Atlantic Fury Page 2

  ‘Of course not. All I’m saying is that this operation doesn’t call for the qualities that make a brilliant Instructor-in-Gunnery. It calls for a man of action.’

  ‘Fine. It will give him some practical experience. Isn’t that why you recommended him for the job? Practical experience is essential if he is to go on getting promotion at his present rate. How old is he?’

  ‘Thirty-seven, thirty-eight.’

  ‘That makes him just about the youngest I.G. with the rank of full Colonel. And he’s ambitious. He’ll make out all right. I seem to remember he’s got Hartley as his second-in-command. Met him at Larkhill. Excellent at administration and a sound tactician. Just the man Simon needs.’

  ‘Unfortunately he’s in hospital - jaundice.’

  ‘I see. Well, there’s an adjutant presumably.’

  ‘Young fellow by the name of Ferguson. He’s not very experienced.’

  ‘And you’re not happy about him?’

  ‘I can’t say that. I don’t know anything about him. He’s only twenty-six, just promoted Captain and filling in a vacancy.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him then?’

  ‘Well …’ I don’t think BGS wanted to go into this, but it was essential to the point he was making. ‘His record shows that he volunteered for paratrooping and didn’t complete the course.’

  ‘Funked his jumps?’

  ‘Something like that. He was posted to BAOR.’

  ‘All right then. Get on to AG6. Have them post somebody up there temporarily just to hold Simon’s hand - an older man with practical experience, the AGG ought to be able to rake up somebody to fill in for a few weeks. Anything else on your mind?’

  ‘Only the timing. The operation had been planned on the basis of completing by the end of the month, but nobody can possibly guarantee that. Fortunately we’d agreed to Standing’s idea of cutting the size of the wintering unit and maintaining contact by helicopter. As a result one of the huts has already been dismantled. Nevertheless, I must emphasise that the maintenance of a planning schedule as tight as this depends entirely on the continuance of the present fine weather.’

  ‘Of course. That’s understood. Service Corps have already made it clear that they’re not taking any chances with their landing craft. And rightly.’ He turned to Matthieson. That satisfy you?’

  Matthieson hesitated. He was well aware of the dangers.

  ‘He told me he had tried to visit Laerg twice and each time had been turned back by bad weather. He had held his present post for almost two years and he knew the difficulties that must arise if conditions deteriorated and the operation became a protracted one. But this was only the second interview he had had with the DRA since the General’s appointment. Doubtless he felt it wasn’t the moment to voice his misgivings. My impression is that he decided to play his luck. At any rate, all he apparently said was, ‘Captain Pinney, the present Detachment Commander, is pretty experienced; so is the skipper of one of the landing craft - the other was a replacement halfway through the season. Still, I think the whole thing should go off quite smoothly.’ However, to cover himself, he added, ‘But Laerg can be the devil if it blows up and we’re getting on towards winter in the north.’

  The DRA nodded. ‘Well that settles it then. We pray for fine weather and get on with the job, eh? Signal them to go ahead with the operation right away.’

  And so the decision was finally agreed. Matthieson sent off the necessary signal and the BGS phoned about the temporary attachment of an officer to assist Standing.

  He was immediately offered a Major George Braddock.

  The reason given by the AGG for recommending this particular officer was that he wanted to be posted to the Hebrides. Not only had Braddock written twice from Cyprus, where he commanded a battery, but a few days before he had sought a personal interview with the AGG to press the matter. He had then just arrived in London on leave.

  To the BGS it seemed the perfect answer to the problem. Braddock was about forty, his rank was right, and so was his record. He had an MC and two Mentions in Despatches, awarded during the last war, as well as an excellent record during the Malayan trouble. Moreover, he was in England and immediately available. Locating him took a little time.

  His wife, who with her two children lived at Hertford, had apparently been separated from him for a number of years and did not know where he was. All she could say was that he liked fishing and usually went to Wales for his leave. He was eventually traced to a Country Club near Brecon. By then it was late at night and Braddock didn’t reach London until the following afternoon.

  That was Tuesday and as far as I can gather that was the day Ed Lane arrived in Lyons. I suppose almost every disaster requires something to trigger it off - a catalyst, as it were. A decision that calls for action involves men, and men cannot escape their own natures … their basic characters. In writing that I believe my brother was thinking of this Canadian businessman from Vancouver. Lane wasn’t, of course, involved in the operation. He was probing Braddock’s background and to that extent he exerted a pressure on events and was, in a sense, the catalyst. He had seen Braddock in Cyprus a fortnight before and had then gone on to the Middle East on business for his firm. Now that business was finished and he was free to concentrate on his private affairs. Whilst Braddock was travelling up to the War Office, Lane was interviewing one of the few people who could help him in his inquiries.

  The BGS saw Braddock just after four. In his evidence, the Brigadier simply said that the interview strengthened the favourable impression already created by his record. He was satisfied that Major Braddock was the right man for the job. He was not asked for any details, only for confirmation that he had warned Braddock about weather conditions. As a result, the Court was not aware that the Brigadier was puzzled, even a little disturbed, by the answers Braddock gave to certain rather searching questions.

  In the talk I had with him later the Brigadier admitted that he had been curious to know why Braddock had applied for a posting to the Guided Weapons Establishment, particularly as his record showed that he had been one of the few survivors of the Duart Castle, sunk in those waters during the war. ‘I should have thought your memories of that area …’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it, sir. It’s just that -well, I guess it’s because I spent part of my boyhood in Canada. I like cold climates. The farther north the better. And I like something to get my teeth into. Malaya was all right for a bit. But Cyprus…’

  And then with an intensity that the Brigadier found disconcerting: ‘Is there any particular reason why I’m being posted to the Hebrides now - other than to deal with the problem of this evacuation of Laerg?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why should there be?’

  Braddock had seemed to relax then. ‘I just wondered. I mean, when you apply for a posting and then suddenly get it …’

  The lined, leathery-hard face had cracked in a charming smile. ‘Well, it makes you wonder what’s behind it.’

  ‘Nothing’s behind it,’ the Brigadier told him. ‘I was simply referring to what happened to you up there in 1944.’ He told me he was wishing then that he knew the man better, feeling instinctively that there was more to it than he’d admitted. ‘How many of you were on that raft at the outset?’ He watched the tough, poker face, saw the nerve quiver at the corner of the mouth and the eyes fixed wide in a flat, blank stare. ‘No, I thought not. It’s something you’d rather forget. Have you ever visited the Hebrides since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why do you want to be posted there now?’

  But Braddock either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer that. ‘It’s just that … well, as I said - it sort of calls to me. I can’t explain exactly.’ And he’d smiled that engaging smile. ‘It’s a bit like Canada, I suppose.’

  The Brigadier hesitated. But it was nothing to do with him and he’d let it go at that, staring down again at Braddock’s record. The Normandy landings - anti-tank role - the M.C. for gallantry at C
aen after holding a bridge with a single gun against repeated attacks by tanks - command of a troop two months later - promoted captain just before the dash for the Rhine - temporary rank of major at the end of the war… ‘Now about this operation. Do you sail at all?’

  ‘I’ve done a little.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll have some idea what the weather means to the LCT’s, particularly in view of your previous experience…’

  He had got up from his desk and turned towards the window. ‘However, that isn’t why I wanted to see you personally.’ The sky was blue and the sun beat down on the stone ledge of the tight-shut window. ‘Ever met Simon Standing?’ He turned as Braddock shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t think your paths would have crossed. Can’t imagine two people more entirely different - which may be a good thing, or again it may not. Colonel Standing is Commandant and Range Controller. He’s a few years younger than you and it’s his first independent command. Now this is what I want to make clear to you, and it’s strictly between ourselves. Standing’s up there primarily because he’s an expert on ballistics and all that sort of thing. In fact he’s one of the best brains we’ve got in the field of guided weapons. But for a job like this …’

  He had hesitated then. ‘Well, his world is figures. He’s not strictly an action man, if you see what I mean.’ And he went on quickly, ‘Officially, of course, it’s his show and you come under him as acting second-in-command. Unofficially, I want you to run the operation.’ Faced with the blank stare of those black eyes he probably felt it was all damnably awkward, for he admitted to me later that he thought Braddock should have been a half-colonel at least. He had the experience and he had that indefinable something, that air of confidence denoting a born leader. He may even have wondered what had gone wrong, but at the time all he said was, ‘Just keep Simon Standing in the picture and get on with the job. If you bear in mind that he’s quite brilliant in his own field and … well, use a little tact.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘I hope you do.’ The Brigadier had hesitated then, feeling instinctively that a clash of temperament was inevitable. Ever since Braddock had come into his office he had been conscious of the strength of the man’s personality, and something else - a tension, almost a sense of urgency. But there was nothing he could do about that now. Time was too short. ‘There’s a sleeper reserved for you on the night train. You’ll be travelling up with the BRA, Scottish Command. He’ll give you all the details.’ And with a murmured ‘Good luck’ he had dismissed him.

  He admitted later that Braddock should have been given the opportunity to discuss the operation. But throughout the interview he’d felt uncomfortable. The large hands, the dark moustache, the lined, leathery face with the heavy brows craggy above the black stare of the eyes - somehow, he said, the man seemed to fill the office, too big for it almost. So strong was this feeling that he’d been glad when the door had shut behind him.

  The train left Huston at nine thirty-five and ten minutes after it pulled out Braddock visited Brigadier Matthieson in his sleeper. I suspect that Matthieson was one of those officers who joined the Royal Artillery for the riding, back in the days when the guns were horse-drawn. I don’t think he had much of a brain, but he was certainly no fool and he was as good with men as he was with horses. He never forgot a face. ‘Met you somewhere before, haven’t I?’ he said and was surprised to find this overture rejected almost fiercely. ‘A long time ago, I think. Now where was it?’

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake, sir.’

  But Matthieson was quite sure he hadn’t. ‘During the war.’ He saw Braddock’s face tauten, and then he had it - a tall, hard-bitten youngster in a blood-stained battledress coming back with a single gun buckled by a direct hit. ‘Normandy. Autumn of forty-four. You’d been holding a bridge.’ The craggy face towering above him relaxed, broke into the same charming, rather tired-looking smile. ‘I remember now, sir. You were the major bivouacked in that wood. You gave us food - the few of us that were left. A tent, too. We were just about all in.’

  They’d talked about the war then, sitting on Matthieson’s berth, finishing the bottle of Scotch he’d brought south with him. It was almost midnight and the bottle empty by the time they got round to discussing Laerg. Matthieson pulled out his brief-case and handed Braddock the Plan of Operations. ‘The schedule’s a bit tight, but that’s not my fault. About ten LCT loads should do the trick. Read it through tonight. Any points we can discuss in the morning. I’ve a car meeting me and I’ll drive you out to Renfrew Airport.’

  Braddock, leafing quickly through the Plan, immediately expressed concern about the schedule. ‘I have some experience of the weather up there…’

  ‘On an open raft. So the BGS told me. But you’re not dealing with a raft this time. These LCTs can stand quite a lot.’

  ‘It’s an open beach. If the wind’s south-easterly …’

  ‘You know the place, do you?’

  He saw Braddock’s face tighten. ‘I looked it up on a map,’ he said quickly, and Matthieson wondered how he’d got hold of a map with the shops closed. ‘If the weather goes against us …’

  ‘It’s the weather you’re being posted up there to deal with. The weather and that fellow Standing.’ He was well aware that the schedule was too tight and he wanted to get Braddock off the subject. ‘Ever met Simon Standing? Do you know anything about him?’ And when the other shook his head, he went on, ‘Give you a word of advice .then. Don’t fall out with him. War Office thinks he’s wonderful. But I can tell you he’s a queer fish and he’s got no sense of humour.’ He was very frank about the words he’d used. ‘Bloody little prig, if you ask me.’ I imagine he smiled then, a flash of teeth that were too white and even to be his own. ‘Shouldn’t be talking like this about your commanding officer, should I? But we’ve seen a war together. These adding machine types haven’t. Probably puke if they did. A real war, I mean - blood and the stink of rotting guts, the roar of a thousand guns blazing hell out of a dawn sky. They’re push-button warriors; nothing but bloody electricians.’

  He was staring down at his glass then, memories of a long-dead war merging with the future. ‘Anyway, I’m getting out. In a few months’ time I’ll be running a stud farm near Melbourne. Australia, you know. Once I get out there they can push all the ruddy little buttons they like.’ It was the drink in him talking, and because he was aware of that he said, ‘Well, I’m off to bed now.’

  It was then that Braddock surprised him by asking a series of questions that seemed to have very little bearing on the operation. First, he’d wanted to know whether the men on Laerg were free to roam around the island or whether their duties kept them confined to the area of Shelter Bay. When told that off-duty they could go where they liked and that many of them became enthusiastic birdwatchers, Braddock asked if they’d reported any interesting finds? ‘I mean traces of… well, old dwellings, caves, things like that with traces of human habitation?’

  Matthieson wondered what he was getting at. ‘Are you a student of primitive men or are you thinking of the link between the Hebrides and Greenland? There was a link, I believe. The Vikings put the sheep on Eileann nan Shoay - Shoay or Soay is the old word for sheep, you know. They may well have been on their way west to the Greenland settlement.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about that, but … Well, I just thought something fresh might have been reported.’ And Braddock had stared at him with disconcerting directness, waiting for an answer.

  ‘No, of course not,’ the Brigadier replied. ‘The boys are just amateurs.’

  ‘What about civilians - naturalists and so on? Are they allowed on the island?’

  Matthieson admitted he was disturbed by the other’s persistence. But all he said was, ‘Yes. There’s usually a party of bird-watchers, a few naturalists. Students, some of them. They come in summer under the aegis of Nature Conservancy. A nuisance, but quite harmless.’

  ‘And they’ve reported nothing - nothing of exceptional interest
?’

  ‘If they have, we haven’t been told about it.’ And he’d added, ‘Anyway, you won’t have time to indulge your interest. Your job is to get our boys off, and it’ll be a full-time job, believe you me. You’ll understand when you’ve had time to study that Operation Plan.’ And he’d wished Braddock goodnight, wondering as the train rushed on into the night what Standing would make of his new second-in-command.

  Two coaches back Braddock started going through the Operations Plan, sitting propped up in bed, the pages dancing to the sway and rattle of the train. And almost a thousand miles away another man in another sleeper was checking through the notes he’d made of his first interview with a non-Canadian survivor of the Duart Castle. Ed Lane was on the train to Paris, bound for London with a list of five possible names.

  The night train to Glasgow got in at six-thirty in the morning. A staff car was waiting for Brigadier Matthieson at Central Station and whilst driving Braddock out to Renfrew Airport he discussed with him the details of the Operations Plan. In his evidence he made it clear that he’d allowed Major Braddock the widest possible interpretation of the evacuation orders. What, in fact, happened was that Braddock not only had a list of queries, but seemed prepared to argue that the whole conception of the Plan was at fault. It was the timing, of course, that chiefly worried him. ‘I agree it doesn’t give you much room for manoeuvre,’ Matthieson had said. ‘But that’s not my fault. It’s the Government that’s pushing the operation.’ And he’d added, ‘I’m a great believer in sound planning and the chaps who handled this are very good at it. If they say it can be done, then you can take it from me that it can.’

  But Braddock wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘LCT so-and-so to sail on such-and-such a date, arrive Laerg about twelve hours later, loading time six hours, leave at dusk, return to base at dawn. All very nice and neat if you’re sitting on your backside in an office. But there’s no allowance for weather or any of the hundred-and-one things that can go wrong on an amphibious operation. It’s an open beach. The equipment is pretty valuable, I gather - some of it secret. What happens if a gale blows up? Do I risk a landing craft and the equipment simply to keep a schedule I don’t believe in?’