‘Poachers to Game Keeper. Air cover in sight. Code-word is Oxford. Repeat. Code-word is Oxford. My position, cliff-tops, 10 miles south of Calais. Over.’
Christ, thought Quinn: Young idiot’s just signed his own death warrant. For his German pursuers would be listening in, would now know his position, and would probably get there before Quinn could come down on them.
As the first flak tracers started to rise ahead, the town of Calais out to the left, Quinn checked his knee map and banked the squadron hard right down the coast.
A minute later, it was Maddox who transmitted. ‘Green Leader to Reaper Leader. Enemy troops and vehicles down ahead. Over.’
‘We’ll follow you down, Stephen. Out.’
In a steep dive, Maddox loosed his rockets two by two a second apart. Quinn certainly hadn’t seen the target in the low morning light, yet followed suit as the rest of the squadron added their own smoke trails to Maddox’s. In the pull-out, it was the multi-explosion of their rockets that betrayed the German vehicles like a hundred photo flashes.
‘Reaper Leader to Green Leader. We’re 10 miles south of Calais, Stephen. Any sign of the commandos?’
‘Nothing, Reaper Leader. But enemy aircraft at 11 o’clock level. About a mile.’
Quinn peered out forward left and saw the Focke-Wulfs – a dozen at a glance. As they dived across in front, he saw what they were aiming for…
The Royal Navy submarine that had surfaced down on the right.
‘Reaper Leader to Squadron. Bandits at 2 o’clock low. Get them. Right bank. Execute.’
Just as he watched his Typhoons peel off in pursuit, Quinn heard the commando leader’s voice over the radio once more.
‘Poachers to Game Keeper. Correcting my position. Repeat. Correction my position. Am on beach at base of cliffs 13 miles, repeat, THIRTEEN miles south of Calais. Advise submarine of correction. Repeat. Advise submarine of correction. Will fire flare. Over. ’
Quinn saw the green Very Light arc into the sky only a mile ahead.
The Major’s voice returned a moment later. In Quinn’s headphones, reception from Manston was good… ‘Game Keeper to Poachers. Sub sees green. Over.’
‘Poachers to Game Keeper. Green is correct. Over. ’
‘Roger, Poachers. Sub now full ahead your position. Out.’
As he flew low over them, Quinn saw the commandos madly thrashing out through the breakers.
*
Heading back across the Channel, Quinn’s body surged with relief: Whoever the young bloke was, the commando leader had snatched a miracle from the teeth of disaster… Quinn put it together in his head: Somehow he’d kept his men together, and heaven knows how lost his pursuers in the dark. Then, mindful they’d be listening in to the radioed instructions from his controller, he’d given a false position – precisely three miles north of the truth. This had kept the Germans off him, and made them a clear target for air attack.
The squadron had also done well, the Focke-Wulfs having scattered after Sergeant Christie knocked down their leader – his first air victory.
Quinn was very deeply glad to have broken off combat and headed them back out to sea when he had: A terrible hail of anti-aircraft tracers had risen up in their wake – fireworks like Quinn had never seen. Luckily for 609, they were already well behind.
*
Seeing the light above the door change from red to green, Jillian Brown opened it, entered, closed it behind herself, and silently crossed the carpet of the Whitehall office. Stopping at her usual position before the Admiral’s desk, she saluted, removed her cap, and remained at attention.
‘Yes, take a seat, Brown. With you in a moment.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She complied as the man in naval whites continued writing, the light of the desk lamp reflecting not only off the gold braid of his epaulettes, but also off the top of his hairless head which, she could only assume, he polished.
‘So,’ he murmured after several minutes. ‘How’d it all go?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Commando platoon over-run?’
‘Yes, sir. Yes, they were.’
The man peered at Brown over the rims of his spectacles. She felt, as always, in a sniper’s sights.
‘Good.’ He put down his pen. ‘Now, we’ve been through this before, Brown. You know the stakes here. And that they couldn’t be higher: We’re on the very sharp end of the lead-up to the Invasion. …Operation Overlord. … D-Day.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, we are. Bad business about the commandos – particularly about the boffin – but that’s the game we play, isn’t it. A dirty game. You knew it would be when you said yes to us here at the LCS. And we have a complete success on our hands, don’t we.’
His lips betrayed the ghost of a smile.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Brown. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘Dirty… Yet we’ve just reinforced the Germans’ impression that we intend to invade the Pas de Calais on D-Day. Instead of… else - where, if indeed it isn’t Calais – You’re not cleared to know yet; you don’t need to, not yet… In addition, we’ve let the Germans think we didn’t already know that little gap in their Atlantic Wall defences was recently plugged – Otherwise, why would we have sent the commandos charging into it?’
‘Why indeed, sir.’
‘Quite. They’ll think we’re still in the dark, unless we’d just feed a boffin to the lions like that, let alone all the commandos… In short, they’ll assume we haven’t already cracked their codes, heaven forbid they should imagine we’re eating them up every morning for breakfast.’ He paused again, eyes down in another file. ‘…The boffin’s demise enhances the whole effect of the op as German Higher Command’ll be more likely to pay attention to it now, won’t they: Their chaps on the ground always see what we’re doing… The thing is for us to get their senior commanders damn-well listening to what they report. And so on up the chain of command to the very top.’
His eyes rested upon her again.
‘A bad business, but there it is. The lives lost are expendable, sacrificed for a greater good, and must be seen by you as such… Let me remind you that we recruited you not only for your agile mind, young lady, but for your clinical use of it.’
‘Sir.’
‘Over time, this little show, and many more like it, will have the Germans in the dark on D-Day. As a result, we’ll win it. Thus the War. So. A job immensely well done. If indeed you ever do sleep, Brown, you may sleep well tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘…Though I have something extra to report.’
The Admiral’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pray go on, Brown…’
‘Yes, sir. I saw an extra opportunity, and took it… And, although I was not entirely sure what I intended might then transpire, it did.’
‘Did it now? … En-lighten me.’
‘Sir. On receipt of the code-word signifying that the platoon had been over-run, our mission complete, I left the operations room, and happened to pass Squadron Leader Quinn, who was accompanied by Flight Lieutenant Stone.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Yes, sir. I took the opportunity to inform them, in the most general sense, of the immediate… situation directly across the Channel.’
The Admiral sat back, seeming to relax slightly.
‘…Couldn’t have compromised anything at that late stage, I suppose… The mission goal had already been achieved.’
‘Precisely, sir. In any case, my intention was that, once aware of the situation, the pair might… involve themselves in it. Especially given the, well, the known character of Flight Lieutenant Stone.’
‘And did they?’
‘Significantly, sir. With first light approaching, a suggestion by the Flight Lieutenant was adopted, a short-notice air operation was whipped up,’ she cleared her throat, ‘I mean, devised, sir… The German battalion was attacked, the survi
ving commandos and the submarine covered. In full daylight. All extracted. Including the boffin.’
The Admiral’s eyes were now goggles.
‘In addition, sir, an enemy aircraft was shot down. No loss to 609 Squadron.’
The man removed his spectacles. And coughed.
‘Section Lieutenant Brown…’ He stopped to draw slight breath before continuing. ‘I must confess I may have underestimated you… You take a nasty little episode – albeit an intentional one – and you up it. …Into a bally Barnum and Bailey Circus: To the presence of the boffin, you add a Royal Air Force Squadron… and no less than a daylight extraction by one of His Majesty’s Submarines.’
Even now the full ramifications seemed to be dawning on him.
‘…This, we can presume, will only solidify the German perception of our ignorance as to their codes, and of our interest in Calais for invasion…’
A thin smile crept across his cheeks.
‘Not only, Brown, have you enhanced the mission’s success by drawing extra German attention to it, but you save lives and the boffin. And they’ll deduce we sent one alright – We’d never surface a sub in broad day for simple soldiers… Good God, clay samples for tank drivers?! They’ll think he was drilling for the Elixir of Youth!’ The man took a cigar from a box, clipped the end, and lit it. ‘Remarkable… You seem one thing, Jillian, and simultaneously, you are another.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
After several puffs of the cigar, he continued. ‘If, my girl, you intend to continue in the way you have begun, I see a bright future for you here with us in the Secret Service. Could always come across to us at MI6… down the track…’
‘Sounds very interesting, sir.’
‘Just a thought… Of course, I needn’t remind you that the Official Secrets Act which you signed prohibits you from revealing any detail of your work with us to anyone outside the Service from now until the end of your life: Not your parents, not the man you marry, not your children, nor theirs. Naturally, any transgression of the Act will bring down consequences upon you,’ he paused, and smiled, ‘to which death would be preferable… In the meantime, young lady, please consider yourself a fully-fledged agent of Operation Bodyguard.’
‘Bodyguard, sir?’
‘Yes,’ his tone lightened, ‘or so our deception efforts in the lead-up to Overlord have been dubbed. Coined from a pronouncement by our beloved Section’s founder…’ The Admiral grimaced. ‘… Winston’s usual purple prose, I’m afraid… Something about the key truths of the current crisis requiring a bodyguard of lies.’
‘Apt, I suppose, sir,’ offered Brown. ‘To tell you the truth, sir, I always wondered where the name “Overlord” came from…’
The Admiral put his spectacles back on, and smiled at her across them, only this time with no trace of menace.
‘…I was hoping you’d tell me.’
RAF Tangmere, Sussex
Quinn hadn’t expected the reunion with Nick Carroll – 609 Squadron’s move to the far South Coast of England had landed them at an aerodrome shared by, amongst other units, a flight of photo-reconnaissance Spitfires. On seeing his old friend again, Quinn felt a happiness he’d forgotten he had within him.
Along with the fact that Christie had just been promoted to Pilot Officer, with Stone about to be awarded his second DFC, it seemed to Quinn ample excuse for a bit of a party in the Officers’ Mess. Besides, Jillian Brown was off on some business or other, and it would be a relief not to have to worry about Stone’s unfilterable language for once.
Drinks ordered, Quinn introduced Carroll to Stone and Christie, Maddox heartened to see his old Number 1 again. Quinn was glad to see, after a few brandies, the hat-collector hadn’t changed…
‘What…’ Carroll posed to the group, ‘is the most beautiful thing you can think of? I mean really…’ He looked to each face within the circle. ‘…Daniel?’
‘Let’s see,’ smiled Quinn. ‘How about a beer with friends that went on forever?’
‘Nice one,’ ventured Stone.
Nodding approval, Christie then sided to Stone, ‘A freshly cleaned cockpit…’ a wink from Stone in reply.
‘I saw a b-beautiful thing,’ Maddox squinted.
Quinn saw he’d paused, as if requiring the group’s assent to continue. ‘Go on, Steve,’ he prompted gently.
‘Yes. Last time in London. I was w-walking down an alley one night… Along the side wall of some t-terrace houses. It was quiet out, and I was coming up on a window, one I could see very clearly approaching as its b-blackout curtain wasn’t drawn. Just a white blind – I c-can’t imagine how the air-raid warden hadn’t come calling yet… Anyhow, you could see the light from the interior of the house glowing up on the blind, and sort of p-peaking round the sides a bit.’ His thin frame pivoted slightly. ‘…This really golden light… Made it look…’
He seemed to falter.
‘All nice and warm inside,’ put Stone.
‘That’s it…’ Maddox blinked up at him. ‘I almost knocked on the door…’
Quinn focused intently on Maddox: on the young man who looked now more than ever the philosophy student. Maddox caught his gaze and retorted a touch defensively.
‘Well, it was a beaut little sight, that’s all…’
The group had noticed by now that his stutter had fallen away.
‘…It looked like…’ Maddox readdressed the circle with a faint smile. ‘… Peace.’
Stone sipped his beer thoughtfully. ‘When a girl you’ve just met lets you take off her knickers.’
Around the circle, a nod of solemn accord.
Except from Carroll. Who looked at Stone. Then countered: ‘… Speak for yourself, dear boy.’
Holding Carroll’s look, Stone froze for a moment.
Then erupted.
He laughed so hard he had to sit down.
*
Virginie Piquot knew the Invasion was coming. Monsieur Bonnemain had certainly thought so: He’d confided in her the very day before he was taken away.
Virginie had seen the truck pull up by his cottage, the German soldiers piling out and surrounding it. Shortly after, a black Citroën had arrived, two men in leather coats getting out, and knocking on his door. Virginie knew who these men were.
Gestapo.
As they led him out to the truck, Monsieur Bonnemain had seen Virginie at her window – He’d smiled at her. She hadn’t seen him get into the truck; she’d hidden her face inside – She didn’t want him to see her crying while he was smiling… As Virginie heard the truck rumble away, it made her cry even harder to know she had missed his last look: He wouldn’t be coming back. The people they took away like that never did.
One day soon, her friend had promised her, the ships would come from over the sea, and the Americans, the British, the Canadians and Free-French would swarm up the beaches. Then other brave men would drop from the sky – Parachutists, the aircraft that brought them blotting out the sun.
Virginie would be there to welcome them, to help them.
Then she would avenge her friend.
April 1944
RAF Thorney Island, Hampshire, 2nd Tactical Air Force
Flying in and out of the new base, Quinn could see it all very clearly: the massive build-up of men, camps, trucks and tanks now choking the surrounding area. The number of ships and landing craft in the harbours was staggering, on nearby airfields, more transport aircraft than he’d ever imagined, twin-engined DC-3s mainly, as well as ungainly looking craft someone said were ‘gliders’.
The move to Thorney had put 609, along with three other Typhoon squadrons, directly across the Channel from Normandy. What Mick O’Regan was doing on the base, he wasn’t at liberty to say. Over a fresh egg each – the coveted daily right of aircrew only – Quinn saw on Mick’s battle-dress the triple shoulder bands of a Wing Commander, on his chest the ribbon of the DFC with two Bar badges on it, meaning he now had three of them. He said he was just ‘passing through’.
‘Yep.’
‘Still on Spitfires?’
‘No. Found something better.’
Quinn eyed him warily. ‘…This I gotta hear.’
‘What’s the only thing sounds better than a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine?’
‘Two?’
‘Spot on, old son.’
‘You’re on Mosquitos…’ Quinn then took little effort to guess the kind of job O’Regan would ultimately be cut out for, the kind of extreme danger for which his type inevitably volunteered. ‘…Hell, you’re not with the Night Intruders, are you?’
‘Yep.’
‘Jesus, Mick. That must be pretty bloody hairy…’
O’Regan took a bite of toast. ‘It gets interesting.’
Quinn didn’t have to ask anything further: He well knew the Intruder Mosquitos – each just a pilot and navigator – flew at ultra low-level, solo, at night, deep into Germany itself. There they shot up the airfields of the Luftwaffe night-fighters that even now continued to murder the RAF heavy bombers. Then, with any ammunition left over for the long trip home, they blasted anything else that moved on the way.
‘I’ve chopped and changed a bit.’ O’Regan salted his egg. ‘Found low level’s my thing. Yours too, evidently… Typhoons, eh?’ His eyes narrowed at Quinn. ‘The Invasion’s imminent, Daniel.’
*
Stephen Maddox knew he was bleeding badly. Through fogged eyes he saw the cockpit floor bright red and that he’d splashed it with his flying boot.
The order to fly a solo Rhubarb had come as no surprise, only the target area: back to Calais. He hadn’t questioned it; no point – Some element of Invasion strategy, no doubt.
Coming back in across the Channel, he knew he’d been badly shot up – ground fire, that he was alone, and losing altitude. His face must be cut up from cannon shell splinters for, pushing his goggles up with one glove, he returned it to the controls, and saw there was blood now on the throttle as well.
He checked the altimeter, 50 feet, eyes squinting with his effort to keep control. Yet his consciousness was fading, vision greying.
He saw a pretty schoolgirl on a train station. A golden clear morning, the girl was sitting on a blue wooden bench with white letters. REDFERN. She wore white gloves, bottle-green tartan tunic, skirt, and hat.
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