Vengeance 10

It was raining in Felixstowe when the Special Service unit came down the gangway. Memling stood by the railing of the over-age destroyer, trying to ignore the smell of diesel oil, salt air and coal smoke which pervaded the harbour. Grimy docks huddled under the lash of rain. Bits of garbage and wood floated in the oil-slick water. Barely visible as it made for the entrance to the harbour boom, a grey submarine wallowed towards the North Sea. The Luftwaffe had been at work recently. Great holes had been chewed in the line of sheds, and over towards the town the church steeple had been knocked askew. It was depressingly unlike the pretty seaside resort he remembered from before the war.

The last of his company trudged off the ship, and Memling followed down the gangway. A non-commissioned officer wearing the red flashes of the Special Police stepped out from the canvas cover. ‘Lieutenant Jan Memling?’

Memling frowned and nodded. ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

‘I have orders to take you to London at the earliest moment, sir.’

‘London? I’ve just returned from an exercise, Sergeant. I must see to my men and make my report.’

‘Sorry, Lieutenant Memling. My orders state you are to be returned immediately.’

‘Damn it.’ Memling frowned. There was just one reason he would be recalled to London. ‘Just where in London are you supposed to take me?’

The SP gave him a long, steady stare, if you do not come willingly, sir, I am empowered to place you under arrest.’

‘What’s going on here, Memling? Why aren’t you with your people — this time?’ Renson had come up from behind, startling his junior officer.

The calculated insult was too much, and Memling swung around, but the SP interposed himself. ‘I am afraid, Captain, that I am to blame,’ he said, neatly diverting attention. ‘I have urgent orders for Lieutenant Memling that require his immediate return to London.’

‘London? Immediately? What’s this all about, Memling? Found some way to take yourself off active duty?’

Memling started towards him, but the SP gripped his arm tightly. Driscoll appeared out of the mist at that moment, closely followed by Memling’s sergeant major. Driscoll nodded and, glancing directly at Renson, motioned with his head. ‘Go ahead, Jan. We’ll see to everything here, won’t we, Sergeant Major?’ The implication was not lost on Renson who glanced from one to the other, then back to Memling. ‘I see.’ He nodded half to himself. ‘I see how it is now. Perhaps you should go along, Memling. I am certain that we can get along without you.’

‘Go along, sir,’ the sergeant major urged. ‘Lieutenant Driscoll is right.’

Memling nodded reluctantly and handed over his helmet, Sten and kit bag of Mills bombs. ‘Do I have time to clean up?’ he asked the SP, who shook his head with an apologetic grimace.

‘Afraid not, sir. I have a car, and if we hurry we can just make the afternoon train from Ipswich. So if you will follow me.’

* * *

Memling had been in Special Services for little over a year, caught up in the first sweep through the forces for officers with special training. Even though intelligence personnel were to be kept out of combat units for fear of capture, his MI6 background had been accidentally overlooked at Portsmouth, and he had managed a transfer from the Home Forces G-2 unit to which he had been assigned. In the months that followed, Memling asked himself why as he was slithering up vertical cliffs or wading chest deep through freezing streams in what was euphemistically called training. And although he knew the answer, he was loath to formulate it to himself. But the Norwegian raid was his third combat mission, and, as before, he felt he had performed creditably. His thinking had been cool and clearheaded, and the cowardly fear kept under control. Not once had he experienced the slightest panic.

The SP led him through a turnstile at Liverpool Street Station and stopped to speak with a man dressed in well-cut civilian clothes. The SP produced a receipt book, which the civilian signed after looking closely at Memling. The SP nodded goodbye and disappeared. The civilian introduced himself and offered a weak handshake. His accent spoke of public school and cricket.

‘Lieutenant Jan Memling, I take it. Name’s Crawford. Work for the Firm, you know. Asked to pop over and bring you around for a chat. Cup of tea if you come quietly.’ He laughed at his own feeble joke and led Memling out to an American car painted army drab. Not a word was spoken as the car began its journey through streets clogged with pedestrians and cyclists.

It seemed that every time Memling returned to London, the city looked ever more dingy and battered. The crowds were larger perhaps, if more ill-dressed, than before — thinner, paler, even dirtier after three years of war. But they still retained that infectious humour that had come to characterise the otherwise dour Londoners the moment the bombs began to fall. Traffic was light, nearly all military, due to petrol rationing.