Cold Harbour (2 page)

“So?”

“You speak the language fluently, I understand, or so
your Naval intelligence service tells me and your French is quite reasonable.”

Hare frowned. “What are you trying to say? Are you trying to recruit me as a spy or something?”

“Not at all,” Munro told him. “You see, you’re really quite unique, Commander. It’s not just that you speak fluent German. It’s the fact that you’re a naval officer with a vast experience in torpedo boats who also speaks fluent German that makes you interesting.”

“I think you’d better explain.”

“All right.” Munro sat down. “You served on PT boats with Squadron Two in the Solomons, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is classified, but I can tell you that at the urgent request of the Office of Strategic Services your men are to be transferred to the English Channel to land and pick up agents on the French coast.”

“And you want me for that?” Hare said in amazement. “You’re crazy. I’m all washed up. Christ, they want me to take a medical discharge.”

“Hear me out,” Munro said. “In the English Channel, British MTB’s have had a very rough time with their German counterparts.”

“What the Germans call a
Schnellboot.
” Hare said. “A fast boat. An apt title.”

“Yes. Well, for some contrary reason we call them E-boats. As you say, they’re fast, too damn fast. We’ve been trying to get hold of one ever since the war started and I’m happy to say we finally succeeded last month.”

“You’re kidding,” Hare said in astonishment.

“I think you’ll find I never do, Commander,” Munro told him. “One of the S.80 series. Had some engine problem on a night patrol off the Devon coast. When one of our
destroyers turned up at dawn, the crew abandoned ship. Naturally, her captain primed a charge before leaving to blow the bottom out of her. Unfortunately for him, it failed to explode. Interrogation of his radio operator indicated that their final message to their base at Cherbourg was that they were sinking her, which means we have their boat and the Kriegsmarine don’t know.” He smiled. “You see the point?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Commander Hare, there is in Cornwall a tiny fishing port called Cold Harbour. No more than two or three dozen cottages and a manor house. It’s in a defence area so the inhabitants have long since moved out. My department uses it for, shall we say, special purposes. I operate a couple of planes from there, German planes. A Stork and a Ju88S night fighter. They still carry Luftwaffe insignia and the man who flies them, gallant RAF pilot though he is, wears Luftwaffe uniform.”

“And you want to do the same thing with this E-boat?” Hare said.

“Exactly, which is where you come in. After all, a Kriegsmarine boat needs a Kriegsmarine crew.”

“Which is contrary to the rules of war enough to put the same crew in front of a firing squad if caught,” Hare pointed out.

“I know. War, as your General Sherman once said, is hell.” Munro stood up, rubbing his hands. “God, the possibilities are limitless. I should tell you, and this again is classified, that all German military and naval intelligence traffic is encoded on Enigma machines, a gadget the Germans are convinced is absolutely foolproof. Unfortunately for them we have a project called Ultra which has succeeded in penetrating the system. Think of the information
that would give you from the Kriegsmarine. Recognition signals, codes of the day for entry into ports.”

“Crazy,” Hare said. “You’d need a crew.”

“The S.80 usually carries a complement of sixteen. My friends at the Admiralty think you could manage with ten, including yourself. As it’s a joint venture, both our people and yours are searching out the right personnel. I’ve already got you the perfect engineer. A Jewish German refugee who worked at the Daimler-Benz factory. They manufacture the engines for all E-boats.”

There was a long pause. Hare turned and looked out across the garden to the city. It was quite dark now and he shivered, for no accountable reason remembering Tulugu. When he reached for a cigarette, his hand shook and he turned and extended it to Munro.

“Look at that and you know why? Because I’m scared.”

“So was I in the belly of that damned bomber flying over,” Munro said. “I’ll be just as bad when we fly back tonight though this time it’s a Flying Fortress. I understand they have a little more room.”

“No,” Hare said hoarsely. “I won’t do it.”

“Oh, but you will, Commander,” Munro said. “And shall I tell you why? Because there’s nothing else you can do. You certainly can’t go back to Harvard. Back to the classroom after all you’ve been through? I’ll tell you something about yourself because we’re both in the same boat. We’re men who’ve spent most of our lives living in the head. Other men’s stories. All in the book and then the war came and do you know what, my friend? You’ve enjoyed every golden moment.”

“You go to hell,” Martin Hare told him.

“Very probably.”

“What if I say no?”

“Oh, dear.” Munro extracted the letter from his inside pocket. “I think you’ll recognise the signature at the bottom there as being that of the Commander-in-Chief of the American Armed Forces.”

Hare looked at it in stupefaction. “Good God!”

“Yes, well he’d like a word before we go. What you might call a command performance so be a good lad and get into your uniform. We haven’t got much time.”

AT THE WHITE
House, the limousine stopped at the West Basement entrance where Munro showed his pass to the Secret Service agents on the night shift. There was a pause while an aide was sent for. He appeared after a few moments, a young naval lieutenant in impeccable uniform.

“Brigadier,” he said to Munro, turned to Hare and saluted him as only an Annapolis man could. “It’s a great honour to meet you, sir.”

Hare acknowledged the salute, faintly embarrassed.

The boy said, “Follow me, gentlemen. The President’s waiting.”

THE OVAL OFFICE
was shadowed, the lamp on the desk which was littered with papers the only light. President Roosevelt was in his wheelchair at the window staring out, a cigarette in his usual long holder glowing in the darkness.

He swivelled round in the chair. “There you are, Brigadier.”

“Mr. President.”

“And this is Lieutenant Commander Hare?” He held out his hand. “You’re a credit to your country, sir. As your
President, I thank you. That Tulugu business was quite something.”

“Better men than me died sinking that destroyer, Mr. President.”

“I know, son.” Roosevelt held Hare’s hand in both of his. “Better men than you or me are dying every day, but we just have to press on and do our best.” He reached for a fresh cigarette and put it in his holder. “The Brigadier’s filled you in on this Cold Harbour business? You like the sound of it?”

Hare glanced at Munro, hesitated, then said, “An interesting proposition, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt tilted back his head and laughed. “A neat way of putting it.” He wheeled himself to the desk and turned. “To wear the enemy uniform is totally against the terms of the Geneva Convention, you understand that?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt stared up at the ceiling. “Correct me if I get my history wrong, Brigadier, but isn’t it a fact that during the Napoleonic Wars, ships of the British Navy occasionally attacked under the French flag?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. President, and usually when sailing French ships taken as prizes of war and recommissioned into the British Navy.”

“So, there is precedence for this type of action as a legitimate
ruse de guerre
?” Roosevelt observed.

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

Hare said, “It’s a point worth making that in all such actions, it was customary for the British to hoist their own flag just before battle commenced.”

“I like that.” Roosevelt nodded. “That, I understand. If a man must die, it should be under his own flag.” He looked up at Hare. “A direct order from your Commander-in-Chief.
You will at all times carry the Stars and Stripes on this E-boat of yours and if the day ever dawns that you find yourself sailing into battle, you will hoist it in place of the Kriegsmarine ensign. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt held out his hand again. “Good. I can only wish you Godspeed.”

They both shook hands with him and, as if by magic, the young lieutenant appeared from the shadows and ushered them out.

As the limousine turned down Constitution Avenue, Hare said, “A remarkable man.”

“The understatement of the year,” Munro said. “What he and Churchill have achieved between them is amazing.” He sighed. “I wonder how long it will be before the books are written proving how unimportant they really were.”

“Second-rate academics out to make a reputation?” Hare said. “Just like us?”

“Exactly.” Munro looked out at the lighted streets. “I’m going to miss this town. You’re in for a culture shock when we reach London. Not only the blackout, but the Luftwaffe is trying night bombing again.”

Hare leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, not tired but aware of a sudden fierce exhilaration. It was as if he’d been asleep for a long time and was awake again.

THE FLYING FORTRESS
was brand new and on its way to join the American 8th Air Force in Britain. The crew made Munro and Hare as comfortable as possible with Army blankets and pillows and a couple of Thermos flasks. Hare opened one as they crossed the New England coast and moved out to sea.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks.” Munro positioned a pillow behind his head and pulled up a blanket. “I’m a tea man myself.”

“Well, it takes all kinds,” Hare said.

He sipped some of the scalding coffee and Munro grunted. “I knew there was something. I forgot to tell you that in view of the peculiar circumstances, your Navy has decided to promote you.”

“To full Commander?” Hare said in astonishment.

“No, to Fregattenkapitän actually,” Munro told him, hitched the blanket over his shoulders and went to sleep.

As Craig Osbourne reached the edge of St. Maurice, there was a volley of rifle fire and rooks in the beech trees outside the village church lifted into the air in a dark cloud, calling to each other angrily. He was driving a Kubelwagen, the German Army’s equivalent of the jeep, a general purpose vehicle that would go anywhere. He parked it by the lych-gate that gave entrance to the cemetery and got out, immaculate in the grey field uniform of a Standartenführer in the Waffen-SS.

It was raining softly and he took a greatcoat of black leather from the rear seat, slipped it over his shoulders and went forward to where a gendarme stood watching events in the square. There were a handful of villagers down there, no more than that, an SS firing squad and two prisoners waiting hopelessly, hands manacled behind their backs. A third lay face down on the cobbles by the wall. As Osbourne watched, an elderly officer appeared, wearing a
long greatcoat with the silver grey lapel facings affected by officers of general rank in the SS. He took a pistol from his holster, leaned down and shot the man on the ground in the back of the head.

“General Dietrich, I suppose?” Osbourne asked in perfect French.

The gendarme, who had not noticed approach, answered automatically. “Yes, he likes to finish them off himself, that one.” He half turned, became aware of the uniform and jumped to attention. “Excuse me, Colonel, I meant no offence.”

“None taken. We are, after all, fellow countrymen.” Craig raised his left sleeve and the gendarme saw at once that he wore the cuff title of the French Charlemagne Brigade of the Waffen-SS. “Have a cigarette.”

He held out a silver case. The gendarme took one. Whatever his private thoughts concerning a countryman serving the enemy, he kept them to himself, face blank.

“This happens often?” Osbourne asked, giving him a light. The gendarme hesitated and Osbourne nodded encouragingly. “Go on, man, speak your mind. You may not approve of me, but we’re both Frenchmen.”

It surfaced then, the anger, the frustration. “Two or three times a week and in other places. A butcher, this one.”

One of the two men waiting was positioned against the wall; there was a shouted command, another volley. “And he denies them the last rites. You see that, Colonel? No priest and yet when it’s all over, he comes up here like a good Catholic to confess to Father Paul and then has a hearty lunch in the café across the square.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Osbourne told him.

He turned away and walked back towards the church. The gendarme watched him go, wondering, then turned to
observe events in the square as Dietrich went forward again, pistol in hand.

Craig Osbourne went up the path through the graveyard, opened the great oak door of the church and went inside. It was dark in there, a little light filtering down through ancient windows of stained glass. There was a smell of incense, candles flickering by the altar. As Osbourne approached, the door of the sacristy opened and an old white-haired priest emerged. He wore an alb, a violet stole over his shoulder. He paused, surprise on his face.

“May I help you?”

“Perhaps. Back in the sacristy, Father.”