Cold Harbour

Hare took a cigarette from a tin of Benson & Hedges and offered him one. ‘You know me? Have we met?’

Osbourne took the cigarette, fingers trembling. ‘After Yale, I was a journalist. Worked for Life magazine amongst others. Paris, Berlin. I spent a lot of my youth in both of those places. My dad was State Department. A diplomat.’

‘But when did we meet?’

‘I came home for a vacation. That’s Boston, by the way. April, ’39. A friend told me about this series of lectures you were giving at Harvard. Supposedly on German Literature, but very political, very anti-Nazi. I went to four of them.’

‘Were you there for the riot?’

‘When the American Bund tried to break things up? Oh, sure. I broke a knuckle on some ape’s jaw. You were quite something.’ Osbourne shivered and the door opened and the Cockney appeared.

‘What is it, Schmidt?’ Hare asked in German.

Schmidt was holding a blanket. ‘I thought the Major might need this. I would also point out to the Herr Kapitän that he is wounded in the left arm and needs medical attention.’

‘Then do your job, Schmidt,’ Martin Hare told him. ‘Get on with it.’

Seated on the narrow chair at the tiny ward room table below, Osbourne watched as Schmidt expertly bandaged the wound. ‘A little morphine, guvnor, just to make things more comfortable.’ He took an ampoule from his kit and jabbed it on to Osbourne’s arm.

Craig said, ‘Who are you? No German, that’s for sure.’

‘Oh, but I am in a manner of speaking, or at least my parents were. Jews who thought London might be more hospitable than Berlin. I was born in Whitechapel myself.’

Martin Hare said from the door in German, ‘Schmidt, you have a big mouth.’

Schmidt stood up and sprang to attention. ‘Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.’

‘Go on, get out of here.’

‘Zu befehl, Herr Kapitän.’

Schmidt grinned and went out taking his medical kit with him. Hare lit a cigarette. ‘This is a mixed crew. Americans and Brits, some Jews, but everyone speaks fluent German and they have only one identity when they serve on this ship.’

‘Our very own E-boat,’ Osbourne said. ‘I’m impressed. The best kept secret I’ve come across in quite a while.’

‘I should tell you that we play this game to the hilt. Normally, only German is spoken, only Kriegsmarine uniform worn, even back at base. It’s a question of staying in character. Of course the guys break the language rule sometimes. Schmidt is a good example.’

‘And where’s base?’

‘A little port called Cold Harbour near Lizard Point in Cornwall.’

‘How far?’

‘From here? A hundred miles. We’ll have you there by morning. We take our time on the way back. Our people warn us in advance of the Royal Navy MTB routes each night. We like to keep out of their way.’

‘I should imagine you do. A confrontation would be most unfortunate. Whose operation is this?’

‘It’s run officially by Section D of the SOE, but it’s a joint venture. You’re OSS, I hear?’

‘That’s right.’

‘A tricky way to make a living.’

‘You can say that again.’

Hare grinned. ‘Let’s see if they’ve got sandwiches in the galley. You look as if you could do with some nourishment,’ and he led the way out.

It was just before dawn when Osbourne went on deck. There was quite a sea running and spray stung his face. When he went up the ladder and entered the wheelhouse, he found Hare on his own, his face dark and brooding in the compass light. Osbourne sat by the chart table and lit a cigarette.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ Hare said.

‘The boat’s too much for me, but not for you, I think?’

‘No, sir,’ Hare told him. ‘I can’t remember when boats didn’t figure in my life. I was eight years old when my grandfather put me to sea in my first dinghy.’

‘They tell me the English Channel’s special?’

‘A hell of a lot different from the Solomons, I can tell you that.’

‘That’s where you were before?’

Hare nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘I’d always heard torpedo boats were a young man’s sport,’ Osbourne said, curious.

‘Well, when you need someone with the right experience who can also pass as a German, you’ve got to take what you can get.’ Hare laughed.

There was a faint grey light around them now, the sea calmer and land loomed before them.

‘Lizard Point,’ Hare said.

He was smiling again and Osbourne replied, ‘You like it, don’t you, all this?’

Hare shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘No, really like it. You wouldn’t want to go back to how it was before. Harvard, I mean.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hare was solemn. ‘Will any of us know what to do when it’s over? What about you?’

‘Nothing to go back to. You see, I have a special problem,’ Osbourne told him. ‘It would seem I have a talent for this. I killed a German General yesterday. In a church, just to show how much I lack the finer feelings. He was head of SS intelligence for the whole of Brittany. A butcher who deserved to die.’

‘So what’s your problem?’

‘I kill him so they take twenty hostages and shoot them. Death seems to follow at my heels if you know what I mean.’

Hare didn’t answer, simply reduced power and opened a window, allowing rain to drift in. They rounded a promontory and Osbourne saw an inlet in the bay beyond, a wooded valley above.

A small grey harbour nestled at the foot of it, and two dozen cottages around. There was an old manor house in the trees. Below, the crew had come out on deck.