AT THE STICK OF THE DUCK, SQUADRON LEADER PADDY WILCOX turned to Major Lawrence “Larry” Grand and informed him, “I am in receipt of a radio message Code Word Brilliant ordering us to divert our flight to a new landing port where we will be met by ground transportation to deliver our party to an undisclosed location. The sender identifies as 17F.”
“Reply Wilco,” Major Grand snapped, white lipped. “Crank this museum piece up!”
“Brilliant” was the second highest priority a message could carry in the British Empire, the first being “Cromwell,” which would announce the German invasion of England when it came. The “17F” was the code name of the personal assistant to the Director of the Naval Intelligence Department. Major Grand did not share that classified information with the other three on board the airplane.
“Picked up a couple of little friends,” Squadron Leader Wilcox noted casually. A pair of Supermarine Spitfires had swooped in and taken up station off each wing of the Walrus, flying in tight formation.
“I knew we’d pay a price for shooting those Frogs,” Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone intoned to Major John Randal under his breath. “You really do need to work on your form for taking prisoners, old stick. First Tomcat, where you shoot five men because you failed to remember two words of German, and now—”
“Well, I don’t speak French either.”
A police car with two motorcycle escorts was standing by quayside when they landed.
“Under arrest,” Captain Stone shook his head. “There went the rest of the inheritance. It’s always darkest before pitch black.”
All four officers piled in. The car and outriders raced through traffic with red lights flashing. Their destination turned out not to be Scotland Yard or the Tower of London but the exclusive men’s club Whites.
Groom, the hall porter, immediately whisked Major Grand to the billiard room, where Colonel Stewart Menzies, DSO, aka “C,” the Director of British Secret Intelligence, was waiting with Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Director of the Naval Intelligence Division.
The porter returned to the foyer shortly thereafter and led the three Raiding Forces officers to a small side room where a tall, urbane, chain-smoking Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve lieutenant commander, sporting a nose broken years before in a rugby match, was pacing like a caged tiger.
“Hello, Ian,” Captain Stone greeted him. “What’s a Boodles man doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be a subaltern in the Black Watch, or have you come up in the world?”
“Quite right, Terry, reversal of fortune,” the officer replied suavely. “Naval Intelligence came to have a greater appreciation of my modest talents than the regiment. As you know I was the most horrible cadet in the storied history of Sandhurst, though I do seen to recall you may actually still hold the record for accrued demerits. I’m merely visiting your club today, my good chap; no cause for undue alarm or despondency.
“Fleming,” he announced, turning to Major Randal. “Ian Fleming.”
“Eton, I presume,” Major Randal said.
In the billiard room, Colonel Stewart Menzies explained to Major Lawrence “Larry” Grand the purpose of his being diverted to Whites. “As you are aware, Lawrence, the Germans have a coding machine called the Enigma that they use to scramble all their communications. Looks like a typewriter and functions similar to one. Our side is working on defeating the device, but it is an almost impossible task.
“Our boffins have recently had some luck with the Army model, but the version the Navy uses has proven impenetrable. As you know full well, eliminating the U-boat menace is our top national priority. We have to be able to read Kriegsmarine messages to pinpoint the exact location of their U-boats so the Royal Navy can go there and sink them in order to have any real hope of winning the U-boat war. Right now that is not possible.
“The way the Enigma system works, a message is typed into the machine on one end, which encrypts it, and then it is transmitted to a receiving machine, which decrypts it. The infernal things have millions of possible combinations of ciphers. The arrangement is virtually foolproof, but its security is also its vulnerability because an Enigma device is required at both ends, thus increasing the chances one of them might fall into our hands. And, let it be said we shall stop at nothing, pay any price, to see that one does.
“Along those lines it has been brought to our attention that the Kriegsmarine air-sea rescue launches working the Channel to pick up downed Luftwaffe pilots all carry an Enigma machine on board. Lieutenant Commander Fleming has come up with an ingenious plan to capture one of the boats in order to steal the device. The operation was laid on, all set to go, but at the last minute the Royal Air Force backed out.
“When he found out about the mission being stood down, Alan Turing, the senior scientist at Bletchley Park working on the project to defeat the Enigma, nearly had a nervous breakdown. He says we absolutely have to get our hands on an Enigma device at the earliest or it could be eons before they can crack it by themselves. No need to tell you, of all people, how vital this project is to the war effort.”
“I understand completely, sir.”
“We thought it might be a good idea to have our leading expert on small-scale raiding in to give us the benefit of his views on Fleming’s scheme to see if there is any possibility we might be able to resurrect the mission to go and pinch one.”
“Very good sir,” Major Grand replied. “Major Randal has a way of, ah, cutting straight to the heart of a subject. You can expect a direct answer from him.”
Groom reappeared in the small side room. “Major Randal, if you will accompany me, please, sir.”
The porter led the commander of Raiding Forces to the billiard room. Colonel Stewart Menzies was sitting at a heavy Chippendale table next to the fireplace; Rear Admiral John Godfrey and Major Lawrence “Larry” Grand were sitting across from him, under the heavyweight Belt of England mounted on the wall. Not sure of the protocol, Major John Randal assumed a modified position of parade rest.
“Major Grand has been apprising us of your night’s work,” Colonel Menzies said in his whispery voice. “Very nicely done, John.”
“Should have shot them all,” harrumphed Real Admiral Godfrey with a sinister sneer. “Bloody Nazi-loving Frogs!”
The Director of NID was a sea officer in an intelligence assignment, not a career naval intelligence officer. He was proving uncommonly good at his new job, but at heart the admiral was a fighting saltwater sailor.
Major Grand gave Major Randal a thin smile.
“John,” Colonel Menzies steered the conversation back on track, speaking to the young Commando as if he were a member of his cavalry regiment, the 2nd Life Guards, where all the officers called each other by their first names except when on parade. “Raiding Forces have been alerted for a most vital mission of national strategic importance along the Gold Coast, which we all have a vested interest in seeing you complete at the earliest. However, a competing operation with an even higher priority has been proposed. The men and material to carry it out have been gathered and trained and are standing by, ready to launch. But at the last minute, the Royal Air Force pulled out, leaving us high and dry, using what we feel is a rather flimsy excuse.
“What we would like is for you to review the operational plan and give us your unvarnished professional opinion of its feasibility.”
“Yes sir.”
The SIS director produced a thin red folder stamped MOST SECRET and handed it to Major Randal. “Take your time. We want your best assessment.” What “C” did not say but was thinking was that the future of the British Empire might very well be resting on what Major Randal reported back.
Apparently summoned by some silent signal, the hall porter reappeared. “We shall have the other officers in now, Groom.”
Major Randal joined the three other junior officers and the four of them retreated to a cluster of heavy leather chairs in the far corner of the billiard room. He opened the thin red folder the SIS director had given him and took out a single sheet of paper. The other three lit up cigarettes.
OPERATION RUTHLESS
EYES ONLY: Rear Admiral John Godfrey
From: Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming, Dept. 17
DNI,
I suggest we obtain the loot by the following means:
1. Obtain from Air Ministry an air-worthy German bomber.
2. Pick a tough crew of five, including a pilot, W/T operator, and word-perfect German speaker. Dress them in German Air Force uniform, add blood and bandages to suit.
3. Crash plane in Channel after making S.O.S. to German rescue service in P/L.
4. Once on board rescue boat, shoot German crew, dump overboard, bring rescue boat back to English port.
In order to increase the chances of capturing an R. or M. with its richer booty, the crash might be staged in mid-Channel. The Germans would presumably employ one of these types for the longer and more hazardous journey.
Since the attackers will be wearing enemy uniforms, they will be liable to be shot as franc-tireurs if captured, and incident might be fruitful field for propaganda. Attackers’ story will therefore be “that it was done for a lark by a group of young hotheads who thought the war was too tame and wanted to have a go at the Germans. They had stolen plane and equipment and had expected to get into trouble when they got back.” This will prevent suspicions that party was after more valuable booty than a rescue boat.
“When was this set to take place?” Major Randal asked.
“Any night we could pinpoint a rescue launch,” Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming replied. “Only we never could locate one. Then the bloody RAF pulled the rug out from under us. Claimed if we landed a Heinkel 111 in the Channel, it would probably sink—which is the general idea.”
“So, you have a flyable German bomber?”
“We have in our possession several that have crash landed virtually undamaged.”
“Your name is penciled in next to the bit about the German speaker. You planned on going on this raid?”
“That was the idea.”
“Done much of this kind of work?”
“Actually, no. Rejected, of course—the admiral would never let me go.”
Major Randal handed the sheet of paper to Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone. Then he stood up and walked back to the table at the other end of the long room, where the three most dangerous men in England sat waiting. They seemed surprised that he was ready to make his report so quickly.
“Good idea,” Major Randal said, “bad plan.”
The pronouncement was received with inhospitable silence. It was, after all, a proposal both “C” and the DNI had signed off on. “Would you care to elaborate, John?” Colonel Menzies prompted at last.
“What’s the loot, sir?”
“We could tell you, Major,” Rear Admiral Godfrey growled, “but then we would have to take you down in the wine cellar and shoot you. And I, for one, would hate to do that to a man Razor Ransom speaks so highly of.”
“Some piece of high-value German equipment that’s transportable?”
“Reasonable to presume,” Colonel Menzies conceded vaguely. “Let us not press the point; suffice it to say you have all the information we intend to provide you in order to give us an opinion on the viability of Fleming’s proposal.”
“Capture the German boat, then sail it home, and no matter what cover story you come up with, the Nazis will know you have the loot.”
“That is a problem,” “C” replied acerbically. “How would you propose to go about it?”
“E-boats are the largest craft you can target,” Major Randal said. “Even they have a twenty-five-man crew, which is a lot to expect your team to handle. The R boats have at least 40 sailors on board and M boats over 100. Five men, no matter how tough or well trained, do not stand a chance against that many bad guys.”
“A remarkable amount of information about the German Navy,” Rear Admiral Godfrey observed, “for a man from The Rangers to have at his fingertips.”
“When you spend as much time out in the Channel in the dark of the night in a forty-foot yacht as we do on the HMY Arrow, sir, you know about those things.”
The officers at the table sat mute. Colonel Menzies and Rear Admiral Godfrey should have reached Major Randal’s conclusion themselves before the mission had progressed this far. The importance of obtaining the loot had blinded them to the limitations of reality. Both “C” and the DNI were thinking it was a good thing the RAF had stood down when they did. The RAF had averted a disaster.
“Fleming’s plan called for this raid to take place at night,” Major Randal continued. “That won’t work.”
“Why not?” Rear Admiral Godfrey demanded defensively. “Cover of darkness enhances the element of surprise!”
“German boats don’t pull air-sea rescue patrols at night, sir; they hunt for shipping targets. What you want to do is put up a spotter airplane at first light, locate an E-boat, shadow it, launch the Heinkel 111 with your five tough crew wearing their bloodstained uniforms, have an MGB standing by just over the horizon with a party of heavily armed Royal Marines on deck, then crash-land the Heinkel in broad daylight right next to the E-boat. While the Germans affect the rescue, have the MGB race up and board it. Put your loot on the MGB, sink the E-boat with a big public bang, and come home. Nobody will be the wiser.”
Silence was thick on the ground.
“A Nazi air-sea rescue boat will witness a Luftwaffe bomber crash in plain sight in close proximity,” Major Grand mused thoughtfully. “The crew will have no reason to question what they have seen with their own eyes. A sure bet they fall for the ruse.”
“Elegantly simple,” Colonel Menzies agreed. “The Germans will have no thought but to rescue the downed airmen; that’s what they are out there for. They will simply react as we thought all along and be distracted as the MGB comes up. Anything else you might care to suggest, John?”
“Me, I’d try to arrange for the spotter plane to strafe the E-boat while they’re rescuing the Heinkel crew as a diversion to cover the MGB attack, sir.”
“You managed all that in less than three minutes?” Rear Admiral Godfrey growled. “We have been working on this for over a month. That business about sinking the E-boat is the perfect conclusion for this operation. How would you like a transfer to my staff, Major, when you return from the Gold Coast?”
“Commander Fleming originated the plan, sir,” Major Randal said. “He had a good idea, I just added a couple of details.”
“How long do you believe we can delay Major Randal’s flight on the Flying Clipper?” Colonel Menzies asked Major Grand, “without raising eyebrows?”
“Seventy-two hours easy, maybe more if necessary,” Major Grand replied. “British Overseas Airways Corporation can always experience mechanical difficulties with a seaplane, even the big one. The airline will have to wait for a part to be flown in. That sort of delay occurs all too frequently during wartime.”
“Make it happen, Lawrence.”
“Sir!”
“Major Randal,” Colonel Menzies announced, “we are going to postpone your departure to the Gold Coast temporarily so that you can personally take command of Operation Ruthless. Lieutenant Commander Fleming will be detailed as your liaison officer to the intelligence community for the duration of the mission. Anything you need in the way of material and support will have to come from DNI, SIS, or SOE. Rear Admiral Godfrey will make sure you receive whatever you need.”
“In that case, sir,” Major Randal said, “I’d rather use my own people for the boarding party. Raiding Forces has an MGB but no crew. Can you supply gunboat sailors for the duration of the mission?”
“Admiral?”
“A veteran crew from Coastal Command will arrive at your station by this afternoon, Major.”
“It’s Randy Seaborn’s boat, the 345, sir,” Major Randal added. “I want him in command.”
“Done,” Rear Admiral Godfrey agreed without reservation. “I’ve known ‘Hornblower’ since he was in knee pants. He sails under a lucky star, a lad after my own heart.”
“Anything else, John?”
“Squadron Leader Wilcox can fly the spotter mission, but if you want to increase our odds of finding a German E-boat, arrange for an entire squadron of Walruses. The more eyes we have in the sky, the better our chances of pulling this off fast.”
“Actually, the bomber pilot is something of a problem,” Colonel Menzies admitted. “The one we had was RAF. Unfortunately they pulled him from the operation. Would it be possible for your pilot to fly the Heinkel 111?”
“No problem, sir. Squadron Leader Wilcox has always wanted to go on a raid.”
“We might be able to arrange to have the original RAF pilot reassigned,” “C” added. “However, it would tip our hand that we are pressing on with Ruthless. One can never discount the possibility of the Air Marshals doing something foolish if they find out. Interservice rivalry at times can be more of a hazard than the Nazis.”
“Paddy can fly anything with wings,” Major Randal said, “but I’ll need to take a look at the four volunteers Fleming picked for the mission, sir.”
“You shall find them qualified men,” Colonel Menzies assured. “Achnacarry trained.”
“I’m still going to want to check ‘em out, sir.”
“One thing Fleet Air Arm is free with is Walruses,” Rear Admiral Godfrey injected, reflecting on Major Randal’s earlier suggestion. “We can put a swarm of the things up, blanket the Channel. Guarantee we find an E-boat.”
“In that case, gentlemen,” Major Randal said, “let’s go get the loot.”