The following morning Jimmy Wainwright went to Ward 5 to see Gunner White, but he found him in a heavily drugged state. White had had the first of several operations and his survival was not assured. He had lost a lot of blood and infection was present in his left wrist where his hand had been severed. He was receiving massive doses of penicillin and morphine to combat the pain. In his semi-conscious state he was just able to discern Jimmy’s presence and registered this with a weak smile. He could not make conversation so Jimmy just gave him words of encouragement and many good wishes on behalf of his crew. Jimmy told White that he had recommended him for a Distinguished Service Medal (DSM) for his gallantry in continuing to fire his guns even though he was badly wounded. White’s face showed a slight sneer when he heard this, as though he wanted to say, Thanks, Skipper, but I’d prefer to get my hand back on my arm than have a medal pinned on my chest.
Jimmy said good-bye by giving White the thumbs-up sign and saying that he would come to see him again soon. Before leaving the hospital, Jimmy asked White’s surgeon what the prognosis was for recovery. He said the next two days would be critical fighting the infection. If White got through that, there was a good chance he would recover, but further operations would be necessary. Jimmy left the hospital downcast, and the rainy weather that had come in over night did not improve his mood. He went home to make himself a sandwich and have a bottle of Watney’s Brown Ale. He hoped that Susan would have had enough sleep by three o’clock so they could go for a walk before sunset at five, raining or not.
Susan had had a troubled, intermittent sleep, and by three thirty she knew that staying in bed any longer would not improve matters. She was ready for some fresh air. Just as Jimmy and Susan were about to leave the house for their walk close to four o’clock, the phone rang. Jimmy was to report immediately to the Operations Room annex in HMS Cicala. He thought this an ominous order.
* * * * *
“Take a seat Jimmy; glad you could make it,” said Lieutenant Jack Walker, assistant to the CO Ops.
“You mean I had an option not to come?” said Jimmy, with a sly grin.
“Not exactly,” said Walker. “I want to introduce Commander Braithwaite to you. Commander, this is Lieutenant James Wainwright, one of our top-class MTB COs.”
Jimmy stood up briefly and shook hands. He did not know who Braithwaite was and wondered why he was in civilian clothes.
“Right,” said Walker, “I’ll get back next door and carry on planning tonight’s action. I’ll send Cicely in with some steaming hot tea. It’s cold enough in here to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. See you later, Jimmy.” Jimmy considered his balls to have adequate warmth, although he could not speak for the Commander’s.
Jimmy and Braithwaite sat on opposite sides of a small table, close enough for Jimmy to pick up the scent of Braithwaite’s breath; it was none too fresh and was laced with a mixture of tobacco and garlic. Braithwaite opened the cover of a pink folder and started reading the first page of its contents. It was Jimmy’s personal file, and Jimmy immediately knew that this was going to be some kind of interview.
“Let me see. Born Dartmouth 1918 to Bill and Paula Wainwright, father a schoolmaster, mother an artist, both now deceased. Fourth generation, strong West Country stock, fishermen, farmers, etc. One twin sister, Susan. Educated in Dartmouth, good academics, average sportsman. Won commonership from Dartmouth grammar school to Jesus College, Oxford, where you read modern languages, French and German. Good, good, could be handy. Ummmm, did this, did that ……. ummmm ……. but, hello, hello, what’s this, you left after completing only two years; didn’t finish your degree. Why was that?”
“Look,” said Jimmy, with a belligerent tone in his voice, “before I answer, can you enlighten me what this is all about? I haven’t a clue who you are, what you do, why you’re here and the relevance of going over my background. Are you going to give me a medal or a court martial? Is that it?”
“It’s certainly not the latter, but from what the CO Ops told me about you sinking a tanker, receiving a medal is certainly on the cards. Now, your questions first. I thought they’d filled you in a bit.”
“Whoever they are, haven’t,” said Jimmy, getting a little impatient.
“SOE, old chap, SOE. Special Operations Executive. Ever heard of us?”
“Of course I have, everyone in Dartmouth and Kingswear has. Your outfit has a couple of MGBs moored alongside our prized paddle steamer, Westward-Ho, in the middle of the Dart. Strange people come and go in the middle of the night. You dump them in France where they commit dastardly acts of sabotage.”
Braithwaite was taken aback by Jimmy’s knowledge of what was supposed to be a secret outfit. They sat in silence for a moment, and then Cicely brought the tea into the room. The tea ritual took a couple of minutes after which Braithwaite got back to the interview. “So you left Oxford prematurely?”
“Yes. I knew I’d be called up sooner or later so I thought I might as well volunteer. I toddled along to my friendly Royal Navy recruiting office, said I would make a very fine officer, and one week later I was marching up and down a parade ground with a rather rude man shouting obscenities at me. After three months of this, I found myself in an officer training school, which was far preferable to the parade ground; the food was still lousy, mind you. Strangely, I was given a commission after a few weeks and felt superior to everyone. This changed rapidly after I was posted to Coastal Forces, Portsmouth, a fully paid-up member of the RNVR. Active duty quickly gave me a dose of reality. Then in January 1941, I was moved to Dartmouth base, made a CO and carried on bashing around the Channel looking for Jerry. So now you know my life’s history. What’s next?”
“Would you like a change of pace, Lieutenant? I believe you’ve had a very strenuous two years; much stress, much discomfort; lost two boats, seen crew members killed and wounded. That kind of sustained action tends to fray the nerves, don’t you think.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my nerves, and if you’re leading up to offering me a desk job at the Admiralty, forget it,” said Jimmy, on the attack.
“No, no, no, Lieutenant, I wouldn’t insult you like that. Desk jobs are only for people like me. What we want you to do, willingly or unwillingly, is to join the clock and dagger flotilla right here on the Westward-ho. You already seem to know quite a bit about it. We think you’d fit in well, running agents to and fro to France, mainly to Brittany, and ferrying escaping Allied airmen back to England.”
“You mean be a glorified taxi driver, sir?” said Jimmy, with a laugh.
“It’s not so easy as it sounds. There may not be much shooting involved, or the launching of torpedoes, but the seamanship required is of the highest caliber. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of scary moments, believe me. I’ve been on one mission as an observer and nearly wet my pants. I’d say you’re a good fit on two counts; your knowledge of the French language is one, and your experience as a peacetime yachtsman along the Brittany coast is the other. I got the latter knowledge from CO Ops who seems to know more about you than what is in your personal file. Is it true you know every rock and reef, every beach and cliff along that coastline?”
“I would not go that far, sir, but yes, before the war I sailed and fished the Brittany coast quite extensively.”
“Good, then there is not much more to be said on my part. You have two hours to think about it. We in SOE like to believe we run a democratic shop; you know, no coercion; not like the Navy. Call your CO by 1900 hrs with your decision. He’ll affect the transfer and give you all the details for your next move.
“Good luck, Lieutenant. I expect to hear good things about you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jimmy, standing up and smiling, his mind in a whirl. Now that he had been put in the picture, he felt quite friendly towards Braithwaite.
* * * * *
Jimmy sat in silence as he ate the cottage pie made by Susan from scraps of old roast beef and potatoes with a little grated Cheddar cheese on top.
“Spill it, Jimmy! What are you wrestling with? You look serious and worried,” said Susan.
“They want to get rid of me. Well, not exactly; it is strongly suggested that I change jobs.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve another half an hour to make a decision, as long as the decision is, Yes. Right, here are the choices that amount to a choice of one.” Jimmy proceeded to summarize his interview with Braithwaite.
“What should I do, Sue? Take the transfer?”
“Apart from the fact that you appear to have no option, I’d say it was a marginally safer job than what you are presently doing, so take it, definitely take it.”
A big smile spread across Jimmy’s face and his whole body relaxed, tension melting away.
“Thanks, Sue. Your feminine wisdom is much appreciated. I’ll call the base CO right now, then I’ll enjoy the prunes and custard even more.” He gave Susan’s shoulder a loving squeeze as he went into the hall to phone.
On his return, he chatted away in an excited fashion. The whole idea of the clandestine missions was beginning to really appeal to him. He believed the missions would call for much initiative, personal and professional skills quite different than the ones he presently used, and with very little worry about complicated machinery and armament. It might involve landing in France or even staying there for a few days. He would need to use his wits and his seamanship to beat the enemy. It all sounded rather fun.
“So, it’s done, Sue! I’m to report to the SOE flotilla outfit in two days time.”