Night Sky (35 page)

Smithe-Webb shook his head. ‘A bit early for me.’

Ashley nodded. ‘I’ll order you a tea then – I think that’s all we’ve got.’ He opened the door and shouted down the deck. He came back in and smiled. ‘For myself, I’m going to have a large one of these. One of the few perks of the job. The fishermen with whom we, shall we say,
trade
, they give us this stuff. And magic it is too!’

A minute later one of the crew brought the tea, which was dark brown and very sweet and had obviously been brewing for some time. Smithe-Webb gritted his teeth and took a sip. The tea was ghastly and he grimaced. Ashley was talking to the sailor about the repair work and didn’t see.

Smithe-Webb took the opportunity to take a look at the lieutenant. He reckoned the chap was somewhere in his late twenties, though he looked older, probably because of the tiredness. He was average-looking: of medium height, unremarkable features and, Smithe-Webb guessed, with a tendency to put on weight. But the blue eyes were extraordinary; you noticed them straight away. Another unusual thing was the way the man talked. His face was immensely alive and – what was the word? – magnetic. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

The sailor was asking a couple of questions. Like the rest of the crew he was fairly unkempt and Smithe-Webb noticed he had a strong foreign accent.

When the sailor had gone the major asked, ‘Your crew, are they – RN?’

Ashley laughed. ‘Most of them! The rest could be loosely described as on loan. Free French, ex-fishermen and very fine lads they are too.’

Ashley sat down, the brandy glass at his elbow, and lit a cigarette. ‘I must apologise again for my rudeness. Quite honestly, I forgot you were coming. They did tell me, but you know how it is …!’

‘Yes, I can imagine.’

‘In this kind of operation, you ignore half the rules – and the other half don’t apply. Orders never get written down … Besides which my memory is—’ he laughed, ‘– not of the best!’ Smithe-Webb felt sure it was perfectly adequate, but smiled nonetheless.

Ashley asked, ‘So how can I be of help?’

Smithe-Webb said, ‘Right. Perhaps I’d better tell you a bit about my department first. Basically, our job is to help our chaps to get out of Occupied Europe. Immediately after Dunkirk most of our customers were soldiers who got left behind after the evacuation. Quite a few made it back by getting help from the locals and making their way to neutral territory. Since then it’s been mainly airmen, though we still get quite a few soldiers and even the odd sailor. Obviously it’s pretty difficult for chaps to escape once the Germans have got them, but some do manage to get over the wire and our job is to try to make it easy for them once they’re out. Having said that, by far the greatest number of our customers are evaders – men who’ve been shot down or whatever and have managed to keep
out
of German hands. We encourage the locals to look after them and get them back to us safely. Obviously I can’t give you the details of how this is done …’

Ashley nodded. ‘No, of course.’

‘Our problem is that our present … er, methods … are under a lot of pressure, both from the Germans and from the sheer scale of the operations. The number of evading airmen is increasing and quite apart from not wanting to let our men fall into enemy hands, we
need
them. Those pilots are absolutely invaluable to the war effort. We have to get them back.’ Without thinking Smithe-Webb sipped at the mug of tea and immediately choked.

‘Bloody awful, isn’t it?’ Ashley smiled. ‘But try and persuade Leading Seaman Evans to make it any other way and there’d be a mutiny. Change your mind and have a brandy?’

Smithe-Webb raised his eyebrows. ‘No, really.’ Ashley poured himself another drink and Smithe-Webb wondered if the fellow always drank like this. He brought his mind back to the matter in hand. ‘So … we’re trying to open up more routes. There’s an idea under consideration which would involve your outfit. At this point we’re having a good look at the plan to see if it’s really on or not. And that’s where you come in …’

‘Yes, I’d heard something about it. Glad to help, of course. I’ve already picked up quite a few airmen. I never know when they’re coming, mind, they just get bundled aboard. But there’s never any problem.’

‘Yes, indeed. But this would be more organised, and the numbers much greater. Also … we weren’t thinking of the Bay … Rather, we were thinking of going straight across. To North Brittany.’

Ashley sat up. ‘Ah! I see!’

‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me what would be involved.’

Ashley frowned, but he was obviously excited by the idea. ‘Well of course the whole thing would have to be organised differently. It’d be no good using these boats, for a start. MGBs would be much better.’

‘Yes, that’s what your department suggested.’

‘We’re getting two, did you know that?’

The major nodded.

‘They’ll make a lot of difference to your sort of operation. We can go in at night, really fast, do the job and then be out again before anyone knows we were there. In fact, it has already been tried once or twice.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dropping off the odd person with their luggage, that kind of thing. Not your department, of course?’

Smithe-Webb shook his head. ‘No, one of the others. SOE, in all probability, sending in agents.’

‘The only real problem has been to get the passengers from the boat to the shore in one piece and not half-drowned. Even in a fairly sheltered spot the surf can be pretty rough. But that’s being looked at … Our chaps are trying to come up with a special surfboat.’ He paused. ‘But having said that, MGBs are definitely the answer. We could pick up ten, twenty, maybe even thirty men in a night.’

The major smiled. ‘That would be excellent. But what about the North Brittany coast? Your CO thought it might be difficult …?’

‘Oh, did he? Well, let’s have a look, shall we?’ He called out of the door. ‘Evans! Get over to
Spray
and fetch me some charts, would you? North Brittany and English Channel.’ He said to Smithe-Webb. ‘We only carry three charts on this boat and they’re French. Wouldn’t do to be caught with a set of best Admiralty charts, would it?’

Ashley was enjoying himself, Smithe-Webb could see. The signs of strain had gone from his face. The major found himself liking the chap. He was a straightforward sort of person, which Smithe-Webb always admired, and he had a sort of easy charm that made you warm to him. Just as long as he knew what he was doing. Smithe-Webb had the feeling he did.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Smithe-Webb softly. There were rocks everywhere. Unless he was reading it wrong the chart showed the coast to be completely impenetrable. Even the estuaries seemed littered with dangers. ‘Good Lord!’ he repeated.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Ashley said slowly. ‘Many of these rocks are covered except at dead low water. If one studies it carefully one can usually find a way through. Now, where roughly were you thinking of mounting your operation?’

Smithe-Webb put his finger on the coast north-east of Morlaix. ‘Somewhere around here if possible.’

‘Right, let’s look at the large-scale chart.’ He pulled out another chart and stared at it intently. ‘Yes, there are several spots that are possible from my point of view. But we have to find a place that’s good for your people too. Have they come up with any suggestions?’

‘Not yet. Communications are a bit difficult at the moment.’ Which meant he had no wireless operator there. Oh, that he had! It had taken long enough to persuade DDMI(P/W) that wireless operators were essential, then there’d been delays in finding volunteers and training them. After all, not everyone wanted to be a sitting duck for the Gestapo’s wireless detectors.

‘But you will be getting some local intelligence? On the siting of gun emplacements, and patrols and so on …?’

‘Oh yes, in due course.’

‘Right. Until then, let’s assume that the main headlands are to be avoided. That would give us this cove here, and this bay …’ He traced the coastline thoughtfully. ‘No, not this one. The cliff’s absolutely sheer at this point and there’s no path …’

Smithe-Webb looked up, astonished. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘I tried to climb it once!’

‘Good God!’ Smithe-Webb was impressed.

‘Here … this cove here …’ Ashley stabbed a finger at the chart. ‘This would be ideal. The approach is reasonably straightforward, there’d be no problem anchoring, and I can’t see the Germans having guns and sentries in the bay itself … Also there’s decent access to the beach from the cliff, or so it would appear. I’ve never been there myself so I couldn’t be sure.’

Smithe-Webb was staring in disbelief. It was too good to be true. The place was only a mile or two from Tregasnou. What a stroke of luck! But perhaps there were disadvantages he hadn’t spotted. He asked, ‘What do my people need to look for when they recce the place? What are the problems going to be?’

‘Well, we’ll only be able to operate on moonless nights so some sort of signalling arrangement will be essential – by shaded torch or whatever – so there really mustn’t be any Germans anywhere near by. It would be useful to know exactly how bad the surf gets too … You can never tell whether one spot’s going to be worse than another.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Also your people will have to be prepared for some long waits on the beach; we could never give a definite time of arrival. Some nights we might not be able to turn up at all. You know – weather or engine failure or whatever. They’d have to be prepared for that … have contingency plans to hide all the passengers again, and so on. Oh, and we couldn’t operate in high summer …’

‘What?’ Smithe-Webb frowned.

‘No, I’m afraid not. The nights in mid-summer just wouldn’t be long enough to get us over and back in time. From Dartmouth, where the MGBs will be based, it’s a hundred miles. That’s well over four hours even in a fast boat. Allowing one to two hours for approach and pickup and four hours back, that’s ten hours – call it twelve. We could probably operate as late as April with a bit of luck. In winter there’s more bad weather, of course, but at least you can slow down and take it easy and know you have plenty of darkness to hide under.’

Ashley looked up at Smithe-Webb and smiled cheerfully. ‘It’s August now. By the time the thing is set up we’ll be into autumn. So we’ll have at least six months. We could get an awful lot of airmen out in that time! All it needs is reasonably good communications and some efficient organisation at your end.’

Smithe-Webb stared back at the chart and wished he could smile as cheerfully. Organisation was the one thing he couldn’t guarantee. He hadn’t mentioned that, and didn’t intend to. No point in getting a sour note into the proceedings.

Richard Ashley said, ‘The pick-up must be fast and well thought out – on both sides – otherwise …’

Smithe-Webb nodded. He had the message loud and clear. If there was a muck-up then everyone would get caught.

‘… But I’m sure your people will be first class. The Bretons usually are.’

‘They’re good people,’ Smithe-Webb agreed. He wasn’t sure he could say the same for the Free French officer who was meant to be organising the line. Smithe-Webb hadn’t liked the chap at all. But no point in fretting about it; they’d been forced to use him. The Free French had to be humoured and that was all there was to it. But, Smithe-Webb thought sadly, it was not the same as choosing your own man, not the same at all.

But on this side of the operation he might be able to get the man he wanted. He asked Ashley, ‘Do you think you might be able to do the job yourself? You used to be on MGBs, didn’t you? It would be tremendous from our point of view.’

Ashley stroked his chin. ‘I was on torpedo boats actually, not gun boats. But … well, I
am
rather tempted. They say the new boats can do 30 knots. Very useful for getting out of trouble!’ He smiled. ‘Yes, I’d love to give it a go.’

He shot a glance at Smithe-Webb, and said mischievously, ‘We could fix it between us. If you tell the Admiralty that you need me and then I volunteer, they can’t refuse, can they?’ Suddenly he laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and Smithe-Webb had the feeling that few people refused Richard Ashley anything.

Smithe-Webb found himself smiling too. His feeling of optimism returned. If these MGBs could get there and back, then they were halfway there.

Ashley watched the launch heading back towards the jetty and wondered if he should have gone into the problems in more detail.

He walked slowly along the deck. God, he felt tired. He sat on the hatch coaming, and lighting a cigarette, inhaled deeply.

He tried to think, but the tiredness was clouding his brain. Or perhaps his mind was addled by the cigarettes and the brandy. Just as likely.

Problems … There’d certainly be a few. He’d made it sound easy and it wasn’t. He should have told the major about the navigation problems: the tricky tides and the lack of navigation aids. He should have admitted that it would be bloody difficult to find the right place at all.

Then there was the weather: he should have spelt out the problems in more detail. Even in fairly rough conditions they might have to cancel operations; in gales they most certainly would.

Damn. He should have made the whole thing plainer.

Still … they should be able to get across pretty often. A lot depended on the efficiency of the organisation on the other side, of course. The major had been a little evasive about that …

Perhaps the escape line was brand new, or badly run or perhaps it was a complete shambles. Yes, there was always that possibility, though he’d be surprised. The Bretons were a cool, determined, closely-knit people. He’d be surprised if they mucked things up.

Well, whatever the situation, he’d give it a go. It was a marvellous challenge.

Besides, he had been on the Bay run for over nine months now and it was getting to him. Pretending to be a fishing boat was too much like sitting waiting to be a target at the Germans’ convenience. The boat had an engine, to be sure – but it produced only six knots. As much good as a wound-up elastic band. And then there was the small problem about being captured when disguised as a French fisherman. According to the powers-that-be all you had to do was to pop a Royal Navy Issue cap on your head, show your papers, and you’d be treated as a prisoner of war. Ashley wasn’t so sure: he had the feeling the Germans would politely ignore the caps and line you up against a wall for target practice.