Those in Peril (7 page)

They'd been eleven when they'd first met at the Royal Naval College at Osborne. Same entry, same age, same passion for the sea – a lot in common in those days. At thirteen they'd gone on to Dartmouth together – four years of rigorous discipline intended to bring about their eventual metamorphosis into naval officers: intensive instruction, exams, strenuous exercise, sailing up and down the Dart – the two of them cox and crew in the same dinghy, both revelling in their seamanship. They'd done their stint in the college training ship
Vindictive
together and passed out together, rising from midshipman to sub lieutenant as they continued their training at Greenwich and Portsmouth and Chatham and at sea, and then, finally, to full-blown lieutenant with their two stripes so arduously won and so proudly worn.

After that their paths had diverged. They had served on different ships in the Great War and in different theatres. He had been so confident then of the future – of rising, in time, to the top of the Service – until his own life had changed course suddenly and radically when his ship had engaged in action with a German cruiser. He'd been in one of the gun turrets when an enemy shell had scored a hit, wounding him badly in the arm and chest. The exploding shell had also started a major fire close by and he'd managed to stop it spreading and get the damn thing put out before he'd collapsed. Unfortunately, the effect on himself had been longer-lasting. The ship's surgeon had saved his arm but the damage done had put him in hospital for a long time. Infection, complications, setbacks, more operations on his arm, another on alung . . . months of convalescence.

They'd let him stay on in the Navy – courtesy of strings pulled by his father – even given him a medal for doing what he had only considered to be his duty in action, but, meanwhile, others had passed him by and the high-flying career that might have been – that he had always strived for and counted on – was virtually finished. He'd instructed at shore training establishments for a while, been given another promotion, and then, eventually, sidelined, like a shunted engine, into a desk job at the Admiralty. He had schooled himself to accept the fact, to make the best of things, and, for the most part, he had succeeded. The outbreak of another war, though, had brought him face to face with the painful truth that he had no real active part to play in it. At forty-six, he could still have served his country in some useful capacity – something rather better, he knew, than moving papers from an in-tray to an out-tray.

‘How've things been with you, Alan?'

‘Fine, thanks.'

‘Admiralty keeping you busy?'

‘Pretty much.'

‘They've put me in dry dock too, you know. Not what I wanted, as you can imagine, but there's not much one can do about it. I'd've given my eye teeth for another command in this war but it doesn't look like there's any chance of it. Still, one can make oneself useful. As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to have a chat with you about, but it can wait till after we've had some lunch. The menu's not what it was these days, I'm afraid, but I suppose we mustn't grumble.'

It was not unlike the sort of food they used to eat at Osborne and Dartmouth: cottage pie and steamed chocolate pudding with custard. They talked of those far-off days – as they usually did. He was never quite sure whether he saw them through rose-coloured spectacles, but he certainly remembered them as happy days when the future had seemed so full of promise and bound eternally to the sea.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
. He still sailed, of course. Not a tall ship but a small one that he kept at Maldon in Essex. At the time of Dunkirk he'd moved heaven and earth to take her across himself and help bring back the troops from the beaches, but he'd been refused leave to do so. A bitter pill to swallow.

‘Haven't gone and got yourself spliced since we last met, Alan, have you?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘I recommend it – if you ever meet the right woman.'

‘Yes, I'm sure.' It was advice he had been given many times by many people and regularly by his older sister, but he'd never met anything like the right woman. During their time at Greenwich, Harry had owned a Morris 8tourer and whenever possible had roared off to parties in London. Sometimes he'd gone along too, but Harry had always been more at ease in female company than himself. And then the blow to his expected career had also dealt a resulting blow to his self-esteem, and he'd pretty much given up on the whole idea.

‘Still . . . there's something to be said for being footloose and fancy free. A lot of married chaps probably envy you. Are you still in Dolphin Square?'

‘Yes, still there.' The small flat suited him. There was a very pleasant view over the river, porters, a restaurant, tennis courts, a swimming pool. If the weather was fine, he sometimes walked to work for the exercise. It helped to keep him fit. And a private, inherited income ensured that there would never be any great money worries.

They returned to the leather chairs for coffee and a smoke, Harry leading him to a quiet corner of the room, away from other members. He wondered what precisely he wanted to have a chat about.

‘What are your views on France, Alan?'

He said, surprised, ‘France? Well, the same as most people's, I suppose. They're in a tight corner and they seem to be giving up.'

‘The word is that they'll only hold out for four or five more days.'

‘More than likely. Thank God we didn't let them have any more of our fighter squadrons over there. We're going to need every one of them ourselves.'

‘I'm afraid so. Once they've taken France, the Germans will be giving us their full and undivided attention.'

‘I almost look forward to it.'

‘Me, too. Still, it's going to be pretty tough. They have most of the advantages at the moment. Superior forces, armament, experience . . . they're on a winning streak. Apparently unstoppable.'

‘They'll find the Channel and the Navy will slow them up a bit. And they'd have to do something about the RAF.'

‘Very true. We do hold the odd card. Fortunately. The thing is, Alan, that one thing we don't have is good first-hand intelligence about the situation now in France. If the Germans are planning to invade us from there we need warning – where, when, how. At least seventy-two hours' warning, to be precise. That's what I've been told. The Prime Minister has given an order. We're to send agents over there and find out exactly what the Germans are up to, and get the information back as quickly as possible. It's vital. And there's another aspect. We know that France is going to fall and that the Germans will then have the use of all those excellent North Atlantic ports. We, and the RAF, are going to need to know as much as possible about German naval movements – especially about the U-boats.'

‘Surely the Secret Intelligence Service already has contacts over there?'

‘Unfortunately not. Nothing to speak of. Apparently things were allowed to run down badly after the end of the last war. There have been all kinds of problems – underfunding, betrayals, no new recruiting, bad security, not taking enough notice of what the Nazis were cooking up in the Thirties. The SIS gave no warning of German preparations to invade Poland, you know. Incredible! And they had some ludicrous gentlemen's agreement with the
Service de Renseignements
not to conduct espionage in France. It means starting pretty much from scratch. Recruiting, training, briefing agents, finding ways to get them in and out of German occupied territory.'

He frowned. ‘It sounds quite a tall order.'

‘It is. That's rather where you come in, Alan. At least, I hope so.'

‘
Me?
I don't quite see . . .'

‘No, I didn't suppose you would.' Harry tapped the ash off his cigarette. ‘The point is, I've been roped in to help set things up as far as the seaborne landing attempts are concerned – to co-ordinate various departments and do a spot of recruiting myself to find chaps who I think could do a good job. I thought of you. I know that you can be trusted one hundred per cent. No question of that. You're a first-class sailor. You speak good French, if I remember correctly. And you know Brittany rather well, don't you?'

‘Reasonably.'

‘Your family always used to take summer holidays over there – right?'

‘Well, yes . . .' His parents had rented a Breton farmhouse for years and they'd cycled all over the peninsula, exploring. He'd made friends with two French brothers in the village, close to his own age who spoke no English and, in later years, he had gone back several times on his own to visit the family. ‘But, Christ, I haven't been there for a long time, Harry, and my French must be pretty rusty. I don't think I'm your man.'

Harry grinned. ‘I wasn't suggesting landing
you
in France, Alan. You'd stick out like a sore thumb. I want you to help me set up an organization down in Dartmouth and get things going. At the moment, we haven't got any naval high-speed craft with the range and speed to penetrate further south than Brest, which leaves submarines as a possibility. They'd be ideal for sneaking in and out but, as you can imagine, most of them are otherwise occupied at the moment. As luck would have it, though, events have been playing into our hands. Quite a number of Breton fishing vessels have been doing a bunk across the Channel – they've been turning up at Falmouth and their crews want to stay. It seems they don't think too much of the prospect of fishing for the Germans.'

‘I don't blame them.'

‘Nor I. And you see how handy they could be? We could use them. A genuine Breton trawler complete with a crew of genuine Breton fishermen, plus a hand-picked addition of ours, coming and going without suspicion.'

He said doubtfully, ‘The Germans aren't fools.'

‘Of course they aren't, but then neither are we. It needs very careful planning, of course. Attention to every detail, tight security, brave men. We have to try, Alan, or we'll be playing blind man's bluff, not knowing where the hell the Germans are going to strike or what they're playing at. We have to get agents on the ground. The RAF think they could make a parachute drop by night, or even land a plane, but they need time to experiment and practise – and time's something we don't have. The Admiralty resources are stretched to the limit and they can't spare us much help. It's got to be done on a shoestring at the moment. That's one reason why the Breton fishing boats are the answer to our prayers. So, what do you say? Will you join us?'

He could scarcely believe that he had been given this chance. ‘I'd be glad to, Harry. But are you sure I'm the right man? I've no Intelligence experience.'

‘Damn sure, or I shouldn't have asked you. Actually, asked is the wrong word. You've already been seconded. It's all fixed. You'll find a first-class rail ticket on your desk when you get back. The night train leaves at seven this evening so you'll just have time to pack some gear. We've requisitioned a house down there and there'll be some staff already in place. I'll fill you in on all the details.'

‘You knew I'd want to do it, in any case?'

‘Of course I did. By the way, there's another little piece of luck that's come our way. Some Frenchman has just turned up there in a small motor boat. He came over by himself, all the way from a place called Pont-Aven on the south coast of Brittany.'

‘It's an artists' colony – very picturesque.'

‘Well, this chap's an artist. Quite well known, apparently. I'm afraid I'm clueless about the modern ones. Don't care much for their stuff. We've checked him out, as far as we're able, and there's no reason to doubt he's who he says he is.'

‘Did he say why he left France?'

‘Same reason as the Breton fishermen – didn't fancy life under the Germans. Also, rather interestingly from our point of view, he offered his services. Said he wanted to do something to help. He didn't know what, though, and he's rather left that to us. It occurred to me that we might as well take up the offer. He's on the old side – fifty-three – but I don't think that's necessarily a disadvantage. Rather the contrary. Nobody over there in France is going to wonder why he wasn't called up. And, by all accounts, he's an educated, intelligent chap. See what you think of him.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Louis Duval. You'll find a file on him when you get there. And files on everything else we could think of.'

He nodded. ‘I'll get down to work straight away.'

‘Good show. As I said, Alan, there's no time to lose.'

The washing line was positioned out of sight on a piece of rough land below the garden. Barbara hung out towels and tablecloths and table napkins, the next peg gripped at the ready in her teeth. She left the sheets until last – folding them lengthways and pegging the open edges together in long loops to the line so that they caught the breeze and filled out like ships' sails. When the war had started she had dug up the rest of the patch for a vegetable plot, except for the far end which she had left for a chicken run. The hens were a motley band, bought as chicks from local farms, but they laid well. One of the very few things that Esme seemed to enjoy doing – perhaps the
only
thing – was collecting the eggs. There was never an argument or a sulk about that. The child would go off with the basket and come back with the warm eggs carefully stowed in it and, for once, without a scowl on her face.

When Barbara had finished hanging out the washing, she did some work in the vegetable patch. Unlike the hens who had been an unqualified success, the vegetables were hit and miss. Last year the potatoes and runner beans had been a hit. This year the early potato crop had got some sort of blight and half the bean plants had been eaten by slugs, but, on the other hand, the cabbages and the onions were looking healthy. She had sown three rows of spinach and it remained to be seen to which category they were going to belong.