SBS, page 7
He had been brought here, with a few others from Cairo immediately after his leave had expired. They had arrived by motor launch, in the middle of the night. But after a couple of whiskies the captain had told him where they were headed.
Athilt, in Palestine, some eight miles south of Haifa. A newly built training camp. They would be the first to use it. And now they had been here for the last eight weeks, since the first of April, a date that some of them found highly amusing, given the perilous and anonymous nature of their mission.
To refer to Athilt camp as being ‘built’ was, of course, something of a misnomer, as it was almost all under canvas. Beyond the camp lay barren hills, dotted with a few spots of green desert flora. The few exceptions to the tents that formed the camp were a group of white-painted mud-brick buildings that clustered together and were known collectively as the ‘admin block’. No one was quite sure what they were all there for. Well now at least Hunter knew. It was in one of those that he had been held and interrogated. He wondered for just how long. It was of no matter now. He was out. But how much time had he lost?
He walked towards the tent lines, keen to get back to his own little sanctuary. Back to some semblance of normality. The sky as usual was a brilliant azure blue above the sand and in it hung the sun, a dazzling yellow disc.
To his left lay the sea, its blueness a mirror image of the sky, save for the waves that agitated its surface and broke against the strip of bright yellow sand.
The location for the camp had been chosen by the new overall commander of the reformed SBS, the new Special Boat Service, George, Earl Jellicoe, who had taken over the project when poor David Stirling had been captured by the Germans in the Western Desert. And in Hunter’s opinion at least, the location for the new camp had been chosen with more than a dollop of unbridled romanticism.
The camp lay above the dunes of Athilt Bay, in the shadow of the Carmel Hills, where a long stretch of golden sands came to an end at the base of the walls of a Crusader castle, the Chateau Pelerin.
Pelerin had been a stronghold of the Knights Templar, and Hunter – more than anyone else in the camp – was privy to the details of its history. By an extraordinary coincidence, his father, a distinguished archaeologist, had made a special study of the castle and had come here on an excavation back in the early 1930s.
Built by the Templars seven hundred years ago, Pelerin had been abandoned to the Muslims in 1290 but had stood there ever since, a splendid, slightly crumbling, ruinous reminder of another conflict and another age when a very different band of warrior brothers had taken arms against what they had seen as the evil oppressor.
What, he wondered, would the Templars make of him and his comrades today as they trained in the shadow of their fortress. Certainly, some of their ways of waging war were very different: the machine gun and the bomb. But others, particularly those favoured by today’s crusading warriors, had not changed, would never change: the knife, the fist, the handkerchief knotted tight around a stone and pulled tight around the throat, the swift silent sudden presence in the night that brought death in the shadows. These, he thought, would surely all have been familiar to the Templar Knights.
He gazed up at the yellowing battlements and felt a strange sense of belonging. For the castle was also a connection to his parents and that was important to Hunter. There were precious few of those. Every time he looked at it he thought of his father, working there, kneeling in the dirt, sifting the sands of the past, searching for history, and it deepened the mystery of his parents’ death that had haunted him ever since.
He supposed that mystery and uncertainty had always followed him. That it was somehow appropriate that he should now himself be involved in covert operations.
He had gradually found out more about his new unit. They were under the overall command of the SBS but in theory he had been told by Vickery, they were authorised to operate independently.
It was all a bit confusing. But it meant that in the field they were their own men. Answerable to no one, but at the same time the reverse of the coin meant that they would be the first to be abandoned. What it really meant was that no one was going to take responsibility for them.
It was suitable too that they would only be known by a number: XXXI Commando. That was it. They were neither army nor navy. Neither fish nor fowl as he saw it in his mind. They were a Frankenstein’s monster of a unit.
They had been accepted by the bigger unit, the SBS. That was made up of some 250 men. Men who had come down here from commando units in Syria, Persia and Kabrit. They fought and bickered all the time, their inter-unit rivalry constantly coming to the fore. The Persian group, under Fitzroy Maclean, in particular stood out as being all ‘spit and polish’. It was made up almost entirely of guards and cavalry officers; perfect caricatures of upper-class soldiering. All shiny brass and Blanco. That wasn’t to say that they were bad soldiers. On the contrary, these men were all born fighters, just aching for a scrap.
But Hunter had learnt to leave them to it. His own unit was half the size of the main body and seemed less inclined to get into a fight. God knew there were enough Germans around to kill without knocking seven bells out of your own side.
Some, of course had come from another unit of the Special Boat Squadron. A real bunch of mavericks, who for the last two years had been raiding the Italian coast. Hunter had worked with them before. As usual the divide between what they did and what he had been engaged in these last two months was cloudy. But now Hunter felt that he might just be where he belonged. Here, with a real bunch of misfits and miscreants, he somehow at last felt that he fitted in.
He was surprised at the scale of his new unit. It was much larger than he had envisaged, as well as being diverse in its mix of the services.
XXXI Commando comprised three detachments each of between twenty and thirty men. A total of eighty men.
First there was 32 Troop (Royal Marine), the smallest, made up of two officers, both of them captains, and twenty marines. Then there was 34 (Royal Navy) Troop consisting of a lieutenant commander, three lieutenants and three sub lieutenants, along with twenty men.
The largest unit though was his own, 33 (Army) Troop, under Woods, with under him three ten-man sections, each one commanded by a lieutenant. One was under Hunter, another led by a homicidal Dane and the third by a Coldstream officer. Plus there was an HQ staff, wittily described by the naval unit as ‘base barnacles’.
All the men were volunteers, vetted by their individual troop commanders and ultimately by Vickery and the commander. And this, he thought, with amusement, was the crack force that was going to shorten the war.
Feeling incredibly weary, Hunter finally found his tent and, opening the flap, entered, lay down slowly on his bed and stared up at the faded green canvas of the roof. He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring up into the void. The room was sparsely furnished with merely a bed and a small bamboo table. The bed was hard and had a paillasse mattress but as he pushed his aching body into it, it might have been a soft bed of feathers. He stretched out his legs and flexed his fingers, blowing another smoke ring.
Eight weeks he had been here under canvas. Eight weeks of training.
All of them had, of course, already been through the basic commando courses, from street fighting and handling explosives, detonations and enemy booby traps to uniform, badge and vehicle recognition. They had brushed up on all of these. But the big stuff, the new stuff was, as Vickery had said, what they were really here for.
They had trained in parachute jumping at an RAF base on Mount Carmel. First in a landing harness on to crash mats, then learning how to fit through the tiny trapdoor using a section of fuselage on the ground. Finally they had jumped from a cage hung below a huge metal framework. Seven hundred feet up.
Then there was boat-craft, out on the sea, learning to handle the sort of small caiques that they would be sailing in. There would be naval ratings sailing them for the most part, but each of them had to know what to do if the crew were shot up.
They had an intensive course in how to recognise different enemy documents. How to tell an inconsequential requisition letter from a vital piece of intelligence.
They learnt too about the care of prisoners and how to make a body search. Most importantly they were taught how to recover material from an enemy HQ, where to look for valuable material, how to pick a lock and how to blow a safe without destroying the contents. How to slip a lock and break a window silently. How to prise open windows. How to photograph documents and replace them as if they had not been disturbed.
And finally, as it now appeared, they had learnt about escaping from custody and how to behave as a prisoner of war and, as they had not been warned and he had recently learnt, under interrogation.
He seemed to have hardly touched the mattress when the flap to his tent opened and an officer’s face peered in. ‘Hunter. Debrief now. Follow me.’
He pushed himself up, extinguished the cigarette under the heel of his boot and followed the man outside.
The debrief was held in the same simple white-painted adobe building from which he had emerged after his interrogation. He entered it with some trepidation, not entirely sure as to whether they might try something else. Another trick to test his resolve. But nothing happened. He walked past the shower room and through the doorway into the room where he had been tortured. It was transformed. A window had now appeared in what he had presumed to be a blank wall and through it the bright sunshine was playing across a battered green-painted metal desk at which an officer was seated.
Hunter was surprised not to be met by one of his interrogators, but instead by Lieutenant Commander Vickery.
‘Sir, I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Always expect the unexpected, eh Hunter? Well here we are. Well done. You made it.’
‘So it would seem, sir.’
‘So it would seem, Hunter. I’m afraid I don’t intend to apologise for your treatment. We need to make these things as realistic as possible… without going too far, of course.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course. Without going too far. That really wouldn’t do.’
Vickery ignored his sarcasm and continued, ‘You’ll be pleased to know that that last test marks the end of your training for the unit. You’re in. Well done.’
Hunter smiled at him. Could he really believe this man? There had been no hint of the last test, until it had happened. What if…
‘Really, sir? Are you quite sure? You’ve nothing else in mind for me? I mean, no one else is going to kidnap me? Half kill me?’
Vickery laughed. ‘No, no, no. Of course not, Hunter. That’s it. You can believe me. You’ve made the grade. One thing. I must ask you not to reveal, however, is the final test. To anyone. It is vital, as you will appreciate, that it should come to each of you as a complete surprise. Otherwise it is a waste of our time and of yours. You are not, as you may have guessed, the last man in the unit to complete these tests.’
Hunter gave a barely perceptible grin. Oh no, he wasn’t the last man. Far from it. There must, he thought, be at least a dozen who hadn’t yet completed the course.
‘Of course, sir, I wouldn’t dream of letting the cat out of the bag. You can rely on me.’
Of course he wouldn’t tell the others. That would defeat the purpose. But also, more than that, he wanted each of them to go through what he had just gone through. Wanted all of them to experience the sheer terror of believing you were finished, ruined, worse than dead. If he was going to go through that then they bloody well would too. And serve them right for joining this godforsaken mob anyway.
Vickery smiled again. ‘Knew that I could count on you, Hunter. Good man. Why don’t you go and take a few hours’ rest. You’ve been through a bit of an ordeal.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.’
Hunter turned and left the room. A bit of an ordeal, he thought. I should bloody say so.
Outside the colour of the sea was changing from blue to green, as the sunlight caught it. He turned away from the beach and walked a few hundred yards closer to the castle. On a grassy bank below the ramparts wild flowers had bloomed and were filling the air with their scent. He could hear the shouts of a hand-to-hand combat class further down the beach and the noises of animal aggression made a jarring contrast to the sweet fragrance of the flowers.
He headed to the canteen – a large, gazebo-like tent in the lee of the castle – and had just entered when a man walked up to him.
‘Christ, sir, what the hell happened to you?’
It was Knox.
‘What? Ah, hello, Knox. Um. Nothing really, why?’
‘Well, it’s just that you look like shite, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.’
‘Really?’
It suddenly occurred to him that his face might be battered and bruised almost beyond recognition.
‘Oh, just a bit of a barney I got into.’
‘Bit of a barney? Must have been some stramash, sir. And you can handle yourself better than most. Where was it?’
Hunter thought fast. ‘Back in Cairo. Had forty-eight hours’ leave. I took a wrong turning.’
Knox let out a whistle. ‘I’ll say you did, sir. Straight into a brick wall by the look of it. You want to get that seen to. Go to the MO, sir.’
‘Don’t need the MO. It’ll heal. But thanks for your concern, Knox. I’m off to get some scoff.’
‘You’ll be here for the end-of-term party, sir, won’t you? Should be some bash. Better than ENSA, I reckon.’
Hunter laughed at the reference. ‘What? Don’t tell me you’re going to give us your drag act, Knox.’
‘Oh aye. Suspenders and all the rest. No me. Never. But you can be sure one of the guys from that Persian mob will get hisself up in a frock. They’re all like that.’
Hunter laughed again. ‘I’ll be there, Knox. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. When is it again? Remind me.’
‘Tomorrow, sir. Christ, you have been away haven’t you. Don’t you even know what day it is?’
‘Evidently not. Why don’t you tell me that too, Knox.’
‘It’s Thursday, sir. Must have been one hell of a leave. Must run, sir. Need to see a man about a fighting knife.’
And he was gone.
Thursday, thought Hunter. Christ, he had been out of his mind locked in that bloody cell for two days. And whatever Vickery had said about the others not having finished, clearly they all had. He realised that if Knox had noticed it, then he must look really bad. He touched his cheek and winced. Of course it would heal. No point in seeing the MO. Besides, there was a party to think about.
5
Cairo seemed incredibly crowded and busy to Hunter after his eight weeks spent in the glorious isolation and fresh sea air and wild flowers of Athilt. The surfaces of the filthy streets were powder-dry and the passing military vehicles, of which there seemed to him to be many more than before, kicked up great plumes of khaki dust that hung suspended in the breathless air. Holding a handkerchief close against his face, Hunter walked alongside Woods and was relieved when at last they reached Garden City and the steps of Rustum Buildings.
They walked in, returning the snapped salutes from the MPs at the door and climbed now with a new confidence up the steps to the first floor. Woods looked at his watch and knocked at the door of flat 7, which was opened by the same pretty young WRN. She shook her head at them and smirked. ‘Oh, hello, it’s you again. I’m afraid you’re a little late. “V” doesn’t like late you know. This way.’
She admitted them to the inner office. Hunter was not surprised to see Vickery, seated at his leather-topped desk in his club chair, looking as if he hadn’t moved since their last meeting here. The room was unchanged too. There was only one noticeable difference. Vickery was not alone.
Behind him, seated in another similarly incongruous chair, more suited to White’s or Boodle’s, sat a British Army major, wearing the ubiquitous uniform of an 8th Army cavalry officer: brown cavalry twill trousers, a white shirt topped off with a paisley-patterned silk cravat and a V-necked khaki pullover.
Both men were smoking cigarettes.
Vickery looked up at Hunter and Woods briefly, then down to his watch and then back up at them. ‘Ah, Captain Woods, Lieutenant Hunter. You’re late, gentlemen. Do remember: in the military, punctuality is not a luxury, it’s a given.’
Hunter felt as if he was back in the headmaster’s study at Fettes.
Vickery managed a queasy smile. ‘Sit down, won’t you.’
He motioned them to a pair of Victorian dining chairs positioned in front of his desk and as soon as they were seated, opened the square silver cigarette box that was lying on the desk and offered it to them. ‘Cigarette? Sullivan and Powell Egyptians. Had ten cases flown in yesterday.’
The two men each reached for one of the oval cigarettes. Hunter lit them both.
‘How did you find your training? You both look remarkably well on it.’
Woods spoke: ‘It was, er… Well it was, interesting, sir.’
Hunter stared at Vickery. “Looking remarkably well”. That hardly summed it up. He presumed that his bruises were now no longer visible. He said, ‘It was harrowing, sir, but no less than I would have expected.’
Vickery, who was quite clearly not really listening to them, spoke again: ‘Ah yes. Of course. Very good. Well, as it happens, you completed the course just in time.’
Woods asked, ‘Just in time? In time for what?’
‘We’ve got a mission for you. Rather a good one, actually.’
Hunter muttered, ‘That’ll make a change.’
‘Yes, Hunter, I dare say it will. And if you manage to pull it off, it really will make a hell of a change.’
The army officer smiled and took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Right, David?’
‘Right.’
‘We’re calling it Operation Inkspot. As you are aware Woods, your troop, 33 AU, will be attached to 8 Commando. Jellicoe’s mob. We’ve just redesignated them all SBS so it’s a much bigger force now. We’re sending in two troops of them. No prizes as to what they’ll be doing. We need to get back control of Crete, or at least to put all enemy planes on the island out of action. Crete is the key. There are three main air bases.’
