Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  A sick feeling swept through Walsh. Six had raided the spot already, they were always one step ahead of him and now it seemed the precious contents of his secret hoard had been lost forever. Walsh told himself not to panic, he stretched further into the recess and his fingertips brushed against something coarse. The rough Hessian material was within his grasp. He had merely pushed it further back than intended. He exhaled in relief.

  Walsh was at full stretch and the toilet bowl wobbled alarmingly under his weight. Walsh’s arms ached as he stretched further into the recess but his trailing fingers finally gained a grip and he pulled the sack free of its hiding place.

  With the door closed tightly behind him, the walk-in-larder was ideal for his purpose. Walsh lit the oil lamp, opened the bag and carefully removed its contents one piece at a time. The first item was wrapped in an old towel and he gently removed the dead weight from its folds. Walsh held the gun up to eye level. He surveyed the dull metal of the Luger for any evidence of deterioration during its long spell in the outhouse. The butt and breech showed no outwards sign of rust. Walsh was thankful he had cleaned and oiled the weapon so thoroughly before putting it away. He’d removed the pistol from a dead officer at Dunkirk. Now he dismantled the Luger, examined each working part and, satisfied with its condition, reassembled the gun, wrapped the towel round it once more and placed the weapon in a khaki holdall. Then he checked the two boxes of 9mm Parabellum ammunition and packed these in tightly next to it.

  Walsh picked up a heavy brass knuckle-duster and weighed it in his hand. He slipped it on over his fingers and gripped it tightly, flexing his arm. It too went into the holdall.

  Finally, he examined the last item, a little brass box, with the image of an obviously regal woman embossed on it in profile. An ornate border ran round the lid of the box, containing the national flags and names of Britain’s glorious allies in conflict; France, Belgium, Russia, Montenegro, Serbia and of course Japan. Underneath the face of the monarch, the words ‘Christmas 1914’ were stamped across a partially obscured image of a dreadnought with large ominous-looking guns, ready for action.

  Uncle John’s little brass box had come back from the Western Front, though he himself did not. The sergeant’s pitifully early demise at the age of 22 during the Battle of the Somme was a permanent reminder to Walsh of the soldier’s odds. The tin had originally contained sweets and cigarettes; a Christmas box from Queen Mary to each of her gallant lads in the trenches. Upon the death of his father, Walsh was bequeathed the box and precious little else, aside from funeral expenses and a handful of debts too petty to avoid the paying. It was dear to Walsh and he always kept it safe.

  He opened the hinged lid and removed its contents. The false papers were still there, in good condition, and had even benefited from months folded away in the outhouse. They seemed more authentic for the ageing. Walsh had used the papers before and, when asked for their return, surprised himself by instinctively claiming they were lost. His superiors may well have doubted this story at the time but took their suspicions no further. The risk was worth it for the extra insurance the papers provided. Walsh kept them in reserve, in case Clavelle’s documents ever failed him. He slipped the papers into the holdall.

  The box also contained a small wood-handled lock knife. Walsh pressed the release at the base of the knife and the blade was freed. He pressed his fingertip against its point and, reassured by the knife’s sharpness, dropped it into the holdall.

  There was a final item in the little brass box. Walsh gently removed a tiny black felt jeweller’s bag and untied the drawstring, inverting it so the contents dropped on to the larder shelf. At that moment the flame beside him flickered. Four perfect cut diamonds of some value winked back at him in the lamplight.

  20

  ‘A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.’

  Jean de La Fontaine

  The neighbours wouldn’t thank him and nor would Mary once she was woken by the din but it was the only way to be sure of losing the watchers who had tracked him through the daylight hours. Her mood would not be softened when she read the letter he had left her. He would be leaving before sunrise to return to Arisaig, he had written, and thought it was best this way as he never liked goodbyes. He wondered if that would infuriate her or if she would simply take it all in her stride and whether the thought of either of those possibilities should have bothered him more than they did.

  Walsh pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the motorbike and he wheeled it out of the back gate then climbed on. He couldn’t see anyone and strongly doubted that Six would have someone watching his house all night. Their surveillance was meant to be a warning not a twenty-four examination of his every movement but he wanted to be free of them nonetheless so this was the best way.

  The Norton’s engine roared into life, causing a dog to bark in protest but he was off and away down the road before anyone in his street could stir.

  Gubbins had never seen Harry Walsh off on a mission before; that was a duty usually left to Buckmaster, and on occasion Vera Atkins. If Walsh was particularly unfortunate he would fly out on a night when Price wanted to be seen getting his hands dirty. Most often though, Walsh was left to see himself off and that was much the way he preferred it.

  There had been no more word from Vera about the CD wanting a word with him, so he was surprised to find Gubbins sitting in the back of the Humber as it pulled up hours later to collect him by the side of the road. The pick-up point had been prearranged. Gubbins’ presence in the car had not.

  Walsh handed the keys to the motorbike over to a youthful looking army corporal and ordered him to ‘treat it with respect’.

  ‘You don’t mind me coming along, Walsh,’ said Gubbins. It didn’t sound like a question.

  Walsh climbed into the Humber. From the corner of his eye he watched as his precious Norton was ridden away in the opposite direction.

  The car made its way north and for most of the journey, which covered a little over thirty miles, they travelled in silence then Gubbins suddenly said, ‘Buy you a scotch before you go lad,’ and he leaned forward to communicate with his driver.

  The Humber deposited them at a tiny country pub, the driver waiting in the car outside. There were a handful of fellow drinkers but none paid any attention to Gubbins or Walsh. The place was cosy enough, with large oak beams and a well-tended coal fire that burned brightly, lending the pub the rustic charm of a Christmas card.

  Gubbins sipped his scotch thoughtfully. ‘I expect you have been wondering why I chose you for this operation, Walsh?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind, sir.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t as a matter of fact,’ he said, before admitting, ‘I am afraid I have not been entirely frank with you.’

  Here we go, thought Walsh, another senior officer selling me down the river. It was hardly unexpected but the discreet conversation in the pub, with its atmosphere of the confessional, was a new development.

  Gubbins continued, ‘When our source told us the Komet would be tested in Normandy we knew this might be our only chance to get to Gaerte. Senior men are well protected so we needed help. We contacted the local Maquis leader, codename Stendhal, to enlist his support for an as yet unspecified operation, in return for weapons and training. If his men can be knocked into shape we think they might just be up to the job.’

  Walsh listened patiently. He knew all of this already. There had been much discussion on the role the maquisard would take during the team’s briefings. The enigmatic Stendhal was unknown to Walsh but the origin of his code name was not. Stendhal had named himself after the author; a man before his time, a revered French writer and inveterate womaniser. But soldiers were not meant to be readers of books. Better for Walsh if he kept his knowledge of such things to himself. Reading had been one of the few pastimes permitted at his bleak and oppressive school, the one bit of learning they didn’t h
ave to beat into him. What impressed him most about Mary when they first met was that she had read more books than he had. Until he realised that was all she did.

  ‘Stendhal’s group has no radio,’ Gubbins continued, ‘communication is slow and difficult. A man must be sent for miles across country to a wireless operator in another area. Word from Stendhal is rare, always to the point and we don’t take it lightly. When we requested help with the mission, he sent us the following reply. “Assistance agreed on one condition. The man you send is Harry Walsh, none but Harry. Only Harry will do.”’

  Gubbins surveyed Walsh for any sign of recognition. ‘The next day I came to find you. I assume this is something of a surprise?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Walsh had never heard of Stendhal before, his group was one of many that had come together in the hills. Walsh knew nothing about their leader. Obviously, Stendhal knew him, however, either by sight or reputation. Walsh had carried out a fair number of missions in France by now, so who knew when and where their paths had crossed?

  ‘So, you don’t know the man?’

  ‘Not by that name, no.’

  ‘Does this change things?’

  They both knew what Gubbins meant. He feared Walsh might pull out of the operation at the eleventh hour, for there was an obvious possibility in the named request for Walsh. The Maquis leader could be a work of fiction, created by the Germans to trap a specific agent. It would not be the first time an SOE man had fallen straight into the hands of the enemy.

  ‘Possibly,’ admitted Walsh and Gubbins looked concerned. As well he might, thought Walsh, since it was clear the CD hadn’t told Walsh about Stendhal till the last possible moment and clearly hoped Walsh would press on regardless before letting everyone down. ‘I might keep the cyanide in my hand instead of my pocket.’

  Gubbins gave him a grim smile, ‘Good man. Have another scotch, Walsh, then we’ll get you on your way.’

  They had two more whiskies in the end ‘to keep out the chill’ as Gubbins put it, then they got back into the car and drove the last few miles to the safe house where Walsh would be reunited with Sam Cooper and Christophe Valvert. The three men would spend their final hours in a commandeered mansion before boarding the plane for Normandy.

  ‘By the by, Walsh,’ said Gubbins as Walsh was about to climb from the vehicle, ‘Menzies mentioned you the other day, by name.’ That was all Walsh needed; a profile high enough for the head of the British Secret Service to personally know of him. ‘“Your man Walsh” he kept calling you, as in “your man Walsh had an altercation with one of my watchers the other day”. C seemed to think you might have broken the fellow’s arm.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘I told C that his watcher should have minded his own damn business. Follow a chap down a dark alley these days without announcing yourself and you are likely to get hurt. Big boy’s rules in our game, right, Walsh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The American greeted Walsh at the door of the rambling old Georgian mansion that had been taken over for the duration of the war. Cooper folded his arms and frowned, ‘Where in hell have you been?’

  ‘You sound suspiciously like my wife,’ said Walsh. ‘I’ve been looking up some old friends and avoiding some new ones.’ Then he asked, ‘How was Beaulieu?’

  ‘Very informative,’ answered Valvert, ‘Sam learned how to fight dirty, just like an Englishman.’

  ‘Everyone knows Englishmen only ever fight fair,’ said Walsh.

  ‘So, what happens now, Harry?’ asked Sam.

  ‘We get a couple of hours’ rest. Later we do the equipment check, then it’s the US air force canteen for a meal before we go.’

  ‘A last supper?’ asked Valvert.

  ‘After eating what passes for food at Beaulieu, I can’t wait,’ said Cooper.

  ‘A woman was here before, Harry,’ said the Frenchman, ‘she was looking for you.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A Miss Atkins,’ and Walsh had to hide his disappointment.

  ‘Vera?’ First Walsh gets the one-to-one treatment from Gubbins, next Buckmaster sends his personal assistant to see him safely on the plane. This mission was attracting a lot of attention. Hardly the low-key start Walsh had hoped for. ‘She is here to give you the once-over, gentlemen, make sure you don’t set off with your ration book in a pocket or a picture of a WAAF in your wallet. It happens, you’d be surprised.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me about people and war,’ said Valvert.

  They followed Harry up several flights of stairs to a loft converted into a temporary barrack, its beds lined up in neat rows either side of the room. ‘Looks like we are the only ones here tonight. Should make it easier to get some sleep.’ Walsh chose a bed at the end of the room, farthest from the door.

  As he lay down, Valvert said, ‘You can sleep? I don’t know how.’

  ‘I’ve learned to eat when there’s food and sleep when there’s time. You’ll do it too if you have any sense. You never know when you will get another opportunity.’

  ‘Then I will try,’ assented Valvert.

  Walsh lay down and closed his eyes. When Valvert had mentioned a woman was looking for him he had instantly thought of Emma Stirling. It was an instinctive yet idiotic notion. Emma did not even know he was on this mission but the thought of her had produced a surge of hope in him. In truth, by now, Emma Stirling had surely tired of his marital status and outmoded sense of honour, and that was as it should be. So why, if he wanted Emma out of his life, had told her as much, did he feel exhilaration at the mere thought of her presence on the base? Because he was a sentimental idiot that’s why, acting like a lovelorn schoolboy. Emma was probably out that very night with some chinless wonder from the RAF, a thought that failed to lighten his spirits. Walsh reminded himself he had more pressing concerns than a young girl right now – like survival.

  21

  ‘Courage, above all things, is the first quality of a warrior.’

  Carl von Clausewitz

  Vera was waiting for them on the air base. Their kit was laid out on trestle tables and they went through it methodically. Some of the equipment had been carefully assembled by Elder Wills’ men at the Thatched Barn and transported there a day earlier. All of it would be thrown from the plane on its second pass over the drop zone. The civilian clothes were there too, folded and ready, magically altered to make it appear as if they’d been worn for years. An onlooker would assume their wives had ‘made do and mended’, as befitting a nation under occupation.

  Valvert checked and rechecked the radio that would be his sole responsibility in France. Next he turned his attention to his side arm. The weapon was small and light with a .32 calibre round.

  ‘What are you doing with that toy?’ asked Cooper as he checked his own Browning Automatic. Cooper preferred the superior stopping power of its .45 calibre ammunition; that and the reassurance of a thirteen-round magazine.

  ‘It’s not a toy,’ answered Valvert, weighing the gun in his outstretched palm, ‘it’s a deadly weapon. Also it is small, discreet and easy to hide. Remember that when you are banging away with your cannon as the Germans close in around you.’

  Judging by the look that crossed the American’s face, Cooper was disconcerted at the notion of Germans getting that close to him without his choosing. Walsh stowed his own side arm, the Luger, along with the rest of the contents of his holdall, including a small bag containing the false papers and the four cut diamonds, into a kit bag that would stay with him during the jump.

  ‘What is it with you and that Kraut weapon, Harry?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘A lucky charm. I got out of trouble with this once and kept it. Plus a Luger confuses people over there.’

  ‘I imagine it would,’ said Valvert, ‘some of the Milice carry them.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Cooper, ‘French collaborators in Vichy.�
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  ‘They were consigned to Vichy France to begin with but moving into occupied territory too now,’ explained Walsh, ‘all the better to help their German paymasters to destroy the resistance by infiltrating it.’

  ‘Don’t they usually wear a uniform? I’d have thought everyone would know who they were.’

  ‘A blue coat, a brown shirt, appropriately enough, and a nice little blue beret,’ answered Walsh, ‘but you can’t always see them coming down the street. They work undercover too, far more effectively than the Germans. They know the terrain, the language, every nuance of the world they inhabit. People are tortured and murdered by them; sometimes they simply disappear.’

  ‘Or are handed over to their friends in the Gestapo,’ added Valvert.

  ‘Nice guys,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Traitors, I’d shoot all of them,’ said Valvert vehemently.

  ‘I’ll never understand it. What kind of man would rather fight for the enemy than against them?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘The same sort that joined the Nazi party in the early days,’ it was Vera Atkins, previously a silent onlooker, who had joined the discussion, ‘frustrated minor government officials seeking advancement, former military men with a hatred of communism. They would rather see Hitler in Paris than a communist French leader. Some of them even come from the right of the Catholic Church.’

  ‘The church?’ Cooper was disbelieving.

  ‘In Europe the church has always been in politics,’ said Vera.