Most Secret (20 page)

He said quickly: “I learned some French, one time up in Quebec.” He seemed keenly interested.

“That helps,” I said. “Does that sort of thing line up with what you want to do?”

“And how,” he said. “I got a bellyful of ocean boarding vessels.”

He said: “This means some close-up fighting with the Jerries, I suppose?”

I nodded. “It’s genuine Commando stuff. There is some risk in it—in fact, a lot of risk. There always is in this short-range fighting. It’ll be practically hand-to-hand. Essentially it’s a job for volunteers.”

“Well, I’m a volunteer for anything like that,” he said. “I guess that’s why you asked if I was married?”

“Yes,” I said dryly. “It’s as well to know.”

“Sure.” He thought for a moment. “Say, is that why you wanted to know all about the
Flammenwerfer
?”

This was a first interview. “That’s as it may be,” I replied. “Plenty of time to talk about that later on.”

“Okay,” he said. “I certainly would like to have a job like that.

I thought about it for a minute or two. I liked the man quite
well myself, but I wasn’t in the party. “I’m going to send you down to Dartmouth,” I said at last. “A little ship like this has got to be a happy ship; before you get this job you’ve got to meet the commanding officer, Captain Simon.” I told him how to get in touch with Simon at the port. “You’d better take the next train down.”

“Sure,” he said. “But I can work with anyone. I never get no personal trouble in a ship.”

That was confirmed in his record. There was one question I had forgotten to ask.

“You are a British-born subject, are you?” I enquired.

“Surely,” he replied. “I was born in Birkenhead.”

Colvin went down to Dartmouth on the evening train, and got to Kingswear in the middle of the night. He reported at the Naval Centre and they fixed him up with a bed. Next morning he reported back to the Naval Centre after breakfast, and there Simon went to find him.

McNeil had arranged the release of Simon from his coastal defence work some days before, and he had been putting in most of his time upon
Geneviève;
the shipyard were already working on the vessel. He had made two visits to the place at Honiton. On my part, after finishing with Colvin, I had spent the remainder of the afternoon telephoning other Admiralty departments and visiting the Second Sea Lord’s office, with the result that signals went off late that night releasing Boden and Rhodes for special duty.

Simon met Colvin in the Naval Centre, where these two unusual men took stock of each other. Nobody had thought to tell Colvin that Simon was half French. They walked together down to the ship, and as they went Simon was asking questions about the other’s navigational experience. What he heard satisfied him; Colvin, I think, was taciturn and wary.

They reached the quayside, and Simon indicated
Geneviève
. “There is the ship,” he said bluntly. “That is what you are to work in and to navigate, if you come with us in this thing.”

Colvin was startled. “What in hell kind of a ship is that?” he asked. “A fishing-boat?”

Simon said: “Certainly—a fishing-boat from Brittany. In that sort of a boat one can sail unquestioned anywhere upon the other side.”

The other looked her over, noting the high bow, the steep sheer and the sloping deck, the wide beam, and the sharp-raked transom. “Sure,” he said at last. He turned and smiled at
Simon. “Well, try everything once.”

He jumped down on the bulwark from the quay, and so to the deck. In one quick tour from bow to stern he took in everything, noting the heavy timbers of the vessel, and her powerful engine. Then he turned to Simon.

“Say,” he said quietly. “Nobody told me yet just what it is this ship is supposed to do.”

Simon said: “There is the cabin, what they call the cuddy in the shipyard here. Suppose we go down there.”

They went down there for an hour, the July sun streaming down upon them through the little skylight. “There is the matter,” Simon said at last. “That is the job that this ship has to do.”

“The oil-tanks, and that, go down into the fish-hold, I suppose?”

“That is the place for them,” the other said. “There is room there for everything, for all the oil we shall require. Only the gun itself, the flame-gun, will show up above the deck, and that we shall pile over with a net.”

He glanced at Colvin. “This is the way I want to fight the war, myself,” he said simply. “It may not be the way for you. If it is not your way, then you should say so now.”

Colvin said: “Sure it’s my way. The way I look at it”—he paused and sought for words—“if you’re going to have a fight there’s no good sticking to the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules, if you get my meaning. If the other chap’s out to hurt you, why then kick him in the belly and have done with it. That’s how I look at it. And this fire racket is as good a way of hurting Nazis as any that I know.”

Simon got up. “So—then we are agreed. It is a terrible weapon,” he said reflectively. And then he smiled. “Almost good enough for the Germans.”

They went up on deck. “A little can of beer?” he said politely to his navigator.

That afternoon Colvin met Boden, released that morning from his trawler. He met him in the ship. “They’re reckoning to put me into this as Master,” Colvin said, “as near as I can make it out. In that way you’d be working under me. But as I understand it, this was your idea right from the start.”

The other said: “Don’t worry about that. I’ve never had command.”

“What have you been doing in the Navy?”

“I’ve been in trawlers—about eighteen months.”

Colvin grunted; it was not a bad recommendation. An R.N.V.R. who could stand trawler life was obviously no pansy. “I reckon we’ll make out all right,” he said.

They talked about the ship for half an hour, going over every part of her in detail.

“This army chap, this Captain Simon,” Colvin said at last. “Where does he come from, and who is he? Is he French?”

Boden said: “He’s an Englishman by birth. He’s a pretty fine sort of chap, I think. He’s done at least one spying trip upon the other side.”

Colvin said: “It’s certainly a change from ocean boarding vessels.”

M
cNEIL was very busy in the next few days, and I was not idle myself. He got the flame equipment down to Kingswear in forty-eight hours from our meeting with the admiral, and installation started in the shipyard. I went down there to organise accommodation about that time. I saw the Naval Officer in Command, an elderly retired commander, much puzzled by the unorthodox and secret nature of the party that had been established on his doorstep, but willing to help in any way he could.

After a short talk with him, I decided to put the party up the river, at Dittisham, three miles above the town. It was a quiet, isolated country district for one thing; for another, there were a few empty houses there. I got a couple of modern villas standing side by side; one was already empty and we requisitioned the other at twenty-four hours’ notice. Messing had then to be arranged, and finally transport.

Sitting in N.O.I.C.’s office I came to this one. “Transport,” I said. “While they are out at Dittisham, say for two months, they’d better have a light ten-horse-power truck with a Wren driver. That should make them independent of your organisation.” I made a note. “I’ll get an extra driver and a truck appointed to you right away,” I said. “In the meantime, for the next few days, can you help them out?”

He said: “Of course. I’ve got an Austin van that they can have the use of. It’s usually pretty busy: we shall want another.”

The old commander played a typical old-stager’s trick over that van. Up at the Admiralty next day I thought it out and came to the conclusion that the lightest sort of truck might not do all they wanted in the way of transporting all the various stores and ammunition that they might require. I went one size larger, and sent them down a new, fifteen-horse-power truck with a very efficient young woman as a driver. This outfit was attached to N.O.I.C. for administration, of course; when the old commander saw it it appeared to him to be a gift from heaven. He put it straight on to his routine work, and attached the little old Austin van with Leading Wren Barbara Wright as driver to work for Captain Simon’s party.

Colvin knew all the details of the exchange within twenty minutes. He went to Simon in great indignation. “What d’you think?” he exclaimed. “That bohunk up there in the office went and pinched our truck! Commander Martin sent us down a dandy truck from London, a new one, bigger’n this. I just seen it in the garage. What say, we go and have a showdown with the old bastard?”

Simon said: “It is very wrong, and we are very much misused, but we will not make a quarrel over it. If we have too big loads for this one, or if this one breaks, then we will ask for our own truck again. But N.O.I.C. is helping us in many ways; we will now let him get away with this.”

Colvin grumbled. “I wouldn’t let him get away with it.”

Simon smiled. “Think of the junior officers, and do not spoil the fun. That other woman with the big truck, she has a face like a boot.”

They were on deck, with shipyard men all around them; the old truck stood on the quay. A gang of men were unloading cans of cooper’s grease and drums of tar from it. Rhodes, newly promoted to a lieutenant, was standing talking to the driver.

She said: “I put some cow parsley inside the gate last night, sir. Did you find it?”

He said: “Oh yes—it was frightfully good of you to bother. I gave him half last night, and the other half this morning.” He hesitated, and then said: “I was away at Honiton the day before yesterday, with Captain Simon. Somebody fed him while I was away. Was that you?”

She said: “I wasn’t sure if you were coming back that night, so I thought I’d better. Mrs. Harding isn’t allowed in there, is she?”

“No. It was very kind of you to think about him.”

She flushed a little, and said: “Oh, that’s all right. I let him out for a little run, but I was scared of him getting under that heap of depth charges, so I didn’t let him out for long.”

He was immensely grateful to her. He had been very worried on that trip to Honiton that they would not get back in time for him to take Geoffrey out for his daily constitutional, and now, it seemed, he need not have worried at all. Miss Wright, as a naval rating, had access to the net defence store at any time, and she was willing to look after Geoffrey in emergency, it seemed.

He said: “He can’t get under the depth charges if you put the plank up across the ends. Didn’t you see the plank?”

She shook her head.

He said diffidently: “If you like to come down there this evening when I’m feeding him, about seven o’clock, I could show you how it goes. Then if you want to have him out again, you can.”

She said: “All right. I’ve got to go over to Brixham this afternoon, so I’ll be able to get some more cow parsley. I’ll bring that along with me.”

“Fine—I’ll be there.”

There was a little pause.

“You’ve got another stripe,” she said. “That makes you a full lieutenant.”

He smiled self-consciously. “I get a bit more money now.”

“Did you get it because of this show?” She inclined her head towards the vessel at the quay.

“I was about due for it anyway,” he said. He hesitated, and then said: “Are you going to be attached to us now? I mean, we’re going to have a truck with a Wren driver.”

“I think I am. It was to be the new truck with the Wren who drove it down from London—Miss Roberts, I think she’s called. But they seem to have switched things round.”

He said a little shyly: “It’ll be fun if they keep it like that.” And then he said quickly: “I mean, it’ll be interesting for you, seeing the whole thing right through from the start.”

She said: “I’d like to see it all, I mean, having seen it at the very beginning.” She coloured slightly. “I must go now, or I’ll be late.”

He stood back from the van. “If you’re not doing anything, I’ll be down there about seven.”

He was there before her, standing over the rabbit as it hopped about the little yard of the net defence store, eating the dandelions.
She found him there cleaning out the hutch.

“Good evening,” she said. “I see you’re busy.”

He straightened up, pan and brush in hand. “I do this in the evenings,” he said, “because then the ratings aren’t about.”

She said: “Is this the hay you give him?”

“That’s right,” he said. “That goes in his sleeping quarters.”

“I’ll do that,” she said.

They worked together for ten minutes, making a boudoir for the rabbit between the Oropesa floats and the depth charges. He showed her the plank that he had set up across the ends of the depth charges to prevent the rabbit getting in between them and eluding capture.

She said, half laughing: “You aren’t afraid that any of these will go off?”

“They’re not fused,” he said. “We couldn’t keep them stacked like this if they had pistols in.”

“Does that mean that they’re quite safe?”

“I think so,” he replied. “Just how safe they are, I’m not quite sure.”

They stooped down together to the rabbit, and began feeding it young carrots. Geoffrey nibbled them seriously right to their fingers; he was very tame. “He
is
fun,” said the girl. “Have you ever kept rabbits before?”

Rhodes said: “No, I’ve never had a rabbit.” And then he said: “I had a dog once, but he died …”

She said: “You seem to know all about rabbits.”

“Well, they’re decent little beasts,” he said. “I mean, it’s something ordinary to have, to look after. He isn’t really mine, of course,” he said. “He belongs to Mrs. Harding.”

“But you look after him, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “She hardly ever sees him.”

The girl turned to him. “I do think you’re funny,” she said.

He was immediately on the defensive, and a little hurt. “Because I like rabbits?” he said. “ ‘Pansy’ is the word you want.”

She said quickly: “Not like that. But things like flame-throwers—and rabbits—they don’t seem to go together.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t help that. If that’s the way you are you can’t help it.”