Night of the Fox. Jack Higgins
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general area of the English Channel.
‘Exercise Tiger, sir,’ he said. ‘You remember the details?’
‘Simulated landings for Overlord.’
‘That’s right. Here in Lyme Bay in Devon there’s a place called Slapton Sands. It bears enough similarities to the beach we’ve designated Utah in the Normandy landings to make it invaluable for training purposes. Most of the young Americans going in have no combat experience.’
‘I know that, Jack,’ Munro said. ‘Go on.’
‘Last night’s convoy consisted of eight landing craft. Five from Plymouth and three from Brixham. Under naval escort, of course. They were to do a practice beach landing at Slapton.’
There was a pause. Munro said, ‘Tell me the worst.’
‘They were attacked at sea by German E-boats, we think the Fifth and Ninth Schnellboote Flotillas from Cherbourg.’
‘And the damage?’
‘Two landing craft sunk for certain. Others torpedoed and damaged.’
‘And the butcher’s bill?’
‘Difficult to be accurate at the moment. Around two hundred sailors and four hundred and fifty soldiers.’
Munro said. ‘Are you trying to tell me we lost six hundred and fifty American servicemen last night? Six hundred and fifty and we haven’t even started the invasion of Europe?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Munro walked restlessly across the room and stood at the window. ‘Has Eisenhower been told?’
‘He’s in town, sir, at Hayes Lodge. He wants to see you at breakfast. Eight o’clock.’
‘And he’ll want the facts.’ Munro turned and went to his desk.
‘Were there any Bigots among those officers lost?’
‘Three, sir.’
‘Dear God, I warned them. I warned them about this,’ Munro said. ‘No Bigot to in any way undertake hazardous duty.’
Some months previously it had become regrettably clear that there were serious breaches of security, in some cases by high-ranking American officers, in connection with the projected invasion of Europe. The Bigot procedure had been brought in as an answer to the situation. It was an intelligence classification above Most Secret. Bigots knew what others did not – the details of the Allied invasion of Europe.
‘The three are missing so far,’ Carter said. ‘I’ve got their files.’
He laid them on the desk and Munro examined them quickly. ‘Stupid,’ he said. ‘Unbelievably stupid. Take this man, Colonel Hugh Kelso.’
‘The engineering officer?’ Carter said. ‘He’s already visited two of the Normandy beaches by night, courtesy of Four Commando, to check on the suitability of the terrain for vehicles.’
‘Sword Beach and Utah Beach.’ Munro groaned. ‘For God’s sake, Jack, what if he was picked up by one of those E-boats? He could be in enemy hands right now. And they’ll make him talk if they want to, you know that.’
‘I don’t think it’s likely that any of those missing were picked up by the Germans, sir. The captain of the destroyer Saladin, which was one of the escorts, said the E-boats attacked at a range of fifteen hundred meters, then got the hell out of it fast. Typical hit and run. A lot of darkness and confusion on both sides. And the weather isn’t too good. Wind force five to six and freshening, but I’m informed that the way the currents are in Lyme Bay, most of the bodies will come ashore. Already started.’
‘Most, Jack, most.’ Munro tapped the map on the table. ‘The Germans know we’re coming. They’re expecting the invasion. They’re ready for it. Hitler’s put Rommel himself in charge of all coastal fortifications. But they don’t know where and they don’t know when.’ He shook his head, staring down at the map. ‘Wouldn’t it be ironic if the greatest invasion in history had to be called off because one man with all the right information fell into the wrong hands.’
‘Not likely, sir, believe me,’ Carter said gently. ‘This Colonel Kelso will come in on the tide with the rest of them.’
‘God help me, but I pray that he does, Jack. I pray that he does,’ Dougal Munro said fervently.
But at that precise moment, Colonel Hugh Kelso was very much alive, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, cold and wet and in terrible pain. He lay huddled in the bottom of a life raft in several inches of water about a mile offshore from the Devon coast, a contrary current carrying him fast toward Start Point on the southernmost tip of Lyme Bay, and beyond Start Point were the open waters of the English Channel.
Kelso was forty-two, married with two daughters. A civil engineer, he had been managing director of the family firm of construction engineers in New York for several years and had a high reputation in the field. Which was why he’d been drafted into the Engineering Corps in 1942 with the immediate rank of major. His experience with the engineering problems involved in beach landings on various islands in the South Pacific had earned him a promotion and a transfer to SHAEF Headquarters in England to work on the preparation for the invasion of Europe.
He’d taken part in Exercise Tiger on the request of the commanding officer for one reason only. The American 1st Engineer Special Brigade was one of the units assigned to take the beach designated as Utah during the coming Normandy landings, and Hugh Kelso had actually visited Utah Beach six weeks previously, under cover of darkness, guarded by British commandos. Slapton Sands was as close to the terrain as they could get. It had seemed sensible to seek his opinion, which was why he’d sailed on LST 31 from Plymouth.
Like everyone on board, Kelso had been taken totally by surprise by the attack. A considerable number of flares had been noticed in the distance which had been assumed to be from British MTBs. And then the first torpedo had struck and the night had become a living hell of burning oil and screaming men. Although Kelso didn’t know it then, 413 men were killed from LST 31 alone. In his own case, he was blown off his feet by the force of the explosion and slammed against a rail, toppling into the water. His life jacket kept him afloat, of course, but he lost consciousness, coming to his senses to find himself being towed through the icy water.
The flames were a hundred yards away and in the reflected light he was aware only of an oil-soaked face.
‘You’re okay, sir. Just hang on. There’s a life raft here.’
The life raft loomed out of the darkness. It was the new model of inflatable developed from Pacific experience. A round, fat orange sphere riding high in the water and intended to carry as many as ten men. There was a canopy on top to protect the occupants from wind and weather, the entrance flap standing open.
‘I’ll get you in, sir, then I’ll go back for some more. Come on, up you go.’
Kelso felt weak, but his unknown friend was strong and muscular. He pushed hard, shoving Kelso in headfirst through the flap. And then Kelso was aware of the pain in his right leg, like a living thing and worse than anything he had ever known. He screamed and fainted.
When he came to, he was numb with cold and it took him a few moments to work out where he was. There was no sign of his unknown friend. He felt around in the darkness, then peered out through the open flap. Spray dashed in his face. There was no light anywhere, only the dark and the wind and the sound of the sea running. He checked the luminous dial of his waterproof watch. It was almost five o’clock and then he remembered that these life rafts carried an emergency kit. As he turned to feel for it, the pain started in his leg again. He gritted his teeth as his hands found the emergency kit box and got the lid open.
There was a waterproof flashlight in a clip on the inside of the lid and he switched it on. He was alone, as he had thought, in the orange cave, about a foot of water slopping around him. His uniform trousers were badly torn below the right knee, and when he put his