Cold Harbour

‘Then God help her,’ Craig said forcefully.

‘And you, dear boy. You see, you’re on the strength as of right now.’

Craig leaned forward, tossing his cigarette into the fire. ‘Like hell I am. I’m an American officer, a Major in the OSS. You can’t touch me.’

‘Oh, yes I can. I operate under the direct authority of General Eisenhower himself. The Cold Harbour project is a joint venture. Hare and four of his men are American citizens. You’ll join me, Craig, for three reasons. First, because you now know too much about the entire Cold Harbour project. Second, because I need you here. There’s a lot happening with the invasion coming up and you can make a very positive contribution.’

‘And the third reason?’ Craig asked.

‘Simple. You’re an officer in the armed forces of your country just like me and you’ll obey orders, just like me.’ Munro stood up.

‘No more nonsense, Craig. We’ll go down to the pub, see Hare and tell him and his boys you’re now a member of the club.’

He turned and walked to the door and Craig followed him feeling curiously light-headed, despair in his heart.

The Hanged Man was exactly what one would have expected, a typical English village pub. The floor was stone flagged, there was a log fire on an open hearth, iron-work tables which had seen years of use, high-backed wooden benches. The ceiling was beamed and the old mahogany bar was conventional enough, bottles ranged on the shelves behind it. The one incongruous thing was Julie pulling pints behind the bar and the Kriegsmarine uniforms of the men who leaned against it.

As the Brigadier entered followed by Osbourne and Edge, Hare was sitting by the fire drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He stood up and called, in German. ‘Attention. General officer present.’

The men clicked heels. Brigadier Munro waved a hand and said in fair German. ‘At ease. Carry on drinking.’ He held out a hand and said to Hare, ‘No need for the usual formalities, Martin. We’ll use English. Congratulations. Good job last night.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Munro warmed his backside at the fire. ‘Yes, you used your initiative, which is fine, but do try to clear things with me in future.’

Edge said to Hare, ‘Good point, old boy. For all you knew, the gallant Major might have been expendable.’

Something flared in Hare’s eyes and he took a step towards Edge who backed off, laughing. ‘All right, old boy, no violence if you please.’ He turned to the bar. ‘Julie, my blossom. A very large gin and tonic, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Calm down, Martin,’ Munro said. ‘An unpleasant young sod, but a flyer of genius. Let’s all have a drink.’ He turned to Craig. ‘It’s not that we’re alcoholics here, but as the lads work by night, they do their drinking in the morning.’ He raised his voice. ‘Listen, everybody. As you all know by now this is Major Craig Osbourne of the Office of Strategic Services. What you don’t know is that as of right now, he will be one of us here at Cold Harbour.’

There was a moment’s silence. Julie, at the bar, paused in the act of pulling a pint, face grave, then Schmidt raised his glass of ale. ‘Gawd help you, guvnor.’

There was a general laugh and Munro said to Hare, ‘Introduce them, Martin.’ He turned to Osbourne. ‘Under their assumed identities, of course.’

The Chief Petty Officer, Langsdorff, who had been at the wheel, was American. So were Hardt, Wagner and Bauer. Schneider, the engineer, was obviously German and as he discovered latter, Wittig and Brauch, like Schmidt, were English Jews.

Craig was feeling more than light-headed now. He was sweating, he knew that, and his forehead was hot. ‘It’s warm in here,’ he said, ‘damn warm.’

Hare looked at him curiously, ‘Actually I thought it rather chilly this morning. Are you okay?’

Edge approached with two glasses. He gave one to Munro and the other to Craig. ‘You look like a gin man to me, Major. Get it down. It’ll set the old pulses roaring. Julie will like that.’

‘Screw you!’ Craig told him but he took the glass and drank it.

‘No, the general idea is screw her, old boy.’ Edge squeezed on to the bench beside him. ‘Though she does seem to keep it to herself.’

‘You’re an unpleasant little swine, aren’t you, Joe?’ Martin Hare said.

Edge glanced at him, managing to look injured. ‘Intrepid bird man, old boy, that’s me. Gallant knight of the air.’

‘So was Hermann Goering,’ Craig said.

‘Quite right. Brilliant pilot. Took over the Flying Circus after von Richthofen was killed.’

Craig’s voice sounded to him as if it came from someone else. ‘An interesting idea, the war hero as psychopath. You must feel right at home in that Ju88 you’ve got up at the airfield.’

‘Ju88S, old boy, let’s be accurate. Its engine boosting system takes me up around four hundred.’

‘He forgets to tell you that his boosting system depends on three cylinders of nitrous oxide. One hit in those tanks and he ends up in a variety of very small pieces,’ Martin Hare said.

‘Don’t be like that, old boy,’ Edge moved closer to Craig. ‘This kite is a real honey. Usually has a crew of three. Pilot, navigator and a rear-gunner. We’ve done a few improvements so I can manage on my own. For instance, the Lichtenstein radar set which actually enables one to see in the dark – they’ve repositioned that in the cockpit so I can see for myself and . . .’

His voice faded as Craig Osbourne plunged into darkness and rolled on to the floor. Schmidt ran across from the bar and crouched down as the room went silent. He looked up at Munro.

‘Christ, sir, he’s got a raging fever. That’s bloody quick. I only checked him out an hour ago.’

‘Right,’ Munro said grimly and turned to Hare. ‘I’ll take him back to London in the Lysander. Get him into hospital.’

Hare nodded. ‘Okay, sir.’ He stood back as Schmidt and two others picked Osbourne up and carried him out.

Munro turned to Edge. ‘Joe, get through to Jack Carter at my office. Tell him to arrange for Osbourne to be admitted to the Hampstead Nursing Home as soon as we get in,’ and he turned and followed the others out.

Craig Osbourne came awake from a deep sleep feeling fresh and alert. No sign of any fever at all. He struggled up on one elbow and found himself in what seemed to be a small hospital bedroom with white painted walls. He swung his legs to the floor and sat there for a moment as the door opened and a young nurse came in.

‘You shouldn’t be up, sir.’

She pushed him back into bed and Craig said, ‘Where am I?’

She went out. A couple of minutes passed. The door opened again and a doctor in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, entered.

He smiled. ‘So, how are we, Major?’ and took Craig’s pulse. He had a German accent.

‘Who are you?’

‘Dr Baum is my name.’

‘And where am I?’

‘A small nursing home in north London. Hampstead to be precise.’ He put a thermometer in Craig’s mouth, then checked it. ‘Very good. Very nice. No fever at all. This penicillin is a miracle. Of course the chap who treated you gave you a shot, but I gave you more. Lots more. That’s the secret.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘This is the third day. You were quite bad. Frankly, without the drug,’ Baum shrugged. ‘Still, now you have some tea and I’ll ring Brigadier Munro. Tell him you are all right.’

He went out. Craig stayed there, then got up, found a robe and went and sat by the window looking out at the high-walled garden. The nurse came back with a pot of tea on a tray.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Major. We don’t have any coffee.’