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  Band of Brothers

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Manhunt

  Copyright

  Band of Brothers

  Alexander Fullerton

  Foreword

  Into the Fire, the novel preceding this one, tells the story of Rosie Ewing, an agent of Special Operations Executive, on a hazardous mission to set up a new SOE network in Rouen, where the Gestapo have infiltrated the old réseau and arrested all its members. Nine-tenths of the story is about Rosie, while in the background is Ben Quarry, Australian navigator of the motor gunboat in which she travels from Dartmouth to the coast of Brittany.

  Band of Brothers follows Into the Fire, but this time Ben Quarry has the lead. He’s in a gunboat flotilla based at Newhaven in Sussex; has managed to wangle this transfer so as to be closer to Rosie. She’s working for SOE in London—and threatening, to Ben’s dismay, to return to ‘the field’, i.e. German-occupied France. So this time it’s Rosie who’s in the background—although she’s more often than not in the forefront of Ben’s mind.

  The action occupies about eight hours of a Sunday night/Monday morning in October 1943. The former banana-boat Heilbronne, newly fitted-out as a U-boat support ship, is sailing heavily escorted from Le Havre en route to the Atlantic, and a mixed force of motor torpedo boats and motor gunboats from Newhaven is ordered to intercept and sink her.

  The background is not far removed from reality. There were flotillas of MTBs and MGBs at Newhaven, and the battle which takes place off the Cherbourg peninsula is based loosely on an amalgam of several Coastal Force actions of which the official ‘Reports of Proceedings’ were very kindly supplied to me by Mr Len Reynolds, DSC, himself a former gunboat CO, author of his own highly readable memoir Gunboat 658 (Kimber, 1955), and now historical researcher in the Coastal Forces Veterans’ Association. First and foremost, though, I have had the tremendous benefit of months of help and advice from Commander Christopher Dreyer, DSO, DSC☆, RN (Rtd). Now President of that Veterans’ Association, in his own distinguished career at sea he commanded several MTB flotillas, including—in 1943—the 24th Flotilla which for a time was based in Newhaven.

  A.F.

  Chapter One

  He woke rather slowly—on his bunk, more or less fully dressed, emerging reluctantly from a dream in which Rosie had been telling him she’d changed her mind, she’d marry him right away. Rosie, with whom he’d spent last night… That had been no dream—except in a figurative sense, a dream of heaven on earth. There was something wrong too, though—bad, spoiling, surfacing in his memory like garbage floating up. The voice that had woken him grinding on, meanwhile— ‘—Intelligence Room, Ben, right away—briefing. Wake up, damn it! D’you hear me, Ben?’

  Barclay’s voice. Alan Barclay was this gunboat’s first lieutenant. There were other sounds and reverberations, voices out there and sailors clomping around and overhead. Judging by the dimness of the light in the scuttle just above this bunk it had to be getting towards sunset; in which case he’d been out for the count for bloody hours. Making up for kip he’d missed last night. Barclay still nattering at him and pulling at his shoulder: Ben grunted, lifting that arm to focus slit-eyed on his watch. Five-thirty.

  They’d been due to come to immediate notice for sea at 1800—sunset, officially—as a matter of routine. He cleared his throat, muttered in an exaggeratedly Pommy accent, ‘Briefing for what, one asks oneself…’ Projecting himself off the bunk. Shoes and reefer jacket were all he needed that he didn’t have on already. Barclay was telling him he didn’t know, for Christ’s sake—and Ben remembering that that particular problem—private and personal, which would be why it had sprung to mind before anything else—well, right on the heels of the glory that was Rosie—was by no means the only bad news, here in Newhaven on this October sabbath in 1943. Very bad news: the MTB sweep last night—off Etaples—545 badly shot up, Roddy King the motor torpedo boats’ SO killed outright and her coxswain and several of the crew wounded. At a time when he himself had been luxuriating in an oak four-poster at the Beauport Place Hotel with Rosie in his arms, the incredibly exciting, longed-for feel and scent of her, and—all right, the hitherto forbidden word—love—a year of dreams come true and he—Ben Quarry, Australian, twenty-nine years old—hardly daring to believe in it.

  Problems there too, however. She worked for Special Operations Executive, who were currently employing her here in England—helping to train other agents, he’d gathered—but having been back from her last hair-raising sortie only about six weeks—less than eight, anyway—she was under some kind of inner compulsion to go back into what she called ‘the field’—meaning German-occupied France.

  The thought of it gave him the shivers, and he’d spent part of the night trying to dissuade her.

  ‘I know a cat has nine lives, Rosie, but you’re not—’

  ‘What d’you mean I’m not? I’m a supercat!’

  Claws in the darkness to prove it: and her impression of a purr…

  That jumble of thoughts had rushed through his mind in the time it had taken him to lace his shoes. He was on his feet now—a head taller than Barclay—who was on the skinny side, as well. Ben muttered,

  ‘Right. I’m off.’ Reaching for his cap. ‘Going over, I suppose.’

  Meaning by that, over to the other side, the French coast. And the engines started at that moment—not exactly confirming the supposition, but tending that way, ‘warming-through’, a procedure which took about fifteen minutes, after which they would be at immediate notice, ready to shove off. He was out of the wardroom—out into the galley flat then up the ladder into the plot, or wheelhouse—his own closet-sized domain, since he was the navigating officer of this ‘D’ class motor gunboat. Pausing to snatch up a notebook and a couple of half-used soft pencils. Up a shorter ladder then into the bridge, where an AB named Bennet was bawling ‘We’ll Meet Again’ while greasing the starboard twin Vickers GO machine-guns, and the telegraphist—sharp-eyed, blue-jawed, name of Ordway—asked him, glancing round from tracing a lead to one of the aerials, ‘No idea what the flap’s about, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘Not a bloody clue, Sparks!’

  None whatsoever. Preparations were being made—the warming-through, for one thing, with other boats of the duty units starting up as well—but departure was not likely to be imminent. You sailed after dark, almost invariably, not in daylight thus advertising the fact to any Luftwaffe reconnaissance, for instance. Same applied to the opposition, of course, if some unit was about to emerge from one of the French ports it would surely wait for sundown. Cats lying doggo, eyeing the mouseholes… He was out of the bridge, crossing the upper deck abaft it, and a seaman gunner who had the twin Oerlikon in pieces was shouting a reminder to the telegraphist about the Worry-Worry bird, which allegedly flew backwards because it didn’t give a toss where it was going but was always desperate to know where it had been. Amazing that one had slept through even the first minute of this racket. He’d had very little sleep last night; then had had to see Rosie off to London on a train from Haywards Heath and get back to the base here by noon. He’d had some lunch, listening to the talk about last night’s action on ‘the other side’—which had involved achievement as well as loss, a tank landing craft had been sunk and an armed trawler left burning—and after the meal he’d been quick to get his head down.


  Just as well, too. Tonight, by the look of it, there’d be no sleep. Passing over MGB 866—whose engines chose that moment to start coughing and shuddering into life—over to her port side, thence a ladder fifteen feet up to the stone quayside: turning left, jamming his cap on tighter and beginning to run. ‘Baldy’ Worbury, 874’s first lieutenant, howling at him from that boat’s stern as he passed her—‘Wages of sin, Ben, wages of sin!’

  Whatever the hell that meant. Rum bloke, Worbury—bald as a coot at twenty-two. 874 had her engines running too. By this time he was passing the next moored trot—MGB 870 lying outside 863, which was Grant McKellar’s. McKellar, half-leader of the gunboat flotilla, had been acting SO during the recent absence of Ben’s own captain, a fellow Australian by name of Bob Stack.

  Whose wife was cheating on him. Of which fact he, Ben Quarry, was supposed to be apprising him. At least, he’d agreed that it was his duty to do so, last night. In the cold light of day, however, it was about as embarrassing a prospect as could be imagined. In fact bloody impossible.

  But not easy to know about it and stay mum, either, when it was a mate involved. Even without the pigeon coming home to roost.

  He’d worked up to full power by this time, sprinting northward along the quayside. Dodging slower-moving personnel and attracting looks of surprise, even humorous comment here and there. Workshops—integral to this Coastal Forces base, HMS Aggressive—lined the quay on his right, opposite trots of motor torpedo boats—MTBs, as distinct from MGBs—smaller as well as faster, 70 feet long as compared to the gunboats’ 120, roughly. Several of them were warming-through; another started up as he passed her. Billy Chisholm’s, that was, 562; with young Raikes, her spare officer, gawping at him from the foredeck. Beyond him, Ben saw repair work in progress on 545, in which Roddy King had been killed last night. A single round of 88-mm from one of the Gerry trawlers had done all the damage, shattering that corner of the bridge and blowing King’s head off. The other two boats which had been on the sweep, 559 and 561, were lying next ahead of 545, in the right-angle where the quay jutted outward into the harbour. All the boats pointing seaward—as always, having berthed port-side-to.

  MLs—motor launches—occupied the next fifty yards or so, and more workshops filled the space between the quay and the railway line. Over on the other side of the narrow harbour, launches with RAF roundels on their hulls were clustered alongside the Air-Sea Rescue station.

  Low cloud, unbroken, darkened the barely moving, oil-streaked surface. You could smell the oil. A breeze from the west slanted the wires of the barrage balloons, silver-grey against the darker overhead.

  Slowing, now—down to a fast walk and getting his breathing back into control—trying to—as he approached the London and Paris Hotel. Formerly the railway hotel, it had been requisitioned to become HMS Aggressive’s offices and wardroom. From the wardroom anteroom you stepped out on to platform number 1; what had been the railway buffet was the wardroom bar. No loss to the travelling public, for the simple reason that there weren’t any; the whole of this coast from the Thames to Selsey Bill was an exclusion zone. Ben entered the old pub by its back door and made his way through and upstairs to the inter-connecting suite of Intelligence Room, Ops Room and SO’s office. The SO—senior officer of the MGB flotilla—being his own skipper, Lieutenant-Commander Bob Stack DSO, DSC and bar, RANVR. The one with the wife. But also an old friend, and a fellow Australian. It had been thanks to him that Ben had managed to have himself appointed here, moving from the 15th MGB Flotilla which was based at Dartmouth.

  Motivation for the move had been to get closer to Rosie. From down there in the West Country, with her in London and neither of them getting much time off—and any such breaks hardly ever coinciding—you might as well have been in China.

  Or Brisbane. Home, was Brisbane.

  ‘Ben.’ Female voice, as he let a door swing shut behind him. ‘Been taking exercise?’

  ‘Might say that, Judy. Hi, Doc.’

  Wren Second Officer Judy Collins—head girl, boss of all the Wrens here—stores assistants, mechanics, cooks and stewards, armourers, torpedo ratings, writers. She’d been talking to the quack—the MO, who’d been a medical student when the war had started, had by this time learnt a lot the hard way. Ben would have paused to ask after the wounded from last night’s action, but was aware that his absence might already be holding up the briefing session. Although it had only taken him a couple of minutes to get here. He pushed into the Ops Room—where ‘state’ boards showed the availability of boats, which were on patrol or at short notice or stand-off for repair or maintenance—and through it to the Intelligence Room, the door to which was normally kept locked but was now ajar with a green-stripe sub-lieutenant framed in it, turning to yell into the room behind him, ‘Lieutenant Quarry’s here, sir!’ From inside came Bob Stack’s rasping Australian, ‘At bloody last…’

  The green-striper—one of the base staff, handled cyphers, acted as duty officer and so forth—shut the door behind him. Ben joining about a dozen—fifteen, sixteen—of his colleagues, all the duty unit’s COs and their navigators—which in the case of the seventy-foot MTBs meant their first lieutenants. He was facing Bob Stack’s unsmiling glare, and a friendlier, welcoming nod from the SO(O)—Staff Officer (Operations), an RNVR lieutenant who was himself a Coastal Forces man, ‘resting’ from sea duty. Ben told Stack—in his early thirties, broad-shouldered with wiry jet-black hair and brilliantly blue eyes—wide mouth, strong jaw, a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once—a tough cookie, in fact, but there was a lot of humour in that face even if it wasn’t showing much at this moment—‘Sorry, sir. Came as soon as I got word, but—’

  ‘Let’s not waste more time.’ Stack and the SO(O) were out front, as it were on stage, backed by an array of charts and a blackboard. One blown-up chart65 of the whole Channel was studded with coloured pins showing units known to be in the various French ports, and the positions of convoys and own forces—patrols out of Dover, Ramsgate, Portsmouth, Portland—wherever—and minefields—every known or at any rate relevant fact or feature. Ben, still puffed, subsided on to a vacant chair next to Johnny Crowther—MGB 866’s navigator—and Stack nodded to the SO(O). ‘Kick off, Harry, will you?’

  This was a preliminary briefing, the SO(O) explained, based on Intelligence reports and logical deductions. Preliminary in the sense that sailing orders had yet to be received. Units had been ordered to immediate notice for sea, however, in anticipation of a further signal from C-in-C Portsmouth which would follow a sunset reconnaissance flight over Le Havre and/or its approaches.

  Situation as follows. Newly fitted-out U-boat supply ship, the 4500-ton Heilbronne, former banana boat, was expected to sail tonight from Le Havre westbound, destination possibly Cherbourg but more likely either Brest or straight out into the Atlantic. Ten days ago she’d left the Jade, slipped into Ostend before she could be intercepted, and sneaked into Le Havre after a second coastal hop during the recent spell of foul weather which had severely restricted Coastal Forces’ operations. Intelligence had thought she’d taken temporary refuge in Dieppe, now they’d woken up to find her in Le Havre.

  Stack cut in: ‘Hence this bloody panic. Known it earlier we could’ve shifted down to Hornet, made the interception a lot easier than looks like it may be.’ Hornet being the Coastal Force base in Portsmouth. He gestured towards the SO(O): ‘Sorry, Harry.’

  ‘Fair comment, sir.’ Glancing down at his notes. ‘Would’ve made it a whole lot easier. However…’ Strategic factors—since time allowed for this… Intelligence assessments were that U-boat operations in the North Atlantic, which had virtually ceased after their heavy defeat on the convoy routes in May, were about to be resumed. New types of submarine, new radar, at least thirty boats equipped with Schnorkel, and a new acoustic torpedo. So—very urgently and vitally, since any effective disruption on the convoy routes could impede the build-up of invasion forces and material—and the Heilbronne was ob
viously intended to play a part in that effort—

  Bob Stack again: ‘Let’s just say the bastard’s German and he’s afloat, so he’s our meat, right?’

  There was universal and emphatic agreement. Ben murmured to Crowther, ‘Bugger hasn’t changed one bit.’ He meant Stack hadn’t. The SO(O) added, winding up his strategic appreciation, that obviously Admiral Doenitz would want this support ship out on station—or at least at Brest, available to him—sooner rather than later, and since conditions for a breakout tonight were favourable—cloud-cover total, therefore no moon—the odds were that (a) she would be making a run for it, (b) she would not be intending to put into Cherbourg.

  This brought him down to detail: as much as there was of it at this stage. The Heilbronne was reported to be well armed. Obviously would be, for her intended role. Her speed between Hamburg and Ostend and Ostend and Le Havre had averaged seventeen knots: the same might reasonably be expected tonight. As for escorts—from Hamburg to Ostend she’d been accompanied by R-boats and M-class minesweepers, then on the stage to Le Havre in that very heavy weather she’d had the sweepers again—two of them—and two T-class torpedo-boats. According to air reconnaissance there were at least half a dozen of such craft now in Le Havre.

  ‘RAF call ’em “small destroyers” but that’s what they are. And that’s the kind of opposition you can expect. With luck the PRU recce’ll tell us more.’ The SO(O) added that before the ‘off’ he’d also have had the Night Movements signal, up-dated gen on any scheduled convoy and/or ‘own forces’ movements to be expected during the coming hours of darkness.

  He turned to Bob Stack. ‘All yours, sir.’

  Stack moved to the chart, brandishing a pointer that looked like the end of a billiard cue. Touching Le Havre with it, then the north-eastern tip of the Cherbourg peninsula.

  ‘Le Havre to Pointe de Barfleur by their inshore convoy route—that’s to say hugging the coast as near as damnit two-point-three miles offshore, then from here up to the pointe—at seventeen knots, four hours. So if they clear Le Havre by say 1900, they’ll be rounding Barfleur about 2300. Could be on their way earlier than 1900—that’s what we’re waiting to hear. Darkness won’t be slow coming with the cloud we have. And from here, cruising at twenty-three knots, say—for your lot, Mike—eighty miles, three hours and a half. For us Dogs—’ he meant, for the ‘D’ class gunboats—‘at twenty knots, nearer four hours. On the face of it I don’t like those margins, especially don’t relish a headlong bloody rush inshore. May be able to warm the bell a bit—but low cloud could make the air reconnaissance tricky, too… However—Mike—’