“Sure. Was that with a bathroom and a sitting-room, and that?”
“Not on your life. She had just a bedroom.”
“Nice business, if you can get it.”
They sat in silence for a minunte or two. Then Boden said: “Have you ever fired one of those Thompson guns?”
“Not against anyone. I fired them once or twice at barrels and that.”
“What’s the muzzle velocity?”
“Oh shucks, I dunno. Fifty to a hundred yards, that’s all you want to use them at. It’s only a little bullet, like an automatic has.”
His mind was evidently not on the subject. Presently he indicated a couple of chairs in the lounge over to their right. “I bet that Jane don’t see much life,” he said.
Boden glanced over and took in the scene. A very old lady dressed in black was sitting primly in a chair, knitting. A girl, or woman, perhaps thirty years of age was sitting by her reading the evening paper aloud in a low tone. She wore no rings. She had a blonde, fair head and a resigned, bored expression. Once she must have been a beautiful girl; now she was growing old before her time.
Boden shrugged his shoulders. “She looks after Mother,” he diagnosed. “Somebody’s got to look after Mother.”
“Sure,” said Colvin. “And when Mother dies the girl gets all the berries.”
“Probably.”
The gong for dinner rang, and the old lady and her daughter went in almost immediately. Colvin and Boden followed them ten minutes later. At the entrance to the dining-room the older man paused, reading a notice. “Got a dance on here to-night,” he said thoughtfully. “Fancy that!”
They did not get oysters with their dinner, but they dined quite well. They talked very little, both occupied with their own thoughts. Boden was still preoccupied with the sub-machine-gun; if the shells were really automatic pistol ammunition, then the muzzle velocity was probably quite low, which agreed with the short range that Colvin had in mind. That, probably, was what made the gun handy to fire; there would not be very much recoil.
Colvin was also absent-minded. Half-way through dinner he said to the waitress: “That old lady dining over there. What’s her name?”
“That’s Mrs. Fortescue, sir.”
“She live here?”
“She’s been here since March.”
“That her daughter sitting with her?”
“Yes, sir. That is Miss Fortescue.”
“Okay.”
The waitress moved away; Boden awoke from his ballistic reverie and cocked an eye at his companion. “What’s all this about?”
Colvin smiled. “I was just thinking,” he said, “that it was quite a while since I went dancing.”
Boden shook his head. “You’ll get us both thrown out if you try that.”
But he had underrated Colvin. They finished their dinner and went through into the lounge for coffee. The old lady and her daughter were sitting a little way away from them; presently the old lady wanted something from her room. The girl went to fetch it. Colvin, who had been watching, immediately got up and crossed over to Mrs. Fortescue. Boden sat still, appalled.
He had great charm of manner, an air of distinction. He bent slightly towards Mrs. Fortescue and said: “You must forgive me, ma’am. Would you consider it all out of order if I asked your daughter for a dance to-night?” He smiled charmingly. “I’ve been out of England a good many years, and I’ve rather forgotten the way things go back home here, socially. I didn’t want to do what folks might think was rude—but I don’t know anybody here …”
The old lady looked at him and took him all in, the firm, handsome features, the grey eyes, the iron-grey hair. He looked like an ambassador in naval uniform. “I am sure my daughter would be delighted to have a dance,” she said. “Sit down and talk to me.”
He sat down readily, retrieving her spectacle-case from the floor as he did so. “That’s very, very kind of you,” he said. “My name is Colvin. One gets kind of lonesome when you don’t know anybody in a place.”
“I am sure you do,” she said. “Have you been here long?”
“Only a week or two,” he said. “Before that I was in the North Atlantic on patrol since war began, with convoys and that. And before that again I had a job in San Francisco for a raft of years. It’s fifteen—seventeen years since I last lived in England.”
She dropped her knitting to her lap. “And did you come home all the way from San Francisco to fight in this war?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He had a good story to tell without departing from the truth, and he told it with modesty and humour. Half-way through the girl returned carrying a shawl; she approached them with surprise and interest giving new life to her face. Colvin got up as she approached.
Mrs. Fortescue said: “Elaine, my dear, this is Mr. Colvin. He has been telling me such a marvellous story of his journey home from San Francisco. Quite thrilling!”
The girl smiled at him and they all sat down together. Boden watched from his seat a few yards away; it had been a smooth, competent piece of work which increased his respect still more for his commanding officer. He did not want to join them. If he left in half an hour he could get back on board Geneviève by half-past nine, with an hour’s daylight still to go in which he could become acquainted with the gun. In the meantime, he would sit and smoke.
Presently there was the sound of a dance band from the dining-room and Colvin took Miss Fortescue through to dance; a faint flush of colour in her cheeks made her attractive. The colour had deepened when Boden passed them in the corridor on his way to the cloakroom for his cap and gloves. He overheard her say:
“You mustn’t call me Wonderful, Mr. Colvin. My name is Elaine.”
He said pleasantly: “Oh shucks, that’s my American tongue running away with me. You don’t want to worry about that.”
Boden treasured up that one to tell Rhodes.
I went down to Dittisham for the gun trials a few days after that. The installation of the flame-thrower was complete and the full crew of ten Free Frenchmen and two Danes were on board. One of these Danes spoke English and was an engineer in civil life; Rhodes took him as his second-in-command upon the flame-gun, and trained him in the rather complicated mechanism. I got to Dartmouth early in the forenoon, having spent the previous day at Teignmouth on another job. Simon met me at the station with a little shabby truck, driven by a Wren. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Sappers, battledress; he saluted me very smartly.
I paused before I got into the truck. “Is this the lorry I sent down?” I asked. It seemed so old.
Simon laughed. “It is not the same,” he said. He told me the circumstances as we started off. “He is very pleased with us because we got him a new truck,” he said. “We can get anything we want now—ropes, paint, anything.”
I grunted; there was nothing much to say, and Simon went on to detail to me all that still had to be done before the ship was fit to sail on operations. We got to Dittisham in about ten minutes, and drew up outside the officers’ villa.
I got out. Simon said:
“I am going to change my clothes before we go to sea.” He paused, and looked me up and down, hesitant. “We do not call attention to ourselves, or to the ship,” he said. “We usually go out in rough clothes, as fishermen. I could lend you an old pair of trousers and a jersey …” And then he added: “But you can wear your uniform if you like, sir. It does not really matter.”
“Not a bit,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you do.”
I went and changed with him in his room; when we went down to the boat on the hard a quarter of an hour later I was the complete fisherman, in blue jersey with S.Y. Arcturus in white letters on the chest, rather torn and old, blue serge trousers and gum boots. It was the first time I had ever done a gun trial in those sort of clothes.
Colvin met me as I scrambled over the side. They were all dressed as fishermen, and their salutes were humorous in their incongruity. I spent about ten minutes going round the ship with
them; then we cast off the mooring and got under way.
We slipped down past the town, out by St. Petrox; at the harbour mouth we set a course south-east out into the West Bay. We steamed on on that course for an hour or so; I did not want to do our stuff within sight of land. I was busy all that time, because I had to satisfy myself that they would be ready for the admiral’s inspection. I went around the ship with Colvin and with Boden making a list of the defects that they still had to rectify. I spent some time in the engine-room, crouched in the confined space beside the pulsing Diesel. Then on deck I had a long talk in bad French with André the C.P.O. in charge of the Free French and Danish crew. He was a decent, fresh-faced, smiling sort of chap who had been in the French Navy for eight years, much of the time in the Dunquerque. His home was in St. Nazaire; he said his wife was there still.
That put an idea in my head, and I asked him if any of the crew came from Douarnenez. But Simon, I found, had considered that point carefully. None of them came from anywhere closer to Douarnenez than Audierne.
I left André, and found the ship’s armament laid out on deck for my inspection; six Tommy-guns and several revolvers. They were all well oiled and cared for; we put a barrel overside and cruised around it, firing a few rounds from each. Then we turned to the flame-thrower.
We did not fire that at a target; I did not want to draw attention by creating a blaze. We had a good look round the sky for aircraft, waiting a quarter of an hour till one away over to the west went out of sight. Then Rhodes slipped into the little bucket seat, we pulled away the camouflaging nets, and I gave him the word to open up.
He fired three shots of three or four seconds each, traversing as he fired. The thing belched out its flame in a great terrible jet that dripped blazing oil upon the water underneath its fury; above it thick black smoke wreathed up into the sky. On deck the heat was intense; one could hardly bear to keep one’s face exposed to it. He fired three times, and each shot plunged its burning, lambent tip into the sea many ships’ lengths from us. Rhodes seemed to have no difficulty in training and in elevating the weapon.
I stopped him then and got into the little seat myself. He stood beside me till I was entirely familiar with the controls; then he stepped aside and I fired three shots with it myself. The heat was very great, but not unbearable, and the view of the target seemed to be fairly good. Within the limitations of the thing it seemed to work all right, and I could pass it off for service. I told Rhodes that he must have a pair of goggles up upon his forehead to pull down if firing had to go on for a length of time. Three shots was all I wanted without some protection.
That was the end of our gun trials, and there was a great column of black smoke above us towering up to show what we had been doing, six or seven hundred feet high. We turned and steamed towards the north end of Torbay at our full speed to get away from it, re-arranging the camouflage as we went in case a Heinkel or a Dornier came up to have a look. But nothing came except a Hudson of the Coastal Command, which circled round us at a hundred feet, obviously puzzled. We had an Aldis lamp in the little wheel-house, and I made a signal to him: Admiralty to Hudson—Go away. He waggled his wings at us and went off up Channel.
We held on our course till we were within a couple of miles of Hope’s Nose, then altered course for Berry Head and Dartmouth, making a wide circuit to prevent our return being associated with the dark cloud that we had made at sea. We entered the river and passed up by the town at about 15.30. picking up our moorings at Dittisham a quarter of an hour later.
We went on shore, changed back into our uniforms, and had a cup of tea in the ward-room. Then I got into the truck and the Wren drove me back to Dartmouth to catch the evening train to London.
I sat beside the Wren. During the short drive I said to her: “Are you with this party permanently, or do other drivers share the duty with you?”
She said: “I’m the only one that ever comes to Dittisham, sir. They put me on to this job when it started. I do nothing else but this.”
I nodded. “You know a good deal of what’s going on, then. I suppose?”
“I think so, sir. I’ve driven them to Honiton three times.”
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you not to talk,” I said. “One day this party will be going over to the other side. If through some careless word of yours the Germans get to know about it, they may be killed. That’s a real danger now, and you don’t want to risk it.”
She said: “I know that, sir. Lieutenant Rhodes warned me to be very careful.”
I was mildly interested; everything to do with that party was of interest to me. Rhodes was the technician. I said: “Who gives you your orders—tells you what to do?”
“Captain Simon, sir. When he is away, Lieutenant Colvin or Lieutenant Boden.”
I said idly: “But it was Rhodes who told you about secrecy?”
She said: “Oh well …” and stopped. I glanced at her, and she was flushing a little. Then she laughed. “I get the food for his rabbit,” she said. “He told me then.”
“Does Rhodes keep a rabbit?”
“Yes, sir. In the Net Defence Store.” With a little urging she told me all about it; that is how I came to know about Geoffrey.”
She took me to the station; I crossed to Kingswear and took the evening train to London. Next morning from my office I rang Brigadier McNeil and told him that the gun trials had been satisfactory.
He said: “I’m very glad to hear it. I say, you’ve got a very smart young officer upon that thing.” We were speaking on an outside line. “That chap Rhodes.”
I was pleased. “I think he’s pretty good,” I said. “He’s colour-blind, but I don’t think that matters for this job.”
“He’s some kind of an industrial chemist, isn’t he? In civil life?”
“I think he is,” I said.
“They were very much impressed with him at Honiton. They seemed to think you’d picked a really good man for the job.”
“Well, that’s pure luck,” I said. “It was he who brought it forward in the first instance. We didn’t pick him; he picked us.” And then I went on to talk to him about the admiral’s inspection of the ship.
I saw V.A.C.O. a couple of days later and told him, amongst other things, that Geneviève was ready for him to inspect.
“Very good, Martin,” he said. He turned to his engagement diary, “Sunday—I am meeting Captain Fisher at Torquay to see the M.G.B.s for Operation Parson. Suppose we say Saturday afternoon for Geneviève at Dittisham? I should like Brigadier McNeil to be there, if he could make it convenient.”
“Very good, sir. Will you stay the night in Torquay?”
“I think so. The Royal Bristol is very comfortable. See if you can get rooms for us there, Martin.”
I did, and when the day came we travelled down to Torquay in the morning, arriving soon after lunch. I had arranged a car, and when we had dropped our bags at the Royal Bristol we started off in it for Dittisham, Admiral Thomson, Brigadier McNeil, and myself. We got there about four o’clock. Simon was waiting for us with a little motor-boat to put us on board the vessel; we were not taking her to sea, so everybody was in uniform and very smart.
N.O.I.C. was there. I imagine that they had been consulting him on etiquette, because a boatswain’s pipe shrilled out as the admiral clambered up the short rope-ladder that served as a companion on Geneviève and swung his leg over the bulwark. I never saw such a variety of salutes upon one ship before. Simon saluted army style, of course, and the naval officers in navy style; nine of the Free Frenchmen saluted the same way and one differently because he had been a rating in their Armée de l’Air. The two Danes saluted differently again.
The inspection followed upon stereotyped lines. The admiral found a cat on board. That was my fault; I knew that idiosyncrasy of his and I should have warned the ship. “I have no objection to animals on board—within reason—in harbour or in time of peace,” he said weightily. “But in a ship sailing against the enemy they are
out of place, and may even cause the loss of valuable lives. People do stupid things, go back to save them when the ship is sinking. A great many seamen have lost their lives in that way—yes, and officers too.” He turned to Colvin. “See that it is put on shore before you sail.”
“Very good, sir.”
He was interested in the flame-gun, and got down into the seat to handle it while Rhodes explained the mechanism to him. “Yes,” he said at last. “A very dreadful weapon if you have your enemy within its range. Unfortunately, he isn’t always there.”
The ship’s armament—what there was of it—was laid out on the hatch. He picked up a Tommy-gun, handled it for a moment, and put it down again; then we went aft. He turned to Simon. “I understand you are the officer who got the information which you hope will lead you to the enemy,” he said.
Charles Simon said: “I was in Douarnenez in February, sir. I went there on my way back from Lorient.”
“Yes—I remember. Tell me now, in your own words, what you hope to do. I have heard it from Commander Martin, but I want to hear it from you.”
Simon said: “On this first trip, sir—it is just reconnaissance. If we can find the fishing fleet, mix in with them, and get away without detection—that in itself is of much value. That way we can land agents, open up communications with the country.” He paused.
“I do not want to make contact with the enemy, at any rate on this first occasion,” he said. “I would prefer we … how do you put it? Find our feet—yes, first find our feet.” He smiled deprecatingly. “And, anyway, we cannot make a contact with the enemy even if we want. We have twelve knots at the most, and a Raumboot can do twenty. It is for him to make the contact with us.”
V.A.C.O. said: “That’s very true. And if the enemy makes contact with you?”
“Then he is almost certain to come up to shouting distance,” said Simon. “He can do nothing else, because to him in the night-time we are a fishing-boat, that cannot read a signal. If he comes close, then we burn him up.”