My Enemy Came Nigh Read online

  He was a wasted-looking man of thirty, tall and wide­shouldered but thin after his illness which had left him with chronic stomach trouble. When Eva arrived he was taking a short break from his duties: the Germans allowed him to rest after his midday meal, rather than waste a fully fit man on his job. His eyes had the brightness of fever when he asked her "What did you find out?"

  She sat near him, with a sigh. "I tried to listen to von Trampel and Wüstling talking after I left them alone. But that microphone Zdenka hid in the dining room is not working properly. Or perhaps it is the listening device she fitted in my wireless. Anyway, I couldn't hear everything."

  He was impatient. "What did you hear?"

  "Fifty or sixty sailors and officers were killed, but none of the army; which seemed to make them both very angry."

  "Are you sure it was so many?"

  "I told you, the thing wasn't working properly."

  "Women! Zdenka puts on all those airs and thinks she's so clever..."

  "Well, could you have fixed up anything that worked at all?"

  "I don't go around flaunting a physics degree or pretending to be an efficient intellectual. Anyway, what else did you find out?"

  "von Trampel says the anti-aircraft gunners are useless. He says what he needs is a naval ship with big guns and naval gunners who are used to shooting in all conditions."

  "D'you mean he's going to ask for a destroyer, which is the biggest ship that could get into the harbour here, to be sent to defend the place?"

  Eva dropped her eyes and her voice sounded uncertain. "That's what he wants."

  "But they'd never agree to that: it would waste a valuable warship that ought to be at sea, not permanently in harbour."

  "He... he wants to get earlier warning of air raids. If he had a ship out there, it could shoot at the aeroplanes miles before they got here."

  "Is that what he said?"

  "Well... yes. That's... that's what he told Wüstling." She felt cornered. von Trampel had not said precisely that, but her brother, as he often did, was making her confused and resentful. If that was what he wanted to hear, well, let him put whatever interpretation on it he cared to. She looked up at him defiantly.

  *

  It was some hours later when Maria-Pia was free to visit her parents. Her father had gone to the local bar, as soon as he had eaten his evening meal, to play cards and drink bad wine. Her mother had unravelled an old sweater and was re-knitting the wool for the winter. Her two sisters had gone to help with the mending of fishing nets. Her two schoolboy brothers were outside with some friends, fishing off the jetty with hand lines.

  Her mother kissed her on both cheeks and asked if she had managed to filch anything from von Trampel's kitchen for her. Maria-Pia took a packet of tea from one pocket and a small bag of sugar from another.

  "Can't you get some coffee?" Her mother complained.

  "von Trampel drinks a lot of tea, like the English. It is harder to steal the coffee."

  "It is a long time since you brought any schnapps for your father."

  "I’ll try next week, Mama."

  There was a knock at the door and a sturdy good-looking young man with thick, curly black hair and a nautical cap set jauntily on his head, came in.

  Maria-Pia squealed with delight and ran to him.

  ''Guido!"

  Her fiance embraced her and smiled at her mother. Maria-Pia breathed ecstatically: how wonderful to fill her senses with the tang of fish, honest sweat, hemp, tar and stale wine, instead of that beast Schwuler's characteristic smell of carbolic, laundry soap, boot polish and freshly ironed clothes.

  They sat together on a small sofa, with his arm round her waist. Maria-Pia was thinking how terrible it would be if he knew about Schwuler: she would be glad if her Guido killed him; but her Guido would kill her first.

  "What message have you got for me?" He asked.

  "Eva saw Petar this afternoon and told him what she had heard von Trampel and Wüstling talking about. Also, Zdenka is going to see Petar this evening. Tomorrow morning you must go to the harbour office and ask him to go with you to your father's boat and inspect the engine. Tell him it needs new piston rings and you want a permit to get them from the German naval stores."

  "But there's nothing wrong with the engine just now. And if it needed new rings I could take them to him, there'd be no need for him to come out to the boat."

  His beloved rumpled his hair fondly and kissed him. "Silly boy. You must start the engine and let him hear for himself. He will tell you you must make do with the old piston rings for the time being. While he is with you he will give you your instructions: the noise of the engine will prevent anyone else from hearing anything."

  "O-o-o-oh! "Said Guido, "I understand."

  She hoped he did. The last time he had been told to report to Petar he had barged into the harbour office and, in front of two Germans, said "Hello, Petar: I hear you want to share some great secret with me and we're supposed to meet on the dock tomorrow morning at six, by accident, Ha! Ha! ''

  The Germans had manifested an unhealthy curiosity.

  Silly Guido. Maria-Pia was no great scholar herself, but although Guido had left the village school four years before her his reputation for lack of mental agility had lingered; but she loved him for himself, not his brain.

  *

  After dinner von Trampel smoked a cigar and listened to Mozart on his gramophone. He warmed a balloon glass of good French cognac in his left hand and sipped it with an affected pursing of the lips that irritated Eva. He wouldn't infuse much warmth in the glass if he held it with his right hand, she thought unkindly. She was horridly fascinated by what he could do with its remaining two fingers and thumb. The two he had lost had been severed right down at the knuckle where they joined his palm, and part of the heel of the hand had gone with them. There was an obscenity about the large cigar protruding from this ruin.

  He kept glancing towards her and presently his left (and only) foot started tapping the floor. She knew the signs and began to brace herself. He was, perversely, always most lustful when he had had a bad day. She supposed it was in compensation. And she, because a bad day for the Germans was automatically a good day for her, whatever the degree of calamity that had befallen them, from a delayed signal to the sinking of a vessel, was at her most vulnerable; because it was natural to associate one kind of pleasure with another, for the mental joy of a setback for the enemy to provoke a desire for physical gratification. So that when his lust was most roused, hers was too for a different reason. She hated responding to his amorous moods, but always did eventually. Even though she tried to imagine she was with someone else, any presentable man among her own people, that probing hand like a deformed spider creeping over her flesh aroused her quickly when her mind was full of exultation at a successful blow against the oppressors.

  He watched her for an hour, not speaking, wrapt in the music and his anticipation. She watched him with hatred and self-disgust, and her own anticipation grew more acute as the inevitable approached.

  Soon they were in bed, his mesmeric hand straying over her secret places; and when she felt the stump of his right thigh forcing itself between her legs she shuddered with disgust as though she were the victim in some monstrous grand guignol. And because the stump was a mutilation of the enemy her heart was joyful and so her sensual reaction was strong too, so that in contradiction of everything she truly felt she found herself in a frenzy that matched his.

  But as she coupled with him she pressed her mouth against his totally deaf right ear and moaned "You bastard... I hate you... I’ll see you dead yet... you pig, you violator... we'll kill you, we'll kill you..."

  Five

  For three days nobody was killed nor were any aircraft hit by enemy fire. The Beaufighters went out looking for trouble, in flights of six, sections of three, or sometimes in pairs and singly. Every day someone found something worth shooting at and a few small craft were sunk. One morning, for a change, Joe Anstey took
his flight across the coast of mainland Jugoslavia and they surprised a convoy of German lorries, of which they blew some up and set alight too many. On the way out they were fired on from a gun emplacement, which they promptly destroyed with a few well aimed or lucky rockets. It was not exactly the sort of break in monotony for which George Middleton had been looking, but he felt he should be grateful for it.

  That evening he had a date with the nurse whom he had been taking out for five months, and this auspicious start augured well for the whole day. He hoped it would be followed by a memorable evening.

  When they landed they found the Operations block, which housed the operations and briefing rooms, the Signals, Intelligence and Cypher sections and the Meteorological office, infused with the air of controlled ferment that always preceded a special operation. There were more people on duty than usual and they all seemed to be moving around a lot and doing so with a brisk, tight­lipped air. There was much low-voiced consultation and the constant rustle of paper.

  Among those who appeared only on portentous occasions were the naval liaison officer, a lieutenant commander, and his army counterpart, a major.

  ''I know what's on," Tindall whispered to his pilot. "There's going to be a landing behind enemy lines; up near Venice, likely. They're not satisfied with making a balls-up at Anzio; they want to prove they can make a balls-up anywhere."

  His flat West Riding voice was well suited to such cynicisms and gave them a humour which Middleton encouraged. He replied "Not tonight, I hope. Fay will be furious."

  "You flatter yourself, chum."

  "Oh, go and peddle some policies." It was a standing joke with them that, whenever a particularly scary op. was planned, Tommy Tindall would take advantage of it to sell life assurance policies to his comrades. In civilian life he had worked for an insurance company; and it was well known that life policies taken out since the declaration of war did not cover war risk: but it was their convention that Tommy was deprived of some hefty commissions by the parsimony of his brother air crew officers and N.C.Os and their blind confidence in their own survival.

  When Hargreaves had taken their reports, he asked them to wait. When all were done, he said "Squadron Leader Grimes asked me to give you the gen. We've had confirmation that there were fifty casualties at Taf and you sunk three E-boats, a 2000-ton coaster, four tugs and twenty­ one barges. Also badly damaged two important buildings."

  Tindall remarked that it seemed a lot of damage for the number of rockets they carried between the lot of them.

  Hargreaves went on: "The German C.O. has asked for strong reinforcements, including two destroyers to patrol the area. There's at least one U-boat expected in, as well."

  Anstey asked "When do we go in?"

  "Not until we've... you've got a juicy enough target."

  That caused much ribaldry, because it also meant not until the Germans had assembled more anti-aircraft artillery.

  "There's a special briefing at 1700 hours," Hargreaves concluded.

  In the bar before lunch, and then in the dining room, the group captain, Wing Commander Flying, the two liaison officers, the senior Intelligence, Armament, Engineering, Signals and Equipment officers stayed apart, conferring quietly.

  "The signs are bloody ominous, Carruthers," Tindall muttered to Middleton. "Where are you taking Fay tonight? The ball on the eve of Waterloo?"

  These officers and several others went straight back to work after lunch, and on the beach Tommy looked around and announced loudly that it was a relief not to have to exhibit bags of cracking good esprit de corps or get cracking at water polo or touch-n1gger on the sands. "I reckon all you buggers need to take out accident insurance," he told his colleagues. "The way Cracker Beale's carrying on, he'll soon have us playing beach hockey - with a hard ball, and all - and the next thing will be an assault course. All in the cause of fitness and esprit de corps."

  "I'd rather go over an infantry assault course with live ammunition than play any kind of hockey with Beale," Middleton said.

  "There's only one thing worse," Tindall suggested.

  "Flying behind t'bugger."

  That didn't amuse the rest of them. Beale, seemingly oblivious to flak and high ground, had led all of them a merry dance too often. It was bad enough to try to shoot straight under withering fire, but even worse to have to climb away from a target with treetops scraping one's wings, or hills all around.

  *

  Ten minutes before five p.m. the whole flying strength of the squadron assembled in the Briefing Room: fifteen pilots and their navigators.

  There was none of the usual fidgetting and they waited in silence. Hargreaves was already seated at the table on the dais, intent on a sheaf of signals. The blackboard and map stand were covered with sheets of cloth. Flies buzzed in the hot room and there was a salty aroma the men had brought with them from their afternoon in the sea.

  Group Captain Mason came in, followed by Beale and various specialists. There was a stir and a shuffle as people began to rise.

  "Please sit down," Mason said. Sunlight through an open window shone on his burned cheek and made it glow with a claret radiance. "You've all been told the results of the attack on Taf four days ago. We've had information from the usual sources, and Command have decided there's enough corroborative evidence to warrant special measures to put Taf out of action completely, if possible.''

  His listeners exchanged glances and there was some heavy breathing.

  Shagger Mason thrust his hands into his pockets and began to play billiards. The crews knew that he was now more at his ease, launched on the always difficult task of sugaring the operational pill. "Wing Commander Flying and I have agreed a plan, which Command have accepted."

  God bless us all, said Tiny Tim, thought Tindall. God help us all.

  Mason told them the plan. "We're going to detach a small number of aircraft to operate from one of the islands, Bardoc. From there, we can maintain a watch and ward role over the Taf area; we can make a strike immediately, when necessary; we can confuse the enemy by approaching from different directions without wasting time or fuel, if we scramble from both here and Bardoc to arrive on target together; we can operate over a shorter distance, which will enable us to return to Bardoc, refuel and rearm, and attack again, in less time than it takes us to fly back to Afrona. It will also provide us with an advanced radio listening post."

  He paused, and thirty highly trained men looked around and each wondered whether the fickle finger of fate was going to f... him good and proper this time: who were the lucky lads who were going to Bardoc?

  Grimes stood up. "Before we hear the specialist briefings, sir, may we please see exactly where Bardoc is in relation to Taf?"

  "Of course, John. I was just coming to that." With a genial gesture, Mason invited Hargreaves to unveil the map. He tapped on it with a pointer. (For a moment his mind wandered, and the rod he held became a riding crop and his own scarred and sun-bronzed hand became the fine, slim hand of Matron. His buttocks tingled.) "As you can see, Bardoc is sixteen miles north-west of Taf. And six miles south of Bardoc there's another small island that could be useful. We'll have to recce. it. We may want to put a back-up party ashore there."

  "Which island. sir?" Grimes asked.

  "This one. Sprot."

  *

  The mess rules required of officers to change into slacks and long-sleeved shirts after six-o'clock. But although it was five past six when they left the Ops. block, the eight of them gave themselves dispensation from the rule and went straight to the bar, where Anstey ordered eight Sarti cognacs, which they drank at a gulp. "Fill 'em up again," Middleton told the barman.

  They had said quite a lot on their way to the mess from the briefing and now Charlie Teoh summed it up. "Chlist! Kee-list Almighty!"

  "There's a certain zany logic about it," Enver Aziz suggested. "It makes the messing problem easier if they send all officers or all N.C.Os than if they sent half and half."

  Tindall gave his im
itation of a demented cackle; a convincing one. "Three aircraft to make up a section, and one in reserve: four; and we draw the short straws."

  Anstey grinned. "Cracker knows we knock about together. He's counting on our special brand of esprit de corps."

  Don Bradley, who had the air of a diffident bank clerk, which was what he had been for five years before the R.A.F. got him, rubbed his toothbrush moustache and ventured "There should be a gong or two to compensate: perhaps we'll think it was all worthwhile when it's over."

  It was not customary to discuss the prospect of medals, but they were all fond of quiet Don and respected his bluntness. Tindall compounded his indiscretion. "Not at this late stage of the conflict. They're getting a bit mean with the D.F.Cs. We'll be lucky if they dish out one Mention between the lot of us." Mentions in Despatches were not held in much favour as consolation for narrowly missing a Distinguished Flying Cross.

  "They had the sense to pick the four best crews on the squadron," Robin Truscott said, smiling. They all knew just how big an exaggeration that was. He and Anstey had D.F.Cs and Middleton and Tindall were both on their second tour. The others were very experienced. But all four crews were pretty average.

  Deadpan, Aziz said sarcastically: "I'm glad we're having the R.A.F. Regiment to defend us. After all, we could have had to depend on the pongoes: Punjabi Mussulmans, for instance; or, if they couldn't get the best, mere Gurkhas!"

  "Does anybody know this type Foster?" Harry Tunks asked.

  They all said they'd never spoken to him. Someone alleged that Foster was a teetotaller who had never been seen in the mess bar since he joined the wing a month ago.