Cold Harbour

‘Brigadier,’ he said to Munro, turned to Hare and saluted him as only an Annapolis man could. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, sir.’

Hare acknowledged the salute, faintly embarrassed.

The boy said, ‘Follow me, gentlemen. The President’s waiting.’

The Oval Office was shadowed, the lamp on the desk which was littered with papers the only light. President Roosevelt was in his wheelchair at the window staring out, a cigarette in his usual long holder glowing in the darkness.

He swivelled round in the chair. ‘There you are, Brigadier.’

‘Mr President.’

‘And this is Lieutenant Commander Hare?’ He held out his hand. ‘You’re a credit to your country, sir. As your President, I thank you. That Tulugu business was quite something.’

‘Better men than me died sinking that destroyer, Mr President.’

‘I know, son.’ Roosevelt held Hare’s hand in both of his. ‘Better men than you or me are dying every day, but we just have to press on and do our best.’ He reached for a fresh cigarette and put it in his holder. ‘The Brigadier’s filled you in on this Cold Harbour business? You like the sound of it?’

Hare glanced at Munro, hesitated, then said, ‘An interesting proposition, Mr President.’

Roosevelt tilted back his head and laughed. ‘A neat way of putting it.’ He wheeled himself to the desk and turned. ‘To wear the enemy uniform is totally against the terms of the Geneva Convention, you understand that?’

‘Yes, Mr President.’

Roosevelt stared up at the ceiling. ‘Correct me if I get my history wrong, Brigadier, but isn’t it a fact that during the Napoleonic Wars, ships of the British Navy occasionally attacked under the French flag?’

‘Indeed it is, Mr President, and usually when sailing French ships taken as prizes of war and recommissioned into the British Navy.’

‘So, there is precedence for this type of action as a legitimate ruse de guerre?’ Roosevelt observed.

‘Certainly, Mr President.’

Hare said, ‘It’s a point worth making that in all such actions, it was customary for the British to hoist their own flag just before battle commenced.’

‘I like that.’ Roosevelt nodded. ‘That, I understand. If a man must die, it should be under his own flag.’ He looked up at Hare. ‘A direct order from your Commander-in-Chief. You will at all times carry the Stars and Stripes on this E-boat of yours and if the day ever dawns that you find yourself sailing into battle, you will hoist it in place of the Kriegsmarine ensign. Understood?’

‘Perfectly, Mr President.’

Roosevelt held out his hand again. ‘Good. I can only wish you Godspeed.’

They both shook hands with him and, as if by magic, the young lieutenant appeared from the shadows and ushered them out.

As the limousine turned down Constitutional Avenue, Hare said, ‘A remarkable man.’

‘The understatement of the year,’ Munro said. ‘What he and Churchill have achieved between them is amazing.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder how long it will be before the books are written proving how unimportant they really were.’

‘Second-rate academics out to make a reputation?’ Hare said. ‘Just like us?’

‘Exactly.’ Munro looked out at the lighted streets. ‘I’m going to miss this town. You’re in for a culture shock when we reach London. Not only the blackout, but the Luftwaffe is trying night bombing again.’

Hare leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, not tired but aware of a sudden fierce exhilaration. It was as if he’d been asleep for a long time and was awake again.

The Flying Fortress was brand new and on its way to join the American 8th Air Force in Britain. The crew made Munro and Hare as comfortable as possible with Army blankets and pillows and a couple of Thermos flasks. Hare opened one as they crossed the New England coast and moved out to sea.

‘Coffee?’

‘No thanks.’ Munro positioned a pillow behind his head and pulled up a blanket. ‘I’m a tea man myself.’

‘Well, it takes all kinds,’ Hare said.

He sipped some of the scalding coffee and Munro grunted. ‘I knew there was something. I forgot to tell you that in view of the peculiar circumstances, your Navy has decided to promote you.’

‘To full Commander?’ Hare said in astonishment.

‘No, to Fregattenkapitän actually,’ Munro told him, hitched the blanket over his shoulders and went to sleep.

2

As Craig Osbourne reached the edge of St Maurice, there was a volley of rifle fire and rooks in the beech trees outside the village church lifted into the air in a dark cloud, calling to each other angrily. He was driving a Kubelwagen, the German Army’s equivalent of the jeep, a general purpose vehicle that would go anywhere. He parked it by the lych-gate that gave entrance to the cemetery and got out, immaculate in the grey field uniform of a Standartenführer in the Waffen-SS.

It was raining softly and he took a greatcoat of black leather from the rear seat, slipped it over his shoulders and went forward to where a gendarme stood watching events in the square. There were a handful of villagers down there, no more than that, an SS firing squad and two prisoners waiting hopelessly, hands manacled behind their backs. A third lay face down on the cobbles by the wall. As Osbourne watched, an elderly officer appeared, wearing a long greatcoat with the silver grey lapel facings affected by officers of general rank in the SS. He took a pistol from his holster, leaned down and shot the man on the ground in the back of the head.

‘General Dietrich, I suppose?’ Osbourne asked in perfect French.

The gendarme, who had not noticed his approach, answered automatically. ‘Yes, he likes to finish them off himself, that one.’ He half turned, became aware of the uniform and jumped to attention. ‘Excuse me, Colonel, I meant no offence.’

‘None taken. We are, after all, fellow countrymen.’ Craig raised his left sleeve and the gendarme saw at once that he wore the cuff title of the French Charlemagne Brigade of the Waffen-SS. ‘Have a cigarette.’

He held out a silver case. The gendarme took one. Whatever his private thoughts concerning a countryman serving the enemy, he kept them to himself, face blank.

‘This happens often?’ Osbourne asked, giving him a light. The gendarme hesitated and Osbourne nodded encouragingly. ‘Go on, man, speak your mind. You may not approve of me, but we’re both Frenchmen.’

It surfaced then, the anger, the frustration. ‘Two or three times a week and in other places. A butcher, this one.’

One of the two men waiting was positioned against the wall; there was a shouted command, another volley. ‘And he denies them the last rites. You see that, Colonel? No priest and yet when it’s all over, he comes up here like a good Catholic to confess to Father Paul and then has a hearty lunch in the café across the square.’

‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ Osbourne told him.

He turned away and walked back towards the church. The gendarme watched him go, wondering, then turned to observe events in the square as Dietrich went forward again, pistol in hand.

Craig Osbourne went up the path through the graveyard, opened the great oak door of the church and went inside. It was dark in there, a little light filtering down through ancient windows of stained glass. There was a smell of incense, candles flickering by the altar. As Osbourne approached, the door of the sacristy opened and an old white-haired priest emerged. He wore an alb, a violet stole over his shoulder. He paused, surprise on his face.

‘May I help you?’

‘Perhaps. Back in the sacristy, Father.’

The old priest frowned. ‘Not now, Colonel, now I must hear confession.’

Osbourne glanced across the empty church to the confessional boxes. ‘Not much custom, Father, but then there wouldn’t be, not with that butcher Dietrich expected.’ He put a hand on the priest’s chest firmly. ‘Inside, please.’