Cold Harbour (10 page)

“What time, sir?” Carter asked.

“About eleven-thirty from Croydon, in deference to the Major’s previous appointment.”

Craig said, “What would that be then?”

“It seems someone recommended you for a Military Cross, dear boy, for that last little caper you pulled for SOE before you joined your own people. It’s usual for His Majesty to pin these things on himself, so you’re expected at the investiture at Buckingham Palace, ten o’clock sharp in the morning.”

“Oh, my God!” Craig groaned.

“I’ll say goodnight then.” They turned to the door and Munro added, “Just one thing, Craig.”

“Sir?”

“The uniform, dear boy. Do try to do something with it.”

They moved out on to the landing. Jack Carter said, “The door’s open and you’ll find everything you need, Miss Trevaunce. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He went down the stairs ahead of them and they followed to the ground floor. They paused outside the door to his flat.

Genevieve said, “The basement for you. That sounds rough.”

“Very nice actually. I’ve stayed before.”

“Buckingham Palace. I’m impressed.”

“No big deal. I’ll be one of many.” He turned away and paused. “It’s usual to take a couple of guests to these things. I won’t have anyone. I was wondering . . . ?”

She smiled. “I’ve never seen the King close up and I suppose it would be on the way to Croydon.”

“No point in just sitting in the car waiting,” he said.

She ran a finger down his tunic. “Tell you what. You go and change, then let me have it. I’m sure I can put it in order with a sponge and iron.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and hurried down to the basement.

She went into the flat, closed the door and leaned against it, no longer smiling. She couldn’t help liking Craig Osbourne, it was as simple as that, and where was the harm? A little warmth against the dark. Anything to blot out the memory of her sister’s ravaged face.

IT WAS RAINING
heavily, St. James’s Park shrouded in mist as the limousine turned up Pall Mall towards Buckingham Palace. Dougal Munro and Genevieve sat in the rear seat. Having no hat, in deference to custom she’d found an old black velvet beret amongst the things in her case and wore that, a black belted raincoat and her last pair of decent stockings.

“I don’t feel very dressed up,” she said nervously.

“Nonsense, you look marvellous,” Munro assured her.

Craig Osbourne sat on the jump seat opposite, his forage cap tilted at the regulation angle. She’d really done an excellent job on the olive drab battledress. His slacks were tucked into polished jump boots and instead of a tie, he wore a white scarf at his throat, an affectation of some OSS officers and men.

“He looks well, our boy, does he not?” Munro said cheerfully.

“I’m glad you think so. Personally, I feel terrible,” Craig
said as they rounded the Victoria monument, paused at the main gate of the palace to be checked and were passed through to the courtyard.

There was quite a crowd pushing towards the main doors of the palace, uniforms from all the services, most of the civilians obviously being wives or relatives. Everyone was hurrying to get out of the rain.

It was anything but a solemn occasion. A sense of expectancy on most faces, an edge of excitement as they mounted the stairs to the picture gallery where rows of chairs waited for the party to be seated by court officials. The band at the other end playing light music was from the RAF.

That feeling of expectancy was heightened now, and then the band started to play “God Save the King.” A moment later, King George and Queen Elizabeth entered and everyone rose. The royal couple seated themselves on the raised dais. Everyone sat down.

Decorations were called out in ascending order. Craig Osbourne was astonished at how nervous he was feeling. He listened to the names being called, one after the other, took a deep breath to steady himself and was aware of Genevieve’s gloved hand sliding over his. He turned in surprise, she smiled encouragingly. On the other side of her, Munro smiled too and then the usher called his name.

“Major Craig Osbourne, Office of Strategic Services.”

And suddenly Craig found himself up there on the dais, the King smiling as he pinned the silver cross with the white purple ribbon to his uniform and the Queen was smiling too.

“We’re very grateful, Major.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He turned and moved away as the next name was called.

AT THE BOTTOM
of the steps it was still raining. People were taking photos, smiling, happy. There was a general air of jollity.

Genevieve said to Craig as they walked to the car, “What did he say?”

“He just said he was grateful.”

“You looked marvellous.” She put a hand up and adjusted his scarf in a slightly proprietorial way. “Didn’t you think so, Brigadier?”

“Oh, indeed I did. Very handsome,” Munro said sourly.

As they reached the car, Genevieve looked back at the crowd. “They’re all so happy. You’d never know there was a war on.”

“Well there is,” Munro said opening the door, “so let’s get moving.”

Croydon was thick with mist and a heavy rain was falling. There was plenty of activity for it was used as a fighter station in the defence of London, but nothing seemed to be landing or taking off as Genevieve peered out of the window of the rather cheerless Nissen hut they’d been taken to on arrival. The Lysander, a squat, ugly high-wing monoplane was standing outside, a couple of RAF mechanics working on her.

René was sitting by the stove drinking tea and Munro moved across to Genevieve as rain spattered against the window. “Damn weather.”

“Doesn’t look good, does it?” she said.

“Mind you, those things can fly in anything.” He nodded out at the Lysander. “Originally designed to carry a pilot and two passengers, but they can manage you four with a squeeze.”

René brought her tea in an enamel mug. She wrapped her hands around it for warmth as the door opened and Craig came in with their pilot. He was quite young with a fair moustache, dressed in RAF blue, flying jacket and boots. He had a map case in one hand which he dropped on the table.

“Flight Lieutenant Grant,” Craig said to Genevieve.

The young man smiled and took her hand. Munro said testily, “Are we going to be delayed, Grant?”

“It’s not the weather here that’s the problem, Brigadier. We can take off in pea soup as long as it’s clear up above. It’s landing, and visibility is limited at the Cold Harbour end of things. They’ll let us know as soon as there is a change.”

“Damn!” Munro said and he opened the door and went out.

“His liver must be acting up this morning,” Grant said and went to the stove and poured himself a mug of tea.

Craig said to Genevieve, “It’s Grant who’ll be flying you across on Thursday night. You’re in good hands. He’s done that kind of thing before.”

“Piece of cake really as long as one observes the formalities.” He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, but didn’t bother lighting it. “Flown before, have you?” he asked Genevieve.

“Yes, to Paris before the war.”

“Bit different, old girl, believe me.”

“Actually we could go over Thursday night’s timetable,” Craig said. “Fill in the time while we’re waiting. You’ve already got a flight plan worked out, haven’t you?” he said to Flight Lieutenant Grant.

“That’s right,” Grant said. “We take off at eleven-thirty from Cold Harbour. Estimated time of arrival, two o’clock
our time. I’ll explain how it goes.” He opened the map and they moved in as he traced a pencil across the Channel from Cornwall to Brittany.

“Major Osbourne will be coming with us for the ride. Not much room in these things, but they’re good little kites. Never let you down.”

“What’s your altitude on the Channel crossing?” Craig asked.

“Well, some people like to go in low—try and keep under their radar, but I favour going in around eight thousand all the way. That keeps us well below any bomber formations, which is what those Jerry nightfighters tend to be looking for.”

He was so calm, so terribly offhand about it all, and Genevieve realised that she was shaking a little.

“We’ll be landing in a field about fifteen miles from St. Maurice. They’ll have a flare path ready for us. Pretty crude. Cycle lamps, but good enough if the weather holds. Recognition code, Sugar Nan in morse. If we don’t get that, we don’t land, flare path or no flare path. Agreed?”

He had turned to Craig who nodded. “You’re the boss.”

“We’ve lost two Lysanders and a Liberator in the past six weeks because pilots landed and Jerry was waiting. Our experience is that as their aim is to get their hands on everybody intact, they don’t start firing until a plane tries to take off again. Our latest instructions are to do the turnround as fast as possible. I’m not bringing anyone back, so the moment I land I’ll taxi to the end of the field, you get Miss Trevaunce out fast and we’ll get straight off again, just in case.” He folded the map. “Sorry and all that, but one never really can be sure who’s waiting out there in the dark.”

He went to the stove and poured himself a tea and Craig said to Genevieve, “The chap who’ll be waiting to take you
in charge—Grand Pierre is his code name—is English. He’s never actually met Anne-Marie. They’ve only spoken on the phone. He knows nothing about what happened, so to him you are who you appear to be.”

“And the station master at St. Maurice?”

“Henri Dubois. The same goes for him, too. Only René and the two men with him when he found her know what happened, and they’re a couple of mountain boys, way back in the hills by now. Grand Pierre will deliver you to Dubois before dawn. He’s holding Anne-Marie’s suitcases. You’ll have plenty of time to change while René checks out the car. The night train from Paris arrives at seven-thirty. It will still be dark at this time of year. Three-minute stop, then it moves on. Nobody in the village will think it strange, even if they don’t actually see you get off the train. It’s a hotbed of the Resistance movement in that area.”

He had spoken without looking once at her directly, apparently very calm and yet a muscle twitched in his right cheek.

“Hey,” she said and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to worry about me?”

Before he could reply, the door was flung open and Munro roared in. “I’ve seen the Station Commander,” he told Grant. “He’s given us permission to leave now. If we can’t land when we get there we’ll just have to come back. You have enough fuel, haven’t you?”

“Of course, sir,” Grant told him.

“Then we’re off.”

Everything seemed to be happening at once and Genevieve found herself running through the rain to the Lysander. Craig bundled her up into the rear of the cabin and he and René crowded in beside her. Munro followed, taking the observer’s seat behind Grant. She was so busy strapping
herself in that she was hardly aware of what happened after that, simply the deepening engine note and the sudden lurch as they lifted off.

IT WAS A
bad trip, noisy and confusing, the roar of the engine making it difficult to conduct any kind of conversation. Outside there was slate grey rain dashing against the Perspex hood. The whole aircraft seemed to shake constantly and every so often they dropped alarmingly in an air pocket.

After a while, she was humiliatingly sick, although they’d provided a bag for that kind of emergency. René followed her soon after which was some kind of comfort. She must have dozed off, for she became aware of a hand shaking her and realised that her legs were covered with a blanket.

Craig had a Thermos in one hand. “Coffee? Good American coffee?”

She was very cold and her legs seemed to have lost all feeling. “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes if everything goes all right.”

She took her time over the coffee. It was just what she needed, hot and strong and very sweet and, from the flavour, there was something stronger in it. When she was finished she returned the cup and Craig refilled it for René.

Grant had the radio speaker on. She heard a crackling and then a voice say: “Lysander Sugar Nan Tare. Ceiling six hundred. Should give you no problem.”

Munro turned and said cheerfully, “All right, my dear?”

“Fine.”

She was lying because suddenly she was shaking like a leaf as they were going down; and then there was a sudden roaring as the Lysander rocked violently in the slipstream of a great blackbird that came out of the cloud
from nowhere, passing so close that she could see the swastika on its tailplane.

“Bang, bang, you’re dead, old boy!” A voice crackled over the loudspeaker and the Junkers vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Grant turned with a frown, “Sorry about that. Joe Edge even more crazed than usual.”

“Stupid young idiot,” Munro said and then they broke through the mist and cloud at six hundred feet before Genevieve could ask what it was all about. Below was the Cornish coast, the inlet of Cold Harbour, the cottages scattered alongside, the E-boat at the quay. The Ju88 was already skimming across the Abbey with its lake and dropping down on the grass runway with the windsock at one end.