by Alan Evans
Orphans of the Storm
Alan Evans
© Alan Evans 1990
Alan Evans has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1990 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One – The Man and the Woman
Chapter Two – The Orphans
Chapter Three – “Enough rope to hang them!”
Chapter Four – The Enigma Run
Chapter Five – Murder
Chapter Six – The Storm Breaks
Chapter Seven – “Montevideo — here we come!”
Chapter Eight – Raider!
Chapter Nine – “Enemy in sight!”
Chapter Ten – The River
Chapter Eleven – “Who would think to find us here?”
Chapter Twelve – The Command
Chapter Thirteen – The Hunt
Chapter Fourteen – Night Attack
Chapter Fifteen – Turkey Shoot
Chapter Sixteen – HMS Mary Ellen
Chapter Seventeen – “No medals for the Mary Ellen!”
Acknowledgments
Chapter One – The Man and the Woman
On that night in March 1939 Sarah stood naked and held her breath in her room in the house in Berlin, the nightgown trailing from one hand. She watched the turning of the door handle as it was twisted by the man outside. Robert Hurst fought for his life in the darkness of a Valparaiso alley. The usually elegant and poised, but now bedraggled Hannah Fitzsimmons was dragged from her cell in a Spanish prison, on her way to a firing-squad. Jake Tyler prayed, two thousand feet above Massachusetts, as the torn and crippled biplane shook under his hands, one wing sagging. Véronique Duclos, in the firelit dusk outside of Paris, held the wailing child in her arms, lit by the flames that closed around them.
*
Captain David Cochrane Smith stood at the back of the crowded bridge of the destroyer Saracen. Anxiety made him restless but there was no room to pace so he shifted from one foot to another. The night was dark, the sea oily under low clouds that shed rain to whip across the open bridge. Saracen’s captain, Lieutenant-Commander Julian Gates, perched in his tall chair right forward by the screen, was swathed in oilskins like the rest of the bridge staff. Smith was the odd man out in the shabby, stained trenchcoat and the slouch hat pulled down over his eyes. One side of the coat hung heavily under the weight of the Colt automatic pistol in its pocket. In the darkness he was featureless but the light of day would show pale blue eyes in a thin, brown face, fair hair shading into grey at the temples.
The Spanish coast lay some ten miles to port. Spain was in the last throes of a bloody civil war but the fighting was now far to the north. That yellow glow against the sky came from the distant lights of Malaga. Saracen showed no lights and there were none astern of her but — Gates growled the question, “Where is Brandenburg now?”
A look-out answered from the starboard wing of the bridge, “Still astern of us, sir, by a mile, maybe two.” Brandenburg was a German cruiser and this was Smith’s first sighting of her. She usually sailed in company with the Graf Spee, which the Germans called a Panzerschiff and was sometimes known to the rest of the world as a pocket battleship. That was a deceptively innocuous term, suggesting that Graf Spee was something of a toy warship, a fake. She was not. It meant that she was a small battleship. Bigger than any cruiser, fast and heavily armed, she could be a killer, a wolf of the seas. Now she was flagship of the force ostensibly stationed in these waters to protect the rights of German shipping — but in fact to assist Franco, the Spanish Fascist general who was winning the civil war, when that was possible. Saracen had sighted Brandenburg on a converging course at dusk. She had followed them ever since.
Gates turned his head to peer at Smith across the darkened bridge, “Might be a coincidence, sir, but it looks as though she’s trailing us. Bloody nuisance, anyway.”
Smith said softly, “We don’t want an audience.”
Gates nodded, “Think I’ll test her by altering course out to sea. Can always circle back.” He faced forward and ordered, “Starboard twenty.”
Smith leaned, balancing as Saracen heeled in the turn, then he straightened as she came back onto an even keel and headed away from the coast. He was a lone figure in the crowd. They were all a part of this ship and he was not. He had not commanded a King’s ship since 1918 when he had ostensibly retired from the Navy. He envied Gates, who with his crew was preparing for a war, because Gates had command.
Smith had done his duty secretly, working in Intelligence, and paid for it in obscurity. He looked back on it with pride but there were also regrets. There was the wife who had left him, now only a memory, and the child she had taken with her, that he had scarcely seen. They were lost to him. But a ship? Surely if — when — war came then Admiralty would acknowledge his services, grant his request and give him a ship?
Gates broke in on his thoughts: “We’ve slipped her. I’ll give her a few minutes to get out of our way and then take you in, sir.”
Smith nodded, “Thank you.”
The staff on the bridge wondered at that ‘sir’ and the deference Gates showed towards the shabby civilian. But Gates remembered Smith and his record in the war of 1914-18. That had been spectacular. But soon after the war ended Smith had left the Navy and dropped out of sight. There were those who had said Smith would never have gained Flag Rank, anyway, was even unfit to command. That he was insubordinate, took matters into his own hands and only survived through luck. Gates thought Smith would need all his luck tonight.
*
On Brandenburg’s bridge Oberleutnant zur See Kurt Larsen used his handkerchief to clean rain from the lenses of his binoculars then set them to his eyes again. He was just short of six feet tall, heavy-shouldered but narrow in the waist, around which was belted a holstered Luger Parabellum pistol. He swept the night horizon slowly, steadily, with the powerful glasses. Then he lowered them to report, “We’ve lost her, Herr Kapitän. She’s turned out to sea.”
Gustav Moehle grunted acknowledgment and spoke around the cold cigar gripped between his teeth, “Good. Go down and join your men. Herr Fritsch?”
“I am ready.” Fritsch was not navy but Gestapo. He was thin, his face seeming drawn to a point at the end of his long nose. He wore the grey-green field uniform of the SS and he also had a Luger on his belt. He exuded confidence as he followed Larsen from the bridge.
*
Aboard Saracen the look-out reported, “Ship bearing red three oh, sir! Two miles. I can just see her against the lights.” Those were the lights of Malaga to the south. “I think she’s Brandenburg again, sir.”
Gates clapped his own binoculars to his eyes, swore softly then lowered them again. “That’s her.” He spoke over his shoulder, “She’s lying off where we were to put you ashore, sir. We can’t land you right under her nose.”
Smith answered crisply, “Then I’ll go in further north. Now.”
Gates swivelled in his chair, “But I thought you were to be met—”
“I will be.” Paco had been given a fall-back rendezvous in case Spanish soldiers or naval patrols made the first unusable. If Smith did not land at that first on time then Paco would go to the fall-back.
Saracen altered course again, sliding through the black night a mile to seaward of Brandenburg. They lost sight of the German cruiser when she was no longer silhouetted against the lights of Malaga. When Saracen’s engines stopped, she slowed then r
olled in the swell. She was south of Brandenburg, between her and Malaga but well to seaward, so not set up against the glow from the lights of the city.
A launch carried Smith in, cruising only slowly with its engine throttled back to a rumble inaudible more than a few hundred yards away, and showing little bow wave or wake. They passed within a mile of Brandenburg but her look-outs could not see the launch bucking through the swell and hidden under the sluicing rain. It ran off Smith’s trenchcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat.
His thoughts turned to the room in the fortress of Gibraltar. He had sat there only three nights ago and the senior of the two neatly-suited men who had flown from London had told him, “An American woman — Hannah Fitzsimmons, a war correspondent — has been arrested by Franco’s men on a charge of espionage. We think she had smelt a rat and was making a run for Gibraltar, but they picked her up at Malaga and are holding her there. We want you to get her out but there isn’t much time. They will move her north very soon and then she will be out of reach. She’ll be tried and shot.”
Smith nodded acceptance of that; executions were commonplace in this war. He had asked, “An American woman? Why us?”
A shrug: “We’re helping them out. A favour, for future favours. Hands across the sea and all that. We thought you might have the means, the organisation and the men.”
Smith had, for spiriting British nationals out of Spain and observing the activities of the Germans and Italians fighting for Franco. He said, ‘They’re not exactly an army.”
“How many can you muster?”
“I have one with me.” That was Paco, who was invaluable. He was fluent in English while Smith knew only a few words in Spanish. He said, “I can lay my hands on another three for this job.” They were a long way north but he could fetch them back.
The two exchanged glances. The younger chewed his lip and the senior frowned his disappointment. He started, “It would seem impossible—”
But Smith was already thinking ahead and broke in on him: “All right. We’ll do it.”
Within the hour he had sent a coded telegram to Cartagena and was aboard a fishing-boat out of Gibraltar with Paco. They transferred to a Spanish boat off Malaga, ostensibly as smugglers, who were aided and abetted by fishermen. When Smith returned to Gibraltar two days later, it was to report: “They’re moving her tonight.” That was all he knew. He had no details of the route or the exact time, but even that scrap of information had cost him a thumping bribe.
He wondered now, blinking against the rain as the launch drove in towards the dark shore, if that bribe would prove to be money wasted. He was gambling that the woman would not be moved until late in the evening. And that the soldiers would take her by the coast road to Motril before turning inland to Granada — and the north? Maybe only as far as Granada. They’d had executions there, shooting them behind the Alhambra and outside the city. Was he too late? In the wrong place? In either case Hannah Fitzsimmons would die. He would soon know.
And he only had this slim chance of saving her because her captors had planned her move in advance. Why?
The launch ran into the surf and grounded. He stepped forward into the bow and dropped over into the sea that soaked him to the knees then to his waist as a wave lifted the launch, shoved it into him and he staggered. The young seaman standing in the surf and holding the bow, grabbed at Smith’s arm, steadying. He asked, “Isn’t somebody waiting for you, sir?” The shore was dark, deserted.
Smith answered, “Almost always.” Diego Garcia had waded ashore on a night like this but the Guardias had been waiting for him. They fired at point blank range and he was hit a dozen times yet he lived in agony for another hour before he died on the beach.
Smith laughed and waded towards the shore. The seaman gaped after him then muttered, “Mad bastard.” He shoved the launch clear and hauled himself in over the bow.
Shingle crunched under Smith’s boots then he was moving in near silence as he crossed soft sand. He looked back once and saw the launch had turned, was now only a blur in the darkness and soon would be lost. He faced forward. There ahead of him lay the shadow of undergrowth and the lift of the shore towards the road. A voice called from the darkness, “Señor!”
Smith recognised it and answered, “Paco!”
The gipsy stepped out of the shadows. His dark face was almost hidden by the wide brim of his hat and a blanket was pinned around his shoulders against the rain. He said shortly, “We had to come here. There are other men on the road.” He jerked his head, indicating the north. “You saw them?”
Smith nodded and asked, “Where are the others?”
Another jerk of the head. “Emilio and Felipe wait on the road. Manolo has not yet come from Malaga; it is early yet.”
“Not too early.” Smith shoved through the scrub and leaned into the slope as he climbed up to the road, Paco at his shoulder.
*
In Malaga the motor cycle stood on the corner of a side-street in the shadow of the cathedral. It was an Italian machine, a Moto Guzzi, almost new but deliberately battered and grimed to give it the anonymity of hard usage. Manolo, careless of the rain, small and bandy-legged as a jockey, stood astride it.
When the big car turned into the broad avenue running past the end of his side-street he straightened, watched it approach then pass in a spurt of spray. He knew the car and in the light from the street-lamps he glimpsed the passenger in the rear seat, wedged between the two Guardias.
He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, kicked the Moto Guzzi into life, eased it out into the avenue and then accelerated. Within a few seconds he was sliding past the car, confirming the identity of the passenger with a quick, sideways glance, then roaring ahead, out onto the coast road. There the darkness was total, his headlight dipped so it only lit the rain-splashed road for twenty yards ahead, but he had driven the road a dozen times to learn every turn, rut and pothole, and kept up his speed.
*
Fritsch stood to one side, hands on hips, as the men in Kurt Larsen’s party wrestled the road-block into position. It was no more than a short spar some fifteen feet long resting in trestles set on either side of the road. They had brought it ashore with them in the boat from Brandenburg.
The road here was a grey ribbon in the night, straight and low-lying with only a gentle climb up from the shore. But it rose to the left and the south where a wooded cape poked out from the hillside. The road curled into the trees there and under the overhanging cliff then was lost to sight. Kurt was uneasy, lacking Fritsch’s confidence. He ordered his dozen men to spread along the edge of the road on either side of the block.
Fritsch put in, “Be ready to put a light on that barrier when we hear the car.”
Kurt answered shortly, “I’ve given the order. The man is ready.”
Fritsch glanced at his watch. “Any minute now.”
“How do you know?”
“That is not your concern.” Fritsch had been given the time of the car’s departure almost two days ago. His source of information was higher than that purchased by Smith. When he saw Kurt Larsen take his Luger pistol from its holster and check the load, Fritsch said, “You won’t need that.”
“The guards may resist—”
Fritsch broke in, “It will be sufficient for your men to show their arms.” He was smiling. You’re too bloody clever by half, Kurt thought. He put away the pistol but left the holster handily unclipped. Then he lifted his head to peer southward down the road, to the wooded cape. The car would come from there.
*
Smith thought the German sailors on the road stared straight at him. He crouched among the trees on the cape, Paco at his side, and looked down on the men from Brandenburg preparing their ambush. It was a good place; Smith had planned to lay his own trap there. Paco said, “They are on the same business.”
Smith nodded agreement then worked back into the trees, rose to his feet and hurried back across the cape. Questions plagued him: Was it possible the p
arty from Brandenburg was after the same prisoner? Why? Or were they laying for another prize? He thrust them aside because they had nothing to do with his task. That was clear enough.
The road on this side of the cape ran higher above the sea than the Germans’ stretch and was cut into the hillside. Emilio crouched among bushes on its seaward edge, immobile as a rock, on guard. Opposite him Felipe was at work on the hillside, carrying out the orders Smith had given earlier: “One charge there, another there. Fire both when the car is past the first.” Those were the only instructions Felipe needed. Before civil war tore Spain apart he had been a shot-firer in a mine. He had taught something of his craft to Smith. Now Felipe had set the first charge and was working on the second. The rain had become a deluge, sluicing off the hill and drumming on the scrub, bouncing as vapour from the road.
Smith lifted his voice above the din to ask, “Paco! Where are the horses? You have one for Manolo?”
“One for him and a spare one in case any goes lame. They are back down the road towards Malaga, a minute’s easy walking.”
Smith said, “I’ll take the woman. You and the others go for the horses — noisily.”
Paco nodded. “We’ll draw the Germans off.”
Smith dug inside his sodden trenchcoat, pulled out a flat package and put it into Paco’s hands. “There is the money. Get away across country and leave the horses before you reach Granada. I will contact you again in the north but it may be some time.”
“All that is understood.” Paco tucked the package away under his blanket then reached out to grip Smith’s arms: “Go with God!”
It was then that they heard the motor cycle. The mutter came from the south, the direction of Malaga. It rose to a snarl but was still muted by the roar of the storm. Then the machine slithered around the last slimy bend and ran down on them. The front wheel cast spray on either side like a bow wave and the rear kicked back a plume of mud.
Paco stood out on the verge of the road with his arm outstretched and the filthy, battered Moto Guzzi skidded to a halt with the back wheel snaking on the slime. Manolo put down his booted feet and the engine died, the dipped headlight faded out. In the silence he called to Smith, “They’re about two minutes behind me.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “No more than that.”