SBS, page 4
‘Ah, there you are, Mister Hunter. Finished? Good. Come on. We’re late.’
*
Groppi’s at that time was one of the very few smart cafés in Cairo open to all ranks. The high prices, however, tended to put off the ORs and so its usual clientele was a coterie of well-heeled British and Allied officers and their ladies.
Although there were two branches of the famous restaurant, when Woods spoke of Groppi’s, Hunter knew that he meant not the small establishment on Midan Soliman Pasha, but the other, somewhat grander one over on Sharia Adly Pasha – ‘Groppi’s Garden’ – opposite the exclusive Continental Hotel, which was the preferred haunt of the smarter side of Cairo’s British set. There were others here too: displaced Europeans, French, Spaniards, Greeks, the inevitable Armenians and a couple of sad maharajahs. A well-spoken, well-dressed newly made-up British lieutenant, such as Hunter, was an easy fit in the eclectic mix.
The garden was always crammed with people, some in couples, others on their own and clearly looking for some companionship. In other words, thought Hunter, it was a high-class pick-up joint. And in fact, he had often found it most rewarding.
With their hair neatly slicked down, service shirts and shorts sharply creased, atop rolled khaki socks and suede ‘desert boots’, Woods and Hunter entered the courtyard, which reeked of roasting coffee and baking pastries. They were instantly accosted by one of the nattily uniformed waiters and shown to a table, where they settled down beside the flowering creepers and bougainvillea. As night began to fall, strings of brightly coloured fairy lights were switched on making the place look, Hunter had always thought, like a cross between a fairground and the ‘palm court’ of some tired British seaside hotel. He had loved it the first time he had come here, back in ’41 in the evacuation from the Crete debacle, and the attraction never faded. The waiter brought two large beers, so cold that the glasses were frosted with condensation.
Pleased with himself at having at last triumphed with Hunter’s commission, Woods raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Lieutenant Hunter. Though I have to say I never thought I’d see the day. Well done, Jim.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Woods frowned. ‘Eh? You should know better, Jim. Never “sir” to me. You’re one of us now. Jolly useful in Cairo too, having those pips. You can go to Shepheard’s now and the Turf. No end of fun. I’ll introduce you. Show you around, so to speak.’
It was true, thought Hunter. Rank brought privilege. But it also brought responsibility and that was something he had always, instinctively, avoided. Throughout his twenty-four years, from school to the workplace, to the army, Hunter had made it his business never to be in the right place at the right time. He had ensured that his demeanour and his attitude made him very easy to ignore. At school – a toweringly Gothic edifice, run on unforgivingly Spartan lines up in Scotland, where his mother’s side had been sent for decades, he had deliberately flunked exams, from Latin to Maths. Although a natural leader, he had suppressed his instincts on rugby field and cricket pitch and had instead taken to solitary sports – boxing and fencing, at which he had allowed himself to excel.
Later, at work in London, he had kept to the shadows, moving from casual job to casual job, being careful not to volunteer or to show too much enthusiasm. Promotion had never been an option.
Somehow, despite a natural talent, for two gloriously hedonistic decades, Hunter had cleverly managed to evade responsibility, but now, at last, here in the most unlikely of places, it had caught up with him.
Of course being a sergeant had had its own level of responsibility, but there was something different about being an officer. About commanding. Something final. It was your order on which your men would move, he thought, would fight, and, without doubt, would die.
*
The evening passed quickly. It seemed as if Woods had summoned every passing officer he knew over to join them and of course, on hearing Hunter’s news, all of them had pleaded to buy him a beer. Thus it was that shortly after ten that evening that the two officers stumbled back to their quarters.
*
By the following morning the reality of Hunter’s sudden promotion had soaked in. There was all the official business and paperwork associated with his passage from NCO to officer. But Hunter had always been good at admin and, even though slowed down by a slight hangover, he quickly found himself with a few days of leave.
He had been to Cairo before and knew parts of it well. But then he had been a junior NCO and a sergeant. Now he was an officer and there were certain no-go areas for someone of his rank, the most obvious being the Berka, the notorious red-light district that abounded with prostitutes and outrageous pornographic shows. He had, naturally, as any inquisitive young man would have done, visited it on earlier Cairo trips. Now it was out of bounds. Anyway, why pay for something when as an officer he could expect to get it for nothing?
For now there were new and previously inaccessible places to explore.
It was the habit of most officers to lunch at the Gezira Club after tennis or a swim and Woods introduced Hunter to this easy way of life. The evening started late for most officers, after work finished, at around seven or eight. Those not ‘dining in’ would be out for dinner at one of the ‘French’ restaurants and those who did not fancy a nightclub would inevitably end up in one of the hotel bars.
Thus it was that, four days after his evening with Woods, Hunter found himself after dinner, drinking alone in the bar at Shepheard’s Hotel. He’d had a disappointing date with a rather plain girl from the South African Women’s Auxiliary Army Service, the WAASes, who were known to be game for a lark. But the evening had not gone well.
He had been fixed up by Woods and his girl with a friend of hers. The cabaret of the restaurant at the Continental had been laughably bad, though his date had hardly smiled. In fact, she had proved to lack conversation in equal measure to her looks and so after a drink, they had soon gone their separate ways.
For two hours Hunter had wandered disconsolate through the crowded streets, jostling between couples, arm in arm and groups of drunken soldiers, along with numerous civilians.
Finally, turning a corner, he saw the familiar front façade of Shepheard’s and headed towards it. Once inside, reconciling himself to the fact that this evening he would be sleeping alone, he ordered a beer and was just about to take a drink when a British officer sat down at his table. Hunter looked across at him.
He was not wearing army uniform, but Royal Navy tropical dress. Hunter took in his rank. A commander, in his early thirties, Hunter guessed. Lean and chisel-jawed, with neatly cut dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He began to speak, but Hunter beat him to it: ‘Sorry, sir, do I know you? Have we met?’
‘No, Lieutenant. We most certainly have not.’ He spoke with the unmistakable, clipped accent of the English public schoolboy.
Hunter smiled, taking the man for a ‘nancy boy’. Well, he would soon dispel any notions he might have.
‘Could I possibly ask then why you might have sat down at my table?’
The commander smiled. ‘Of course, Lieutenant. I do apologise. Fact is, we need to talk, old man.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Talk. Need to. You and I.’
Hunter put down his beer. ‘Do we? Are you quite sure about that, sir?’
‘Quite sure, Lieutenant… Hunter, isn’t it?’
How the devil could the man know his name? ‘Yes, sir.’
Hunter waited for the officer to introduce himself, but he made no attempt to do so. Clearly the commander, whoever he was, had done his homework. Taking a drink from his beer, Hunter cast an eye about the room, looking for anyone who might have come in with him. At length his eye rested on one man standing in a shadowy corner, away from the hanging lights. Another naval officer, observing them both from the bar. That would be him. The escort. Just in case. Hunter put down his glass. Decided to be cooperative – in the extreme.
‘Righto, sir. Just let me know how I can help.’
The commander nodded and set down his Martini. ‘Well, this is it. The word is, Lieutenant, that you’re somewhat disaffected with the handling of the war. Your war, that is. Would you say that might be the case?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘The word? Whose word? Sorry, sir.’
‘Less of the sir, Lieutenant.’
But still no name, thought Hunter. He decided to play it straight. ‘Is that so, sir?’
The commander ignored his comment. ‘That was some stunt you pulled off on Rhodes.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Of course I do, old chap. It’s my business to know about these things. Splendid bit of work. You certainly deserve those new pips.’
Hunter said nothing but, slightly incredulous, took a draught of beer as the commander sipped his Martini. Finally, Hunter spoke: ‘It was a shambles, sir.’
‘Yes. I know that too.’
‘You do?’
‘I told you, Mister Hunter, I know about these things. I make it my business. It’s what I do.’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter and ordered another Martini.
‘And make sure it’s shaken. You know how I like them. And one for my friend.’
Hunter shook his head but the commander nodded and the waiter nodded back.
As the man went off to fix the drinks, the commander spoke again: ‘Your friend Captain Woods suggested that you might be interested in joining a little scheme I’m putting together.’
‘Sir?’
‘Well, it’s strictly hush-hush at the moment of course. He just thought it might interest you.’
‘What exactly is it, sir? This “scheme”. Can you say?’
The man cast a glance across at his companion who was still standing at the bar sipping at a bright green cocktail. The commander nodded and the officer wandered over to join them.
‘Allow me to present Lieutenant Vickery. My second in command, if you will.’
The officer put out his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Hunter.’
‘Sir.’
As Vickery sat down with them, the commander began to speak: ‘Well, here’s the thing. For some time now we’ve believed that we’ve been missing a trick. Every time the Jerries carry out a raid on one of our positions, every time they take an HQ, they send in a special unit which, well, clears it out.’
‘Sir?’
‘Basically, this special unit goes in with the raiders and makes a beeline for the HQ building and the admin offices where it blows any safes it finds and sweeps up any intelligence that looks of interest before skedaddling.’ He paused and then smiled at Hunter. ‘Well, Lieutenant, I intend to do the same.’
Hunter thought for a moment. ‘A new special force? You intend to lead it yourself, sir?’
The commander shook his head. ‘No, no, old chap. I’m far too old for that. That role will be down to someone rather younger and fitter than me. Captain Woods is keen to join us and he thought that perhaps you…’ He shrugged.
Hunter paused and took a long drink. He wiped his lips and looked at the commander. ‘How many of us would there be, sir?’
‘Hard to say as yet. It’ll be a totally cross-service unit, you understand. Navy, army, marines. There will be an intensive training course, but we’re only approaching men with real experience and specialist skills.’
‘Are you quite sure that I’m the right man for the job?’
The commander smiled again. ‘Oh yes. Quite sure, Lieutenant. In actual fact you fit the bill so well you might well have been the blueprint for it.’
This time it was Hunter who laughed. ‘But I don’t know how to blow a safe.’
‘But we have a man who does. Besides, you have other talents. You can speak German, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. But…’
‘And Greek?’
‘A little. Mainly classical though.’
‘And most importantly of all, you are – I believe – quite used to keeping company with all varieties of lowlifes and rogues?’ He grinned. ‘Correct?’
Hunter stared at him, nonplussed. The commander spoke again: ‘Correct?’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose so. Correct.’
‘Good. It would seem that all that time skulking in that sordid Soho bar might have finally paid off then, Mister Hunter.’
‘You appear to have done your homework, sir.’
‘I make it my business to do my homework, as you put it.’
‘Can I ask what it will be called, sir? This new unit?’
‘We don’t have a name yet and even if we did, Hunter, do you suppose for one moment I would tell you?’
‘Well, if I’m to join it, sir, I think I’d better know what it’s called.’
‘Then you are interested?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir. Just asking the name.’
The commander turned to Vickery and smiled. ‘Said that he was smart, Tony, didn’t they. They were right.’
He turned back to Hunter. ‘OK. No name yet but you will be part of Special Service Brigade. Commandos, just as you are now. You and Woods. You will be part of a small unit that will accompany any front-line commando attack on any enemy installation to capture intelligence before the enemy have any chance to destroy it.’
‘Will it work?’
‘Oh it’ll work alright, Lieutenant. You’re going to make it work.’
‘Without intending to be facetious sir, how do you know that?’
‘Because the Nazis already have such a unit. And it works bloody well. Too bloody well. I won’t beat about the bush, Hunter, the Jerries are ahead of us. Miles ahead as a matter of fact. Their technology is vastly superior to ours and if we are going to win this damned war, we must ensure that we are one step ahead of them. At present it’s the other way around. The enemy have the initiative. And we’re suffering… Badly.’
He lit a cigarette and rolled it around in his fingers. ‘Did you see the headline in the Times yesterday?’
‘Headline, sir?’
‘The cruiser.’
‘Oh that poor ship. With all hands. Yes, a terrible loss.’
‘Yes, quite terrible. Well that was down to Nazi ingenuity. New type of bomb. That’s what we have to stop.’
‘But I’m not trained, sir. Yes I can blow things up, destroy installations, wreck no end of kit. But ask me to crack a safe or find a secret dossier. We… I’m not sure, sir.’
‘Oh, you’ll be trained. Highly trained. By the time they’ve finished with you you’ll know everything there is about getting into enemy installations, locating and taking secret material… and getting out alive. You’ll be… you’ll be…’
Vickery chimed in, ‘You’ll be no more than a bunch of bloody burglars.’
The commander smiled at him. ‘Oh very good, Tony. Very droll.’
He stared at Hunter. ‘You in then?’
‘Who else knows about this new unit, sir?’
‘It’s hush-hush. Top brass only. In fact if you really want to know, even the top brass don’t know a thing about it. It’s strictly “need to know”.’
‘I thought the high command knew about everything that was going on. I mean to say, surely, sir, we’re all on the same side aren’t we?’
The commander inclined his head. ‘Of course we are. Although sometimes, Hunter, if you must know, I truly wonder if we are. The fact is that with matters like this, we must have a degree of… independence. Security… confidentiality. Call it what you will. That’s where the secrecy comes in.’
‘How do I know that it won’t be just as badly run as the last mess? How do I know we might not just be abandoned?’
The commander let out a breath and shook his head. ‘Good God, you really have lost faith in command, haven’t you, Hunter? And that’s precisely why you’re here. We’re offering you a chance to work on your own. You won’t be depending on the usual support. You’ll be part of our support. And believe me, when you’re a part of us, we will never let you down.’
‘I wish that I could, sir.’
‘Could what, man?’
‘Believe you.’
There was a cold silence. Then, quite suddenly, without warning, the commander got to his feet. Clearly the interview was over. Smiling, Vickery strolled across to the bar and paid for the drinks.
The commander looked hard at Hunter, who was now standing opposite him. After a few moments he spoke, very quietly. ‘Well, there it is. That’s what’s on the table. Take it or leave it. I might well be lying to you. I might be getting you into your worst nightmare. Anything could happen to you. Unimaginably horrible things.’ He paused. ‘What choice do you have? Either you believe me and you join us and help us to shorten the war, win the war and save God knows how many lives, or you stay with the mob you’re in now and pray that what happened to you on Rhodes doesn’t happen again. It’s your choice, Hunter. Us or them.’
Hunter said nothing, but looked at the bottom of his glass.
The commander spoke: ‘So. Are you with us?’
Hunter looked up at him and smiled. ‘It would appear that I am.’
3
An hour later Hunter was already beginning to question what he had done. But there could be no going back now. He had given the commander his word and was due to report in the morning to an address written on the back of a packet of cigarettes that Vickery had passed to him in the bar. That was all that he knew. Something inside him, though, was silently excited. Surely here was the chance he had wanted. The chance to really make a difference. The chance to make the killing count for something. The chance to save lives. The chance to matter.
He sipped at his beer and from his vantage point at a shadowy corner table, looked around the room.
Groppi’s was alive with chatter and laughter. Most distinctly, the unmistakable, irrepressible laughter of young women. Instantly, it undid the darkness in Hunter’s mind and took him for a moment back to other times. To London and to Soho and to another smoke- and noise-filled, crowded bar, bursting with laughter. From a gramophone player at the end of the bar came the sound of a recording by Harry Roy. Hunter knew the lyrics well.
