Cold Harbour (4 page)

The E-boat seemed to glide to a halt, the engines only a murmur now. He floated there, sick at heart, looking up at the two Kreigsmarine ratings in sidecaps and peajackets who looked down at him. And then one of them threw a rope ladder over the rail.

“All right, my old son,” he said in ripest Cockney. “Let’s be having you.”

THEY HAD TO
help him over the rail and he crouched, vomiting a little on the deck. He looked up warily as the German sailor with the Cockney accent said cheerfully, “Major Osbourne, is it?”

“That’s right.”

The German leaned down. “You’re losing a lot of blood from the left arm. Better take a look at that for you, sir. I’m the sick berth attendant.”

Osbourne said, “What goes on here?”

“Not for me to say, sir. That’s the skipper’s department.
Fregattenkapitän Hare, sir. You’ll find him on the bridge.”

Craig Osbourne got to his feet wearily, fumbling at the straps of his lifejacket, taking it off, stumbling to the small ladder and went up. Then he went into the wheelhouse. There was a rating at the wheel, an Obersteuermann from his rank badges, Chief Helmsman. The man in the swivel chair at the small chart table wore a crumpled Kriegsmarine cap. It had a white top to it, usually an affectation of U-boat commanders, but common enough amongst E-boat captains who saw themselves as the elite of the Kriegsmarine. He wore an old white polo neck sweater under a reefer coat and turned to look at Osbourne, his face calm and expressionless.

“Major Osbourne,” he said in good American. “Glad to have you aboard. Excuse me for a moment. We need to get out of here.”

He turned to the coxswain and said in German, “All right, Langsdorff. Leave silencers on until we’re five miles out. Course two-one-oh. Speed, twenty-five knots until I say different.”

“Course two-one-oh, speed twenty-five knots, Herr Kapitän,” the coxswain replied and took the E-boat away with a surge of power.

“Hare,” Craig Osbourne said. “Professor Martin Hare.”

Hare took a cigarette from a tin of Benson & Hedges and offered him one. “You know me? Have we met?”

Osbourne took the cigarette, fingers trembling. “After Yale, I was a journalist. Worked for
Life
magazine amongst others. Paris, Berlin. I spent a lot of my youth in both of those places. My dad was State Department. A diplomat.”

“But when did we meet?”

“I came home for a vacation. That’s Boston, by the way. April, ’39. A friend told me about this series of lectures you were giving at Harvard. Supposedly on German Literature,
but very political, very anti-Nazi. I went to four of them.”

“Were you there for the riot?”

“When the American Bund tried to break things up? Oh, sure. I broke a knuckle on some ape’s jaw. You were quite something.” Osbourne shivered and the door opened and the Cockney appeared.

“What is it, Schmidt?” Hare asked in German.

Schmidt was holding a blanket. “I thought the Major might need this. I would also point out to the Herr Kapitän that he is wounded in the left arm and needs medical attention.”

“Then do your job, Schmidt,” Martin Hare told him. “Get on with it.”

SEATED ON THE
narrow chair at the tiny ward room table below, Osbourne watched as Schmidt expertly bandaged the wound. “A little morphine, guvnor, just to make things more comfortable.” He took an ampoule from his kit and jabbed it into Osbourne’s arm.

Craig said, “Who are you? No German, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, but I am in a manner of speaking, or at least my parents were. Jews who thought London might be more hospitable than Berlin. I was born in Whitechapel myself.”

Martin Hare said from the door in German, “Schmidt, you have a big mouth.”

Schmidt stood up and sprang to attention.
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän
.
”

“Go on, get out of here.”

“Zu befehl, Herr Kapitän
.
”

Schmidt grinned and went out taking his medical kit with him. Hare lit a cigarette. “This is a mixed crew. Americans and Brits, some Jews, but everyone speaks
fluent German and they have only one identity when they serve on this ship.”

“Our very own E-boat,” Osbourne said. “I’m impressed. The best kept secret I’ve come across in quite a while.”

“I should tell you that we play this game to the hilt. Normally, only German is spoken, only Kriegsmarine uniform worn, even back at base. It’s a question of staying in character. Of course the guys break the language rule sometimes. Schmidt is a good example.”

“And where’s base?”

“A little port called Cold Harbour near Lizard Point in Cornwall.”

“How far?”

“From here? A hundred miles. We’ll have you there by morning. We take our time on the way back. Our people warn us in advance of the Royal Navy MTB routes each night. We like to keep out of their way.”

“I should imagine you do. A confrontation would be most unfortunate. Whose operation is this?”

“It’s run officially by Section D of the SOE, but it’s a joint venture. You’re OSS, I hear?”

“That’s right.”

“A tricky way to make a living.”

“You can say that again.”

Hare grinned. “Let’s see if they’ve got sandwiches in the galley. You look as if you could do with some nourishment,” and he led the way out.

IT WAS JUST
before dawn when Osbourne went on deck. There was quite a sea running and spray stung his face. When he went up the ladder and entered the wheelhouse, he found Hare on his own, his face dark and brooding in
the compass light. Osbourne sat by the chart table and lit a cigarette.

“Can’t you sleep?” Hare said.

“The boat’s too much for me, but not for you, I think?”

“No, sir,” Hare told him. “I can’t remember when boats didn’t figure in my life. I was eight years old when my grandfather put me to sea in my first dinghy.”

“They tell me the English Channel’s special?”

“A hell of a lot different from the Solomons, I can tell you that.”

“That’s where you were before?”

Hare nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’d always heard torpedo boats were a young man’s sport,” Osbourne said, curious.

“Well, when you need someone with the right experience who can also pass as a German, you’ve got to take what you can get.” Hare laughed.

There was a faint grey light around them now, the sea calmer and land loomed before them.

“Lizard Point,” Hare said.

He was smiling again and Osbourne replied, “You like it, don’t you, all this?”

Hare shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“No, really like it. You wouldn’t want to go back to how it was before. Harvard, I mean.”

“Perhaps.” Hare was solemn. “Will any of us know what to do when it’s over? What about you?”

“Nothing to go back to. You see, I have a special problem,” Osbourne told him. “It would seem I have a talent for this. I killed a German General yesterday. In a church, just to show how much I lack the finer feelings. He was head of SS intelligence for the whole of Brittany. A butcher who deserved to die.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“I kill him so they take twenty hostages and shoot them. Death seems to follow at my heels if you know what I mean.”

Hare didn’t answer, simply reduced power and opened a window, allowing rain to drift in. They rounded a promontory and Osbourne saw an inlet in the bay beyond, a wooded valley above.

A small grey harbour nestled at the foot of it, and two dozen cottages around. There was an old manor house in the trees. Below, the crew had come out on deck.

“Cold Harbour, Major Osbourne,” Martin Hare told him and took the
Lili Marlene
in.

The crew busied themselves tying up and Hare and Osbourne went over the side and walked along the cobbled quay.

“The houses all look pretty much the same,” Craig observed.

“I know,” Hare told him. “The whole place was put together in one go by the lord of the manor, a Sir William Chevely, in the mid-eighteenth century. Cottages, harbour, the quay, everything. According to local legend, most of his money came from smuggling. He was known as Black Bill.”

“I see. He created this model fishing village as a front for other things?” Craig said.

“Exactly. This, by the way, is the pub. The boys use it as their mess.”

It was a low squat building with high gables, timber inserts and mullioned windows which gave it an Elizabethan look.

Craig said, “Nothing Georgian about that. Tudor, I’d say.”

“The cellars are medieval. There’s always been some sort of an inn on this site,” Hare said and clambered into a jeep which stood outside. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the manor.”

Craig looked up at the inn sign over the door. “The Hanged Man.”

“Rather appropriate,” Hare said as he started the engine. “Actually, it’s a new sign. The old one was falling apart and pretty revolting at that. Some poor sod swinging on the end of a rope, hands tied, tongue popping out.”

As they drove away Craig turned to look at the sign again. It depicted a young man hanging upside-down, suspended by his right ankle from a wooden gibbet. The face was calm, the head surrounded by some kind of halo.

“Did you know that’s a Tarot image?” he said.

“Oh, sure, the housekeeper at the manor arranged it, Madame Legrande. She’s into that kind of thing.”

“Legrande? Would that be Julie Legrande?” Craig asked.

“That’s right.” Hare glanced at him curiously. “Do you know her?”

“I knew her husband before the war. He lectured in Philosophy at the Sorbonne. Later he was mixed up with the Resistance in Paris. I came across them there in ’42. Helped them get out when the Gestapo were on their backs.”

“Well, she’s been here since the beginning of the project. Works for SOE.”

“And her husband, Henri?”

“From what I know, he died of a heart attack in London last year.”

“I see.”

They were passing the last of the cottages. Hare said, “This is a defence area. All civilians moved out. We use the cottages as billets. Besides my crew, we also have a few RAF mechanics to service the planes.”

“You have aircraft here? What for?”

“The usual purpose. To drop agents in or bring them out.”

“I thought Special Duties Squadron at Tempsford handled that?”

“They do or at least they handle the normal cases. Our operation is a little more unusual. I’ll show you. We’re just coming up to the field.”

The road curved through trees and on the other side was an enormous meadow with a grass runway. A prefabricated hangar stood at one end. Hare turned the jeep in through the gate, bumped across the grass and stopped. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“What do you think?”

A Fieseler Storch spotter plane taxied out of the hangar, the Luftwaffe insignia plain on its wings and fuselage and the two mechanics who followed it wore black Luftwaffe overalls. Behind, in the hangar there was a Ju88 nightfighter.

“My God,” Craig said softly.

“I told you things were a little unusual here.”

The pilot of the Stork clambered out, exchanged a word with the mechanics and came towards them. He wore flying boots, baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey as worn by Luftwaffe fighter pilots, very unusual, with large map pockets. The short
Fliegerbluse
gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilot’s badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it and the Luftwaffe National Emblem on the right.

“Everything but the bloody Knight’s Cross,” Osbourne observed.

“Yes, he is a bit of a fantasist, this lad,” Hare told him. “Also something of a psychopath if you want my opinion. Still, he did pull in two DFCs in the Battle of Britain.”

The pilot approached. He was about twenty-five, the hair beneath the cap straw blond, almost white. Although he seemed to smile frequently, there was a touch of cruelty to the mouth and the eyes were cold.

“Flight Lieutenant Joe Edge—Major Craig Osbourne, OSS.”

Edge smiled charmingly enough and held out his hand. “Brigandage a speciality, eh?”

Craig didn’t like him one little bit but tried not to show it. “You’ve got quite a set-up here.”

“Yes, well the Stork can land and take off anywhere. Better than the Lysander in my opinion.”

“Rather unusual camouflage, the Luftwaffe insignia.”

Edge laughed. “Useful on occasions. Had a weather problem the other month so I was running short of juice. I landed at the Luftwaffe Fighter base at Granville. Got them to refuel me. No problem.”

“We have these wonderful forged credentials from Himmler, countersigned by the Führer which indicate that we’re on special assignment for SS security. Nobody dares query that,” Hare said.

“They even gave me dinner in the mess,” Edge told Craig. “Of course, my dear old mum being a Kraut, it does mean I speak the lingo fluently which helps.” He turned to Hare. “Give me a lift up to the manor will you, old boy? I hear the boss might be coming down from London.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hare told him. “Hop in.”

Edge got in the back. As they drove away, Craig said, “Your mother? She’s over here, presumably?”

“Good God, yes. Widow. Lives in Hampstead. Greatest disappointment of her life was when Hitler didn’t manage to drive up the Mall to Buckingham Palace in 1940.”