My Enemy Came Nigh Read online

  But since the latest attack by the Beaufighters he had had more pressing matters to think about than his deficiencies and poses. He had started by giving Major Holzkopf the most uncomfortable and humiliating fifteen minutes of his life. Standing to attention on the other side of his Commanding Officer's desk, Holzkopf, his cheeks flaming and his bowels twisted by anger, shame and desire for revenge, heard himself described as incompetent, lazy, irresponsible, inefficient, slack, disloyal; a traitor, a disgrace, a fraud whose birth, breeding and lack of training in no way fitted him to pretend to be a German officer. Not even an officer in what was no better than a non-combatant arm; and, the way he had handled the defence of the island, certainly was non-combatant and an embarrassment to the fighting men whom he had betrayed. A draper's assistant: one grade lower than a Portuguese pox-doctor's clerk. And what could be expected of him, anyway, for silk purses could not be made from sows' ears?

  Holzkopf went away trembling and filled with hatred. von Trampel felt better for his tirade.

  His wrath and contempt had not been assumed as a mere matter of form. He detested inefficiency and cowardice at any time, and today he was emotionally torn by the death and wounding of nearly thirty of his officers and men. He was wrong in branding Holzkopf a coward merely because he was in anti-aircraft instead of the infantry; or at least field artillery, where he would have been subjected to counter-battery fire and almost as likely to die as an infantry or tank soldier. Holzkopf accepted whatever the powers that were decided: had they put him into a more actively combatant arm he would have been more frightened than he was as a flak gunner, like anyone else, but he would not have run away. However, where his ship's company or the equivalent were concerned, von Trampel showed a devotion and concern that distorted his view of any person or situation which, in his opinion, inflicted harm on them or let them down. It was affection, and as love often is, it was unfair. Holzkopf had to suffer the consequences.

  Holzkopf's excuse for not shooting down more than two Beaufighters was lack of practice. His gunners needed to shoot frequently at towed targets. At the least they needed aimed-off shooting at a co-operating aircraft, so that shells burst at defined distances and heights in relation to it. In such ways they could keep their hands in. But if a German aircraft appeared over Taf, the R.A.F. or the U.S.A.F. drove it off or shot it down within fifteen minutes.

  In reply to this, von Trampel had snarled "And they are lucky to have so long. Do you know the maximum time one of our vehicles can appear on a road anywhere within fifty miles behind our front line in Italy, without being attacked from the air?"

  Holzkopf had remained dumb, in massive indifference.

  "Five minutes, Holzkopf. Any German car, truck or train showing itself on any road or railway line in northern Italy during daylight has at most five minutes before being attacked by the R.A.F. or the Americans. Instead of bleating that you have only fifteen minutes for exercising those idle, sloppy so-called gunners of yours, you should be thankful for being able to shoot for a quarter of an hour at a time."

  "Even that is not possible, sir: the Luftwaffe refuse to send us any target aircraft, anyway."

  von Trampel had been trained never to lose an argument with a subordinate. "Then you should learn to make do, like the rest of us. It is your duty to find some other way of training your men."

  In a military argument an amateur had no chance against a professional; least of all a shopkeeper defending himself to a potential admiral.

  Turning from one irritant, von Trampel was confronted with others. He had received a signal about a U-boat with engine trouble, far to the south, that was plodding towards Taf. He welcomed its arrival but was dismayed by his inability to defend the port unless he had someone better than Holzkopf to command the flak batteries and more skilful crews to man them. He knew he was going to get neither. He had asked for a destroyer to patrol the area and back up the defence of Taf, but it was a hopeless request. He had pondered long before making the signal, for he knew that silly proposals were not forgotten when an officer was being assessed for promotion. But he had decided to send it none the less, for it would jolt Naval Headquarters into an awareness of how grave the situation must be if a career officer of high ambition prejudiced his future by an impractical appeal.

  What von Trampel really wanted was that Taf would become again a regular port of call for submarines and a permanent base for them. That should be worth a fourth ring on his sleeve. Promotion to post captain was the most significant step up the ladder to flag rank: if all went well he could end the war as one of the youngest admirals in the history of the German Navy. He recalled that King George VI, whom he admired both as a sailor and as a cousin of the 'Kaiser for whom von Trampel's father had lost an eye at Jutland, was reputed to have died with the words "Bugger Bognor" on his lips. von Trampel said aloud "Bugger Holzkopf", rolling his R with a brogue of which Nanny Mcleod would have been proud.

  Although he couldn't have his artillery commander replaced he could demand replacements for the sailors he had lost, and squeeze some anti-aircraft reinforcements out of Headquarters. It had been proved that day that Taf was not strongly enough defended. He had taken steps to increase the warning time of approaching raids, by sending Leutnant Scheusal to Mojat. Now he wanted guns there and more guns on Taf, Wrk and Rojn: the Beaufighters had got past those last two islands today without being more than lightly peppered; none had been shot down.

  The bigger he made his command, the more men and guns he had under his orders, the better his chances of full captain's rank. Add two or three U-boats coming and going, and he could be certain of it.

  "Aye," he murmured, speaking aloud as lonely people do, and in English as always when he repeated one of Nanny Mcleod's aphorisms to himself. "Many a mickle makes a muckle."

  *

  Kapitänleutnant Wüstling had reservations about his C.O's bullying of Holzkopf. He did not approve of his cohabiting with a Jugoslav mistress either: celibacy was part of a sailor's chosen lot, when at sea. If duty took one to a shore establishment in occupied territory it was the equivalent of being in a ship and one should accept the same restrictions. He admitted that, the way he was constituted, such monasticism was no burden: but, to be fair to himself, he would no more dream of a relationship with one of the younger ratings or soldiers at Taf than he would if they were at sea together; and certainly never with a local boy: that would be tantamount to consorting with the enemy. As for Holzkopf, the remedy was simple: lock him in his room with his pistol and one round of ammunition; and if he were too weak to conform with the code of a German officer, shoot the fellow oneself and put Holzkopf's fingerprints on the pistol butt.

  Wüstling quite liked Holzkopf but shared von Trampel's view that a commander was responsible for the performance of his men in action; and that the Taf flak gunners were not good enough. The crews of the Beaufighters would have been astonished by this judgment. If Holzkopf were got rid of, the standard of shooting may be improved; bullying him would only make matters worse: the more sulky he became, the worse the effect on his troops. For Wüstling the issue was plain; a bullet through the head, or exhortation and encouragement. He tended to favour the latter, at least as a first resort; Holzkopf looked coarse in uniform, but transformed into a gipsy girl or in some other robust, swarthy female role in the garrison theatricals, his dark eyes and long lashes made him positively ravishing. Put Holzkopf in a long black wig and tie a gaily coloured kerchief round his head, and Wüstling could forgive him almost anything; even damn bad shooting.

  *

  Guido worked cheerfully with a group of other men sitting on the quay around their nets, repairing them and making ready for the night's fishing. He was proud that Petar entrusted him with the information he gleaned through his sister Eva, the sometimes aloof and always baffling, teasing Zdenka, his own affianced Maria-Pia, and from the evidence they could all see for themselves whenever the R.A.F. had been over. It was exciting to make a rendezvous in the dark with
the rubber boats that were rowed quietly in among the fishing fleet, under the noses of the Germans posted aboard some of them to make sure that very thing did not happen. The rubber boats came sometimes from British submarines and sometimes from fast surface craft that launched them four or five miles away from the rendezvous. It would be a shame to disappoint these friendly people, who were doing their best to liberate Jugoslavia from the Germans; it seemed wrong to let them take risks for scanty or disappointing information. He always added on a bit to what he was told, if he could.

  Like the other night, after Petar had told him that Eva, listening to von Trampel and Wüstling, had been unable to hear them distinctly but thought they had mentioned casualties amounting to some thirty. As Petar said, from what he had seen himself, it looked more than that. And Eva admitted that she hadn't heard properly. Guido agreed. It seemed a poor report after so much effort by the R.A.F. Fifty would be a more gratifying figure. The same with the barges and E-boats and other vessels: even if they had actually counted only fourteen themselves, there were bound to be more that had disappeared completely from sight. And, the most exciting news of all, perhaps, the coded signals clever Zdenka had intercepted and broken down: it was unlikely that only one U-boat would be turning up. If one came, there would be more. Might as well pass on the best possible encouragement to their friends the Allies.

  Petar, on duty in the harbourmaster's office, was reviewing the events of the past few days and the information he had been able to send to the men who came stealthily and bravely in their little inflatable dinghies to cock a snook at the German sentries scattered among the fishing fleets.

  He was not easy in his mind about having to rely so much on Guido; but even though Guido was stupid, he was not so much more stupid than his companions, and he did have the advantage of being eager to help and entirely trustworthy. Passing on messages was, in Petar's view, mere donkey work. It was the composition of the messages that really mattered: and here was where the whole system depended on him. It was all very well for Zdenka to rig up her fancy electrical devices, but it was his own skill at putting together the snippets of information that were garnered and, above all, in interpreting them, that was of supreme importance. He fancied himself for a shrewd fellow who could see further than most.

  He remembered the last summer of peacetime, and an idyllic day with Zdenka. He had been in love with her then, and put up with her tantalising. It had all come to a climax that summer's day which they had spent by themselves in a hidden cove that could be reached only from the sea. They had taken a little sailing boat and a basket of food and wine. They had lain in each other's arms and he had thought that she loved him in return; he was surprised that she had given herself so easily that day, after the years of provocation and evasion which had begun when they were adolescents. They had never been alone together again, and soon after he had gone away to try to reach England. When he came back he was overjoyed to learn that she was still on the island; but nothing had been the same again.

  Now, with her cleverly planted microphones in von Trampel's dining room and sitting room, with wires leading to Eva's radio set, and with her own radio tuned to the Germans' transmissions, she often made him feel that she was really in charge and he would be useless without her. She knew and understood what the Germans did with their radar equipment and she had seduced a young officer into giving her a key to their signal code. The officer was probably playing a double game and intended, when he had got what he wanted from Zdenka, to have her arrested. Only he hadn't lived long enough to do so: Guido's knife had seen to that. The body had never been found, so the reprisal had not been too horrible; the Germans shot a couple of elderly hostages just as a matter of form. It would have been much worse if the Gestapo or the S.S. had been called in.

  And now Zdenka was leaving for Mojat and he would miss her, even though he hated her sometimes. She had promised to send frequent messages, for there were two or three score households on iv1ojat and a small fishing community.

  *

  Leutnant Scheusal led his detachment ashore on Mojat in the dark, on the night after the advance party of British engineers had landed on Bardoc to prepare the runway.

  He landed from an E-boat and was followed ashore by a dozen men. Their first task was to lay electrical cables for the power that would presently be provided by generators, and plan the general disposition of the site. Zdenka had accompanied him to act as interpreter when necessary, but for the time being they sought no contact with the islanders. A tug was following, towing four barges laden with the radar aerials and all the other components of the installation; tents; the usual equipment and supplies. These would arrive in time for everything to be taken ashore at first light.

  In the archipelago each island was a separate world of its own. In the last four years a sense of unity had grown among them from sharing the common misery of occupation by an often cruel invader. Despite this, there were mutual suspicions and all the prejudices to be found in isolated, backward communities. Zdenka knew that her identity and activities were known at Mojat, but she also knew that there would still be many of the local people who would not trust her. She could not blame them, for superficially she was on friendly terms with the Germans; and only a few of the men and women on the island were directly involved with the activities of the partisans. The fact that she was young and beautiful made matters worse: among the Mojat women there must be many who would be glad to slit her throat.

  Going ashore that night she thought about this and her hand involuntarily went up to touch her neck gently, and she shuddered. She had seen it done and it was not a pleasant end. She had a fleeting picture of the night when she lay on the sand with the young officer who had betrayed the signal cypher to her. At Guido's warning whistle she had seized the German's hair in both hands and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. He had laughingly protested and then Guido had leaped from the darkness. The bubbling choked scream had echoed in her ears for many weeks. She had flung herself aside but not quickly enough to avoid the splash of the blood that gushed from his severed arteries.

  If someone in Mojat was going to murder her she hoped it would be by a clean thrust to the heart.

  It was a night for hobgoblins and werewolves and horrors of all sorts, she was thinking. She had enough to worry about from the Germans without filling her head with fears of what her own people might do to her. With so many links in the chain of communication with the Allies, it needed only one weak one to snap and she and her friends would all stand in front of a firing squad. And there would be worse to suffer before that. Even when the Gestapo knew they had all the information there was, they used the truncheons and the water, the pincers and the electric shocks, the hot irons and the lighted cigarettes, because they enjoyed doing so.

  When she took that into account she didn't feel remorse at what she and Guido had done to that weak boy.

  And now she was ready to work all night as competently as though she were really here to collaborate with the enemy instead of to sabotage his works.

  Hers was a sanguine nature, therefore she always undertook the start of any new situation with gusto. It may soon turn to disappointment and end in failure, but the beginning always gave her pleasure.

  Seven

  Group Captain Shaw was on the tarmac to see them off in the dawn light, Wing Commander Beale and Squadron Leader Grimes with him. There were others too, some duty bound and many from that esprit de corps which Beale so boringly and ceaselessly fostered.

  "I’ll look in tomorrow and see how you're settling in," said Shaw. "Good luck."

  "See you this afternoon," Beale told them. "Good luck."

  Grimes had a last word with Anstey. "I'm bringing a section in at mid-morning. I want to try the first sortie from Taf myself to get the feel of it. It may be all wrong, Joe: plans like this so often are. It's a good theory, but no one's tried it out yet. So I’ll see you later this morning. Good luck till then."

  But the final
benediction belonged to Ianto Parry-Jones, bleary, bloodshot and scrofulous in the half-darkness. He staggered slightly as he wandered among them. "Well now, boyos, I’ll pray for you. And as soon as I can I’ll be along to see how you're getting on: someone'll take me, I'm sure. If the worst happens, I'll get the bloody Navy to run me over in an M.T.B. Good luck, then, and God bless you."

  It was a big year for good wishes, Middleton was thinking. He couldn't remember another like it. The greater the folly or danger in which one was involved the more the expressions of solicitude.

  "Happy in your work, George?" Tindall asked.

  "Yes. Except sometimes at first light, in some places."

  "I know what you mean. Interesting, though."

  "Rapturously."

  "Well, press on regardless, Carruthers."

  "I'm ready when you are, Postleton-Smythe. Shall we go aboard?"

  They climbed into their aeroplanes and began doing their cockpit checks.

  The last "Good luck" came from the ground crews who stood watching them take off: inaudible mouthings lost in the thunder of eight Hercules 1600 h.p. engines, but by now they could lip read. It was easier, too, when you knew in advance what people were going to say.