Action This Day (A Commander Steadfast Thriller) Read online

  ‘Neat plan,’ said Fergusson. ‘I’m beginning to like this. A bit of proper action at last instead of chugging up and down the littoral and generally being a mild nuisance.’

  ‘Neat? Mad, crazy, hair-brained … and possibly suicidal, I’d say,’ said Baines.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what we think,’ concluded Steadfast, ‘orders are orders. I’ve got some details to sort out, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning and we can then begin working-up.’

  ***

  When Steadfast was out of earshot, the three commanders fell to discussing the astounding revelations of that morning.

  ‘What was it Moresby said? Something about being needed for some odd jobs?’ asked Baines.

  ‘Yes,’ responded Truscott, ‘he did give the impression we were being sent off on some piffling escort duty or shuffling VIPs around, didn’t he? He rather implied that it was a job so trivial that even we could do it.’

  ‘Perhaps he had no idea what the job was,’ suggested Fergusson. ‘After all, if he had known that it was more or less an order from Churchill, he’d surely have wanted to go himself.’

  ‘Dead right. Moresby’s a sucker-up and a medal-hunter,’ continued Baines. ‘It’s obvious he has no idea what he has sent us off on. He gets some hush-hush telegram telling him that mystery man Steadfast is going to turn up. He’s told not to ask any questions, takes offence at being kept in the dark, and drops us in it. I bet he was only too glad to get rid of us. At least, he always seems eager to get me out of his way. And on this occasion, quite keen to get rid of the lot of us.’

  ‘Anyway,’ butted in Fergusson, ‘what do we all think of this Steadfast?’

  ‘A dare-devil commander mad enough to take on a job that any sane officer would turn down,’ jumped in Baines.

  ‘What if it’s the other way around?’ queried Fergusson.

  ‘Meaning?’ said Baines.

  ‘Meaning,’ explained Fergusson, ‘that it’s his dare-devil approach that makes him the only man who could pull this job off.’

  ‘Possibly,’ continued Baines, ‘but I’m really not convinced. What worries me most is that they’ve flown him out from England. That means for certain that no one else here would touch this crazy scheme. We could easily list half-a-dozen first-class officers who we would gladly trust on a risky mission. But not one of them was asked – or agreed to do the job when asked. It’s blindingly obvious that everyone who has any experience of the Med thinks this job is a non-starter.’

  ‘Don’t be so damned gloomy,’ responded Fergusson. ‘The fact is that every day in this war men are asked to do seemingly impossible things. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. We all know how bad the state of the Med Fleet is, but does that stop us going out after the Ities and Jerry? No. OK, this one looks a bit madder than some, but it’s got two things going for it.’

  ‘Really, I can’t think of one,’ said Baines.

  ‘First, it’s got Steadfast. He may be a bit wild, but I reckon he’s got what it takes to see this through. I’m all for it if he’s in charge. And second, this really is an independent op. No senior officers breathing down our necks, no endless reporting or waiting for orders. We always moan when we can’t act on our own initiative – well this time that’s all we’ll have to act on. So, count me in.’

  ‘Well, we are in, whether we like it or not,’ bemoaned Baines.

  ***

  While his commanders were debating the wisdom of falling in under Steadfast, he was walking back along the El-Gaish Road under a fierce sun, but with a fresh breeze coming off the Mediterranean. On and on he walked, thinking about the odd bunch of commanders that he was taking on. In need of a drink and someone to talk to, he kept along the coast road until he reached the palace. He soon arrived at the checkpoint for the naval headquarters, where a sentry blocked his path while his pass was checked by a second sentry. After making several telephone calls, the second sentry returned. ‘Sorry for the delay sir, you’re not on the regular list, but it’s all in order.’

  Steadfast went up to the reception desk, where a weary looking marine, sweat pouring down his corpulent body and with huge damp patches on his shirt, sat, looking more asleep than awake.

  ‘Does Lieutenant Commander Walker still work here?’ Steadfast enquired.

  The marine struggled to reach some state of alertness in the oppressive heat and responded, ‘Yes, sir, he’s on the second floor. You can go up if you wish.’

  Steadfast wended his way through the marble-floored corridors and the grand staircase until he found a door marked ‘Supplies Officer’. He knocked, entered and glanced around the large room. A short, tubby ginger-haired officer in shirt-sleeves, puce in the face from the sultry heat, was sitting at a desk with several wire baskets piled high, overflowing with folders and documents. He looked up with the tired air of a man who was in no mood to find yet more files pouring into his office. Then his faced broke into a great beaming smile: ‘George!’

  ‘Hugh!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Not allowed to say, old chap. But I reckon there are some things you’re allowed to tell me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Most definitely. Fancy a cooling beer? You look as if you need it.’

  ‘Damn right! Bloody heat! And even more, bloody files! I know a bar by the waterfront.’

  ‘Better be the club. Need to keep away from the natives and such like. You’ll see why.’

  ‘It’s like that is it? Umh. The Yacht Club’s the best place then. It’s just a few yards along the Ras el Tin.’

  Ten minutes later the two men were sitting in wicker armchairs under a parasol on the lawn of the Royal Yacht Club, seemingly a million miles from the war. In front of them lay the busy harbour with its bustle of wartime activity. In the distance lay the splendour of the blue Mediterranean. Their cool drinks stood on the table with condensation pouring down the sides of the glasses. Walker turned to Steadfast.

  ‘So you want some inside gen, eh?’

  ‘Damn right I do. Don’t worry, nothing operational or anything like that. No, it’s people. What can you tell me about Moresby, Fergusson, Truscott and Baines? You, know, what are they like to work with?’

  ‘Mixed up with them are you?’

  ‘Sort of, but no more than I can help. Just for a day or two. I’m still a home waters man really.’

  ‘Well, Moresby runs the best MGB flotilla in the Med. Gets the tricky jobs. Cunningham trusts him. That means that his boats are kept up to scratch – not like some maintenance around here. But there’s no rush to join him. He’s got a reputation for nit-picking and bullying. Comes down very hard on anyone who doesn’t agree with him – and I don’t just mean about naval business. He’s the sort that brings politics into the Navy. You know his father was a government minister a few years back?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘Moresby wouldn’t let you forget if you worked under him. Thinks he’s got influence back home and is always making veiled threats. But his big fault is his jealousy of anyone really good. Take Fergusson, for example, first-class man. He may be RNVR but he’s a damn good boat commander. Knows how to train his men. Gets more out of them than most do. And Moresby doesn’t like that.’

  ‘I see. And Truscott and Baines?’

  ‘Don’t know much about Truscott, but Baines is a weak one. He hasn’t got the experience – been thrown into the deep-end far too early. Most commanders would take Baines under their wing and help him along. But not Moresby. Oh, no! He’s more or less dumped Baines.’

  ‘So what about their boats?’

  ‘Fergusson’s is almost certainly the best in the Med. Truscott, passable. Baines – don’t ask. And if you do ask in a bar after a few beers, you’ll hear some horror stories. But why do you want to know all this?’

  ‘Best if you don’t know. And if anyone asks why I called to see you, just remind them that we were on HMS South Riding together. Just an old-times chat
. OK?’

  ‘Of course. I can see you can’t talk about why you’re here. Except for the beer of course. Another one?’

  A few beers later Steadfast returned to his hotel in low spirits. It was obvious now that Moresby had made no effort to aid this operation. When he had selected the gunboats to allocate to Steadfast he had given him Baines, the weakest of the lot, and Truscott, about which there was nothing particular to say. Only one out of three of the commanders sounded as if he had the qualities needed for Operation Madcap as he now called it. So, I’ve been dealt a bad hand at the start of the game, he thought.

  4 - On The Trail Of A Spy

  When Steadfast left the Yacht Club he noticed a beggar sitting under a doorway. Did all beggars look alike, or was this the same man that he had seen as he was leaving the Kars Al Tin jetty a few hours ago, he wondered. The man was short, old, with a dark, shrivelled skin and a white, ragged beard. He wore a dirty and bedraggled turban and a tattered loose garment, which had been so repeatedly mended that it resembled a patchwork quilt. Beside him was a walking cane and what appeared to be a bundle of his meagre possessions. Of course, Steadfast reassured himself, you could find a beggar to fit that description on almost any street in Alexandria. And yet …

  Steadfast was certain that he was being watched. He decided to put the beggar to the test. Walking slowly – he wanted to be sure that the beggar could see him – he crossed the road and went into a narrow side street, where native shops spread out over the pavements, and awnings were stretched from one side of the street to the other to keep off the fierce overhead sun. The traffic, such as it was, was limited to men with barrows loaded with fruit and vegetables and the occasional donkey and cart. Along the narrow roadway itself there were sacks of grains, beans and spices, piles of carpets and various barrels. Animals and pedestrians made their way through this obstacle course at the slow casual pace of a hot country. Many shopkeepers were sitting in the back of their shops drinking tea. Others stood in the roadway in twos or threes in quiet conversation.

  Steadfast did his best to behave like a tourist, walking slowly, stopping to inspect a pile of dates here, some lemons there, all the while fending off the shopkeepers who saw his naval uniform as a sign of a potential sale. But he ignored them all and walked on until he reached a tea bar. He went inside and took a seat from which he could see the street. A short old man, in a grey galabeya, so stooped that he could hardly look up to see Steadfast’s face, shuffled over to his table and took his order. The man returned a few minutes later and placed an elegant shiny hammered brass tray on the table. Steadfast picked up the tall glass of tea from the tray and sat back to enjoy the leisure and the comfort of this moment. After years of the make-shift living of a destroyer officer at sea in wartime, with meals snatched between watches, storms and submarine searching, he was in no hurry. If his suspicions were correct, the beggar would wait for as long as it took for him to reappear. He drank the hot sweet tea at his leisure, paid and ambled towards the open door and peered into the street. There he was: the beggar, now tucked into a different doorway.

  There was no doubt about it. Someone had set the beggar onto him. He had not been in Alexandria long enough to have the least suspicion as to who that could be and why. There was only one way to find out.

  Steadfast wandered a bit further down the street, once more playing the tourist. He continued to amble in and out of various shops until he found a clothes shop where the proprietor spoke a little English.

  ‘I’m looking for a beggar’s costume. It’s for a play we’re doing back on our ship,’ he explained. ‘I’d like an old looking galabeya, a turban and some sandals.’

  The shopkeeper seemed highly amused at the antics of this British naval officer (but not surprised – he knew the Navy of old), and soon found an outfit to suit Steadfast. With the aid of his few words of English, he suggested that he showed Steadfast how to put on the galabeya and the turban. Glad of yet another excuse to keep the beggar waiting outside, Steadfast spent a bemused ten minutes struggling with yards of uncontrollable cloth. The old man displayed his toothless gums as he giggled away at Steadfast’s shaky efforts. The things I do for my country! thought Steadfast.

  Having more or less understood the mysteries of Egyptian clothing, Steadfast bundled up his purchases and left the shop. He stood on the threshold and looked around in the manner of man trying to decide which way to go. His glances to left and right confirmed that the beggar was still on his trail.

  After calling in at a shoe shop to make a further purchase, Steadfast returned to his hotel, where he hovered in the foyer until he saw the beggar once more settled into a doorway across the street. Steadfast then walked over to the reception desk and ordered a taxi.

  A few minutes later the taxi drew up. Steadfast got in the car, still clutching his bundle and ordered the driver to move off along the main road. The garrulous young man at the wheel was the pushy business-getting type, who immediately tried to interest Steadfast in the merits of his wonderful car (actually a decrepit Ford model A, which seemed ready to collapse into a heap of rusty metal) and his superlative knowledge of the back streets of Alex. ‘You want nice bar? Young ladies?’ Steadfast made no response to these pressing offers and simply told the young man to take the next left turn. The driver was rather surprised at this direction (it led nowhere in particular) and began to protest ‘But, effendi …’ and then changed his mind.

  As soon as the car had turned into the side street, Steadfast put on a show of agitated behaviour and called to the driver: ‘Stop here, please. I’ve forgotten something I have to do.’

  The driver attempted to dissuade Steadfast from abandoning his journey by making more offers of ‘good drinks’, ‘nice young ladies’ and ‘good fun’. Steadfast muttered ‘Next time, perhaps’, then paid the driver and dismissed him.

  His trap was set. The beggar would surely go off now that he was unable to follow Steadfast. The commander quickly nipped into a side alley, threw the galabeya over his head, took out the boot polish that he had bought, darkened the skin of his feet, face and hands, and jammed the roughly wound turban on his head. He then returned to the square. Sure enough the beggar was collecting his things and preparing to leave.

  The beggar nimbly got to his feet and set off along the waterfront at a good pace. He was clearly not as old and decrepit as he had appeared when playing the part of a harmless old mendicant. Steadfast began to doubt that the man was even a beggar. Perhaps he wasn’t even Egyptian. As he contemplated this possibility, his mind went back to the endless concert parties he and his fellow officers had organised on ships. How easy it was with the aid of a few props, a stoop, a limp, a hunched shoulder or a tic or two to become a convincing other.

  Suddenly the possibilities widened even further. Could the Germans have organised spies even here? he asked himself. If that was so, his three gun boats, moored less than a mile or two away, were almost certainly under observation. Still, for now, he had to deal with this one certain spy and find out who had sent him and why. He reassured himself with the thought that no amount of spying could reveal where he was going to take the gunboats. Only he and Cunningham knew the precise destination. He mentally reminded himself to not reveal it to his commanders until after they had sailed. He further reassured himself by realising that the only document in Egypt about his mission was safely inside Cunningham’s office.

  After walking a couple of hundred yards along the sea front the beggar turned off the main road and into a crowded native quarter of dense narrow streets, overflowing pavements and dark corners. At first he seemed to be in a hurry, but by the time he reached the end of a short street full of carpet sellers, he slowed his pace. The street opened into a tiny square with one lone date palm and several exits. The beggar seemed to hesitate as if he were lost. Then he turned sharp right into another shop-lined street. Steadfast followed at a discrete distance trying to identify one shortish man in a galabeya and turban from the hundreds of others. E
very so often the beggar had to push his way through a throng of chattering stall-holders. Steadfast struggled to keep his eyes on the right turban before he too passed through the throng. On and on went the beggar. Left turns, right turns, squares crossed diagonally, crowded streets and quiet streets … All the time Steadfast kept fixing his eyes on the right headgear. And then the beggar turned into a long deserted side street. Steadfast held back until the beggar was a good way down the street – he dared not get too close. Suddenly the beggar disappeared into a doorway. Steadfast soon reached the doorway and peered in. All he could see was a one-room shop, with no apparent exit at the back. Piles and piles of amphora and other clay vessels filled every corner except right at the back where a young man in a clean white galabeya sat on an upturned barrel, smoking a hookah. There was not a sign of the beggar. He continued down the street passing several closed doors and a few alleyways. There was no sign of the beggar. The trail had gone cold.

  5 - A Poor Display

  The next morning Steadfast had no time to think about his beggar-spy. He had abandoned his spy-chasing outfit, washed off the boot polish (with some difficulty) and was now in the regular uniform of the other officers: plimsolls, white slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. By 6.00 a.m. he was down at the jetty ready to brief his commanders on the boats’ exercises.

  ‘I’m giving you about ten days in which to work up,’ he told his commanders. ‘We’ll do one day of daylight manoeuvres, just to check some basics and then several nights of exercises and a final mock attack. At the end we’ll have a short rest period during which you can make sure the boats themselves are in tip-top order. We don’t want any breakdowns on this op – there won’t be any back-up.’