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.’Ashley looked up at Smithe-Webb and smiled cheerfully.‘It’s August now.By the time the thing is set up we’ll be into autumn.So we’ll have at least six months.We could get an awful lot of airmen out in that time! All it needs is reasonably good communications and some efficient organisation at your end.’Smithe-Webb stared back at the chart and wished he could smile as cheerfully.Organisation was the one thing he couldn’t guarantee.He hadn’t mentioned that, and didn’t intend to.No point in getting a sour note into the proceedings.Richard Ashley said, ‘The pick-up must be fast and well thought out – on both sides – otherwise …’Smithe-Webb nodded.He had the message loud and clear.If there was a muck-up then everyone would get caught.‘… But I’m sure your people will be first class.The Bretons usually are.’‘They’re good people,’ Smithe-Webb agreed.He wasn’t sure he could say the same for the Free French officer who was meant to be organising the line.Smithe-Webb hadn’t liked the chap at all.But no point in fretting about it; they’d been forced to use him.The Free French had to be humoured and that was all there was to it.But, Smithe-Webb thought sadly, it was not the same as choosing your own man, not the same at all.But on this side of the operation he might be able to get the man he wanted.He asked Ashley, ‘Do you think you might be able to do the job yourself? You used to be on MGBs, didn’t you? It would be tremendous from our point of view.’Ashley stroked his chin.‘I was on torpedo boats actually, not gun boats.But … well, I am rather tempted.They say the new boats can do 30 knots.Very useful for getting out of trouble!’ He smiled.‘Yes, I’d love to give it a go.’He shot a glance at Smithe-Webb, and said mischievously, ‘We could fix it between us.If you tell the Admiralty that you need me and then I volunteer, they can’t refuse, can they?’ Suddenly he laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and Smithe-Webb had the feeling that few people refused Richard Ashley anything.Smithe-Webb found himself smiling too.His feeling of optimism returned.If these MGBs could get there and back, then they were halfway there.*Ashley watched the launch heading back towards the jetty and wondered if he should have gone into the problems in more detail.He walked slowly along the deck.God, he felt tired.He sat on the hatch coaming, and lighting a cigarette, inhaled deeply.He tried to think, but the tiredness was clouding his brain.Or perhaps his mind was addled by the cigarettes and the brandy.Just as likely.Problems … There’d certainly be a few.He’d made it sound easy and it wasn’t.He should have told the major about the navigation problems: the tricky tides and the lack of navigation aids.He should have admitted that it would be bloody difficult to find the right place at all.Then there was the weather: he should have spelt out the problems in more detail.Even in fairly rough conditions they might have to cancel operations; in gales they most certainly would.Damn.He should have made the whole thing plainer.Still … they should be able to get across pretty often.A lot depended on the efficiency of the organisation on the other side, of course.The major had been a little evasive about that …Perhaps the escape line was brand new, or badly run or perhaps it was a complete shambles.Yes, there was always that possibility, though he’d be surprised.The Bretons were a cool, determined, closely-knit people.He’d be surprised if they mucked things up.Well, whatever the situation, he’d give it a go.It was a marvellous challenge.Besides, he had been on the Bay run for over nine months now and it was getting to him.Pretending to be a fishing boat was too much like sitting waiting to be a target at the Germans’ convenience.The boat had an engine, to be sure – but it produced only six knots.As much good as a wound-up elastic band.And then there was the small problem about being captured when disguised as a French fisherman.According to the powers-that-be all you had to do was to pop a Royal Navy Issue cap on your head, show your papers, and you’d be treated as a prisoner of war.Ashley wasn’t so sure: he had the feeling the Germans would politely ignore the caps and line you up against a wall for target practice.He thought back to the last trip … It had gone wrong from the start.They’d gone to the Scillies as usual, to their secret anchorage, and turned the boat from a grey MFV into a Concarnean trawler, complete with bright orange paint and a few fancy patterns on the transom.But as soon as they’d left, the weather had turned bad and they’d had an uncomfortable trip.When they eventually got to the Bay it had taken far too long to make contact with the fleet, and a Raumboot had got suspicious and almost put a landing party aboard.Finally, on the way back, they’d been caught.Good and proper.In his mind’s eye he saw it all again: everyone reaching for weapons, the low-flying plane, the bullets tearing into Jean-Pierre’s body … He shuddered.Perhaps he was losing his nerve.He took out another cigarette and lit it.He looked at the hand holding the cigarette: its fingers were bright yellow with nicotine and shook slightly.Too many cigarettes.Too much booze.Definitely time for a change.A tern called overhead and he looked up.He followed it as it soared towards the river mouth and the open sea.Any time now it would be flying south to its winter quarters on some Atlantic island.This summer there had been thousands of terns on Scilly.The islands: that was the one thing he would miss.Whenever they’d sailed to the secret anchorage in the north of the islands, to paint the fishing boat, he’d been happy.The secret anchorage lay between two islands – Tresco and Bryher – in the small inlet known as New Grimsby Harbour.He had remembered coming there before the war – when was it?—’35? Some time then.The narrow inlet had been empty then, not a fishing boat or islanders’ gig to be seen.He had anchored Dancer in the centre of the basin, and rowed across to Bryher and made a camp on the shore, and walked round the island and watched the incredible surf in Hell Bay and wondered what it would be like to be shipwrecked.In the evening he had made a fire and cooked a couple of mackerel and slept under a tarpaulin in the shelter of a rock.The dawn had been still and yellow and he had watched a cormorant diving into the cool depths of the secret harbour [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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