Force 10 from Navarone

‘We know.’ The threatened withholding of his DCM had left Miller unmoved. ‘Something else came up. Look, sir, why us? We’re saboteurs, explosives experts, combat troops – this is a job for undercover espionage agents who speak Serbo-Croat or whatever.’

‘You must allow me to be the best judge of that,’ Jensen gave them another flash of his sabretoothed smile. ‘Besides, you’re lucky.’

‘Luck deserts tired men,’ Andrea said. ‘And we are very tired.’

‘Tired or not, I can’t find another team in Southern Europe to match you for resource, experience and skill.’ Jensen smiled again. ‘And luck. I have to be ruthless, Andrea. I don’t like it, but I have to. But I take the point about your exhaustion. That’s why I have decided to send a back-up team with you.’

Mallory looked at the three young soldiers standing by the hearth, then back to Jensen, who nodded.

‘They’re young, fresh and just raring to go. Marine Commandos, the most highly trained combat troops we have today. Remarkable variety of skills, I assure you. Take Reynolds, here.’ Jensen nodded to a very tall, dark sergeant in his late twenties, a man with a deeply-tanned aquiline face. ‘He can do anything from underwater demolition to flying a plane. And he will be flying a plane tonight. And, as you can see, he’ll come in handy for carrying any heavy cases you have.’

Mallory said mildly: ‘I’ve always found that Andrea makes a pretty fair porter, sir.’

Jensen turned to Reynolds. ‘They have their doubts. Show them you can be of some use.’

Reynolds hesitated, then stooped, picked up a heavy brass poker and proceeded to bend it between his hands. Obviously, it wasn’t an easy poker to bend. His face turned red, the veins stood out on his forehead and the tendons in his neck, his arms quivered with the strain, but slowly, inexorably, the poker was bent into a figure ‘U’. Smiling almost apologetically, Reynolds handed the poker over to Andrea. Andrea took it reluctantly. He hunched his shoulders, his knuckles gleamed white but the poker remained in its ‘U’ shape. Andrea looked up at Reynolds, his expression thoughtful, then quietly laid the poker down.

‘See what I mean?’ Jensen said. ‘Tired. Or Sergeant Groves here. Hot-foot from London, via the Middle East. Ex-air navigator, with all the latest in sabotage, explosives and electrics. For booby-traps, time-bombs and concealed microphones, a human mine-detector. And Sergeant Saunders here – a top-flight radio operator.’

Miller said morosely to Mallory: ‘You’re a toothless old lion and you’re over the hill.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Corporal!’ Jensen’s voice was sharp. ‘Six is the ideal number. You’ll be duplicated in every department, and those men are good. They’ll be invaluable. If it’s any salve to your pride, they weren’t originally picked to go with you: they were picked as a reserve team in case you – um – well –’

‘I see.’ The lack of conviction in Miller’s voice was total.

‘All clear then?’

‘Not quite,’ Mallory said. ‘Who’s in charge?’

Jensen said in genuine surprise: ‘You are, of course.’

‘So.’ Mallory spoke quietly and pleasantly. ‘I understand the training emphasis today – especially in the Marine Commandos – is on initiative, self-reliance, independence in thought and action. Fine – if they happen to be caught out on their own.’ He smiled, almost deprecatingly. ‘Otherwise I shall expect immediate, unquestioning and total compliance with orders. My orders. Instant and total.’

‘And if not?’ Reynolds asked.

‘A superfluous question. Sergeant. You know the wartime penalty for disobeying an officer in the field.’

‘Does that apply to your friends, too?’

‘No.’

Reynolds turned to Jensen. ‘I don’t think I like that, sir.’

Mallory sank wearily into a chair, lit a cigarette, nodded at Reynolds and said, ‘Replace him.’

‘What!’ Jensen was incredulous.

‘Replace him, I said. We haven’t even left and already he’s questioning my judgement. What’s it going to be like in action? He’s dangerous. I’d rather carry a ticking time-bomb with me.’

‘Now, look here, Mallory –’

‘Replace him or replace me.’

‘And me,’ Andrea said quietly.

‘And me,’ Miller added.

There was a brief and far from companionable silence in the room, then Reynolds approached Mallory’s chair.

‘Sir.’

Mallory looked at him without encouragement.

‘I’m sorry,’ Reynolds went on. ‘I stepped out of line. I will never make the same mistake twice. I want to go on this trip, sir.’

Mallory glanced at Andrea and Miller. Miller’s face registered only his shock at Reynolds’s incredibly foolhardy enthusiasm for action. Andrea, impassive as ever, nodded almost imperceptibly. Mallory smiled and said: ‘As Captain Jensen said, I’m sure you’ll be a great asset.’

‘Well, that’s it, then.’ Jensen affected not to notice the almost palpable relaxation of tension in the room. ‘Sleep’s the thing now. But first I’d like a few minutes – report on Navarone, you know.’ He looked at the three sergeants. ‘Confidential, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Reynolds said. ‘Shall we go down to the field, check flight plans, weather, parachutes and supplies?’

Jensen nodded. As the three sergeants closed the double doors behind them, Jensen crossed to a side door, opened it and said: ‘Come in, General.’

The man who entered was very tall, very gaunt. He was probably about thirty-five, but looked a great deal older. The care, the exhaustion, the endless privations inseparable from too many years’ ceaseless struggle for survival had heavily silvered the once-black hair and deeply etched into the swarthy, sunburnt face the lines of physical and mental suffering. The eyes were dark and glowing and intense, the hypnotic eyes of a man inspired by a fanatical dedication to some as yet unrealized ideal. He was dressed in a British Army officer’s uniform, bereft of insignia and badges.

Jensen said: ‘Gentlemen, General Vukalovic. The general is second-in-command of the Partisan forces in Bosnia-Herzegovina. The RAF flew him out yesterday. He is here as a Partisan doctor seeking medical supplies. His true identity is known only to us. General, those are your men.’

Vukalovic looked them over severally and steadily, his face expressionless. He said: ‘Those are tired men, Captain Jensen. So much depends … too tired to do what has to be done.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Miller said earnestly.

‘There’s maybe a little mileage left in them yet,’ Jensen said mildly. ‘It’s a long haul from Navarone. Now then –’

‘Navarone?’ Vukalovic interrupted. ‘These – these are the men –’

‘An unlikely-looking lot, I agree.’

‘Perhaps I was wrong about them.’

‘No, you weren’t, General,’ Miller said. ‘We’re exhausted. We’re completely –’

‘Do you mind?’ Jensen said acidly. ‘Captain Mallory, with two exceptions the General will be the only person in Bosnia who knows who you are and what you are doing. Whether the General reveals the identity of the others is entirely up to him. General Vukalovic will be accompanying you to Yugoslavia, but not in the same plane.’

‘Why not?’ Mallory asked.

‘Because his plane will be returning. Yours won’t.’

‘Ah!’ Mallory said. There was a brief silence while he, Andrea and Miller absorbed the significance behind Jensen’s words. Abstractedly, Andrea threw some more wood on the sinking fire and looked around for a poker: but the only poker was the one that Reynolds had already bent into a ‘U’-shape. Andrea picked it up. Absent-mindedly, effortlessly, Andrea straightened it out, poked the fire into a blaze and laid the poker down, a performance Vukalovic watched with a very thoughtful expression on his face.

Jensen went on: ‘Your plane, Captain Mallory, will not be returning because your plane is expendable in the interests of authenticity.’

‘Us, too?’ Miller asked.

‘You won’t be able to accomplish very much, Corporal Miller, without actually putting your feet on the ground. Where you’re going, no plane can possibly land: so you jump – and the plane crashes.’

‘That sounds very authentic,’ Miller muttered.

Jensen ignored him. ‘The realities of total war are harsh beyond belief. Which is why I sent those three youngsters on their way – I don’t want to dampen their enthusiasm.’

‘Mine’s water-logged,’ Miller said dolefully.

‘Oh, do be quiet. Now, it would be fine if, by way of a bonus, you could discover why eighty per cent of our air-drops fall into German hands, fine if you could locate and rescue our captured mission leaders. But not important. Those supplies, those agents are militarily expendable. What are not expendable are the seven thousand men under the command of General Vukalovic here, seven thousand men trapped in an area called the Zenica Cage, seven thousand starving men with almost no ammunition left, seven thousand men with no future.’

‘We can help them?’ Andrea asked heavily. ‘Six men?’

Jensen said candidly: ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you have a plan?’

‘Not yet. Not as such. The glimmerings of an idea. No more.’ Jensen rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘I myself arrived from Alexandria only six hours ago.’ He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘By tonight, who knows? A few hours’ sleep this afternoon might transform us all. But, first, the report on Navarone. It would be pointless for you three other gentlemen to wait – there are sleeping quarters down the hall. I daresay Captain Mallory can tell me all I want to know.’

Mallory waited till the door closed behind Andrea, Miller and Vukalovic and said: ‘Where shall I begin my report, sir?’

‘What report?’

‘Navarone, of course.’

‘The hell with Navarone. That’s over and done with.’ He picked up his cane, crossed to the wall, pulled down two more maps. ‘Now, then.’

‘You – you have a plan,’ Mallory said carefully.

‘Of course I have a plan,’ Jensen said coldly. He rapped the map in front of him. ‘Ten miles north of here. The Gustav Line. Right across Italy along the line of the Sangro and Liri rivers. Here the Germans have the most impregnable defensive positions in the history of modern warfare. Monte Cassino here – our finest Allied divisions have broken on it, some for ever. And here – the Anzio beachhead. Fifty thousand Americans fighting for their lives. For five solid months now we’ve been battering our heads against the Gustav Line and the Anzio perimeter. Our losses in men and machines – incalculable. Our gains – not one solitary inch.’

Mallory said diffidently: ‘You mentioned something about Yugoslavia, sir.’

‘I’m coming to that,’ Jensen said with restraint. ‘Now, our only hope of breaching the Gustav Line is by weakening the German defensive forces and the only way we can do that is by persuading them to withdraw some of their front-line divisions. So we practise the Allenby technique.’

‘I see.’

‘You don’t see at all. General Allenby, Palestine, 1918. He had an east-west line from the Jordan to the Mediterranean. He planned to attack from the west – so he convinced the Turks the attack was coming from the east. He did this by building up in the east a huge city of army tents occupied by only a few hundred men who came out and dashed around like beavers whenever enemy planes came over on reconnaissance. He did this by letting the same planes see large army truck convoys pouring to the east all day long – what the Turks didn’t know was that the same convoys poured back to the west all night long. He even had fifteen thousand canvas dummies of horses built. Well, we’re doing the same.’

‘Fifteen thousand canvas horses?’

‘Very, very amusing.’ Jensen rapped the map again. ‘Every airfield between here and Bari is jammed with dummy bombers and gliders. Outside Foggia is the biggest military encampment in Italy – occupied by two hundred men. The harbours of Bari and Taranto are crowded with assault landing craft, the whole lot made of plywood. All day long columns of trucks and tanks converge on the Adriatic coast. If you, Mallory, were in the German High Command, what would you make of this?’

‘I’d suspect an airborne and sea invasion of Yugoslavia. But I wouldn’t be sure.’

The German reaction exactly,’ Jensen said with some satisfaction. ‘They’re badly worried, worried to the extent that they have already transferred two divisions from Italy to Yugoslavia to meet the threat.’

‘But they’re not certain?’

‘Not quite. But almost.’ Jensen cleared his throat. ‘You see, our four captured mission leaders were all carrying unmistakable evidence pointing to an invasion of Central Yugoslavia in early May.’

‘They carried evidence –’ Mallory broke off, looked at Jensen for a long and speculative moment, then went on quietly: ‘And how did the Germans manage to capture them all?’

‘We told them they were coming.’

‘You did what!’

‘Volunteers all, volunteers all,’ Jensen said quickly. There were, apparently, some of the harsher realities of total war that even he didn’t care to dwell on too long. ‘And it will be your job, my boy, to turn near-conviction into absolute certainty.’ Seemingly oblivious of the fact that Mallory was regarding him with a marked lack of enthusiasm, he wheeled round dramatically and stabbed his cane at a large-scale map of Central Yugoslavia.

‘The valley of the Neretva,’ Jensen said. ‘The vital sector of the main north-south route through Yugoslavia. Whoever controls this valley controls Yugoslavia – and no one knows this better than the Germans. If the blow falls, they know it must fall here. They are fully aware that an invasion of Yugoslavia is on the cards, they are terrified of a link-up between the Allies and the Russians advancing from the east and they know that any such link-up must be along this valley. They already have two armoured divisions along the Neretva, two divisions that, in the event of invasion, could be wiped out in a night. From the north – here – they are trying to force their way south to the Neretva with a whole army corps – but the only way is through the Zenica Cage here. And Vukalovic and his seven thousand men block the way.’

‘Vukalovic knows about this?’ Mallory asked. ‘About what you really have in mind, I mean?’

‘Yes. And the Partisan command. They know the risks, the odds against them. They accept them.’

‘Photographs?’ Mallory asked.

‘Here.’ Jensen pulled some photographs from a desk drawer, selected one and smoothed it out on the table. ‘This is the Zenica Cage. Well named: a perfect cage, a perfect trap. To the north and west, impassable mountains. To the east, the Neretva dam and the Neretva gorge. To the south, the Neretva river. To the north of the cage here, at the Zenica gap, the German 11th Army Corps is trying to break through. To the west here – they call it the West Gap – more units of the 11th trying to do the same. And to the south here, over the river and hidden in the trees, two armoured divisions under a General Zimmermann.’

‘And this?’ Mallory pointed to a thin black line spanning the river just north of the two armoured divisions.

‘That,’ Jensen said thoughtfully, ‘is the bridge at Neretva.’

Close-up, the bridge at Neretva looked vastly more impressive than it had done in the large-scale photograph: it was a massively cantilevered structure in solid steel, with a black asphalt roadway laid on top. Below the bridge rushed the swiftly-flowing Neretva, greenish-white in colour and swollen with melting snow. To the south there was a narrow strip of green meadowland bordering the river and, to the south of this again, a dark and towering pine forest began. In the safe concealment of the forest’s gloomy depths, General Zimmermann’s two armoured divisions crouched waiting.

Parked close to the edge of the wood was the divisional command radio truck, a bulky and very long vehicle so beautifully camouflaged as to be invisible at more than twenty paces.

General Zimmermann and his ADC, Captain Warburg, were at that moment inside the truck. Their mood appeared to match the permanent twilight of the woods. Zimmermann had one of those high-foreheaded, lean and aquiline and intelligent faces which so rarely betray any emotion, but there was no lack of emotion now, no lack of anxiety and impatience as he removed his cap and ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. He said to the radio operator seated behind the big transceiver:

‘No word yet? Nothing?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘You are in constant touch with Captain Neufeld’s camp?’

‘Every minute, sir.’

‘And his operator is keeping a continuous radio watch?’

‘All the time, sir. Nothing. Just nothing.’

Zimmermann turned and descended the steps, followed by Warburg. He walked, head down, until he was out of earshot of the truck, then said: ‘Damn it! Damn it! God damn it all!’

‘You’re as sure as that, sir.’ Warburg was tall, good-looking, flaxen-haired and thirty, and his face at the moment reflected a nice balance of apprehension and unhappiness. ‘That they’re coming?’

‘It’s in my bones, my boy. One way or another it’s coming, coming for all of us.’

‘You can’t be sure, sir,’ Warburg protested.

‘True enough.’ Zimmermann sighed. ‘I can’t be sure. But I’m sure of this. If they do come, if the 11th Army Group can’t break through from the north, if we can’t wipe out those damned Partisans in the Zenica Cage –’

Warburg waited for him to continue, but Zimmermann seemed lost in reverie. Apparently apropos of nothing, Warburg said: ‘I’d like to see Germany again, sir. Just once more.’

‘Wouldn’t we all, my boy, wouldn’t we all.’ Zimmermann walked slowly to the edge of the wood and stopped. For a long time he gazed out over the bridge at Neretva. Then he shook his head, turned and was almost at once lost to sight in the dark depths of the forest.

The pine fire in the great fireplace in the drawing-room in Termoli was burning low. Jensen threw on some more logs, straightened, poured two drinks and handed one to Mallory.

Jensen said: ‘Well?’

‘That’s the plan?’ No hint of his incredulity, of his near-despair, showed in Mallory’s impassive face. ‘That’s all of the plan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your health.’ Mallory paused. ‘And mine.’ After an even longer pause he said reflectively: ‘It should be interesting to watch Dusty Miller’s reactions when he hears this little lot this evening.’

As Mallory had said, Miller’s reactions were interesting, even if wholly predictable. Some six hours later, clad now, like Mallory and Andrea, in British Army uniform, Miller listened in visibly growing horror as Jensen outlined what he considered should be their proposed course of action in the next twenty-four hours or so. When he had finished, Jensen looked directly at Miller and said: ‘Well? Feasible?’

‘Feasible?’ Miller was aghast. ‘It’s suicidal!’

‘Andrea?’

‘Andrea shrugged, lifted his hands palms upwards and said nothing.

Jensen nodded and said: ‘I’m sorry, but I’m fresh out of options. We’d better go. The others are waiting at the airstrip.’

Andrea and Miller left the room, began to walk down the long passageway. Mallory hesitated in the doorway, momentarily blocking it, then turned to face Jensen who was watching him with a surprised lift of the eyebrows.

Mallory said in a low voice: ‘Let me tell Andrea, at least.’

Jensen looked at him for a considering moment or two, shook his head briefly and brushed by into the corridor.

Twenty minutes later, without a further word being spoken, the four men arrived at the Termoli airstrip to find Vukalovic and two sergeants waiting for them: the third, Reynolds, was already at the controls of his Wellington, one of them standing at the end of the airstrip, propellers already turning. Ten minutes later both planes were airborne, Vukalovic in one, Mallory, Miller, Andrea, and the three sergeants in the other, each plane bound for its separate destination.

Jensen, alone on the tarmac, watched both planes climbing, his straining eyes following them until they disappeared into the overcast darkness of the moonless sky above. Then, just as General Zimmermann had done that afternoon, he shook his head in slow finality, turned and walked heavily away.

THREE Friday 0030–0200

Sergeant Reynolds, Mallory reflected, certainly knew how to handle a plane, especially this one. Although his eyes showed him to be always watchful and alert, he was precise, competent, calm and relaxed in everything he did. No less competent was Groves: the poor light and cramped confines of his tiny plotting-table clearly didn’t worry him at all and as an air navigator he was quite clearly as experienced as he was proficient. Mallory peered forward through the windscreen, saw the white-capped waters of the Adriatic rushing by less than a hundred feet beneath their fuselage, and turned to Groves.

‘The flight plan calls for us to fly as low as this?’

‘Yes. The Germans have radar installations on some of the outlying islands off the Yugoslav coast. We start climbing when we reach Dalmatia.’

Mallory nodded his thanks, turned to watch Reynolds again. He said, curiously: ‘Captain Jensen was right about you. As a pilot. How on earth does a Marine Commando come to learn to drive one of those things?’

‘I’ve had plenty of practice,’ Reynolds said. ‘Three years in the RAF, two of them as sergeantpilot in a Wellington bomber squadron. One day in Egypt I took a Lysander up without permission. People did it all the time – but the crate I’d picked had a defective fuel gauge.’

‘You were grounded?’

‘With great speed.’ He grinned. ‘There were no objections when I applied for a service transfer. I think they felt I wasn’t somehow quite right for the RAF.’

Mallory looked at Groves. ‘And you?’

Groves smiled broadly. ‘I was his navigator in that old crate. We were fired on the same day.’

Mallory said consideringly: ‘Well, I should think that might be rather useful.’

‘What’s useful?’ Reynolds asked.

‘The fact that you’re used to this feeling of disgrace. It’ll enable you to act your part all the better when the time comes. If the time comes.’

Reynolds said carefully: ‘I’m not quite sure –’

‘Before we jump, I want you – all of you – to remove every distinguishing badge or emblem of rank on your clothes.’ He gestured to Andrea and Miller at the rear of the flight-deck to indicate that they were included as well, then looked at Reynolds again. ‘Sergeants’ stripes, regimental flashes, medal ribbons – the lot.’

‘Why the hell should I?’ Reynolds, Mallory thought, had the lowest boiling-point he’d come across in quite some time. ‘I earned those stripes, those ribbons, that flash. I don’t see –’

Mallory smiled. ‘Disobeying an officer on active service?’

‘Don’t be so damned touchy,’ Reynolds said.

‘Don’t be so damned touchy, sir.’

‘Don’t be so damned touchy, sir.’ Reynolds suddenly grinned. ‘O?, so who’s got the scissors?’

‘You see,’ Mallory explained, ‘the last thing we want to happen is to fall into enemy hands.’

‘Amen,’ Miller intoned.

‘But if we’re to get the information we want we’re going to have to operate close to or even inside their lines. We might get caught. So we have our cover story.’

Groves said quietly: ‘Are we permitted to know just what that cover story is, sir?’

‘Of course you are,’ Mallory said in exasperation. He went on earnestly: ‘Don’t you realize that, on a mission like this, survival depends on one thing and one thing only – complete and mutual trust? As soon as we start having secrets from each other – we’re finished.’

In the deep gloom at the rear of the flight-deck, Andrea and Miller glanced at each other and exchanged their wearily cynical smiles.

As Mallory left the flight-deck for the fuselage, his right hand brushed Miller’s shoulder. After about two minutes Miller yawned, stretched and made his way aft. Mallory was waiting towards the rear of the fuselage. He had two pieces of folded paper in his hand, one of which he opened and showed to Miller, snapping on a flashlight at the same time. Miller stared at it for some moments, then lifted an eyebrow.