Marine L SBS

by Ian Blake

  ‘A great guy,’ said Clark, watching him go. ‘If we succeed in this crazy mission it’ll be because of him. So how long have we got to wait, Roger?’

  They were all on first-name terms by now, though no one called the General ‘Mark’.

  ‘Until an hour after dusk,’ Pountney said. ‘I’d suggest we pass the time by sampling the wine from the cellar.’

  They carried up a variety of vintages and enjoyed them with their lunch. Afterwards they slept off the effect of the wine and in the evening strolled to the beach to watch the sun go down and to crack open the remaining bottles from the cellar. When the last glow had left the sky, Pountney began calling up the submarine on his walkie-talkie.

  ‘Hello, Seraph, how do you hear me? She has dimples on her knees. She has dimples on her knees.’

  ‘And you guys call us Yanks sex-mad,’ said Clark, pouring himself another glass.

  After ten minutes or so the walkie-talkie crackled and Jewall said: ‘She’s got black hair and bedroom eyes. I hear you loud and clear, Roger. What’s happening?’

  ‘Mission completed,’ Pountney replied. ‘We’re ready to be picked up. But be quick about it. The police could be on to us.’

  ‘Switch on the light and we’ll home in on it. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.’

  Pountney turned to Meredith. ‘The sub needs to home in on the light. Can you tell our French friends to turn it on?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Meredith, scrambling to his feet.

  The SBS men carried the folbots down to the water’s edge. The surf was higher than the previous night and each wave produced a subdued roar as it broke on the sand. It pounded on the beach, throwing spray in all directions.

  Meredith returned. ‘They’ve cleared off. The villa’s locked.’

  Pountney cursed. ‘What about les flics?’

  ‘They must have taken them with them.’

  More likely they’d cut their throats and buried them, Pountney thought.

  ‘We’ll have to use the RG equipment,’ he said and started calling Jewall on the walkie-talkie.

  ‘She’s got a beautiful bottom.’

  ‘Her cheeks are red and rosy,’ Jewall replied. Pountney explained they could not switch on the signal light.

  ‘All I can do is steer on a reciprocal bearing and hope we find you.’

  ‘How close can you come in?’

  ‘Five hundred yards, no more.’

  ‘We’ve got bad surf here and the police are on our tail.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Pountney switched off the walkie-talkie and quickly considered his options. ‘Phil, go and watch the coastal road. Bob, I want you ready to take the General out once we’ve found the Seraph.’

  Pountney took the RG screen out of his bergen and went to the water’s edge. To his right Harmon dragged the folbot forward while Clark stood ready with the waterproof bag which held all the documentation from the conference. Pountney held up the screen and moved it slowly in an arc. The minutes passed. Then, right at the end of one sweep, the beam of the signal lamp was intercepted by the screen. Pountney switched on his walkie-talkie.

  ‘You’re much too far to the right,’ Pountney said urgently after he had swapped more praise of the female anatomy with Jewall. ‘There must be a bad lateral current.’

  ‘I’ll move to starboard,’ said Jewall. ‘Once the moon is up I’ll be able to see more.’

  ‘By the time the moon is up the police will be here,’ Pountney replied. It was, he thought grimly, a case of the blind leading the blind.

  When the Seraph turned, Pountney lost contact with the RG lamp on her bridge. He glanced at his watch. On the surface the submarine could move at a healthy fourteen knots under her twin diesels, but at night and under such conditions he knew Jewall would not risk more than half that speed. Assuming she was at least half a mile off her correct position it would take about ten minutes for her to reach it and then she would have to be exceptionally careful as she began to manoeuvre closer inshore.

  It seemed much longer than ten minutes when Pountney at last re-established contact with the submarine’s infrared beam. She was a little too far to the left now, and he called Jewall to tell him. Slowly the beam moved from left to right, then stopped.

  Now the Seraph was in position opposite the villa, and Pountney called Jewall to tell him. Jewall said he would edge in as close as he could. Pountney searched the horizon with his binoculars.

  ‘See her?’ Harmon was at his shoulder.

  ‘No, but she’s there all right.’

  Both turned when they heard the crunch of footsteps in the sand.

  ‘Car lights,’ said Ayton breathlessly. ‘A long way off, but they’re coming in this direction.’

  ‘Shit,’ breathed Pountney.

  ‘I’d better get going with the General,’ said Harmon.

  ‘You, too, Phil,’ Pountney ordered. ‘Take Jerry with you. Stick together.’

  Because Meredith spoke French, Pountney reckoned he would need him if they fell into the hands of the police. He handed Harmon the RG screen, and he and Meredith helped launch the folbots. Up to their knees in foam, they struggled to hold the fragile craft as their occupants clambered in. By keeping the folbots’ bows head on to the breaking waves, they prevented them from capsizing. Then they moved into deeper water before giving one huge shove to propel the craft through the last breaking wave.

  First one folbot, then the other, shot forward, with the SBS officers flailing their double paddles frantically. Somehow, no one quite knew how, they did not capsize and were soon swallowed up in the dark.

  ‘Two folbots on their way,’ Pountney told Jewall. ‘They’ll home in on you by R.G.’

  ‘How will you find us?’ Jewall asked anxiously.

  ‘By smell, I expect,’ Pountney said with a facetiousness he did not feel. He turned and saw car lights playing on the side of the villa wall.

  ‘Time we went,’ he told Meredith. ‘Know how to wield a paddle?’

  ‘Sure. Done a bit of kayaking in my time.’

  ‘Just keep time with me if you can.’

  They dragged the folbot to the edge of the water, waited until one wave had receded, then Meredith clambered into the front cockpit. Pountney, holding the stern, pushed hard as the next wave swept forward and they were afloat. Meredith steadied the folbot with his paddle as best he could as Pountney slipped in behind him. But they were fractionally slow and the craft began moving backwards and another wave broke with a viciousness that sent them careering sideways out of control. Once broadside on to the force of the waves, the folbot capsized.

  They tried again and the same thing happened. This time the craft rolled right over after they had scrambled out of it.

  ‘Now what?’ Meredith asked after they had tipped out the water from the folbot.

  Pountney glanced up the beach and saw several men moving round the villa, their torches playing on the ground, then on its walls and windows.

  ‘Third time lucky,’ he said.

  This time he guided Meredith right through the breakers. One wave broke over his head, leaving him gasping for breath. But he hung on and was towed out by Meredith until the folbot was beyond the surf.

  Once in calmer water, Pountney hauled himself, one leg on either side of the craft, on to its stern, moving carefully so as not to upset its precarious balance. Then, after edging forwards until he was close enough to the rear cockpit, he put his hands behind him and, by gripping the sides of the folbot to keep his balance, swung his legs up out of the water. When they met above the cockpit he swung them down into it, at the same time edging the rest of his body forward. For a moment he was crouching half in and half out of the cockpit before he managed to slide his legs forward and straighten them as he sat down.

  ‘OK?’ shouted Meredith over his shoulder.

  ‘OK,’ Pountney shouted back. ‘Hand me the walkie-talkie. It’s in that waterproof pocket on your right.’

  The American h
anded it over his shoulder, but the pocket had not been closed properly and the walkie-talkie refused to work. Behind them powerful lights began to play on the sea, and Pountney, looking back, saw that the police had brought a car, its headlights blazing, right on to the beach.

  ‘They’ll see our footmarks,’ Meredith said over his shoulder as they rested.

  ‘They’ll think it’s smugglers,’ Pountney replied, trying to reassure himself as much as Meredith. They watched until the car and the men withdrew and Pountney then signalled ‘F’ continuously out to sea with his torch. The Seraph wouldn’t answer, he knew, as it was much too dangerous to signal towards the shore where anyone could see it, but Jewall might spot it and be encouraged to draw nearer.

  They bent to their paddles once more. Behind them the shore dwindled into darkness, but the moon was shining strongly now and Pountney was confident that they would spot the submarine soon. Sure enough, after another ten minutes’ paddling, he saw her bulk almost straight ahead.

  He flashed his torch again and this time someone struck a match and held it briefly against the bridge structure.

  Fifteen minutes later they were safely aboard the submarine.

  In the tiny wardroom a bottle of brandy was produced and everyone was talking at once. Clark rapped the table and said: ‘I propose that all of us who went ashore tonight, plus Lieutenant Jewall and all his officers, be made founding members of a new club.’

  There was a murmur of approval.

  ‘What shall we call it, General?’ Meredith asked.

  ‘How about the Panoe Club.’

  The Americans roared with laughter.

  ‘Panoe Club?’ said Pountney.

  ‘That’s right. None of you Limeys ever heard the joke about three Canadian businessmen who went off on a hunting trip?’

  None of them had.

  ‘A fourth was going to join them later,’ Wright explained.

  ‘When they arrived at the hunting ground they discovered they needed three punts and a canoe,’ said Meredith. ‘So they sent a telegram to their fourth friend telling him to ship them up to them.’

  He turned to Clark so that the senior officer could tell the punch-line.

  ‘The next day the fourth friend sent a telegram back,’ the General said, his face as straight as a poker. ‘It read: “Girls are on their way; am now searching for a panoe."’

  15

  ‘It’s on then?’

  Clark smiled. ‘Sure is.’

  The Governor leant back in his chair and breathed a loud sigh of relief. ‘Congratulations, General. A real coup.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without those Seraphims,’ Clark said. ‘Those guys did a first-rate job.’

  ‘So Mast has agreed his troops won’t oppose the landings?’

  ‘Yes. Provided Kingpin assumes command of all French forces in North Africa and announces that they have joined the Allies.’

  ‘And the French Navy?’

  Clark hesitated. ‘Mast is certain the Navy will toe the line if Kingpin plays his part.’

  The Governor looked at Clark shrewdly. ‘Are you as certain, General?’

  Again Clark hesitated. ‘Frankly, no. Especially if they suspect any British involvement. After Oran you guys are about as popular with the French Navy as Admiral Horatio Nelson must have been.’

  The Governor rubbed his chin. ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘There is an alternative,’ Clark said with slow emphasis. ‘Murphy told me the Navy’s Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Darlan, is in Algiers right now. He’s visiting his son, who’s sick.’

  The Governor looked aghast. ‘But that’s impossible. Darlan is one of Pétain’s right-hand men. He has treated with Hitler. Oh, no, no, General. That would not do under any circumstances.’

  Clark bent forward and said urgently: ‘Only Darlan has the power to command the Army and the Navy. Mast wouldn’t like it, as he’s for Kingpin; but he’d have to obey Darlan. I urge you to consider it.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said the Governor firmly. ‘My government would never allow it.’

  Clark shrugged. ‘If you Limeys won’t have Darlan – just supposing he would change sides – then we must go for Kingpin.’

  ‘And Mast thought Kingpin could sway the Navy as well as the Army?’

  ‘Sure. But he would, wouldn’t he?’

  The Governor rose. ‘Kingpin it is, then. I shall issue the orders immediately.’

  Clark remained seated. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, sir.’

  The Governor sank back in his chair.

  ‘If we go for Kingpin, Murphy believes it will be necessary to neutralize the French Navy’s ships in Algeria.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The planners say the best way is to send a small force a few hours before the invasion takes place to persuade the Navy not to act.’

  ‘That means into Oran?’

  ‘Exactly. But this time the ships will be flying the Stars and Stripes, not the white ensign.’

  ‘And supposing they choose not to cooperate?’

  Clark smiled. At that moment the eagle looked more like a hawk. ‘Then they will have to be stopped from leaving harbour.’

  ‘What now? I wonder,’ Pountney said as he and Jewall walked up the gangplank of the depot ship. It was forty-eight hours since they had returned to their Gibraltar base and Pountney was already getting itchy feet; and he knew that Ayton and Harmon felt the same way too.

  ‘Barney only said to report on board with you immediately,’ Jewall answered. ‘Another flap, I suppose.’

  Hawkes was waiting for them in the wardroom. Before him on the baize-covered table was a pile of files a foot thick through which he was ploughing one by one. ‘Don’t ever become an administrator,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘The day they make me become one,’ Pountney said, ‘is the day I retire to my old pursuit of hunting big game in Africa. War or no war.’

  Hawkes motioned them to seats opposite him and gave them both a hard look before saying: ‘I’ve got another job for you two. Another hush-hush one. Think you’re ready?’

  ‘I’m sure we are, sir,’ Jewall answered. ‘My Seraphims have got quite a taste for cloak-and-dagger operations now.’

  ‘Seraphims?’ Hawkes queried.

  ‘General Clark’s term, sir, for all of us who were on board the Seraph.’

  ‘Seraphims, eh,’ Hawkes chuckled. ‘Very good. They’ve got quite a sense of humour, those Yanks. Sharp as a needle is General Mark Clark. President Roosevelt has just announced he’s to have a third star. Makes him the youngest lieutenant general in the US Army.’

  ‘He’s got a good thirst, I’ll say that for him,’ said Pountney, remembering how many empty bottles they’d left behind them. ‘What’s the job you’ve got for us?’

  ‘Sail for southern France tonight to pick up a very distinguished – I repeat, very distinguished – high-ranking French officer who is in hiding there and take him to a rendezvous with a Catalina flying boat. The Catalina will fly him here. The convoys for Torch have sailed and we must get him here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Kingpin?’

  Hawkes nodded.

  ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘It’s in your orders. For now you’ll know him only by his code-name.’

  ‘Sounds simple enough, sir,’ Jewall said airily.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ said Hawkes.

  There always was, thought Pountney.

  ‘Kingpin has stipulated that he won’t have anything to do with the British and we can’t afford to offend him. Thousands of lives could depend on his cooperation. So he must be picked up by an American submarine.’

  ‘But the Yanks haven’t got a submarine within three thousand miles of Gib, sir,’ Jewall objected.

  ‘We know that. The Yanks know that. But Kingpin doesn’t know that.’

  ‘So the Seraph is going to have to fly the Stars and Stripes?’ said Jewall.

  ‘Exactly
,’ said Hawkes. ‘But she’s also going to have to have an American captain.’

  ‘My accent would hardly be convincing,’ said Jewall.

  ‘Which is why Jerry Wright will be going with you as captain,’ said Hawkes. ‘He’ll greet Kingpin when he comes aboard and will appear to captain the ship once you’re under way. Any sign of a British presence and Kingpin could demand to be taken ashore. Like all Frenchmen, he’s a very proud man.’

  ‘So the crew’s going to have to brush up on their American accents,’ said Jewall.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. We’ve been told Kingpin doesn’t speak English. Just make the sub look like a Yank one, that’s all.’

  ‘Pin-ups,’ both officers said together.

  Hawkes grinned. ‘You have my permission to put pin-ups wherever you like.’

  ‘If he doesn’t speak English, how the hell are we going to communicate with him, sir?’ Jewall asked.

  ‘Colonel Meredith is also going with you,’ said Hawkes. He slid Jewall’s sealed orders across the table to him. ‘It’s all in there. Thank you, Jack, you can go. Jumbo, wait one, will you?’

  What now? Pountney wondered.

  ‘I want you and your two offsiders to return in the Catalina with Kingpin,’ Hawkes said after the door had closed behind Jewall. ‘One reason is he has to be guarded night and day.’

  ‘And the other reason?’ Pountney queried.

  ‘General Clark has personally requested that the SBS should help mount an operation that is an important part in the invasion. Overall it’s an American show, of course, but frankly the Yanks don’t have the know-how for the particular job they want done. It’s one for volunteers, of course. But I take it none of you would have any objection?’

  Pountney grinned. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Good. You’ll be fully briefed when you return with Kingpin. Jack has in his orders what you are to do. Good luck.’

  Jewall was waiting for Pountney on deck. ‘What the hell was that all about?’

  ‘Barney didn’t really say,’ Pountney replied. ‘But it sounds like it’ll be fun.’

  They strolled back to the Seraph together and Pountney and the other two SBS officers spent the rest of the day checking their folbots and equipment, and preparing for the four-day voyage. The Americans came aboard at dusk and the submarine sailed shortly afterwards. Pountney thought the coxswain had rather overdone his orders to fix pin-ups to any available space in the wardroom, but it certainly made the tiny cubicle more cheerful.