AFTER A LONG FLIGHT BACK TO ENGLAND ON BOARD A FLYING Clipper—during which he spent virtually the entire time ensconced in compartment No. 6 with Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn and during which his career as a hard-charging bachelor had been brought to a screeching halt—Major John Randal was stretched out by the roaring fire in a huge leather bat-wing chair in his room at Seaborn House, toasting himself. He was wearing a camel-colored terrycloth robe over a faded pair of blue jeans and an ancient pair of cowboy boots he had worn in high school and college and had carried with him to the Philippines when he was in the U.S. 26th Cavalry Regiment. They were so soft they could be rolled up into a ball when packed for travel.
Chauncy had found the boots and jeans for Major Randal in a duffel bag he had not opened since he had arrived in England. The robe must have belonged to Lady Jane Seaborn’s dead husband, Mallory, but he did not want to think about that right now.
After having just completed a long, hot soak in the swimming pool-sized bathtub, he felt like a contented prune. His boots were propped up on a large ottoman, and there was a stack of newspapers in his lap. He was relaxed for the first time in a very long time. There was only one thing on his calendar to do and that was still several hours off. Tonight, at long last, he was going to have dinner with Jane and her uncle, Colonel John Henry Bevins, MC, Hertfordshire Regiment, graduate of Eton, member of Pop, investment banker, advisor to royalty, and so on.
The estate was virtually empty. All operations had been stood down. The troops were on leave. They more than deserved it.
Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone and Lieutenant Randy “Hornblower” Seaborn, who was sporting the expression of a hungry Cheshire cat eyeballing a plump canary in a cage with the door left ajar, had ridden off into the sunset together. Major Randal wondered what that was about, but he did not ask any questions because he specifically did not want to be in possession of any of the answers.
Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy was at the Bradford Hotel checking on his assistant, Miss Lilly Threepersons. He was taking her a batch of Portuguese-language movie star magazines he had brought back from San Pedro. Miss Lilly Threepersons could not speak or read one word of Portuguese, but the captain explained it would not make any difference what language they were in because “she just looks at the pictures.”
Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn was also away in London visiting the new offices of Special Operations Executive now relocated to No. 64 Baker Street. That had given rise to the organization’s new nickname, “The Baker Street Irregulars,” bequeathed by their not-so-friendly competitors the Secret Intelligence Service, MI-6, aka “Broadway,” an organization also nicknamed after the street it resided on. She would be returning any time now with Royal Marine Pamala Plum-Martin. Which was something else he was going to have to sort out: exactly who and what was Pamala? Major Randal could no longer turn a blind eye to the fact that she was obviously something more than merely a Royal Marine private who served as Jane’s chauffeur.
Chauncy buzzed in like a happy bumblebee flitting from flower to flower. He needed to be sorted out too.
“What are you, exactly, Chauncy? A sergeant major or a butler?” Major Randal demanded.
“I was a sergeant major, sir, before I became a butler. Then Lady Seaborn put me back in harness again temporarily, so to speak. I would say I was your butler, sir, except for the time I am acting in the capacity as one of your sergeant majors.”
“I have been checking up on the Green Howards,” Major Randal continued, “looking into your military antecedents.”
“Very good, sir.”
“The Green Howards have a dandy record as a fighting regiment, called the Yorkshire Gurkhas. Certainly impressive handle—the Gurkhas are well known as a bloodthirsty crew. You must have soldiered halfway around the globe, Chauncy?”
“Saw quite a bit of the bad parts of the Empire, sir.”
“Butler, sergeant major, butler; how am I supposed to know when you’re what?”
“My status should not pose any significant difficulty, sir,” Chauncy commented absently as he rummaged through the closet selecting the uniform the major would require for his evening engagement. He understood full well the implications of the night’s drill and was determined to ensure that Major Randal made his best impression.
“If I call you Chauncy, I’m not respecting your rank, which you earned. On the other hand, I don’t feel too great about having a sergeant major polishing my boots. You see what I mean?”
“No sir,” Chauncy said, holding a shirt up to the light to inspect the collar. “I do not see any conflict,”
“You don’t?”
“No sir.”
“I see,” said Major Randal, which meant, of course, he did not. “How about if I call you Sergeant Major no matter what capacity you’re operating in?”
“I should be most pleased, sir.” It was becoming increasingly clear to Chauncy he was going to have his hands full whipping young Major Randal into shape vis-à-vis the gentleman-to-gentleman’s-gentleman relationship. He would not want the major to embarrass himself around the other servants. “I have always considered you as my C.O.”
“Oh! Okay . . . that’s good.”
“By the way, sir, Lady Seaborn’s automobile has turned into the drive.”
“Sergeant Major,” Major Randal continued, ignoring him, “it says in the paper here the Battle of Britain has ended. And it says while the battle was in progress, the Luftwaffe tried to make ‘a flaming desert out of the 692 square miles of Greater London.’ I don’t get it; those were German bombers we heard flying over last night, weren’t they?”
“Yes sir.”
“What do they mean, then, that the Battle of Britain is over?”
“The Jerries have given up continuous bombing during the daylight hours, sir. Mr. Churchill said it was not the end, or even the beginning of the end, but it may be the end of the beginning, or something like that, sir.”
“I see,” Major Randal mused. “Who won?”
“We did, sir.”
“Flaming desert, do you think that’s a typo? Deserts don’t flame. I’ve seen a flaming drink—”
“Sir, there is someone with Lady Seaborn.”
Major Randal struggled out of the deep leather chair and walked to the window overlooking the circular drive. The Rolls Royce was just coming to a stop. The household staff was lined up on the drive. They looked cold out there.
First out of the Rolls was Brandy Seaborn, dressed like a member of the women’s auxiliary of the Russian Cossack Cavalry. She was wearing a full-length golden mink coat, a matching mink Cossack hat, impeccably cut jodhpurs, and highly polished riding boots—Bloods from the look of them. She definitely got his vote for all-time greatest-looking mother of a Royal Navy officer.
Captain Lady Seaborn and Royal Marine Plum-Martin both were dressed identically except for variations in the shade of mink (mahogany and platinum, respectively) and their Royal Marine blouses. Mink Marines.
Something was wrong with this picture. Major Randal could not put his finger on it, but he felt the faint ding of an alarm bell cook off. The women were moving with a purpose. He noted that the shade of their minks matched their hair colors.
“Sergeant Major, you better find me some place to hide.”
“Why ever should you want to do that, sir?”
“Brandy Seaborn is probably coming here to do me in for nearly getting Randy and the commodore rubbed out on the same night. Those women look awfully serious about something. Whatever happens, no matter what, don’t say a word about Terry and Randy going off together. That’s on a ‘need to know only’ basis. Randy’s mother definitely does not have any need to know.”
“My thoughts precisely, sir.”
Major Randal added, “I wish I had gone with them.”
He plopped back down into the leather bat-winged chair to await the ladies. “Do you know Colonel Bevins?”
“Who, sir?”
“Jane’s uncle—Colonel John Henry Bevins.”
“I have met him, sir. Dignified gentleman, very likable; the staff seems to get on with him. He is a big sportsman. Fisherman, I believe.”
“I’m going to need a briefing on the Hertfordshires before I leave for dinner this evening, Sergeant Major.”
“The Hertfordshires, sir?”
“John Henry’s regiment. He won the Military Cross serving with them during the last war. I’ll need something to talk about at dinner.”
Major Randal opened the London Times. The banner headline blared, “ENEMY SHIPS CAPTURED, U-BOAT SUNK.”
According to the article, three enemy merchant ships had been captured at sea somewhere off the coast of West Africa by a squadron of Royal Navy corvettes under the command of Commodore Richard Seaborn, RN, OBE, while on routine antisubmarine duty. The only available photo of Commodore Seaborn was an earlier one taken when he was still wearing the uniform of a staff commander.
Commodore Seaborn, the article went on, had boarded one of the three prize ships to inspect it when a German U-boat surfaced nearby. Immediately the intrepid, quick-thinking commodore sprang into action, took over the helm of the prize vessel, the German merchant raider Ems, and in a spectacular show of incredible seamanship, heroically rammed and sank the enemy submarine, U-237, sending it to the bottom with all hands.
All three of the captured ships had previously been interned in the Portuguese protectorate of Rio Bonita. Commodore Seaborn speculated the three ships’ crews had “grown weary of internment and mutinied.” He stated there was evidence that led him to believe the escape had been “carefully orchestrated to coincide with a time most of the ships’ officers were away at a party ashore.”
The captain of the Ems, captured on board, had received a minor head injury possibly inflicted during the mutiny, when the crew took over the ship and took him hostage. He was not being cooperative with authorities. It was not immediately known if the Ems skipper had been part of the plot or had merely returned early from the party and been swept up in the mutiny. Commodore Seaborn was reported as being convinced there was a possibility the escape was the result of detailed advanced planning; he believed the rendezvous with the U-237 in international waters outside San Pedro’s three-mile limit could not have been accidental.
An American stamp collector who had been visiting the island the evening of the ships’ breakout, Mr. Joe McKoy of Flagstaff, Arizona, was quoted as saying, “Everything had been real quiet,” but went on to add that a taxi driver told him, “there had been rumors floating around the water-front the crews were tired of being cooped up and might try to bust out.”
Radio Berlin was claiming British Commandos had boarded the ships in a neutral harbor and spirited them away. Lord Haw-Haw branded the action as an “act of piracy” on his nightly German radio propaganda show. Portugal was demanding the immediate return of the three ships to San Pedro. Mussolini was furious.
The British Admiralty scoffed at the German claim, adding, “As for returning the three prizes, there are no plans to do so since they were captured on the high seas outside San Pedro’s territorial waters.”
Commodore Seaborn was to be awarded a decoration for his heroic actions.
“Outstanding,” Major Randal said approvingly. The article was a neat piece of misinformation. Lieutenant Colonel Dudley Clarke, Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming, and Jim “Baldie” Taylor were obviously hard at work covering Raiding Forces’ tracks. He wondered if they were actually fooling anyone—apparently neither the Germans, the Italians, nor the Portuguese.
Suddenly the three women thundered into his room. Major Randal looked over the top of his newspaper with some degree of trepidation.
‘Hi,” he said. Clearly the trio was not on a purely social call.
“John,” Captain Lady Seaborn announced breathlessly, “we located the target you have been searching for all these months.”
“Really? And what might that be?”
“A pub located in a secluded village on the French Coast, right on the water’s edge, where German pilots go drinking at the end of the day’s flying.”
“No kidding.” Major Randal put down the newspaper. He sat up straight.
“SOE has an agent in the place who sent a report there is to be a squadron party this very night.”
“Show me.”