Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Characters
Map
Epigraph
Chapter One: The Messenger
Chapter Two: You Only Die Twice
Chapter Three: Dropping the Deception
Chapter Four: A Message from the Other Side
Chapter Five: A Question of Honour
Chapter Six: Being Kool
Chapter Seven: An Unsettling Incident
Chapter Eight: Photographs Never Lie
Chapter Nine: The Drop
Chapter Ten: Holland
Chapter Eleven: Early Morning Call
Chapter Twelve: The Paltrok
Chapter Thirteen: Scheveningen
Chapter Fourteen: The Big Sweat
Chapter Fifteen: A Gathering Storm
Chapter Sixteen: The Coffin Makers
Chapter Seventeen: Otto
Chapter Eighteen: A Deliberate Accident
Chapter Nineteen: Cell Number Four
Chapter Twenty: A Room with a View
Chapter Twenty-One: Welcome to Hell on Earth
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Window of Opportunity
Chapter Twenty-Three: A Cunning Plan
Chapter Twenty-Four: Too Many Escapees
Chapter Twenty-Five: Journey of the Dead
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Crypt
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shattered Dreams
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Great Escape
Postscript
Equipment
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Craig Simpson
Copyright
A massive thank-you to the following people:
Clive Bassett, Harrington Carpetbagger Museum, for giving me permission to photograph items in his collection for inclusion in this book (parachutist’s suit and suitcase radio set). Thanks also to Beaulieu for their kind assistance in allowing me special access to their exhibition on Britain’s Secret Army, the Special Operations Executive (SOE).
I’m grateful to the management of the splendid Kurhaus Hotel, Scheveningen, Netherlands, for supplying me with extensive information on the hotel’s and town’s histories.
Last but definitely not least, my thanks to Sarah, Charlie and Carolyn for all their help, advice and support.
We were at the point of no return.
This was it. Next stop enemy territory.
If we got caught, torture and a firing squad would be our reward. The red lamp went out and the green one came on. For a few seconds I could still see red before my eyes. I blinked frantically and then looked forward. Loki had already exited the plane and Freya was disappearing too.
‘Action stations! Go, go, go!’ Smithy shouted. He waved me forward. I sank onto my hands and knees and scrambled to the edge of the hatch. I slipped my legs out, sat on the edge and glanced up at Smithy. ‘Good luck, Finn. Stay safe. Go, go go!’
Parachute Suit
Made of canvas, these parachute suits are also known as striptease suits because two-way zip fasteners fitted on each side enable rapid removal upon landing. Contain pockets for dagger, pistol, spade and handle, emergency rations etc.
Available in four sizes based upon parachutist’s height, they are large enough to allow the user to wear two overcoats underneath. Also available in white canvas.
Note: Model shown here carrying Sten machine gun, a favourite among agents.
Suitcase Radio (Transceiver)
This is similar to the replacement suitcase radio set Freya carries into Holland in Wolf Squadron.
It comprises a transmitter, receiver and combination power pack, and is supplied with a box containing aerial wire, Morse transmitting key, headset, spare fuses, spare valves and screwdriver.
Set can be operated via mains electricity (AC) or 6-volt accumulator.
Silk Maps
Printed on silk, these maps are the size of handkerchiefs and can be hidden in the lining of coats, cuffs and collars. The one shown here is of France.
Special Operations: Unlocking the Secrets of Book Codes
In Wolf Squadron the Dutch Special Ops group led by Bram Keppel used so-called Book Codes to encipher their messages. In the early years of clandestine wartime missions, Book Codes were frequently utilized. Almost any book can be used, even this one!
If you wanted to encipher a message so that only your friends could read it, one of the simplest ways of doing this is to change each letter into another by a fixed rule – for example, change each to the next letter of the alphabet, i. e. A becomes B, B becomes C, etc., all the way to Z. You could of course choose to shift or transpose by, say, three letters instead, so that A becomes D, B becomes E, and so on. If your friends know by how much you’ve transposed the letters it is easy for them to decode your message by doing the operation in reverse.
The problem with this method, however, is that because every letter is transposed by the same rule, the coding is easy to crack simply by trial and error. With 26 letters in the alphabet, there are only 25 possible variations to try out. A far more effective version would be to transpose each letter by a different amount, and to make it seem as random as possible. For example, the first letter of your message might be shifted five places through the alphabet, the second by twelve places, the third by eight, and so on. This makes it much, much harder to crack. Naturally, the person receiving your message needs to know how you’ve done the transposing in order to decode it. This is called a KEY, and is where a book can be used. This is how it is done:
Firstly, it is useful to write out the alphabet, numbering each letter:
Now, suppose you want to send your friends the following message in coded form so no one else can read it:
Meet you outside the cinema at nine o’clock tonight. Don’t be late. I’ve got to be home by midnight.
To select our code KEY we need a book. Let’s use this one, Wolf Squadron. The next step is to select an extract at random. I’ve chosen the first sentence of Chapter Nine in this instance:
Our Whitley roared into the night, thundering eastwards across the coast and over the North Sea.
This forms the basis of our KEY. Each letter in the extract now needs to be numbered according to its position in the alphabet.
This gives us the following sequence of numbers:
15-21-18-23-8-9-20-12-5-25-18-15-1-18-5 –4-9-14-20-15-20-8-5-14-etc.
Each of these numbers is used to determine by how many places we transpose each letter of our message. The first word of our message is MEET. Following the sequence above, the M is transposed 15 places, E by 21, the second E by 18, and the T by 23 spaces, and so on for the complete message. Doing this, MEET becomes BZWQ. (Note: think of the alphabet as a circle or wheel, so once you get to Z, you count on to A, B, C, etc.). Coding all our message gives rise to the following:
BZWQ GXO AZSKXEW YLN QCCYUF OC UQHY W’XZSHC CCUNHAN. APF’X UF OSIX. B’PM LRI UH VF VSBA GQ GQIBXYBB.
This coded message would be pretty hard to decipher if it got into the wrong hands! However, if your friends know that the KEY is based on the first sentence of Chapter Nine of Wolf Squadron, they can simply do the above in reverse – i. e. using the same sequence of numbers (the KEY) and applying it again to the coded message, this time counting backwards through the alphabet rather than forwards. So, the first coded letter B is transposed backwards by 15 letters to become M again, and so on.
When Book Codes were used, it was vital that both the secret agent and his HQ had identical copies of the books (same edition etc.) so there could be no confusion. The agent (or HQ) would begin a message with a page and line reference so the other knew where to get the KEY from. As you will see if you try it out, it takes a while to code and decode even short messages, and it’s quite easy to make a mistake. Agents had to take great care, often in difficult circumstances. Generally the messages were safe provided the enemy didn’t discover which book was being used. Such information was, however, sometimes revealed under interrogation, as happened to members of Asparagus in Wolf Squadron, thus triggering Finn’s mission into Holland. So-called ‘checks’ or ‘bluffchecks’ were often used by agents in the field (deliberate errors or additional phrases, or use of specific words) that if present or missing would alert HQ that something was wrong. Occasionally such ‘alerts’ were overlooked, most probably because some agents forgot to include them so frequently that HQ grew used to their failings and assumed they’d simply been careless.
Have a go at using the book code with your friends. Perhaps pick your favourite bit of Wolf Squadron as your KEY.
For fun, also have a go at decoding the following message written by Finn. It describes his favourite food – something he’s not eaten since leaving his homeland of Norway. He’s used the same KEY as I have above. To help you, I’ve written out the transposing sequence beneath the message and left space for you to fill in the decoded letters. Don’t forget – as you’re ‘decoding’ you count backwards through the alphabet (use the alphabet wheel printed opposite to help you if it’s easier).
Finn’s favourite food is:
BZSQJJFXX HF QSGBR BOORY. EJ QJST NBMH YNTWCHRFLXL.
Alphabet Code Wheel – use it to help count the letter transpositions.
If you’d like to learn more about the coding methods used by the real Special Operations Executive, I have included information about another method called the ‘Playfair Code’ in Finn’s second adventure, Special Operations: Death Ray.
Craig Simpson spent his childhood in southern England. At eighteen he headed off to veterinary school in Bristol but soon realized that in the wrong hands a scalpel could do more harm than good, and switched to studying science. He spent a while juggling test tubes before realizing there had to be more to life. After fifteen years scaling the corporate ladder, and travelling widely he became an independent consultant. A keen amateur historian, inspired by true stories he then abandoned the rat-race to write adventure novels. He now lives between the New Forest and the Hampshire seaside.
RESISTANCE
SPECIAL OPERATIONS: DOGFIGHT
SPECIAL OPERATIONS: DEATH RAY
SPECIAL OPERATIONS: WOLF SQUADRON
SPECIAL OPERATIONS: DEAD OR ALIVE
For the many brave Dutch men and women who, like Hermine (Miep) Gies, 1 risked their lives to help others who were forced into hiding or desperate to escape.
1 Miep Gies (1909–2010) was among those who helped Anne Frank’s family while they were hiding in the secret annexe in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam, and who ‘rescued’ Anne’s diary following the raid by the Gestapo in August 1944. In the post-war years she came to be seen as symbolic of those who act selflessly in order to help others in times of war and oppression.
The successful escape of Allied aircrews shot down over enemy territory proved a great morale booster during the Second World War. The total number who escaped or evaded capture was remarkable. For France, Belgium and Holland combined, a reasonable estimate is about three thousand airmen shot down prior to D-Day (June 1944).
Much of the effort was co-ordinated by the then newly formed, top secret MI9, based at the War Office in London. Escape routes out of occupied Europe were numerous and varied, some leading to neutral countries like Switzerland, Sweden, Portugal and Spain, others more direct, as described in this book.
The majority of locations in Wolf Squadron are fictional, such as the Pols’ farm, the shops Margo’s and Breughel’s, and the Rembrandt cafe in The Hague. The Palace Hotel and the Kurhaus in Scheveningen, however, are real. Today, Scheveningen remains a vibrant Dutch seaside resort, with long sandy beaches and dunes. During the Nazi occupation of Holland the magnificent Palace Hotel on Scheveningen’s beachside boulevard served for a time as the regional headquarters of the German navy’s (Kriegsmarine) coastal security division. A small stretch of sand behind it was kept free of mines and other defences so that German officers could bathe. Astonishingly, despite the many obvious dangers, this weakness in the coastal defences was exploited: on a few especially dark nights, Royal Navy MGBs raced across the North Sea to try and drop off agents and pick up waiting escapees from the beach right under the enemy’s nose, just as in Wolf Squadron. According to published accounts, these operations did not always go smoothly! Some years after the war, the Palace Hotel was demolished. The adjacent Kurhaus, however, has been fully restored to its former splendour and is now a famous hotel. The wooden pier offering Finn and the others much-needed cover during their escape was eventually destroyed by the Germans by fire in 1943. Today, Scheveningen has a splendid new pier that is quite a tourist attraction.
Finn Gunnersen’s world of Special Operations is inspired by the activities of a real wartime clandestine organization known as the Special Operations Executive, or SOE. Over the course of the war several thousand young men and women of more than fifteen different nationalities were recruited and trained as secret agents in great secrecy at various locations throughout Great Britain. Many ended up at what became known as the ‘Finishing School’, a series of houses near Beaulieu in the New Forest in southern England, the setting for Mulberry House in Finn’s adventures.
Training was extensive, covering subjects such as sabotage, armed and unarmed combat, survival skills, radio operating and ciphers, disguise, evasion and intelligence-gathering. The SOE evolved at about the same time as Britain’s newly created Special Forces, the SAS (Special Air Service)and SBS (Special Boat Service), and many of the techniques taught and equipment used were similar.
Agents were also supplied with various ‘gadgets’, a section within the SOE being dedicated to dreaming up useful things for an agent to take on a mission. It was this group that inspired the writer Ian Fleming to create ‘Q’ and his gadgets in the famous James Bond stories. The equipment and devices described in Wolf Squadron, like the parachutists’ striptease suits, silk maps, sickness-inducing and lethal L-pills, sleeve pistols, tyrebursters and incendiary cigarettes, are all real and were available to agents at the time (see here).
Many who successfully completed their training were subsequently sent behind enemy lines on highly dangerous missions to sabotage enemy targets or to establish and coordinate Resistance networks. Their campaigns of dirty tricks were to cause the Nazis a great deal of trouble.
What is extraordinary about the SOE is that recruits were often ordinary people with civilian backgrounds, and not highly trained military personnel. Frequently, it was simply their excellent local knowledge or linguistic skills that led to them being recruited. The heroism and sacrifice of some agents are well documented, including those awarded the George Cross, the highest civilian award for courage. There are numerous other unsung heroes and heroines, though, whose stories have not been told so fully. Nevertheless, we owe them all a great debt of gratitude for the work they did in the name of freedom and the fight against tyranny. Many did not survive to tell their tales.
Although a work of fiction, Wolf Squadron is inspired by the darkest episode in the true story of the SOE. In 1942 a wireless operator in the Dutch section operating in The Hague was betrayed by a V-Mann (informant) and captured along with his wireless set and ciphers. The Germans ‘persuaded’ him to continue sending messages home as if all was well. Although the agent included faulty security checks in his transmissions to indicate his terrible predicament, these were repeatedly overlooked at SOE headquarters. Soon more agents and supplies were being dropped by parachute right into the enemy’s arms. The Germans codenamed the operation Nordpol (North Pole). It also became known as the England Spiel (England game). They learned a great deal about the SOE organisation and employed their own expert signalmen to work captured radio sets. Sadly, the operation proved incredibly successful – in the end the Germans had acquired and used fourteen different SOE radio sets and had captured over fifty Dutch SOE agents, most of whom were subsequently executed, along with others. The episode led to recriminations, including claims that the Germans had a spy high up in the SOE organization. Such claims, however, have never been proven.
Wolf Squadron is set during May and June 1941, at a time when Britain’s cities were suffering many harrowing night-time bombing raids by the Luftwaffe (the Blitz) and much of Europe had been occupied. The question was – what would Adolf Hitler do next? Early on the morning of 22 June 1941 the world found out. Seven German infantry armies led by four Panzer divisions invaded the Soviet Union, beginning the largest land war in history, codenamed Barbarossa. Hitler hoped to destroy the Russian army and seize vast territories in the east, his so-called Lebensraum (living space) – industrial and agricultural land he believed would ensure Germany’s survival as a great power. As his armed forces became thinly stretched and bogged down, meeting fierce resistance on multiple fronts, it was to prove a significant blunder.
Have you ever wished for the seemingly impossible? Ever wanted something so much that it hurts inside, maybe even keeps you awake at night? I have, and it nearly got me killed. All it took was a glimmer of hope. It grew so powerful, so all-consuming, that I believed I could succeed against impossible odds. For once, throwing caution to the wind seemed best. Others called it reckless.
A courageous young Dutch girl once said to me that a life without hopes and dreams is no life at all. They were her final words to me. Her name was Marieke. Looking back, I think she was right.
Finn Gunnersen,
June 1941
Mulberry House, Special Operations
Training School, May 1941.
‘STOP IT! LEAVE him be, you two. Can’t you see you’re frightening him?’ Freya reached out and grasped my arm.
The boy was wrapped in grey woollen blankets and rocked back and forth on the edge of the brown leather sofa. His jet-black hair was matted and filthy, and his strange-looking clothes stank as if he’d been living in them for weeks. I could see that he was sick. His tortured breathing sounded strange, the short shallow gasps a bit like stifled hiccups. Loki and I stood barely six feet in front of him and bombarded him with questions. ‘What’s your name? Where are you from? What on earth happened to you?’ His bewildered stare went right through us as if we weren’t there. With Freya stepping in, Loki hesitated and we exchanged puzzled glances.
Dipping his head, our visitor began to mumble, softly at first but then with increasing volume and urgency. Loki pulled me to one side. ‘Damn it, Finn, I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Sounds like Dutch to me.’
‘Let’s try out our German. Maybe that’ll work.’
We’d learned to speak some German back home in Norway after the Nazis invaded our country, but on this occasion trying it out backfired. I’d barely uttered a word before a renewed look of terror appeared on the boy’s face. He scrambled to the far end of the sofa, as far away from me as he could get, pressing himself into the leather and drawing his knees tightly up to his chin. Trembling, he suddenly looked me in the eye and shrieked, ‘Asperge!’ so loudly it seemed to pierce the air like a rapier. Had the boy gone completely mad?
‘Enough, Finn!’ Freya shook her head at me in exasperation. Cautiously she stepped forward, avoiding any sudden movements, as if she were closing in on some cornered, wounded creature, all quivers and pounding heartbeat. ‘What he needs right now is to know he’s safe, that he’s reached sanctuary. If we can get him to realize he’s among friends he might calm down. We might even get some sense out of him.’
He watched her nervously, expectantly, ready to lash out. She thought better of it and backed away.
The arrival of our unexpected guest at Mulberry House had been announced in a telephone call earlier that evening, after which all hell had broken loose. Judging from the extremely alarmed expressions on our instructors’ faces as they rushed to and fro gathering up files, maps and intelligence reports, something calamitous had occurred. By the time the car drew up outside and a stern-faced redcap – a military policeman – hammered a fist on the front door, the mayhem had been replaced by an uneasy calm that pervaded Mulberry like the pungent smell of boiled cabbage. Our chief instructor, Sergeant Walker, signed the policeman’s clipboard, took delivery of the boy and ushered him into the lounge.
As usual, information was dished out by our superiors on a strictly need-to-know basis, and so we had no idea what on earth was unfolding. But whatever it was, it had to be big, as visitors were rare at Mulberry House – officially we didn’t exist; Special Operations didn’t exist! It was all top secret, very hush-hush. However, when Sergeant Walker poked his head round the lounge door I had the feeling all that was about to change.
‘The doc is on his way.’ The sergeant desperately tried to sound upbeat but he didn’t fool me. ‘Soon get you sorted, lad, don’t you worry. You’re as safe as houses now. I’ve asked Mrs Saunders to make you a nice hot mug of cocoa.’ Edging back into the hallway, Walker caught my eye and mouthed the word Trouble.
What trouble? I mouthed back.
He didn’t elaborate. Instead, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said bluntly, ‘The brigadier wants to see you three in his office. Now!’
Shrouded in a dense cloud of sweet pipe smoke, the brigadier remained seated behind his desk, his telephone glued to his ear. He looked up, waved us in and beckoned for us all to sit down. ‘I share the prime minister’s concerns, sir,’ he said gravely to whoever was on the other end of the line. ‘No, I can’t think of any other way of getting at the truth . . . Uh-huh . . . Of course I appreciate that my suggestion is unorthodox, sir, but desperate times call for desperate measures . . . It is indeed a delicate matter and warrants the utmost secrecy . . . I agree the boy should remain here for now. A wise move given the circumstances . . . My team will deal with it, sir. You can rely on us. Thank you for giving me the green light. I’ve codenamed the mission Operation Salesman. I’ll set the wheels in motion. Rest assured we’ll get to the bottom of it all.’
The fiery-cheeked Brigadier Devlin was our commanding officer at Mulberry House. He was old-school army, stiff upper-lipped, and a fully paid-up member of the charge the bastards with your bayonets fixed brigade, stemming from his torrid time in the trenches of Ypres during the Great War. Now in his late fifties and in possession of a gammy leg filled with shrapnel that gave him hell whenever it turned cold, he had to be content sitting behind a desk and overseeing the training of those who’d do the Boche-bashing this time round on his behalf. We’d already learned that he was a shrewd man, capable of great warmth and generosity as well as a ruthlessness that made you quake in your boots. Such men shine brightly when their country goes to war. Carefully replacing the telephone receiver back into its cradle, he removed his favourite briar from between his teeth and tapped out the burned ash into an overflowing ashtray. ‘So, how is our guest?’ he enquired, lifting his watery gaze in Walker’s direction.
‘A few cracked ribs and suffering from exposure, I’d say, sir. Doctor’s on his way.’
‘I see.’ Turning his attention to us, the brigadier gave a heavy sigh. ‘Time to fill you in. According to his papers, the lad’s name is Jan Keppel and he’s fourteen years old.’
The name Keppel instantly struck a chord. While I tried to remember why, the brigadier continued, ‘Having escaped from Holland, he was picked up at daybreak this morning in a small dinghy close to the beach at a place in Essex called Frinton-on-Sea. Poor lad’s been through the wringer. Unsurprisingly, Frinton’s Home Guard couldn’t get much sense out of him. Delirious from his injuries, I expect. Anyway, all he kept muttering was a single word, over and over again: asperge.’
Loki’s expression hardened. ‘We heard him shout that word just now. What does it mean?’
‘It’s Dutch for “asparagus”, Mr Larson. Our Dutch section has a network of agents in Holland. The circuit is codenamed Asparagus.’
Walker chipped in, ‘It’s our biggest operation. Our agents work alongside the Dutch Resistance, organizing parachute drops, sabotage raids and, most importantly of all, escape routes for aircrews shot down over enemy territory. Those lucky enough to have time to bale out of their aircraft and avoid capture the moment they hit the ground often find their way into the arms of partisans willing to hide them. Naturally it’s our duty to try and bring them back home. Live to fight another day and all that. With Bomber Command’s continuing heavy losses, the numbers are appallingly high, so the initiative is being given the highest priority.’
The brigadier finished up by adding, ‘Various escape routes have been established across Europe. The Holland route is the most advanced. We’ve already had a couple of major successes. It’s an important morale booster.’
The name Keppel continued to preoccupy my thoughts. During combined training sessions with the Dutch section of Special Ops, I was sure I’d met someone called Keppel. But it definitely wasn’t Jan. I spotted his papers on the brigadier’s desk and asked if I might have a look. The brigadier nodded. Jan’s photograph was glued to the front, and all the official Dutch and Nazi stamps appeared correct and up to date – we’d studied them during lessons on forgery and I’d even had a go at making a stamp of an eagle by carving a piece of woodblock. On the inside Jan’s name was followed by his date of birth, and above a slightly smudged thumbprint was a list of dates and addresses, the most recent being a place called Scheveningen. Loki was itching for a peek so I handed it to him.
‘Scheveningen! I’ve got an aunt who lives on a farm not far from there. She left Norway when she married her Dutch husband,’ he declared with a mix of surprise and delight. ‘It’s just outside The Hague, a few miles from the coast. I spent a summer there.’
Only half listening, I suddenly remembered where I’d heard the name. ‘Bram Keppel!’ I blurted, thinking aloud. ‘We trained with him a couple of times. He’s with Major Gerrit’s lot over at Dovecote.’
Teams of agents of different nationalities were often based at separate houses in the New Forest. Dovecote was a huge country pile hidden in woods about three miles from Mulberry and was used exclusively by the Dutch. Loki stared at me blankly.
‘You remember. Tall boy, black hair. Crack shot. Jan could be his younger brother.’ I looked to the brigadier. ‘Am I right? Is he one of us too?’
The brigadier shook his head. ‘Although Jan is Bram’s brother, he’s not one of us, Mr Gunnersen. He’s an innocent civilian who’s had the misfortune to get caught up in an ungodly mess.’
‘Bram Keppel is, or at least was, the leader of Asparagus,’ Walker informed me soberly. ‘He was the first to be sent back into Holland.’
Fearing the worst, I asked, ‘Was?’
‘Is or was, we simply don’t know. That’s the nightmare facing us.’ The brigadier threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘According to Jan his brother was arrested on the streets of The Hague three weeks ago – along with the whole damn Asparagus circuit, by the sound of it. Jan’s convinced they must’ve been betrayed. The lad managed to get away by the skin of his teeth and escaped in order to warn us. If he’s to be believed, we’ve lost all our agents, and months of hard work have been for nothing.’ Slumping deep into the leather of his chair, he gripped the arms tightly as if he shared the pain of those captured.
Freya reached out and took Jan’s papers from Loki. ‘It sounds like you doubt his story, sir.’
The brigadier stabbed his pipe at wads of reports spread out on his desk. ‘Have a gander at those. They’re decoded messages, supposedly from Bram and his fellow wireless operators. Notice anything unusual?’
We each grabbed one. Mine looked routine – a request for more supplies to be dropped. Freya sat bolt upright and let out a gasp. ‘Oh my, I see what you mean.’ She pointed to the date and time of the transmission. ‘This was sent only two days ago.’
I inspected mine again – it had been sent just one week previously. The penny dropped. If Bram had been arrested three weeks ago, then no way could the messages have been freely sent by him. I swallowed hard as my brain went into overdrive and I realized the terrible truth. ‘Hell, this must mean the Germans have our codes and are impersonating our agents.’
‘Or maybe German Intelligence is forcing Bram and the others to transmit with a gun to their heads, Finn,’ Loki added sharply.
As I imagined the horrors our fellow agents might be experiencing at the hands of the infamous Gestapo, the brigadier bit hard on the stem of his pipe. ‘You may be right, Mr Larson.’
Freya drew breath. ‘But,’ she said hesitatingly, ‘it just doesn’t add up . . .’
Loki cast down his message in disgust. ‘Well, I think they must’ve been captured, just like Jan says. To doubt his story would be ridiculous. I mean, who else could he be? He’s hardly likely to be a Nazi stooge or an enemy agent sent to feed us false intelligence.’ He scarcely hid his sarcasm.
Freya responded quickly. ‘Yes, but you know the drill. If we are caught and forced to transmit messages by the enemy, we deliberately leave out our security checks.’
She was right. Agents’ messages were encrypted and then sent using Morse code. Crucially, as well as identifying themselves by their codename, agents routinely included deliberate errors or additional phrases in their messages – agreed with headquarters in advance – so that HQ could be certain it was them tapping away on the Morse key. Leaving them out or changing them automatically raised the alarm. It was standard procedure, drummed into our brains during endless hours of mind-numbing practice.
The brigadier’s expression darkened. ‘Quite so, Miss Haukelid. Unfortunately, according to Major Gerrit all his agents’ transmissions have been normal. Nothing untoward. That’s the puzzle, you see. On the one hand everything appears tickety-boo, and yet, on the other, we have Jan’s distressing story.’
Loki glanced up at the ceiling and whistled.
‘It gets worse,’ Walker grumbled. He was leaning up against a set of filing cabinets and toying with a paper knife in a manner that suggested he’d love to have the chance to use it in anger. ‘There are presently airmen waiting to get the hell out of Holland. It’s critical we get them out as soon as possible. Unless, that is, they’ve been rounded up by the enemy as well.’
The brigadier rose from his chair and paced the room, flexing his knee and rubbing life back into his numb thigh. Irritably, he cursed both his discomfort and our predicament. ‘It’s a bad business all right. If Jan Keppel’s correct, then the whole of Special Ops may have been compromised. We’re supposed to be “Most Secret”, for God’s sake!’
‘What are you going to do now, sir? Pull the plug on the whole operation?’ Loki asked.
Freya’s hand shot up. ‘Surely you first need a way to find out the truth, one way or the other. Can’t the local Dutch Resistance confirm the situation?’
‘Afraid not,’ Walker replied. ‘Too risky. In the current circumstances we don’t know who we can trust. We’re totally blind to what’s happening over there.’
The brigadier spun on his heels to face us. ‘Miss Haukelid is quite right, though. All our efforts must be directed to establishing whether Asparagus really has been compromised or not. However, we mustn’t do anything that might allow the enemy to get wind of our suspicions. If Jan’s right and old Fritz gets a sniff that we’ve rumbled him, the consequences could be dire. Being of no further use, they’d have no reason to keep Bram and the others alive. Assuming, of course, they’re still breathing. However, I believe there is a way, a cunning deception that might just work.’
‘What kind of deception?’ Loki asked.
The brigadier settled gingerly back into his chair. Searching the tabletop, he located a piece of paper and held it up. ‘This latest message requests that we parachute in an additional agent. So that’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m going to give them what they want: another agent, another wireless transmitter and another code book.’
‘Sounds like a suicide mission to me,’ Freya muttered under her breath.
‘Quite right, Miss Haukelid. That’s exactly what it is! That was X on the phone just now. After some persuasion he’s given me the green light.’
Stunned silence filled the room. Had the brigadier gone doolally? I assumed not, as X had approved the scheme. X was in overall charge of Special Ops and reported directly to Britain’s prime minister, Winston Churchill. Although we’d met him a few times, X’s real identity was a closely guarded secret. As the brigadier’s intentions sank in, a wave of confusion engulfed me. Scratching my head, I said, ‘I don’t get it, sir. What’s the point of sending in another agent if there’s every chance he’ll be captured as soon as he arrives?’
A wry smile formed on the brigadier’s lips. ‘That’s why we need to locate a rather special volunteer, Mr Gunnersen; someone willing to make an exceptional sacrifice, someone expendable! X wishes the matter to be handled entirely by our section, and so, Finn and Loki, you two will assist with the parachute drop. The need for your extra muscle will become apparent in due course. Tomorrow morning you’ll receive a full briefing on Operation Salesman, and afterwards you must be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Timing will be everything.’
Contemplating the idea of someone making an exceptional sacrifice, and figuring the brigadier probably meant the ultimate sacrifice, I exchanged fretful glances with Loki. Neither of us liked the sound of it.
Freya, meanwhile, struck me as being deeply puzzled by something. Not one to hold back, she asked, ‘Why was Jan brought here, sir? Why wasn’t he taken to Dovecote? That’s where the Dutch are based. All this is surely Major Gerrit’s problem to sort out. Why are we getting involved?’
The brigadier flashed Walker the kind of look that told me he’d been hoping to avoid such questions. Walker thought for a moment before offering an explanation of sorts. ‘Jan’s story would demolish the morale of Dutch agents based at Dovecote, miss, especially those next in line for returning home. They’d fear they might be parachuting straight into the arms of the enemy. Best the boy remains here for now.’
The brigadier seemed mighty relieved by the sergeant’s answer. It was as if it had dug him out of a deep hole and avoided the need to reveal other reasons – maybe the real reasons – for our involvement and why Jan Keppel had been brought to Mulberry. Something else troubled me too. Where was Major Gerrit? Why wasn’t he here, involved in our discussions about the fate of his team? I raised the point.
The brigadier squirmed and refused to look me in the eye. Without warning Walker sprang to his feet. ‘Ah, I can hear a car, sir. Must be the doctor.’
We were dismissed. Our meeting was over, and although my question remained unanswered I’d read their body language. Major Gerrit’s absence and the fact that Jan had not been taken to Dovecote were far more important than they were letting on. But why?
EMERGING FROM THE airfield’s vast hangar, I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and began pushing it across the grass. A week had passed since Jan Keppel’s arrival and it was time to get some answers. The evening breeze was warm and brushed gently against my cheeks as I contemplated our peculiar mission.
On the far side of the airfield a lone Whitley bomber was waiting for us, her twin Tiger engines idling, the hot exhaust gases making the evening air shimmer, her de Havilland propellers spinning in a whining blur. Silhouetted against a fiery red sunset, she was an odd-looking beast, all straight lines, box-like, her ugly bulbous nose housing her forward guns. She was like some hideous black insect, the sort that could give you a nasty bite.
Loki jogged to catch me up, the carefully packed parachute slung over his shoulder and rhythmically slapping against his back. ‘I can’t believe we’re part of all this, Finn. It doesn’t feel right. I mean . . . really not right.’ He gazed down at the man in the wheelchair and shook his head.
‘Just be grateful it’s not you sitting in this thing,’ I replied. And I meant it.
According to the fake identity papers tucked inside his jacket, our ‘volunteer’ in the wheelchair was one Paul van Beek, a travelling shoe salesman from Leiden, a small Dutch town midway between Amsterdam and The Hague. That was just part of his cover. He was no more Dutch than Loki or me. His real name was Private Clive Digby and he was as British as fish and chips.
I looked at the plane ahead of us again. With a wingspan of eighty-four feet, the Whitley normally carried a pretty hefty bomb load. That night, however, it was just Loki and me, Digby, and the Whitley’s flight crew who’d be heading out across the North Sea.
Brigadier Devlin and Sergeant Walker had come to see us off. Leaning heavily on his steel-tipped walking cane, the brigadier inspected his watch and bellowed at us to get a move on. The worry and strain showed on his face and the sight hardly filled me with confidence. I gave the wheelchair one final shove and arrived next to the Whitley’s fuselage, the backdraught from the propellers wildly scrambling my hair amid the sharp stink of burned kerosene and hot oil.
‘Digby’s supply canister is already on board,’ Walker informed us, shouting over the deafening din of the engines. Turning, he waved energetically at someone in the cockpit to attract their attention and then, cupping his hands about his mouth, yelled, ‘You can open them now.’
Clunks and whirs of the hydraulics operating the doors to the aircraft’s bomb compartment struck up, and the gaping hole in the bird’s belly slowly revealed itself. ‘Manoeuvre the wheelchair underneath, Finn, and then climb inside. Loki and I will lift Digby up.’
Three minutes later, and volunteer Special Ops agent Digby was safely inside the plane. Walker and the brigadier wished us luck and retreated a safe distance across the airfield, Walker dragging the empty wheelchair behind him. The bomb doors swung shut and clicked into their locked positions.
The inside of the fuselage looked like a giant empty soup tin. To minimize weight it had been stripped of anything that might make our flight comfortable. As we settled down onto the hard metal walkway, our pilot, Captain Nils Jacobsen, ventured back from his seat in the cockpit. Smiling, he waved a hello. ‘Everything all right, lads?’
We grumbled but nodded. Nils was a good friend, and with him at the controls I felt in safe hands. A Norwegian like us, he’d flown Spitfires alongside my father in the Battle of Britain the previous summer and had been called upon to chaperone us during our initial training in Special Ops. More recently transferred to the Moon Squadron, he was now responsible for ferrying agents in and out of Europe in the dead of night.
Mopping perspiration from his shiny brow, Nils hammered a fist against the airframe. ‘This old crate isn’t in the best shape but it’s all they had at such short notice. It’ll do the job though.’ Bending down to get a better look at Digby, a shadow of disgust passed over his face. ‘So this is the poor sod, is it?’ He patted him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Well, good luck, old boy!’
Digby couldn’t reply because he’d already been dead for some hours.
Instinctively, Nils wiped the hand he’d used to pat Digby’s shoulder on his tunic. ‘Where on earth did they find him?’
‘Salisbury Plain,’ Loki replied. ‘Apparently he bought it yesterday afternoon in a freak accident during training on an assault course. Broke his neck in two places. Died instantly. Just what the brigadier was waiting for. He commandeered the body and had him driven straight to the airfield in total secrecy.’
Nils shook his head in revulsion. ‘Is there no limit to the depths people will stoop to? I mean, I know this war is vile, no holds barred, and all that, but . . . Christ! Anyway, what will dropping a corpse over enemy territory achieve?’
Nils’s orders were simple. Having been given the map coordinates for Digby’s drop, he had to fly us in and fly us out and try not to get shot down. He knew little regarding the background or purpose of Operation Salesman and so his distaste was understandable. I wanted to explain that Digby’s injuries were entirely consistent with those a parachutist might experience should their silk canopy fail to open properly, that – sickeningly – it was this fact that made him the perfect volunteer for the brigadier’s clever deception. However, Loki and I had been instructed to say nothing, and so reluctantly we kept our mouths shut.
Nils accepted our silence as being our sworn duty and didn’t press the matter. Straightening up, he pointed to an instrument panel. ‘Put on your helmets and hook up the intercoms to this unit. I’ll keep you informed of our position and let you know when we approach the drop zone.’ He gestured towards two naked bulbs. ‘Standard procedure, lads. When the red light comes on, get Digby and his supply canister into position for the drop. He goes out through that hatch in the floor forward of the bomb doors. I’ll switch to the green light when we’re over the DZ. For God’s sake remember to hook both static lines above your heads. Otherwise the parachutes won’t open. Any questions?’
We shook our heads. Nils turned towards the cockpit but then hesitated. Reaching out, he placed a hand firmly on my shoulder. I sensed his awkwardness, especially when he peered at me with the oddest of expressions and I noticed a slight tremble on his lips. ‘Listen, Finn – because of reports of enemy night patrols, our route takes us on quite a detour. We’ll be flying over the spot where your father was shot down. I wasn’t sure if it was wise to tell you. It’s just that . . . well . . . I thought you might want to take a look. It’ll probably be dark by the time we get there but you’ll get a sense of where it happened.’
He’d taken me completely by surprise. It was like a punch to the face, arriving from nowhere, without warning, and it rocked me. As well as being startled, I couldn’t suppress a huge lump in my throat. It almost choked me and snatched my breath away. Unable to speak, I could only offer a faint nod.
He smiled as if relieved. ‘Good. I’ll tell you over the intercom when we get there.’ Partially unzipping his flying jacket, he reached inside and removed a small, neatly folded Norwegian flag. He handed it to me. ‘I thought you might want this. A token of remembrance. You can say a prayer and then drop it through the hatch. I know it’s hardly full military honours and there’ll be no accompanying twenty-one-gun salute, but maybe this way’s better, more personal.’
I thanked him, my voice feeble. Without another word he turned away and headed back to the cockpit.
Loki muttered, ‘Are you sure about this, Finn? I mean, won’t it just open old wounds?’
Leaning back against the fuselage, I pressed my eyes shut and counted slowly to ten, making myself breathe steadily, forcing myself to remain calm. When I opened them again, Loki was still staring at me. ‘Nils is right. I need to see where it happened,’ I said determinedly.
‘Why? What good will it do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snapped. What I wanted to say, but couldn’t, was that all I knew about Father’s demise was what Nils had told me. During a frenetic dogfight Father had been outwitted by a Messerschmitt 109. There was no body, nothing to bury, no grave or memorial that I could visit and lay flowers beside. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing