Brooks coughed. “And now, gentlemen. Operation SmashHit is poised in the wings.”
He could feel the excitement like a drug. He did not like the code-name, but a member of the War Cabinet had expressed the opinion that it would appeal to the younger people. They, after all, had to do the fighting. It was a fair point, Brooks conceded.
In a way it was rather sad. All these familiar faces. Men who had dropped into occupied Europe to arrange supplies and to organise the Resistance from anyone who could pull a trigger or light a fuse. There were many no longer here, who had paid the price of daring. There were others who had commanded raids on enemy coasts, trained men from peaceful walks of life who became professional fighting men who did not need an order to kill. They acted by instinct now, playing the enemy’s game, and making up for so many retreats and an inability to grasp that war is not for amateurs.
Once the final invasion of Europe was begun, his special force of inter-service experts would be scattered to individual sections. It was sad indeed. Like the breaking up of an old and tested college.
He saw Beaumont sitting with his arms folded, eyes straight ahead. Behind him, the only one in civilian dress, Miles Salter, puffy-eyed, as if he had slept badly for weeks.
He said, “Uncover the table, Thompson.”
The officer removed the covering with a splendid swirl, rather like a matador, Brooks thought.
He forgot him and everything else as the table and its miniature coastline and port installations were laid bare in the overhead lights. The model was said to be perfect. It should be, too. R.A.F. reconnaissance planes had provided pictures, and a wealth of information had been amassed from such varying sources as peacetime travel agents and amateur yachtsmen.
“There, gentlemen. St. Nazaire. A German base of some importance, as last year’s attack will bear out.” He took a pointer and held it above the sprawling concrete installations. “The Normandie Dock, so called because it was built to hold the great French liner of that name, and still the best for repairing the largest enemy warships. Despite last year’s attack, and the damage done by our valiant sailors and soldiers, much work has been done to put the dock area back into commission. Further, the German engineers have constructed another docking area, much along the lines of their highly successful U-boat pens, for the sole benefit of their new midget submarine arm.”
The air buzzed with excited comment, but when Brooks glanced at Beaumont he saw he was staring ahead of him as before, his forehead shining damply in the glare. Beaumont did not need to examine the model. He had looked at it every day since it had been made.
Brooks continued dryly, “The time is now ripe for Smash-Hit to be put into operation. Only by an immediate frontal attack from the sea with a massive charge of explosive and the subsequent havoc of released water can this objective be destroyed, or at least crippled until after an Allied invasion. Bombing from the air has proved ineffective. The concrete emplacements are too strong, the losses of men and aircraft too savage to continue in any sort of strength. But if we fail to put this complex out of action, the enemy will be able to continue using it for her remaining capital ships like Scharnhorst and Moltke, and for all the other surface war vessels which could be employed against our invasion forces. What chance would frail landing craft and heavily laden transports stand against even one sortie by such ships? Just one setback would be enough for the enemy to recover from the initial surprise. After which … ” He gave a narrow shrug. “Frankly, we cannot endure another failure. It is as simple as that.”
Like an actor taking up his cue, Captain Kimber stepped up to the table.
“As you know, we have been assembling men and studying the objective carefully. Unlike last year’s raid, we will have two destroyers instead of one, each of which will be loaded with explosives. To all intents, floating bombs. ” He shut the picture of Selkirk’s face from his mind. “Two other destroyers, Warlock and Victor, will accompany them. To cover their attack and render any sort of aid they might need. Both of the latter have been in training with the commando units.” He saw an army brigadier nod to confirm it. “And are now on their way to Falmouth.” He glanced at the clock. “In fact, they should have arrived there an hour ago. ” He looked at Brooks, wondering if the admiral was thinking how it had all begun in that Falmouth mortuary. He said, “Coastal Forces are supplying M. T.B.s to combat fast enemy surface craft. M.L.s will be used to ferry the commando ashore to attack shore installations in depth.
He glanced at an air vice-marshal with grey hair. “The Royal Air Force will, needless to say, be supplying a full range of background bangs and grunts to keep Jerry fully occupied!” It brought some laughs, as Brooks had said it would. He became serious. “Because of the enemy’s vigilance, and the fact that once our surprise has been overcome he will see the attack as a near copy of the last raid, both Lomond and Ventnor will be fitted with short fuses. I do not have to explain to everyone here the importance of timing and co-operation. ” Nobody was smiling now. “Without them, this could turn into a bloody sacrifice to no good purpose. With them, and a lot of courage besides, it might well prove to be the first chink in the enemy’s West Wall.”
As he paused, both to draw breath and to recall if he had left anything out, there was a burst of clapping. Magnified by the bunker’s massive walls, it sounded like a stampeding mob of barefooted madmen.
He held up his hand. “Captain Dudley Beaumont,” he paused, seeing their faces, watching their new confidence, “will be in overall command. If any man can pull it off, he will.
He hated the way they clapped and cheered. It was almost obscene when you stopped to consider what it would cost in lives whether it was a success or failure. Perhaps he had been working too long on Brooks’s many projects. Or maybe he was too old for this sort of thing. He watched Beaumont’s shining face as he stood and then bowed very slightly to the excited gathering. Perhaps it was just Beaumont.
Miles Salter caught the captain’s eye and excused himself through the little side door. He had a lot to do, a report to prepare for immediate release if Beaumont succeeded with Smash-Hit. He grimaced and rubbed his eye. It would not stop blinking since that terrible raid on the fjord. Even though Lomond had stayed outside, the air attacks had been terrifying. Salter had been crouching with his cameraman; gasping and retching as each stick of bombs had whistled and exploded on every hand. And when the Whirlpool had gone up with all those mines aboard, the cameraman had run below to hide. One result was that they had had few useful films, other than those taken in Iceland and off Bear Island. All the actual raid had been hidden by the land, and he still could not believe that Warlock and Ventnor had been able to do it on their own and still fight their way back to the others.
He paused by the press room and saw the usual weary gathering of war correspondents. As he turned the other way he heard a girl’s voice and knew it was Sarah Kemp.
“Just a moment, Miles! I must speak with you!”
He turned heavily and waited for her to catch up. God, she was beautiful, and after the talk of death and destruction she looked particularly fresh and desirable.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days!”
He grinned. “Here I am, darling! Ready and willing!” She did not smile. “I’m serious, Miles. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “You’ve got your new assignment. I thought you’d be busy enough.”
She looked at him anxiously. “A stupid job. Anyone could do it. I’ve been cut off from the Special Operations, I’ve even had my pass taken away. But I’m still on your staff, Miles, so what the hell is going on?”