THE THIRD MORNING AFTER THE RAIDING FORCES OFFICERS’ arrival in the Gold Coast began early with a drive to the headquarters of Lieutenant General G. J. Giffard, General Officer Commanding West African Forces, located on the lovely grounds of Achimota College. Major John Randal had been invited to a classified briefing on the military situation in West Africa. Baldie drove, and on the way gave him the briefing before the briefing.
“The thing to remember, Major, is they are going to be trying as hard as they can to learn why a famous Commando has suddenly turned up out here. Don’t give them a thing! Make the blighters work for every single detail they pry out of you.”
“What can I tell them?”
“Nothing,” Baldie said decisively. “If the opportunity to mention the illegal trade in cattle across the borders with the Vichy French presents itself, take it. Only do not come right out and voluntarily tell them the whole plausible story, which is that you’re here to put a stop to the traffic in cattle with our Nazi-loving neighbors. Remember, if ending cross-border collaboration with the enemy was your real mission, it would be classified. They know that, so be very, very vague.”
“Roger.”
“Ask the odd question from time to time. The idea is to force the locals to try to deduce what you are up to, so it does not really matter if your line of inquiry does not actually make much sense. The longer you can string out the process, the better. That buys us more time before we have to feed them our second, more believable, cover story and sets them up to fall for it in a big way when they put the pieces together and figure it out all by themselves.”
“Any ideas on the second story, by the way?”
“I’m still working on it, Major. You string out this first one long enough, we might not need a second story. Keep in mind, General Giffard’s worst nightmare is an outside interloper like you gate-crashing his personal bailiwick and setting up a private raiding enterprise not answerable to him. The last thing he wants is a loose cannon operating in his private preserve, so you try to convince him that’s exactly what you are.”
“You mean calm, cool, and raring to get at the bad guys?”
“Exactly!” Baldie laughed. “Act demented; that’s what I do. That always works.”
“What’s the story on General Giffard?”
“Giffard is an empire builder and has amassed a great deal of power out here. Hates Special Operations Executive because he is not in its chain of command and therefore has no direct control over us. He tried to get SOE disbanded in the colony. As you have already observed because I carefully pointed it out to you, the Gold Coast is completely surrounded by Vichy French territories. Well, General Giffard banned sabotage across any border, which put a definite crimp in my nocturnal activities.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He and all the rest of the colonial authorities are terrified our enemy-loving neighbors will use even the slightest cross-border military action as an excuse to counterattack and invade the Gold Coast.”
“What are the odds of that happening?”
“Precisely zero. The Frogs don’t want to hurt trade either, and militarily the Vichy French colonies are even weaker than we are.
“Now, the thing to keep in mind, Major,” Baldie picked back up where he left off before being interrupted, “is that the Gold Coast is broken down into four different governorships, and each one is an autonomous colony. Throw into the mix the Colonial Office, the War Office, the Foreign Ministry, and Special Operations Executive, and you have an evil brew. Each one has its own private agenda, and they all compete for something. Even de Gaulle has announced plans to come in and set up a Free French base of operations so he can recruit volunteers for his Fighting French Forces.”
“Sounds like a catfight to me.”
“Down to the ground. In reality, there are only two things on the Gold Coast of any strategic value—well, three actually if you throw in gold production—but they are of immeasurable value to the war effort,” Baldie explained. “And, they are both at Takoradi.
“First are the airfields: three, thousand-foot-long strips that are being expanded as rapidly as possible. The United States is planning to fly in P-40 Tomahawks from aircraft carriers and give them to the RAF under a program called Lend Lease. The U.S. Congress has not approved the plan yet, but we have been quietly informed that they will sometime within the next six months.
“Second, Takoradi is the Gold Coast’s only deepwater port. The U.S. Navy has surveyed it and is planning to use it to off-load additional crated aircraft in the port. The R.A.F. will ship out other aircraft by sea from the UK and also unload it there. As soon as the crates come ashore, the plan is for the planes to be rapidly assembled and flown in hops, along with the planes landing from the carriers, out to Cairo for our Desert Air Force, where they are in desperate short supply.”
“That sounds like a big operation.”
“It will be. As you already know, the Gold Coast is situated astride the South Atlantic Sea Route. The southern lane runs the length of the colony. With the Suez Canal out of our hands right now, ever since the Italians came into the war and gained air superiority over the Red Sea, it has assumed critical strategic importance. If the Germans can find a way to shut down the South Atlantic Sea Route, or even to choke it off enough, it’s endgame; they win the war.
“Major, that’s what makes your task of knocking out the clandestine radio station on the Ems so critical,” Baldie summed up. “Those U-boats and surface raiders are at the point of being able to shut down the South Atlantic Sea Route right now, right this minute. You have been handed a big, and I do mean BIG, assignment.
“You and Zorro can’t win the war, but if you manage to pull off the raid on Rio Bonita you might keep us from losing it.”
“The mission,” Major Randal said, “was never explained in those terms.”
“London might not have thought you had a need to know. Quite possibly Larry Grand thought your operation was difficult enough without the extra pressure. Maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut, but I believe a man has the right to know what he’s risking his neck for.”
They drove onto the beautiful college campus. An overage-for-grade captain in starched tropical khaki battle dress sporting the insignia of the Gold Coast Regiment was waiting outside on the drive. He escorted Major Randal inside.
A staff major from the Royal West African Frontier Force began by giving a pessimistic sketch of the military situation in the colony. “Following the collapse of France, French West Africa remained loyal to the collaborationist government of Marshal Pétain, leaving the four British colonies of the Gold Coast surrounded on three sides by enemy territory, with the ocean to our rear.
“Thus far the war has gone rather badly for the colony,” he continued despondently. “Our Gold Coast Regiment has been alerted for deployment to Kenya to participate in the upcoming Italian East African Campaign. Its departure will leave the colony virtually defenseless. Since the Gold Coast Colony is the wealthiest colony in the Empire, it is reasonable to presume the Nazis are constantly putting pressure on the Vichy French next door to invade at the earliest possible moment, most likely when the regiment ships out, which will happen any day now.
“Intelligence has recently confirmed beyond question our worst fear. Hitler has plans to recover the portion of Togoland ceded to Great Britain in the last war as a matter of honor.”
The gloomy briefer droned on and on. When he ran out of steam, another pessimist replaced him. Eventually still another briefer took over from the second, and so on, until it was time to troop off to lunch.
After the noon meal the briefing picked up where it left off. By the end, Major Randal had been subjected to a mind-boggling overload of information about the Gold Coast, British West Africa, French West Africa, the Vichy French, German intentions, military strengths in the region, shortages of all kinds, fears, concerns, and estimates of a wide-ranging variety of threats facing the colony. The only place the briefers did not seem afraid of being invaded from was Rio Bonita. In fact, the tiny Portuguese protectorate was never mentioned at all.
At the end of the day, the Colonial Office extended an offer to Major Randal to attend a follow-up briefing on political affairs the next day, which he accepted.
Just as he was climbing into Baldie’s Chevrolet, a sharp-looking African soldier in heavily starched khaki battle dress and bare feet ran up and handed him an envelope through the car’s window. Inside was an invitation to a reception that evening for Commodore Richard Seaborn, OBE. Major Randal handed the card to Baldie.
“Now that’s impressive! I’m going to get you to recommend me for a promotion some day, Major. Getting someone bumped up from commander to commodore is quite a jump up the ladder.”
Commodore is a temporary promotion usually given to Royal Navy captains that will be commanding other captains. For a Commander (equal to army lieutenant colonel) to be given the rank of Commodore was very unusual. Commodore comes in two grades: Junior Grade and Senior Grade. Senior Grade Commodores are allowed to wear the rank of Admiral—an even greater distinction for Searborn. Any officer who holds the rank of Commodore for even one day is addressed as Commodore for the rest of his career or until he makes Admiral.
“What do you think it means?”
“I interpret it to be a clear signal London is trying to give you all the support they possibly can; going to a lot of trouble not to be subtle about it too. And Major, that can only mean one thing: This mission is high on someone very important’s ‘action this day’ list, not just some harebrained scheme like most of the jobs I’ve seen proposed lately.” Baldie’s voice quivered with mounting excitement. “We may actually green light this one.”
“In that case, Jim, we better get it right.”
“Along those lines I have a question for you, Major, and I want a straight answer.”
“Shoot.”
“What is your connection to Lady Seaborn and Pamala Plum-Martin?” Baldie did not take his eyes off the road, but he managed to give the impression he was watching as well as listening to the answer.
“Lady Jane is related by marriage to my naval officer Lieutenant Randy Seaborn, the son of the recently promoted Commodore Seaborn. As you probably know, she is with SOE. Somehow she secured a commission as a captain in the Royal Marines and spends most of her time working with us, meaning my outfit, the Strategic Raiding Forces. She is currently listed on the roster as the intelligence officer, though it looks as if she has abandoned her post. Royal Marine Plum-Martin is her driver.
“I have sort of, ah, well, a personal relationship with Lady Jane,” Major Randal continued uncomfortably. “I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, because to tell you the truth, Jim, I don’t completely understand it myself.”
“Major, Lady Seaborn is a talent spotter for SOE. Looks like she spotted you, huh! Plum-Martin is SIS,” Baldie declared bluntly. “Sounds to me like maybe you don’t know the whole story. Don’t feel bad; you aren’t the only one who finds it hard to understand women, either. I should know; I’ve been married to three of them,” Baldie confided man-to-man.
“The word is Lady Seaborn has a good heart. In my experience, when a man gets involved with a woman generally described as ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ and having a ‘good heart,’ he is in way over his head. You tired of being a bachelor, Major?”
“That what you did, Jim?” Major Randal asked. “Go for women with good hearts?”
“Hell no, I’m a leg man.”
By the time Jim “Baldie” Taylor drove his Chevrolet up to the Colonial Planters Hotel in downtown Accra, Commodore Richard Seaborn’s welcoming cocktail party was in full swing.
“I have a few errands to run,” the SOE operative said. “Be ready to leave here by 2000 hours. We still have a night’s work ahead of us.”
“I’ll meet you out front, Jim.”
Inside the hotel, the power elite of every branch of military service, the police, the constabulary, the Colonial Office, and politicians of every stripe—from the governor of the Gold Coast on down—had gathered for the reception. The event was a required function for most attendees, business not pleasure. The colonists in the Gold Coast were a hard-partying set; they would get around to the pleasure a little later in the evening. They always did.
Major John Randal joined the crowd that was moving slowly toward the receiving line, and when he finally reached it, the governor’s aide whispered his name in the great man’s ear. The governor’s eyebrows pinched together like he had suddenly been zinged by a migraine.
“Major Randal, welcome to the Gold Coast. Accept my heartfelt congratulations on your amazing exploits. Please get together with my aide and schedule time when we can arrange to have you give me a full accounting of your latest thrilling adventure. I admit to being fascinated by all things military.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Both men were lying.
The governor’s heavily tanned and anorexic wife was dripping in diamonds. “Major Randal, you have caused quite a stir in the colony. All the women are simply dying for a chance to meet you after seeing the news-reel of your raid at the cinema. Let me introduce you to Commodore Seaborn, out from the UK.”
“Major,” said an unhappy-looking Commodore Seaborn, sporting the brand-new insignia of a rear admiral as senior-grade commodores are authorized to do. “I understand you spent the evening with my wife at the Bradford the night before you flew out. And how was Brandy?”
The receiving line grew very quiet. People did everything but cup their hands to their ears straining to hear the exchange. Sounded like the making of a scandal, and new gossip was always welcome in the tiny expatriate set.
“I shall want a word with you as soon as the guests quit arriving, Major.”
“Yes sir.”
As he was moving away, he heard Commodore Seaborn say to the governor’s wife, “Major Randal is practically a member of the family. In addition to being my son’s commanding officer, he recently rescued my wife and carried her down seven flights of stairs after she had been injured in a German bombing attack.”
The governor’s wife gasped, “Oh my!”
Major Randal drifted over to a bar in the corner of the White Hunter Room. Since he had a long, busy night ahead of him, he settled for a tall, cold glass of sparkling water with a thin slice of lemon. From his vantage point, he could discreetly observe the people in the room.
Power, politics, greed, ambition, and sex were simmering. No one came anywhere near him. He might as well have been a leper; so much for the women dying to meet him.
After a considerable time passed, Commodore Seaborn made his way over to where Major Randal waited. The commodore appeared visibly shaken. “My orders state that I am to be met by an officer known to me who will give me my next instructions. Please tell me you are not that officer.”
“Sir, are you familiar with a Portuguese protectorate, an island called Rio Bonita?”
“Yes, I have sailed these waters before. Why do you ask?”
“There are three Axis ships interned in San Pedro Harbor, one German and two Italian. Y-Service has determined that a secret radio station located on the German ship, the Ems, is transmitting the routes, sailing times, and cargo manifests of our convoys to U-boats and surface commerce raiders operating against the South Atlantic Sea Route.”
“Something like that has long been suspected, but we never knew for certain,” Commodore Seaborn said grimly. “Appalling news, could not be worse, actually. Rotten luck. The radio is safe and sound in neutral waters.”
“Neutral or not, sir, on Saturday night I am taking Raiding Forces into San Pedro Harbor, boarding all three, killing or capturing the crew, and bringing the ships out of there.”
For a moment it was not clear whether Commodore Seaborn was having an epileptic seizure or cardiac arrest. He turned several different colors and was having trouble breathing normally.
“Major, do you have the vaguest comprehension of the catastrophic consequences of the mere suggestion of invading a neutral Portuguese territory, Britain’s oldest ally?” Commodore Seaborn asked in a tone of resignation.
“Bad, sir.”
“If Portugal comes into the war on the Axis side and mounts heavy shore batteries along its coast, which will be the first thing it does if we ever get caught violating its neutrality, we lose the Strait of Gibraltar. Can you even faintly grasp the strategic implications if that should happen? Obviously not; going after enemy ships docked in San Pedro is total lunacy. Politically as well as long-term militarily, the idea is simply mad.”
“Commodore, your assignment is to make the naval side of things happen so we can carry out our mission,” Major Randal responded calmly. “Mad or not.”
Both officers stood studying each other for a moment, contemplating the enormity of the assignment.
“Later tonight I’m traveling by boat to Rio Bonita to pick up Terry Stone, who’s over reconning San Pedro Harbor. Want to tag along for the ride?”
Commodore Seaborn stared down at the striped zebra-skin rug he was standing on. “I can live with the fact that my son idolizes you; that my wife is fascinated by you; that my father–in-law, the Razor—whom I have never been able to even remotely impress, not even once in my whole entire miserable existence—respects you; and that my dead cousin’s wife has fallen for you. But I am going to hate being your cellmate in a rotten stinking Portuguese prison.
“Bloody right I want to come!”