Cold Harbour

‘Cold Harbour, Major Osbourne,’ Martin Hare told him and took the Lili Marlene in.

3

The crew busied themselves tying up and Hare and Osbourne went over the side and walked along the cobbled quay.

‘The houses all look pretty much the same,’ Craig observed.

‘I know,’ Hare told him. ‘The whole place was put together in one go by the lord of the manor, a Sir William Chevely, in the mid-eighteenth century. Cottages, harbour, the quay, everything. According to local legend, most of his money came from smuggling. He was known as Black Bill.’

‘I see. He created this model fishing village as a front for other things?’ Craig said.

‘Exactly. This, by the way, is the pub. The boys use it as their mess.’

It was a low squat building with high gables, timber inserts and mullioned windows which gave it an Elizabethan look.

Craig said, ‘Nothing Georgian about that. Tudor, I’d say.’

‘The cellars are medieval. There’s always been some sort of an inn on this site,’ Hare said and clambered into a jeep which stood outside. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to the manor.’

Craig looked up at the inn sign over the door. ‘The Hanged Man.’

‘Rather appropriate,’ Hare said as he started the engine. ‘Actually, it’s a new sign. The old one was falling apart and pretty revolting at that. Some poor sod swinging on the end of a rope, hands tied, tongue popping out.’

As they drove away Craig turned to look at the sign again. It depicted a young man hanging upside-down, suspended by his right ankle from a wooden gibbet. The face was calm, the head surrounded by some kind of halo.

‘Did you know that’s a Tarot image?’ he said.

‘Oh, sure, the housekeeper at the manor arranged it, Madame Legrande. She’s into that kind of thing.’

‘Legrande? Would that be Julie Legrande?’ Craig asked.

‘That’s right.’ Hare glanced at him curiously. ‘Do you know her?’

‘I knew her husband before the war. He lectured in Philosophy at the Sorbonne. Later he was mixed up with the Resistance in Paris. I came across them there in ’42. Helped them get out when the Gestapo were on their backs.’

‘Well, she’s been here since the beginning of the project. Works for SOE.’

‘And her husband, Henri?’

‘From what I know, he died of a heart attack in London last year.’

‘I see.’

They were passing the last of the cottages. Hare said, ‘This is a defence area. All civilians moved out. We use the cottages as billets. Besides my crew, we also have a few RAF mechanics to service the planes.’

‘You have aircraft here? What for?’

‘The usual purpose. To drop agents in or bring them out.’

‘I thought Special Duties Squadron at Tempsford handled that?’

‘They do or at least they handle the normal cases. Our operation is a little more unusual. I’ll show you. We’re just coming up to the field.’

The road curved through trees and on the other side was an enormous meadow with a grass runway. A prefabricated hangar stood at one end. Hare turned the jeep in through the gate, bumped across the grass and stopped. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

‘What do you think?’

A Fieseler Storch spotter plane taxied out of the hangar, the Luftwaffe insignia plain on its wings and fuselage and the two mechanics who followed it wore black Luftwaffe overalls. Behind, in the hangar there was a Ju88 nightfighter.

‘My God,’ Craig said softly.

‘I told you things were a little unusual here.’

The pilot of the Stork clambered out, exchanged a word with the mechanics and came towards them. He wore flying boots, baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey as worn by Luftwaffe fighter pilots, very unusual, with large map pockets. The short Fliegerbluse gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilot’s badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it and the Luftwaffe National Emblem on the right.

‘Everything but the bloody Knight’s Cross,’ Osbourne observed.

‘Yes, he is a bit of a fantasist, this lad,’ Hare told him. ‘Also something of a psychopath if you want my opinion. Still, he did pull in two DFCs in the Battle of Britain.’

The pilot approached. He was about twenty-five, the hair beneath the cap straw blond, almost white. Although he seemed to smile frequently, there was a touch of cruelty to the mouth and the eyes were cold.

‘Flight Lieutenant Joe Edge – Major Craig Osbourne, OSS.’

Edge smiled charmingly enough and held out his hand. ‘Brigandage a speciality, eh?’

Craig didn’t like him one little bit but tried not to show it. ‘You’ve got quite a set-up here.’

‘Yes, well the Stork can land and take off anywhere. Better than the Lysander in my opinion.’

‘Rather unusual camouflage, the Luftwaffe insignia.’

Edge laughed. ‘Useful on occasions. Had a weather problem the other month so I was running short of juice. I landed at the Luftwaffe Fighter base at Granville. Got them to refuel me. No problem.’

‘We have these wonderful forged credentials from Himmler, countersigned by the Führer which indicate that we’re on special assignment for SS security. Nobody dares query that,’ Hare said.

‘They even gave me dinner in the mess,’ Edge told Craig. ‘Of course, my dear old mum being a Kraut, it does mean I speak the lingo fluently which helps.’ He turned to Hare. ‘Give me a lift up to the manor will you, old boy? I hear the boss might be coming down from London.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Hare told him. ‘Hop in.’

Edge got in the back. As they drove away, Craig said, ‘Your mother? She’s over here, presumably?’

‘Good God, yes. Widow. Lives in Hampstead. Greatest disappointment of her life was when Hitler didn’t manage to drive up the Mall to Buckingham Palace in 1940.’

He laughed hugely. Craig turned away, disliking him even more and said to Hare, ‘I’ve been thinking. You said Section D of SOE was running this thing. Isn’t that the good old dirty tricks department?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Would Dougal Munro still be in charge there?’