunday night."
Gerard laughed suddenly. "I've just had a brilliant thought. You could always arrest Kelso. Find him and arrest him, if you follow me. Bring him over here officially, then cut out."
"That's all very well," Sarah put in, "but where would that leave Aunt Helen and the General? Wouldn't they have to be arrested too?"
Martmeau nodded. "It's one of those ideas that sounds good until you think about it. Never mind. We'll think of something when we get there."
"Like a bullet in the head maybe?" Cresson suggested. "1 mean, if this man is as important as they say . ."
"He's entitled to a chance," Martmeau said. "If there's any way I can pull him out I will, if not…" He shrugged. "Now, what's the procedure for booking passage to the island tonight?"
"There's a movement officer in the office in the green hut on the quay. He issues the passes. No difficulty in your case."
"Good," Martmeau said. "That seems to be about it then."
Sophie filled four glasses with red wine. "I'm not going to wish you luck, I'm just going to tell you something."
"What's that?" Martmeau inquired.
She put an arm around Sarah's should
ers. "I like the kid here very much. Whatever happens over there, you bring her back in one piece, because if you don't, and you show your face here again, I'll put a bullet in you myself." She smiled genially and toasted him.
NINE
THE 5TH SCHNELLBOOTE FLOTILLA, as was common with all German Navy E-boat units, was used to living on the move. On returning to their Cherbourg base after the Slapton Sands affair, three boats had been ordered to Guernsey for temporary duty as convoy escorts. One of them, S92, was tied up at the quay at Granville now.
Darkness was already falling and the harbor was a scene of frenzied activity as the convoy got ready to leave. Chief Petty Officer Hans Richter checking the 40-mm Bofors gun in the stern, paused to watch dockers working on the Victor Hugo which was moored next to them. Now that her holds were crammed full, they were dumping sacks of coal and bales of hay on her decks so that there was hardly room to move.
The Hugo's antiaircraft defenses were 7 92-mm machine guns and a Bofors gun—not too much use when the Tommies swept in from the darkness in those damned Beaufighters with their searchlights on, but that's the way things were these days, and the Luftwaffe didn't seem to be able to do much about it. Richter could see the master of the Hugo, Savary, on the bridge talking to the officer in command of the gun crew, the Italian lieutenant, Orsim. Flamboyant as usual with the white top to his cap and the scarf at his neck. A good seaman for all that. They said he'd sunk a British destroyer off Taranto before being seconded to the 5th Schnellboote as an E-boat commander. They were only using him on secondary duties these days because nobody trusted the Italians anymore. After all, most of them were fighting for the Allies now.
As Richter watched, Guido Orsim went down the ladder and then the gangway to the quay and walked toward the port officer's hut. Richter turned back to the gun and a voice called. "Petty Officer!"
Richter looked over the rail. Standing a few feet away was an SS officer, a black leather trenchcoat over his uniform, the silver death's-head on the cap gleaming dully in the evening light. When Richter saw the oak leaf collar patches of a full colonel his heart sank.
He got his heels together quickly. "Standartenführer. What can I do for you?"
The young woman standing at the colonel's shoulder was pretty in her little black beret and belted raincoat, the hair very fair, just like his daughter's back home in Hamburg. Too young for an SS bastard like this, Richter thought.
"Your commanding officer, Kapitanleutnant Dietrich, commands the convoy, I understand?" Martmeau said. "Is he on board?"
"Not at the moment."
"Where is he?"
"Port officer's hut. The green one over there, Standartenführer."
"Good I'll have a word with him." Martineau gestured to the two suitcases. "See these go on board. We'll be traveling with you as far as Jersey."
Which was a turn up for the book. Richter watched them walk away, then nodded to a young seaman who'd been listening with interest. "You heard the man. Get those cases."
"He was SD," the sailor said. "Did you notice?"
"Yes," Richter said. "As it happens I did. Now get on with it."
Erich Dietrich was thirty years of age, a young architect in Hamburg before the war who had discovered his true vocation. He had never been happier than when he was at sea and in command, especially in E-boats. He did not want the war to end. It had taken its toll, of course, on him as much as anyone. Just now, leaning over the chart table with the port officer, Lieutenant Schroeder, and Guido Orsini, he was in the best of humors.
"Winds three to four at the most with rain squalls. Could be worse."
Schroeder said, "Intelligence is expecting big raids on the Ruhr again tonight, so things should be reasonably clear for us down here as regards the RAF."
"If you believe that, you'll believe anything," Orsini said.
"You're a pessimist, Guido," Erich Dietrich told him. "Expect good things and they'll always fall into your lap. That's what my old mother used to say."
The door opened behind him, Schroeder's face dropped and Guido stopped smiling Dietrich turned and found Martineau standing there, Sarah at his shoulder.
"Kapitanleutnant Dietrich? My name is Vogel." Martineau produced his SD identity card and passed it across, then he took Himmler's letter from its envelope." If you would be kind enough to read this also."
Sarah couldn't understand a word. He sounded like someone else, held himself like another person, the voice cold and dry, Dietrich read the letter, and Guido and Schroeder peered over his shoulder. The Italian made a face and Dietrich handed the document back.
"You noticed, of course, that the Führer himself was kind enough to countersign my orders?"
"Your credentials are without doubt the most remarkable I've ever seen, Standartenführer," Dietrich said. "In what way can we serve you?"
"I need passage for myself and Mademoiselle Latour to Jersey. As you are convoy commander I shall naturally travel with you I've already told your petty officer to take our cases on board."
Which would have been enough to reduce Erich Dietrich to speechless rage at the best of times, but there was another factor here. The Knegsmanne had always been notoriously the least Nazi of all the German armed forces. Dietrich personally had never cared for the Parry one little bit, which hardly disposed him in Standartenführer Max.
Vogel's favor. There were limits, of course, to what he could do, but he still had one possible objection on his side.
"Happy to oblige, Standartenführer," he said smoothly. "There is one problem, however. Naval regulations forbid the carrying of civilians on a fighting ship at sea. I can accommodate you, but not, alas, this charming young lady."
It was difficult to argue with him because he was right Martineau tried to handle it as a man like Vogel would have done, arrogant, demanding, determined not to be put down. "What would you suggest?"
"One of the convoy ships, perhaps. Lieutenant Orsmi here is in command of the gun crew on the SS Victor Hugo, whose cargo is destined for the port of St Heher on Jersey. You could go with him."
But Vogel would not have allowed himself to lose face completely. "No," he said calmly." It is good that I should see something of your work, Kapitanleutnant I shall travel with you. Mademoiselle Latour, on the other hand, can proceed on the Victor Hugo if Lieutenant Orsmi has no objections."
"Certainly not," said Guido who had hardly been able to take his eyes off her. "A distinct pleasure."
"Unfortunately Mademoiselle Latour speaks no German." Martineau turned to her and earned on in French. "We must separate for the journey across, my dear. A matter of regulations. I'll keep your luggage with me, so don't worry about that. This young officer will take care of you."
"Guido Orsmi, at your service, signonria," he said gallantly and saluted. "If you come with me I'll see you safely on board. We sail in thirty minutes."
She turned to Martineau. "I'll see you later then, Max."
"In Jersey." He nodded calmly.
She went out, Orsmi holding the door open for her. Dietrich said, "A charming girl."
"I think so." Martineau leaned over the chart table. "Are we to enjoy an uneventful run tonight? I understand your convoys are often attacked by RAF night fighters."
"Frequently, Standartenführer," Schroeder told him. "But the RAF will be busy elsewhere tonight."
"Terror bombing the civilian population of our major cities as usual," Martineau said because it was the kind of thing they would expect a Party fanatic like him to say. "And the British Royal Navy?"
"Yes, their MTBs are often active in the area," Dietrich admitted and tapped the map. "From bases at Falmouth and Devonport."
"And this doesn't worry you?"
"Standartenführer, there are more of them these days, but our E-boats are still the fastest thing of their kind afloat, as I will certainly have the chance to show you tonight." He gathered up his charts. "Now, if you will follow me, we'll go on board."
The convoy left just after
ten o'clock, eleven ships in all, including the barges S92 led the way out of harbor, then swung hard to port. There was a light rain falling, and Dietrich stood on the bridge, probing into the darkness with his Zeiss night glasses. Martineau was at his right shoulder. Below them the wheelhouse was even more cramped with the helmsman and engine room telegraphist in there and the navigating officer at his small table behind. The wireless room was down a passage farther on.
"Not much room on these things," Martineau commented.
"All engines, that's what we say," Detrich told him.
"And armaments?"
"The torpedoes. Bofors gun aft, twenty-millimeter cannon in the forward well deck. Eight machine guns. We manage."
"And radar, of course?"
"Yes, but that's a difficult one in these waters. Lots of reefs, rocks, small islands. It makes for a lot of clutter on the screen. When the Tommies come down here they do exactly what I do when I'm operating out of Cherbourg and hitting their convoys."
"What's that?"
"Turn off our radar so they can't find us with their location equipment and maintain radio silence."
Martineau nodded and looked astern at the other ships bulking in the dark. "What speed will the convoy maintain?"
"Six knots."
"You must feel like a racing horse pulling a cart sometimes."
Dietrich laughed. "Yes, but I've got two thousand horses under me." He slapped the rail. "Nice to know just how fast they can get up and go when I ask them to."
On the bridge of the Victor Hugo it was like being in a safe and enclosed world, rain and spray drifting against the glass. Savary stood beside the helmsman, and Sarah and Guido Orsini leaned over the chart table.
"This is the convoy route, what the Navy call Weg Ida from Granville, east of the Chausey Isles."
She liked him a lot, had from the moment he'd turned to look at her in the hut on the quay. He was certainly good-looking. Too handsome, really, in a way that Latins could be sometimes, but there was strength there too, and when he smiled.