Toby walked over to one of the filing cabinets in his office at the new base at RAF Harrington. The airbase was ideal for Carpetbagger operations, as it was near enough to RAF Tempsford for liaison, and not too far from the main supply bases at Cheddington in Buckinghamshire and Holme in Cambridgeshire. Toby poured out two glasses of Scotch and gave one to his sergeant.
They clinked glasses.
‘To the poor sods,’ Toby said, his face grim.
‘Aye, may they rest in peace,’ Sergeant MacLeod added.
The two men each took a large mouthful, hoping the burning amber liquid would give them a little respite from the terrible news that had just come through: hundreds of American soldiers had died whilst carrying out a large-scale military practice assault, a rehearsal for the planned invasion of Normandy. The exercise, code-named Operation Tiger, had taken place over the last few days at Slapton Sands in Devon, and had been an unmitigated disaster.
Earlier, coordination and communication problems had led to deaths from friendly fire, but then yesterday an Allied convoy of eight US landing craft on their way to shore were attacked by nine German E-boats, resulting in the sinking of two of the LTCs.
An initial count of the dead was over seven hundred, with around another two hundred injured.
‘What a bloody mess!’ Toby spat the words out.
Sergeant MacLeod shook his head in disbelief at what he’d just heard.
‘Obviously, it’s been buried,’ Toby said. ‘There’s no way this can become public knowledge.’ He had been told this by his SOE superior, who had passed on the information an hour earlier.
‘Och aye, nee way,’ the sergeant nodded.
‘All of the survivors have been sworn to secrecy. They’re worried about potential leaks.’
‘Aye. Never mind the embarrassment.’
They were quiet for a moment.
‘And to make matters worse, it sounds like they hadn’t had the proper training.’ Toby’s eyes widened. ‘They didn’t even know how to put their life jackets on properly.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Sergeant MacLeod said, shaking his head again in disbelief.
Toby took a sip of his drink. ‘Which is why so many of the poor sods died. Drowned or died of hypothermia while they were waiting to be rescued … HMS Opportune did manage to engage – good job she was there.’
‘Aye, good job, but a shame she couldn’t get the bastards,’ Sergeant MacLeod said through pursed lips.
The men spoke about the repercussions of the disastrous operation, how the Axis powers would know they were nearly ready to invade, never mind the loss of the tank landing craft. Shockingly, ten American officers from the 1st Engineer Special Brigade, who had sensitive information and top-secret knowledge of the invasion, were missing. There was talk of calling off the invasion until the bodies of all ten were found, as well as any papers they might have been carrying.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sergeant MacLeod muttered, lighting up a cigarette.
The two men carried on talking for a good while until, finally, exhausted by talk of warmongering and death – especially lives that need not have been lost – the subject turned, as it customarily did, to matters of the heart.
‘Are yer gonna pop the questions to ya sweetheart then?’ Sergeant MacLeod asked.
Toby nodded. ‘I was going to hang fire until this damned war’s won, but after everything that’s happened today, well, it just makes me think, why wait?’
‘Will ya be able to get up there any time soon?’
‘God only knows,’ Toby said, taking another swig of his whisky. ‘But the first chance I get, I’m off.’
‘She’s definitely the girl for you then?’
‘Oh, yes, she’s one in a million, she really is.’ Toby smiled for the first time since he’d taken the call and been told the news. ‘You not got anyone waiting for you at home?’
Sergeant MacLeod shook his head. ‘But that’s not to say I haven’t my eye on someone here,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile.
Toby looked at his sergeant and had a good idea it was their secretary, Miss Sterling, but he knew his sergeant would never admit it until his affections had, hopefully, been returned.
They both drank in silence. It was late, which didn’t necessarily mean it was quiet on the base. Many of their drops happened at night to avoid detection, so the place was often a hive of activity into the early hours. Tonight, though, the moon was waning and so most had either taken to their beds to catch up on some sleep, or had slipped into town for a few drinks and a Saturday-night dance at the local village hall.
When both their glasses were empty, Toby sloshed another generous amount into each before screwing the top back on and pulling out his drawer to put it away, hoping that next time he got it out, it would be for celebratory reasons.
As he laid it flat, he saw the pile of envelopes that had arrived the previous week. An agent returning from a reconnaissance of the beaches that stretched along the Normandy coast had brought them back along with some invaluable intelligence and photographs. Toby took a sip of his whisky and shut the drawer, saying a silent prayer that Peter’s letter, as well as all those from other operatives in the occupied zone, would never see the light of day.