13

Major Pountney covertly watched his general’s face as Pountney’s chosen elite for No. 2 Special Boat Section demonstrated their latest skills on the chilly October waters of the Firth of Clyde off Ardrossan-Saltcoats. The section had officially come into being the previous March and was now fully operational.

‘You seem to have done a good job of collecting as fine a bunch of hooligans as I’ve ever laid my eyes on,’ Laycock said as they were driven back to the officers’ mess after the demonstration. Pountney knew the commander of the Special Service Brigade well by now. ‘Hooligans’ was a term he used sparingly, for it was one of praise.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘How do you do it?’

The guard at the gate presented arms smartly and the other raised the barrier and saluted. Laycock acknowledged them by saluting briefly.

‘Select the right men and let them get on with it,’ Pountney replied promptly. ‘Choose your other ranks with more care than you would a wife and keep them in the picture as to what is going on as much as you can. I won’t tolerate creepers. I don’t allow petty charges to be brought against any man. If he’s no good, I return him to his regiment pronto. Above all, I make sure I’m accessible to my officers and men at all times. I’m Daddy. If anyone has to be bawled out, I let my second in command do it. It seems to work.’

‘I’m told,’ said Laycock, the amusement he felt showing in his voice, ‘that you have a notice on your desk saying . . . well, what does it say exactly?’

‘"Are you tough?"’ Pountney quoted promptly. ‘"If so get out. I need buggers with intelligence."’

Laycock laughed. ‘I like that. Very good, very good indeed, Roger.’ He paused and went on more seriously: ‘I’m glad you’ve found them, as we’re going to be needing them before this war is won.’

Laycock’s staff car drew up by the steps of the officers’ mess, one of the smaller stately homes which had been requisitioned for the duration. All the officers who were sitting in the ante-room rose to their feet as Laycock entered, but he immediately waved them back into their armchairs and approached the bar.

‘Two large pink gins,’ he said to the barman, then turned to Pountney. ‘It seems to me, Roger, that the new section works very well together. Most of them came from No. 6 Commando. Am I right?’

Pountney nodded, added a modicum of water to the pink tincture in his glass, raised it to Laycock in thanks, and swallowed most of it in one gulp. The warmth of the near-neat gin fuelled the glow inside him which had been caused by Laycock’s words of praise. Now, at last, he was pretty sure the General was going to tell him what was in store for the new SBS unit.

But if this was so, Laycock was in no hurry to raise the matter. Instead he asked with genuine curiosity: ‘You say you choose your men with care?’

Pountney drained his glass and the General signalled to the barman to refill their glasses. ‘I do, sir. If I can, I choose ex-bandsmen.’

Laycock’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good God. Why?’

‘It’s their training, sir,’ Pountney explained. ‘They have to march and counter-march while playing an instrument and reading their music. They also have to watch their feet to make sure they don’t run into the musician ahead of them. Doing so many different things at once makes them excellent marksmen, as that’s what you have to do when you’re firing any weapon, as you know. Align the foresight, the backsight, and the target. It makes them nimble, too.’

Laycock laughed. ‘Any other favourites?’

‘I look out for anyone with Boy Scout training, as they’ve been taught self-reliance. They’re also taught to look carefully and to move quietly.’

‘And?’

‘If I can, I recruit the studious, artistic type,’ said Pountney promptly. ‘He is infinitely better than the swaggering, tough individual who can usually only display his toughness in pubs. You’ve got to be super-sensitive and alert if you’re going to land successfully on enemy-occupied coastlines.’

‘From what I’ve seen this morning, Roger, you’ve chosen well.’

Laycock paused as if making up his mind to say something. Pountney knew better than to prompt him. He waited in silence. Outside, on the parade-ground, he could hear the drill sergeant shouting at the Special Service Brigade’s latest batch of recruits. Laycock emptied his glass, indicated that Pountney should do the same, and said: ‘Let’s take a stroll outside, shall we?’

A cold, autumnal, north-westerly wind blew in off the Firth. Pountney turned up the collar of his greatcoat as they walked briskly around the edge of the parade-ground.

‘I’m under pressure to regularize the Special Boat Sections,’ Laycock said abruptly. ‘They’re neither fish nor fowl as far as the Admiralty and the War Office are concerned. The Admiralty seems to be winning the argument for your lot to be absorbed into the Royal Marines. What’s your view on that?’

‘May I be frank, sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘Bugger that, sir.’

Laycock laughed. ‘I thought you might not agree.’

He turned to look at Pountney and his face became grave. ‘But we have a war to fight, Roger, you know that. Personal preferences have to be put aside. Becoming part of the Marines would mean the survival of the SBS. If such an integration is opposed, then you could be disbanded before your section has even seen action.’

Pountney hesitated. ‘What about No. 1 SBS?’

Laycock shrugged. ‘One of life’s little ironies, I’m afraid. Ayton’s a Marine but it looks as if Stirling and his SAS outfit are about to put in a take-over bid.’

Fuck the lot of them, Pountney thought. But he said: ‘Put like that, sir, I have no alternative.’

Laycock smiled. ‘Good man. I shall report back that you concur. No point in getting up their nostrils. However, between ourselves I have every intention of hanging on to your section for the immediate future, as I want to use them for cross-Channel raiding.’

‘Sounds interesting, sir,’ Pountney said eagerly.

‘But I am sending you back to the Med, Roger.’

‘Into the arms of my old mate Stirling, sir?’

Laycock shook his head. ‘No. I’ve been asked to provide three reliable SBS officers for an important clandestine mission. I want you to be one of them. Do you have a good man to take command of the section here?’

‘Yes. Captain Montanaro. My number two.’

‘Chap who sunk that freighter in Boulogne harbour in April?’

‘That’s him, sir.’

‘Good. I’ll have a chat with him in due course, but it’s your role I want to tell you about. So far as I can.’

They left the edge of the parade-ground and took the path to the seashore. The north wind sharpened.

‘It won’t have escaped your notice that a large number of American troops have arrived here and in Northern Ireland during the last few months.’

Pountney nodded. It hadn’t. You’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know the Yanks had arrived. Having the Yanks here made one wish one was deaf, dumb and blind. The local female talent was the best source of information about them.

‘They’re commanded by a chap called Eisenhower. Heard of him?’

Pountney shook his head.

‘He’s tough and he’s bright. And he’s got a grin that even Brooke, who’s no admirer of the Americans, admits is worth a couple of divisions.’

Pountney knew Laycock was referring to Field Marshal Brooke: the Chief of the Imperial General Staff – the head of the British Army – the chairman of the British Chiefs of Staff, and Churchill’s right-hand man. Laycock was certainly moving in exalted circles, Pountney thought, but he knew Laycock wasn’t a name-dropper; he didn’t need to be. He knew that the General, without breaking any of the ground rules about secrecy, was trying to give him some background to whatever it was he was going to tell him.

Laycock paused on the path and looked straight at Pountney. ‘I had to get you the highest security clearance to tell you this, but I insisted you knew, as naturally I must give you the opportunity to volunteer for the job that needs doing. There’s going to be an invasion by Allied troops somewhere in the Mediterranean shortly.’

‘Somewhere?’

Pountney couldn’t help echoing the word. The Mediterranean was a large place.

‘Somewhere,’ Laycock repeated firmly. ‘I can’t give you more details than that. But the job is a top-secret operation which entails ferrying ashore a group of high-ranking American officers by folbot. They will, hopefully, negotiate terms with the French military authorities so that the invasion will be unopposed.’

That narrowed the options and Pountney’s mind raced through the likely places. There was the southern half of France, which was under Marshal Pétain’s Vichy regime, which collaborated with the Germans; but there were also the French colonies of Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia in North Africa.

Pountney was well aware that what Laycock had told him was pure dynamite.

‘Who do I do this with, sir?’ he asked cautiously as they resumed walking towards the shore.

‘That’s up to you. They’ll have to come from No. 1 Section. You can choose them, but they must be officers and they must be utterly discreet. Any ideas?’

‘Ayton, for one,’ Pountney said immediately.

‘But he’s a Royal Marine, Roger,’ Laycock said jokingly. ‘I know what you think about Marines.’

‘There are always exceptions, sir.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. He helped pull off an invaluable task for us in the summer by indulging in a little kidnapping. Who else?’

Pountney thought for a moment, then said: ‘Bob Harmon would be ideal. He’s a strong paddler and he’s as cool as they come. He’s a Marine, too, but he knows how to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Good. So you’ll do it?’

Pountney misunderstood. ‘You mean, arrange their transfer, sir?’

Laycock gave Pountney an amused look. ‘No, Roger. I’ll arrange that. You won’t be speaking to anyone until you arrive at Gibraltar tomorrow night.’

Pountney whistled. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘I meant, you’ll volunteer?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Pountney felt momentarily aggrieved that the General felt it necessary to ask. But Laycock was punctilious in following the rules. He had already asked too many men to go on operations from which they had never returned.

‘Your batman has had orders to pack all your belongings. They’ll be at RAF Leuchars by the time you arrive there. A Liberator is on stand-by to fly you straight out. Ah, here we are.’

The path petered out by the coastal road. A little way down the road Pountney saw a jeep and a dun-coloured staff car drawn up behind it. The jeep was full of Military Police, their red caps and blanco standing out against the olive green of their vehicle.

A lieutenant in battledress with a revolver strapped to his belt was leaning against the staff car. When he saw Laycock he jumped to attention and saluted. They crossed the road.

‘Here’s your charge, Merrick,’ Laycock said. ‘Major Pountney understands he is not to talk to anyone.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Laycock turned to Pountney and extended his hand. ‘Sorry, for the rush, Roger, and for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ He waved his hand apologetically towards the two vehicles and their armed occupants. ‘Is there any uncleared business you want me to deal with?’

Pountney grinned. ‘No, sir. My tailor is just going to have to wait a bit longer for his bill to be paid, that’s all.’

He shook Laycock’s hand, then saluted him. Laycock returned his salute, and said: ‘Good luck, Roger.’

The driver of the staff car held open the rear door. Pountney ducked his large frame into the back seat and the lieutenant slid in beside him. The car, preceded by the jeep, moved away smoothly and Pountney settled back and wondered what the hell it was all about.

‘How long is it going to take us to get to Leuchars?’ he asked his escort after they had driven in silence for ten minutes.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘but I am under the strictest orders not to allow you to talk to anyone. That includes me, sir.’

The autumn day faded. Darkness wrapped the countryside and the staff car’s shaded headlights just about picked out the rear of the jeep. Pountney’s training, to relax when you can – a lot of war is about hanging around waiting for something to happen – allowed him to stop his mind speculating on what he had let himself in for. He closed his eyes and slept until he was woken by a shake on his shoulder. He glanced at his watch. It was after ten o’clock.

‘We’re here, sir,’ said the lieutenant.

The airfield’s guard commander, a sergeant in the RAF Regiment, bent down and briefly shone a torch in Pountney’s face, then switched it to a piece of paper in his hand. He handed back the paper to the lieutenant through the car window and saluted.

‘I’ll give you an escort, sir. Corporal Stammers,’ he shouted. A corporal appeared out of the darkness and climbed into the staff car beside the driver.

‘Officers’ mess, Sarge?’ the corporal queried.

‘No. Hut B for these gentlemen.’

They drove round the airfield perimeter, past a line of hangars with the large, black outline of bombers parked outside them, and eventually reached a far corner where two Nissen huts stood side by side in the darkness.

Pountney climbed out and stretched as the RAF corporal fetched the officer in charge, who turned out to be an elderly captain in the Pay Corps. The lieutenant had a short conversation with him, saluted Pountney and drove off.

The reception room of Hut B, the larger of two, was empty. Blackout blinds covered all the windows, but otherwise it was surprisingly bright and cheerful. There was even a small bar and a gramophone playing jazz records the Americans had brought with them.

The Pay Corps captain introduced himself, offered Pountney a drink and said: ‘No flight tonight, I’m afraid. Bad storms coming in from the Atlantic. They’ll clear by dawn, so it will be an early start. I expect you’d like something to eat before turning in.’

Pountney found all his kit in his room. He sorted out what he thought he might want to take with him and packed the rest in boxes that had been provided.

It was still pitch-black when he was wakened, given eggs and bacon, and driven to the Liberator B-24 bomber, easily identifiable by its twin tailfins, which was standing at the end of the runway with its four engines warming up. Pountney found he was the only passenger, though there was a lot of cargo.

The Liberator’s engines bellowed into a deafening roar and the whole fuselage shook as it began trundling down the runway. It gathered speed and lifted off, climbed right into the first glimmers of dawn, gained height over the North Sea, then turned to head south-west.

It was a long, tedious journey, broken only by coffee from a vacuum flask which one of the crew brought to him, and by the invitation of the pilot to visit the cockpit. But there wasn’t much to see except the tops of the storm clouds and Pountney soon returned to his seat. Later the clouds began to break up and eventually he saw, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight, the Rock of Gibraltar, the only foothold the Allies had retained in Europe.

Pountney had never landed on Gibraltar’s airstrip, but it had a fearsome reputation, as there was little room for error. However, the Liberator pilot touched down right at the start of the strip and had plenty of time to stop before he ran out of runway. He turned and taxied to the concrete apron which lay right under the shadow of the Rock.

Pountney climbed out of the bomber just as a staff car drew up alongside it. A naval commander in white drill shirt and shorts jumped out and shook his hand. ‘Roger Pountney, I presume. I’m David Garnett.’

Pountney gestured to the mass of aircraft that were assembled in every corner of the airstrip. There were row upon row of them.

‘What goes on?’

‘Something big,’ said Garnett. ‘Very big. You’ll hear soon enough.’

They drove through the town with its yellow stone buildings and crowded pavements, and down to the harbour. This was packed, too, with warships of all sizes. Freighters, moored alongside one another, crammed the wharves. Barrage balloons floated in the blue sky above this extraordinary armada. Beyond the confines of the vast harbour with its stone piers lay the curve of neutral Spain’s Ceuta Bay.

‘Where to, sir?’ the driver glanced over his shoulder.

‘The Maidstone,’ said Garnett. He turned to Pountney. ‘Depot ship for the Eighth Submarine Flotilla,’ he explained.

HMS Maidstone was an old freighter which had seen better days. Even the Navy, with its reputation for keeping everything spick and span, seemed to have given up on her. She was moored to a quay and on her outboard side lay three submarines which Pountney immediately recognized as identical to the ones he had operated with the previous year.

‘Some out on patrol?’ he asked, knowing a full flotilla consisted of twelve submarines.

Garnett shook his head, but did not elaborate. They walked up the gangway, acknowledged the salute of the Marine sentry and went below to the wardroom, which had been turned into a temporary conference room. A trestle-table covered in a baize cloth stretched the length of the room. Otherwise it was empty except for three lieutenants standing by the bar, whom Garnett introduced as being the captains of the three submarines which lay alongside.

Garnett bought drinks all round, then said: ‘Roger was asking where the other subs are.’

The oldest-looking of the three lieutenants, Jack Jewall, smiled wryly through his luxuriant black beard. ‘Have you not heard our little rhyme for the S Class?’

Pountney shook his head.

‘Twelve little S-boats searching earth and heaven,’ quoted the youngest lieutenant, who looked hardly more than a schoolboy. ‘Starfish goes a bit too far – then there were eleven.’

‘Eleven watchful S-boats doing fine and then,’ Jewall intoned, ‘Seahorse fails to answer – so there are ten.’

‘Ten stocky S-boats in a ragged line,’ Garnett chimed in. ‘Starlet drops out of sight – leaving us nine.’

‘Nine plucky S-boats all pursuing fate,’ said the third lieutenant, who looked as if he never spoke much. ‘Shark is overtaken – now we are eight.’

There was a pause and Pountney said: ‘Is that it?’

‘No,’ said the Commander. ‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Eight sturdy S-boats – men from Hants and Devon, Salmon now is overdue – and so the number’s seven.’

‘Seven gallant S-boats trying all their tricks,’ said the schoolboy lieutenant. ‘Spearfish tries a newer one – down we come to six.’

‘Six tireless S-boats fighting to survive.’ They were taking it in turn now, building up the litany of destruction into a kind of chant. ‘No reply from Swordfish – so we tally five.’

‘Five scrubby S-boats patrolling close inshore. Snapper takes a short cut – now we are four.’

Everyone paused for breath at this point, but then a voice behind them said: ‘Four fearless S-boats too far out to sea. Sunfish bombed and scrap-heaped – we are only three.’

Pountney turned round. A tall, cadaverous, balding officer with a lot of gold on his epaulettes stood in the wardroom doorway. Everyone sprang to their feet.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you chaps,’ said the Captain after he had been introduced to Pountney by Garnett as Barney Hawkes, the Captain SM Eighth Flotilla. ‘What do you think of our little ditty?’

‘An exaggeration, I hope,’ Pountney said.

‘Sadly not,’ said Hawkes gravely. ‘The Med’s not the ideal place in which to operate a sub. The water’s too clear, it’s too shallow, and the enemy’s airfields are too close for comfort. I know you’ve lost men in some of those submarines.’

Pountney nodded. Besides the two lost in the Salmon, he knew that Bailey and Davidson had not returned from a routine submarine patrol earlier in the year. And only the previous week he had been told that the experienced and reliable Tim Robertson and his paddler were missing after taking part in an operation off Sardinia in which their submarine had been reported sunk by Italian destroyers.

Hawkes tossed back his drink and said: ‘Well, we’d better get down to it before the Yanks arrive.’

Two of the lieutenants took that as a signal to leave. Jewall stayed behind and seated himself next to Hawkes, who slapped a thick file on to the baize-covered table and indicated that Pountney should take one of the chairs opposite him.

Hawkes asked Pountney how much he knew, and when Pountney told him, he said: ‘I can’t add much at this point except to say that the landings will be in French North Africa and that it is an American operation, though British troops and ships are involved.’

‘Why American?’ Pountney asked.

‘Oran,’ Hawkes replied. ‘That’s why. We want to avoid fighting if possible. If the French Navy knew it was a British operation it would fight to the last man and the last ship. Need I say more?’

Pountney recalled his fracas with the French naval officer in Beirut, and shook his head.

‘"He that is not with me is against me,"’ he quoted inscrutably.

Hawkes raised bushy eyebrows. ‘Very profound, Major. I hope you’re not given to spouting too many Biblical quotations.’

‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth,’ Pountney added. ‘Hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’

The two naval officers looked at Pountney doubtfully.

‘Just giving you the SBS philosophy, that’s all.’

Hawkes coughed into his hand; Jewall tried to hide his smile.

‘Quite,’ said Hawkes. There was a pause, then Hawkes said: ‘Jack here will be taking you across in the Seraph. He had three folbots of the latest design delivered to him this morning.’

‘How will we know where to land?’ Pountney asked.

‘Tony Eden did a submarine recce two nights ago and made sketches of the area. It’s a lonely beach at a place called Messelmoun, about twelve miles west of Cherchell and seventy-five miles west of Algiers. You know Tony, of course.’

Pountney nodded. He had not seen Eden since he had reconnoitred that possible landing beach on Rhodes with him the previous year. It seemed a long time ago now. Since then Eden had made great strides in forming the Combined Operations Pilotage Parties – known to everyone by their initials COPP – whose purpose was to survey landing beaches and guide the invasion forces on to them. This had been one of the original purposes of the SBS, but Pountney had been glad to relinquish it for more active pursuits such as blowing up railway lines and attacking enemy airfields and shipping.

As Hawkes finished speaking there was a knock on the wardroom door and Eden entered carrying a large folder. There were greetings all round, then Eden spread out a long strip of paper on the table, a pencil sketch of the shore where Pountney was to land.

‘The powers that be wouldn’t let me go ashore,’ said Eden. ‘This is the best I could do.’

The sketch was remarkably detailed and neat, considering it had had to be assembled from looking at the coastline through a periscope. It showed a lonely stretch of beach with a solitary two-storey villa in the middle, half hidden from the sea by tall pine trees. The house was labelled simply ‘white with red roof’.

‘No beach gradients?’ Pountney asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He knew Eden could not have obtained beach gradients without leaving the submarine.

‘I have aerials,’ said Hawkes, producing a wad of photographs from his file and spreading them out on the table. ‘They’ll have to do. The pattern of the waves shows that there are no sand bars in front of the house.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Pountney, studying the prints closely. ‘I don’t want to land our precious cargo on a spit of sand a mile from shore.’

He could see that in front of the house the succession of waves produced a uniform, evenly spaced pattern. But to the right they became uneven before re-forming and breaking on the shore.

‘There’s a bar here,’ Pountney pointed out. ‘And another one on the left edge of this photograph. Not much margin for error.’

‘If we can get in near enough,’ said Jewall, ‘I can guarantee to drop you off in exactly the right spot.’

‘Can the Seraph get in close?’ Hawkes shot at Eden.

Eden nodded. ‘We got to within half a mile of the shore and there was plenty of water under us.’

‘You’ll need to get in much nearer than half a mile,’ said Pountney. ‘Remember, we’ll have passengers, not expert paddlers, with us.’

‘Let’s have a look at those aerials,’ said Jewall.

He thumbed through the photographs, studying them carefully, before handing them back. ‘They need expert analysis, but I’d say the distance between the waves shows that the seabed is sufficiently steep-to. If I had a long gangplank you could walk ashore.’

‘Good,’ said Hawkes. ‘That’s something settled.’

There was another knock on the door and a seaman entered with a signal which he handed to the Captain.

‘Something else that’s settled,’ Hawkes said to Pountney as he read it. ‘Your two colleagues will be here in an hour. A Catalina’s flying them in from Malta.’

‘Officer of the watch told me to inform you two staff cars approaching, sir,’ the seaman said, adding with some awe: ‘One of them’s the Admiral’s car, sir. The other’s the Governor’s.’

Hawkes stood up. ‘You must excuse me. I should be on the quarterdeck to greet them.’

‘Who’s the Admiral?’ Pountney asked Jewall when Hawkes had left them.

‘Vice Admiral Sir Frederick Edward Collins,’ Jewall replied. ‘Flag Admiral, North Atlantic station.’

‘And the Governor?’

‘General Sir Noel Mason-MacFarlane,’ said Garnett. ‘Headed the British Military Mission to Moscow until recently.’

Pountney whistled. Even he was impressed. ‘Big guns indeed. And where are the Yanks we’re meant to be delivering?’

‘They’ll be with them.’

The door opened and the three men waiting at the conference table stood to attention. Suddenly the wardroom was full of American accents, lots of gold braid and unfamiliar uniforms.

The Governor, easily distinguishable because he was in civilian clothes, said: ‘At ease, gentlemen. There will be no formalities. I want everyone to speak their mind.’

His aide-de-camp ushered the Americans to their seats. There were three of them, two Army officers and a Navy captain. The tallest Army officer – he stood literally head and shoulders above everyone else in the room – particularly caught Pountney’s attention. He was, Pountney could see from the two stars on his shirt lapel, a major-general. His long, oval face, youthful, vigorous and almost unlined, was dominated by a prominent hooked nose that had given him, Pountney soon learnt, the nickname ‘The Eagle’ from the British Prime Minister. His demeanour was patrician, almost regal.

The Governor, an amiable-looking man with a clipped moustache who was dressed in a tropical suit, sat at one end of the table. Hawkes sat at the other with Jewall and Pountney on either side of him. The Admiral took the chair on the Governor’s right. His flag lieutenant pulled out a notebook, ready to take notes.

‘We haven’t had time to brief our side,’ the Governor said to the American general. ‘Perhaps you could do so?’

‘Sure,’ said the General. ‘Gentleman, my name’s Clark. Mark Clark. I am General Eisenhower’s deputy for the upcoming operation, which has been given the code-name Torch. I have the authority to reveal to you that at this moment two large convoys of Allied troops are readying to sail, one from the United States, the other from Great Britain. Nearly seventy-five thousand troops in all. They will land simultaneously on the shores of Morocco and Algeria.’

A ripple of astonishment went round the table and Clark acknowledged it with a slight smile.

‘As you know, both countries are French colonies. They are defended by one hundred thousand fully armed and equipped French troops. If the operation is to be a success, it is essential that the landings are unopposed. I have been assigned to conduct the negotiations which will bring that about.’

Clark paused and the Governor smoothly intervened. ‘I think we should explain that the French are governed by agreements with the Germans that they will defend any French territory attacked by the Allies. If the French stand by these agreements there will be bloody fighting ashore, though there’s no doubt that, with our air superiority, we would prevail.’

Pountney was gripped by the enormity of what was being unfolded.

‘On the other hand,’ said Clark, ‘if the French fail to comply by fighting, Hitler will certainly occupy Vichy France. The whole country will then be under the Nazi jackboot.’

Heads I win, tails you lose, thought Pountney. Poor bloody Frogs, they were going to get it in the neck either way.

‘How do we know they’re willing to negotiate?’ Admiral Collins asked.

‘As you know, we still have diplomatic relations with the French,’ Clark replied. ‘The French Resistance in North Africa have been in touch with our people there. There is no doubt that elements of the French Army are prepared to back the Allies.’

‘At whatever cost?’

‘At whatever cost,’ Clark said quietly.

The silence that descended was profound. There was no one present who did not realize the gravity of what was being proposed. After a moment the Governor broke it by asking: ‘And who is the leader of these elements?’

‘General Mast, who commands the Algiers garrison,’ Clark replied. ‘He has pledged that his troops will not fight, provided a certain French general assumes control of all French forces in North Africa and announces they have joined the Allies.’

The Governor nodded. ‘I see. Is that General de Gaulle? As leader of the Free French, I assume he is mixed up in this somewhere?’

Clark shook his head. ‘Emphatically not. Most of the French Army regard him as a traitor who has flouted the authority of Marshal Pétain, the legitimate leader of France. De Gaulle knows nothing; nor will he until the landings have taken place.’

‘Who else is there?’

‘There is such a man,’ said Clark. ‘We have code-named him Kingpin. That’s all I can tell you at this moment.’

The Admiral grunted. ‘I hope he lives up to his code-name.’

‘So do we, Admiral,’ said Clark. ‘So do we.’

Another silence followed, which was again broken by the Governor. ‘That is the background. Now for the detail. First of all we need to know if we can we deliver the General and his colleagues to the rendezvous. Captain Hawkes?’

The Captain outlined the result of Eden’s reconnaissance and the availability of the submarine and of the SBS with folbots to take the party ashore.

‘So it’s a practicable proposition?’ the Governor asked.

Before Hawkes could reply, the Admiral intervened. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that one of my submarines should surface close to the enemy coastline during a three-quarter-moon period to deliver these officers ashore? It’s madness.’

A silence again descended on the conference. If an admiral said ‘no’ to an operation, that operation did not take place. It was as simple as that.

‘You must understand, Admiral,’ Clark said quietly, ‘that a lot of lives hang on the success of my mission.’

‘And I have the responsibility of protecting my men and my ships,’ the Admiral stated flatly. ‘Not to mention trying to protect the lives of valuable personnel belonging to the United States Army.’

The Governor looked at the faces on one side of the table and then at the other. Deadlock. He turned to the US naval officer sitting on Clark’s right.

‘Captain Wright?’

‘The Admiral’s right,’ the Captain said immediately. ‘Such an operation poses unjustifiable risks.’

‘So, if there was an American submarine available to mount such an operation, you would refuse permission?’

Wright shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I didn’t say that, exactly.’

The Governor had made his point, and he said quietly: ‘This operation has the highest political backing, gentlemen. The very highest. That is why I am chairing this meeting. It is not a military decision but a political one. I must know if it can be carried out by the Royal Navy. If the Royal Navy can’t do it, I must find another way.’

The Americans murmured their agreement. The Admiral sat back in his chair, his bluff face suffused with repressed anger. But when he spoke his words were soft and slow. ‘I hear what you’re saying. Then you must address your questions not to me but to the officers who will be risking their lives.’

All eyes turned to Hawkes, who said: ‘I should like to introduce you to Lieutenant Jewall. He is captain of the Seraph, which has been allotted to this operation.’

‘Lieutenant Jewall,’ said Clark, fixing the young officer with an intent stare. ‘Can it be done?’

Jewall glanced at the Admiral. The Admiral’s face was wooden.

‘Certainly, sir,’ Jewall said eagerly. ‘I can get you there. And with any luck get you back.’

Clark’s face relaxed. ‘Thanks, son. That’s all I need to know.’

The Governor turned to the Admiral. ‘We have your permission?’

The Admiral, his expression still set, said gravely: ‘You have.’

The Governor smiled. ‘I’ll inform London immediately that it can be done and that the submarine will be sailing tonight.’

He rose from his seat.

Pountney rose, too. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

All faces turned towards the large, taut figure of the SBS officer.

‘Yes, ah . . . Major . . .?’

‘Pountney, sir,’ Hawkes said briskly to the Governor. ‘He and two of his officers will be delivering the General and his colleagues to the rendezvous in their canoes.’

‘Yes, Major Pountney?’

‘Our passengers will need to practise, sir.’

‘Practise?’

‘Getting in and out of the folbots. It needs practising. It can be tricky.’

Clark leant forward. ‘We are going to be in your hands, Major. You tell us what to do and we’ll do it. Practise all night if we have to.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir. Just an hour or so of your time will do.’

‘You have it, Major.’

The meeting broke up and Jewall took Pountney abroad the Seraph, where he found Ayton and Harmon unpacking their kit in the torpedo stowage department. The spare torpedoes had been offloaded and the space converted to bunks and a stowage area for the three folbots.

‘What’s it all about, Jumbo?’ Ayton asked.

‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Pountney replied. ‘It should be an interesting little jaunt.’

‘I know your interesting little jaunts,’ Bob Harmon laughed. ‘The last one involved a tour of the desert.’

At sundown General Clark, Captain Wright and one of the American Army officers arrived and settled into the tiny wardroom, and after dusk the submarine sailed. It ran on the surface across calm water illuminated by a three-quarter moon that almost turned night into day.

Below, Jewall and the three SBS men crammed around the wardroom table with the Americans to study the large-scale map of the Algerian coast which the General had spread out. He pointed to a cross on the map. ‘This is our destination. You can see it’s an isolated part of the coast. You’ve had it surveyed?’ he said to Jewall, who nodded and handed over Eden’s sketch.

Clark studied it intently. ‘Yeah, that’s the one – white walls and a red-tiled roof. Apparently it sits on top of a large sand-dune about halfway between the beach and this coastal road here. A path leads up to it from the beach through a small olive grove which sounds a good place to hide the canoes.’

Jewall looked at the sketch, then at the map. ‘With respect, that sounds like all Algerian coastal scenery, sir. The whole coastline is covered with holiday villas like that. Are there any additional landmarks?’

Clark pointed with his forefinger. ‘They told me this hill here to the left of the house is shaped like a sugar loaf. Very distinctive. As you can see, a small wadi empties into the sea from that area. There should be no trouble identifying it.’

Neither Jewall nor Pountney commented. They had heard that casual remark from senior officers before.

Clark sensed their doubts and added: ‘The people in the house will have a powerful light shining seawards from the first floor if it’s all right for us to land, and there will be a reception committee on the beach to meet us.’

The eyes of the two British officers met briefly and each knew the other had the same nagging doubt. Americans, they had heard, tended to be naive, though Clark certainly didn’t look or behave that way.

‘May we know who owns the house, sir?’ Pountney asked gingerly.

‘It’s the weekend retreat of one of General Mast’s friends, who is a member of the French Resistance,’ said the other Army officer. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and the eagle insignia of a full colonel, and spoke with an inflection that overlaid his American twang. At the conference the General had introduced him as Walt Meredith, his interpreter and an expert on the French Army and French foreign policy, adding: ‘He’s completely trustworthy.’

Pountney had heard that one before too, and asked: ‘Is there going to be any way we can identify the reception committee before we land, sir?’

Clark shook his head and looked hard at all three SBS officers: ‘You guys are worried we might be walking into a trap, aren’t you?’

‘There’s always that possibility,’ said Pountney, glad that it had come out into the open.

‘Well, it’s something we’re going to have to risk,’ said Clark briskly. ‘We’ll have to play it by ear. I’m going in whatever the consequences. We’re playing for big chips, gentlemen, very big chips.’

It was now the turn of the SBS men to exchange glances. They knew how vulnerable a folbot was approaching the shore; it was obvious that the General did not.

The impromptu conference broke up and Jewall returned to the bridge. The SBS officers dragged one of the folbots along the narrow passageway and into the wardroom and laid it on the floor, so that the three Americans could practise entering its rear cockpit from the table.

Ayton showed them how. ‘You sit on the edge of the deck like this and then you lower your leg, placing your foot just there. Then straighten up very carefully, balancing on one leg. Good . . . Now place the other leg here and grip with both hands on the side. Lower yourself gently . . . That’s it.’

Once the Americans had got the hang of it, Pountney requested permission to go on the bridge to speak to Jewall. The bearded lieutenant did not lower his binoculars when Pountney appeared, but kept studying the horizon. He disliked being on the surface when visibility was so good, but the battery had to be charged – there was no escaping that.

‘Yes, Jumbo. What can I do for you?’

‘We’ve had a trial run in the wardroom, but I want to put them through real boat drill now. Could you stop this battleship for a moment?’

Jewall lowered his binoculars as he turned in amazement. ‘You’re asking me to stop my ship? Here? Now?’

"Fraid so, old boy. Won’t take long.’

‘You know bloody well that would contravene all the accepted rules governing submarines at sea in wartime.’

‘Of course,’ said Pountney cheerfully. ‘But I assume you want to deliver and pick up our passengers without losing any of them.’

Jewall groaned. It went against his well-developed instinct for survival, but he saw the sense in what Pountney was saying. He gave the necessary orders and a folbot was quickly delivered on to the submarine’s forecasing as the submarine came to a halt. It wallowed awkwardly in the swell, which had been hardly noticeable when the submarine had been under way.

Under such conditions the Americans found it difficult to apply the lessons they had learnt in the wardroom, but eventually they all managed the difficult manoeuvre of dropping into the folbot’s rear cockpit as the tiny canvas craft bobbed in the water, and of then climbing out again. Satisfied, teachers and pupils went below, the folbot was returned to the torpedo compartment and the submarine resumed its course and speed.

At dawn Jewall ordered the submarine to run at eighty feet and shortly afterwards he ordered it up to periscope depth. He carefully examined the coastline ahead, then asked for Mark Clark to come to the control room. In moments the General was beside him, and Jewall handed over the periscope.

‘That must be the villa,’ said Clark after a moment. ‘It has a red roof. And, yes, there’s the olive grove and the sugar loaf on the left. That must be it.’

Clark stood back from the telescope and thrust out his hand to Jewall. ‘Thanks, son. By getting us here you’ve almost certainly saved hundreds if not thousands of lives. Now, I guess, it’s down to me.’

The young lieutenant took the American’s hand and saw the emotion in the elder man’s eyes. ‘The Royal Navy, sir,’ he said gravely, ‘never lets anyone down.’ Then he gestured at the three SBS officers standing behind him. ‘And the Royal Navy includes these cutthroats here, as they are Royal Marines.’

‘Don’t count me in with that mob yet,’ Pountney grumbled good-naturedly. ‘It’ll take more than a few sweet words to convert me into a bloody bootneck.’