Hammond Innes: Atlantic Fury

‘That’s got nothing to do with it, sir. It’s just that — well, I guess it’s because I spent part of my boyhood in Canada. I like cold climates. The farther north the better. And I like something to get my teeth into. Malaya was all right for a bit. But Cyprus…’

And then with an intensity that the Brigadier found disconcerting: ‘Is there any particular reason why I’m being posted to the Hebrides now — other than to deal with the problem of this evacuation of Laerg?’

‘No, of course not. Why should there be?’

Braddock had seemed to relax then. ‘I just wondered. I mean, when you apply for a posting and then suddenly get it …’

The lined, leathery-hard face had cracked in a charming smile. ‘Well, it makes you wonder what’s behind it.’

‘Nothing’s behind it,’ the Brigadier told him. ‘I was simply referring to what happened to you up there in 1944.’ He told me he was wishing then that he knew the man better, feeling instinctively that there was more to it than he’d admitted. ‘How many of you were on that raft at the outset?’ He watched the tough, poker face, saw the nerve quiver at the corner of the mouth and the eyes fixed wide in a flat, blank stare. ‘No, I thought not. It’s something you’d rather forget. Have you ever visited the Hebrides since?’

‘No.’

‘Then why do you want to be posted there now?’

But Braddock either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer that. ‘It’s just that … well, as I said — it sort of calls to me. I can’t explain exactly.’ And he’d smiled that engaging smile. ‘It’s a bit like Canada, I suppose.’

The Brigadier hesitated. But it was nothing to do with him and he’d let it go at that, staring down again at Braddock’s record. The Normandy landings — anti-tank role — the M.C. for gallantry at Caen after holding a bridge with a single gun against repeated attacks by tanks — command of a troop two months later — promoted captain just before the dash for the Rhine — temporary rank of major at the end of the war… ‘Now about this operation. Do you sail at all?’

‘I’ve done a little.’

‘Good. Then you’ll have some idea what the weather means to the LCT’s, particularly in view of your previous experience…’

He had got up from his desk and turned towards the window. ‘However, that isn’t why I wanted to see you personally.’ The sky was blue and the sun beat down on the stone ledge of the tight-shut window. ‘Ever met Simon Standing?’ He turned as Braddock shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t think your paths would have crossed. Can’t imagine two people more entirely different — which may be a good thing, or again it may not. Colonel Standing is Commandant and Range Controller. He’s a few years younger than you and it’s his first independent command. Now this is what I want to make clear to you, and it’s strictly between ourselves. Standing’s up there primarily because he’s an expert on ballistics and all that sort of thing. In fact he’s one of the best brains we’ve got in the field of guided weapons. But for a job like this …’

He had hesitated then. ‘Well, his world is figures. He’s not strictly an action man, if you see what I mean.’ And he went on quickly, ‘Officially, of course, it’s his show and you come under him as acting second-in-command. Unofficially, I want you to run the operation.’ Faced with the blank stare of those black eyes he probably felt it was all damnably awkward, for he admitted to me later that he thought Braddock should have been a half-colonel at least. He had the experience and he had that indefinable something, that air of confidence denoting a born leader. He may even have wondered what had gone wrong, but at the time all he said was, ‘Just keep Simon Standing in the picture and get on with the job. If you bear in mind that he’s quite brilliant in his own field and … well, use a little tact.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I hope you do.’ The Brigadier had hesitated then, feeling instinctively that a clash of temperament was inevitable. Ever since Braddock had come into his office he had been conscious of the strength of the man’s personality, and something else — a tension, almost a sense of urgency. But there was nothing he could do about that now. Time was too short. ‘There’s a sleeper reserved for you on the night train. You’ll be travelling up with the BRA, Scottish Command. He’ll give you all the details.’ And with a murmured ‘Good luck’ he had dismissed him.

He admitted later that Braddock should have been given the opportunity to discuss the operation. But throughout the interview he’d felt uncomfortable. The large hands, the dark moustache, the lined, leathery face with the heavy brows craggy above the black stare of the eyes — somehow, he said, the man seemed to fill the office, too big for it almost. So strong was this feeling that he’d been glad when the door had shut behind him.

The train left Huston at nine thirty-five and ten minutes after it pulled out Braddock visited Brigadier Matthieson in his sleeper. I suspect that Matthieson was one of those officers who joined the Royal Artillery for the riding, back in the days when the guns were horse-drawn. I don’t think he had much of a brain, but he was certainly no fool and he was as good with men as he was with horses. He never forgot a face. ‘Met you somewhere before, haven’t I?’ he said and was surprised to find this overture rejected almost fiercely. ‘A long time ago, I think. Now where was it?’

‘I think you’ve made a mistake, sir.’

But Matthieson was quite sure he hadn’t. ‘During the war.’ He saw Braddock’s face tauten, and then he had it — a tall, hard-bitten youngster in a blood-stained battledress coming back with a single gun buckled by a direct hit. ‘Normandy. Autumn of forty-four. You’d been holding a bridge.’ The craggy face towering above him relaxed, broke into the same charming, rather tired-looking smile. ‘I remember now, sir. You were the major bivouacked in that wood. You gave us food — the few of us that were left. A tent, too. We were just about all in.’

They’d talked about the war then, sitting on Matthieson’s berth, finishing the bottle of Scotch he’d brought south with him. It was almost midnight and the bottle empty by the time they got round to discussing Laerg. Matthieson pulled out his brief-case and handed Braddock the Plan of Operations. ‘The schedule’s a bit tight, but that’s not my fault. About ten LCT loads should do the trick. Read it through tonight. Any points we can discuss in the morning. I’ve a car meeting me and I’ll drive you out to Renfrew Airport.’

Braddock, leafing quickly through the Plan, immediately expressed concern about the schedule. ‘I have some experience of the weather up there…’

‘On an open raft. So the BGS told me. But you’re not dealing with a raft this time. These LCTs can stand quite a lot.’

‘It’s an open beach. If the wind’s south-easterly …’

‘You know the place, do you?’

He saw Braddock’s face tighten. ‘I looked it up on a map,’ he said quickly, and Matthieson wondered how he’d got hold of a map with the shops closed. ‘If the weather goes against us …’

‘It’s the weather you’re being posted up there to deal with. The weather and that fellow Standing.’ He was well aware that the schedule was too tight and he wanted to get Braddock off the subject. ‘Ever met Simon Standing? Do you know anything about him?’ And when the other shook his head, he went on, ‘Give you a word of advice.then. Don’t fall out with him. War Office thinks he’s wonderful. But I can tell you he’s a queer fish and he’s got no sense of humour.’ He was very frank about the words he’d used. ‘Bloody little prig, if you ask me.’ I imagine he smiled then, a flash of teeth that were too white and even to be his own. ‘Shouldn’t be talking like this about your commanding officer, should I? But we’ve seen a war together. These adding machine types haven’t. Probably puke if they did. A real war, I mean — blood and the stink of rotting guts, the roar of a thousand guns blazing hell out of a dawn sky. They’re push-button warriors; nothing but bloody electricians.’