Gordon Somerfield was the first uniformed S.O.E. man I’d ever met. He was lean, looked fit and although he was obviously busy, he gave us his time immediately. The three crowns on his red epaulettes gave his rank as Captain.
“What can I do for you both?”
Trezeguet spoke first. “Is it a raid, sir, or are we staying?”
Somerfield smiled. “Straight to the point, eh? I like that.” He settled back in his chair. “This is a raid. We’re to be here for three days. However, if we meet with little or no opposition, we could be re-enforced. The Canadians are sick of the Aussies and Kiwi’s getting all the glory in North Africa, they wanted to get their feet wet, so-to-speak. That and big-boy Stalin wanted a second front to take some pressure off his retreat. If we’re successful, we’ll be bolstered by another 6000 troops in a day or two. We’re kind of feeling the French out, so to speak.” He grinned widely. “See if they have the will to fight.”
“There’s a French base at Port Lyautey, sir.” I said. “They’re more on the ball than those here, you’d be well advised to set up some kind of perimeter to the north.”
He opened a thin folder, flipped through a few pages until he came to a map. “Ah, that’s the Yanks’ problem.”
“The Americans are here?” I could hardly believe it.
Somerfield nodded, lifting up his eyes from the map. I could see six circles on the Moroccan coastline. “The Americans have the beachhead to the north, the Free French are north of them. The Canadians and British Commandoes have three landing zones; here, obviously and two to the south. The whole thing’s called Operation Dandelion.”
“How’s it going here, sir?” I asked.
“Minimal resistance; we’ve taken a hundred or so prisoners, most of them Frenchies wanting to switch sides. I’m not a bit surprised.”
I wondered how much resistance the Americans would meet at Port Lyautey. “Have you encountered any armour?”
Somerfield shook his head. “Jerry incorporated all the heavy stuff into the Italian Army when the balloon went up years ago. They’re pretty much depleted now.”
“So the big plan?”
“Well, I’m not in the big loop, old chap, but I’d say if the operation’s a success, we’ll get ourselves organized, run over Algeria, and kick Rommel in the backside.” He laughed, and we followed his lead.
“I’m looking for a favor, sir,” I needed to get my cards firmly on the table.
“Whatever you need.”
I liked that phrase. “Well, I need to get back to Blighty, well, Edinburgh to be precise. I was promised it by Sewell in Gibraltar. And Auchinleck too, actually.”
“Hmm…” he scratched his baby-smooth chin. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s all a bit up in the air right now, but after a few days, we’ll know which way the wind’s blowing.”
I could see that. “Okay, sir. Any chance of a side-arm? I feel pretty naked without one.”
“That one’s easy,” Somerfield said, and showed us to one of the back rooms full of captured guns and ammunition. I chose a German Luger; I had always liked the pistol generally, and it fitted with my cover story.
We made our way back to my hotel, and found Rupert a room there. Unsurprisingly the three newly-arrived Germans had fled the scene, freeing up some bedrooms. Once there, I settled down to wait.
Two days later, new troops marched through the town, with a full brass band; French Foreign Legion, making a great show of returning to Morocco. I sought out Somerfield again, only to find he’d been moved to the French Army base outside of town. I hitched a ride in a Canadian truck, and jumped off when he slowed down. Waving my thanks to the driver, I walked to the guardhouse.
“Hello Corporal, I’m looking for Captain Somerfield, Intelligence.”
The soldier looked perplexed. “Can’t say I’ve heard the name.” he conferred with a sergeant inside, who came to the same conclusion. In desperation, he directed me to the command center, one of the few buildings on the base, the rest being tents.
I got pushed from one department to the next with little success. Some of them knew Somerfield, but none had seen him at the camp, only in town.
By now my frustration was legion. Livid, I cadged a lift back into Rabat, making for the railway station. If the British Army couldn’t get me back home, I was determined to get there by myself. Buying a ticket for Tangier, I returned to the hotel to find Trezeguet also gone. A note had been slipped under my room door.
Looks like I’ve been transferred to a scouting unit. I’m off into the desert to help this rag-tag mob kick Rommel’s backside. Have a great trip home.
Ken.
He’d also left me an envelope containing a fair bit of cash too. Nice guy.
But it did mean I had two options; I could carry on with my train ride, or see what was going on in the harbor. Since it was only early afternoon, I chose the latter.
Compared to its lazy days, the wharf was now a maelstrom of activity. I assumed that with it not being a deep water anchorage, the main armour was being off-loaded on a nearby beach, but here in Rabat, manpower, supplies and ammunition were coming into the town in spades.
I didn’t know where to start, the wharf was covered with men dressed in desert khaki, and everyone seemed far too busy to interrupt. In the end I chose one sergeant, and simply asked.
“Is there any vessel going north, Gibraltar?”
“Don’t know.” He said, looking up from his clipboard. “Bugger off, I’m busy.”
And there lay my problem. I tried several times to get some credibility, but while I found my swarthy bearded look was fine for undercover work, it was terrible for getting any kind of response from military types. I retired to the hotel in deep disappointment, wallowed in two bottles of French wine, and retired.
I awoke in the sunlight of a desert morning, my head a bit the worse for wear. After a light breakfast, I packed my meager belongings and made for the railway station.
Uniformed guards stood outside, and I waited in line until I got to the front. “Baird, British Intelligence.” I said, my German passport in my hand, but not handing it over.
“Papers?” A lance corporal asked, hardly paying attention.
I held my passport for him to see. “Eric Volland?”
“That’s what my passport says, but I’m actually in British Intelligence.”
“Yeah, and I’m the King’s bloody nephew.” He swept his head to alert the other guards. “This one’s a Jerry, take him to Captain Clark,”
“Corporal, I’m going to miss my train…” My protest was cut short by a blow to my stomach, and I doubled over, my small suitcase falling to the ground. I felt my arm tugged, and I was dragged back the way I came. Damn the whole thing.
I wanted to use my training to hammer seven bells out of him, but darn it, my escort was on my side. “I’m trying to tell you…”
“Belt up Fritz, or you’ll get another.” I walked along the road, letting myself be pulled by the arm.
Captain Clark was an older version of Somerfield, except his arm badges showed him to be a member of the Saskatchewan Light Infantry. “Intelligence, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” My passport lay open on his desk. “I’m trying to get back to Gibraltar, then back to Scotland.”
Well, he was suspicious, but he did ask the right questions, so he wasn’t stupid. Half an hour later, I was down in the docks, climbing onto a landing craft. Boy, those things bounce a bit. The flat-bottomed vessel was okay in the bay, and even out onto the river basin, but out onto the sea, it buffeted me around like a single pea in a can. I was glad to get to its parent ship; a corvette of the Canadian Navy.
Two days later I got off in Gibraltar.
I sought Sewell out immediately, finding him in the same place we’d first met, a gentleman’s club, in the center of town. “Why the hell did I not get picked up?” I stood above him.
Slowly he lowered his newspaper, ignoring my lousy attitude. “Why if it isn’t James Baird.”
“You left me high and dry.” I pressed.
“And yet you’re here, safe and sound.” He smiled, and I can’t say that the action took away any of the anger and frustration I felt.
“Where’s our ride home?” I said, almost snarling at him.
He folded his newspaper and laid it carefully to one side. Then, in a movement far more fluid than his corpulent figure should have been able to manage, he rose and walked to the window. “There she is.”
There were five ships in the vicinity of his pointed finger, and I told him so.
“H.M.N.Z.S. Otago, she’s the smaller one nearest to us. She leaves tomorrow, at first light.”
“And she’s going to Scotland?”
“Well, she’s actually going to Ireland, dropping some men off the coast of Galway. You’ll have to make your own way from there.”
“We’ll take it.” I said, hoping my enthusiasm might make him feel contrite about leaving me in Rabat for weeks.
“You’ll take it.” He corrected me. “Your dad’s already on his way home. Probably he’s already there, he left six, seven days ago.”
I glared at him, then turned my back and left the club; I hoped I’d never see the odious man again. I prayed dad had made it home, or at least was having better luck with his travelling arrangements than me.
I took no chance in missing the berth. I made my way directly to the port, introduced myself to the ship’s captain, Commander Belton, and got onboard. “Your other cloak and dagger boys are already stowed away.”
On poking my head into their berth, to my surprise, I saw Siggy, and we embraced like lost brothers.
“This is my best friend, from Camp X.” He announced to the five other men in the detail, and they all introduced themselves. It turned out that Siggy and I were the only ones to have been to STS 103, the rest having been trained in Palestine.
“So you’re off to Ireland?” I asked. My question was met with questioning stares.
“Sicily,” Siggy replied, a frown on his face.
“What?” I could feel my temper rising like a volcano. “That bastard, Sewell.” I stormed off to find the captain, eager to get the misunderstanding sorted out. There was still time to go into Gibraltar, find Sewell, and knock him around a bit.
Commander Belton was doing checks on depth charges. “Commander, I have a question to ask.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You’re going to Ireland, right?”
He looked a little uncomfortable. “Yes, well, in a round-about way.”
“How round-about?”
“Well, I’m dropping the cloak-and-dagger boys on Sicily, then off to Malta. I pick more up in Malta, then Ireland.”
I could only manage a ‘thank you’, and stalked away, madder than hell. Sewell hadn’t lied, he had just twisted the truth… seems he had a habit of doing that concerning me. I swore that if we ever met again, my greeting would have something physical thrown in just for good measure.