Eagle Has Landed Read online

‘I’ve got work.’

  ‘At the university? Come now, for a man like you that must be rather like being a thoroughbred racing horse that finds itself pulling a milk cart.’

  Devlin threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Ah, Colonel, you’ve found my weak spot instantly. Vanity, vanity. Stroke me any more and I’ll purr like my Uncle Sean’s old tomcat. Are you trying to lead up, in the nicest way possible, to the fact that you want me to go back to Ireland? Because if you are you can forget it. I wouldn’t stand a chance, not for any length of time the way things are now, and I’ve no intention of sitting on my arse in the Curragh for five years. I’ve had enough of prisons to last me quite some time.’

  ‘Ireland is still a neutral country, Mr de Valera has made it quite clear that she will not take sides.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Devlin said, ‘which is why a hundred thousand Irishmen are serving in the British forces. And another thing—every time an RAF plane crash-lands in Ireland, the crew are passed over the border in a matter of days. How many German pilots have they sent you back lately?’ Devlin grinned. ‘Mind you, with all that lovely butter and cream and the colleens, they probably think they’re better off where they are.’

  ‘No, Mr Devlin, we don’t want you to go back to Ireland,’ Radl said. ‘Not the way you mean.’

  ‘Then what in the hell do you want?’

  ‘Let me ask you something first. You are still a supporter of the IRA.’

  ‘Soldier of,’ Devlin corrected him. ‘We have a saying back home, Colonel. Once in, never out.’

  ‘So, your total aim is victory against England?’

  ‘If you mean a united Ireland, free and standing on her own two feet, then I’ll cheer for that: I’ll believe it when it happens, mind you, but not before.’

  Radl was mystified. Then why fight?’

  ‘God save us, but don’t you ask the questions?’ Devlin shrugged. ‘It’s better than fist-fighting outside Murphy’s Select Bar on Saturday nights. Or maybe it’s just that I like playing the game.’

  ‘And which game would that be?’

  ‘You mean to tell me you’re in this line of work and you don’t know?’

  For some reason Radl felt strangely uncomfortable so he said hurriedly, ‘Then the activities of your compatriots in London, for instance, don’t commend themselves to you?’

  ‘Hanging round Bayswater making Paxo in their landlady’s saucepans?’ Devlin said. ‘Not my idea of fun.’

  ‘Paxo?’ Radl was bewildered.

  ‘A joke. Paxo is a well-known package gravy, so that’s what the boys call the explosive they mix. Potassium chlorate, sulphuric acid and a few other assorted goodies.’

  ‘A volatile brew.’

  ‘Especially when it goes up in your face.’

  ‘This bombing campaign your people started with the ultimatum they sent to the British Prime Minister in January, 1939 …’

  Devlin laughed. ‘And Hitler and Mussolini and anyone else they thought might be interested including Uncle Tom Cobley.’

  ‘Uncle Tom Cobley?’

  ‘Another joke,’ Devlin said. ‘A weakness of mine, never having been able to take anything too seriously.’

  ‘Why, Mr Devlin? That interests me.’

  ‘Come now, Colonel,’ Devlin said. ‘The world was a bad joke dreamed up by the Almighty on an off-day. I’ve always felt myself that he probably had a hangover that morning. But what was your point about the bombing campaign?’

  ‘Did you approve of it?’

  ‘No. I don’t like soft target hits. Women, kids, passers-by. If you’re going to fight, if you believe in your cause and it is a just one, then stand up on your two hind legs and fight like a man.’

  His face was white and very intense, the bullet scar in his head glowing like a brand. He relaxed just as suddenly and laughed.

  ‘There you go, bringing out the best in me. Too early in the morning to be serious.’

  ‘So, a moralist,’ Radl said. ‘The English would not agree with you. They bomb the heart out of the Reich every night.’

  ‘You’ll have me in tears if you keep that up. I was in Spain fighting for the Republicans remember. What in the hell do you think those German Stukas were doing flying for Franco? Ever heard of Barcelona or Guernica?’

  ‘Strange, Mr Devlin, you obviously resent us and I had presumed it was the English you hated.’

  ‘The English?’ Devlin laughed. ‘Sure and they’re just like your mother-in-law. Something you put up with. No, I don’t hate the English—it’s the bloody British Empire I hate.’

  ‘So, you wish to see Ireland free?’

  ‘Yes.’ Devlin helped himself to another of the Russian cigarettes.

  ‘Then would you accept that from your point of view the best way of achieving that aim would be for Germany to win this war?’

  ‘And pigs might fly one of these days,’ Devlin told him, ‘but I doubt it.’

  ‘Then why stay here in Berlin?’

  ‘I didn’t realize that I had any choice?’

  ‘But you do, Mr Devlin,’ Colonel Radl said quietly. ‘You can go to England for me.’

  Devlin stared at him in amazement, for once in his life stopped dead in his tracks. ‘God save us, the man’s mad.’

  ‘No, Mr Devlin, quite sane I assure you.’ Radl pushed the Courvoisier bottle across the desk and placed the manilla file next to it.

  ‘Have another drink and read that file then we’ll talk again.’

  He got up and walked out.

  When at the end of a good half-hour there was no sign of Devlin, Radl steeled himself to open the door and go back in. Devlin was sitting with his feet on the desk, Joanna Grey’s reports in one hand, a glass of Courvoisier in the other. The bottle looked considerably depleted.

  He glanced up. ‘So there you are? I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’

  ‘Well, what do you think,’ Radl demanded.

  ‘It reminds me of a story I heard when I was a boy,’ Devlin said. ‘Something that happened during the war with the English back in nineteen-twenty-one. May, I think. It concerned a man called Emmet Dalton. He that was a General in the Free State Army later. Did you ever hear tell of him?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Radl with ill-concealed impatience.

  ‘What we Irish would call a lovely man. Served as a major in the British Army right through the war, awarded the Military Cross for bravery, then he joined the IRA.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Devlin, but is any of this relevant?’

  Devlin didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘There was a man in Mountjoy prison in Dublin called McEoin, another lovely man, but in spite of that he only had the gallows before him.’ He helped himself to more Courvoisier. ‘Emmet Dalton had other ideas. He stole a British armoured car, put on his old major’s uniform, dressed a few of the boys as Tommis, bluffed his way into the prison and right into the governor’s office. Would you believe that?’

  By now Radl was interested in spite of himself. ‘And did they save this McEoin?’

  ‘By bad luck, it was the one morning his application to see the governor was refused.’

  ‘And these men—what happened to them?’

  ‘Oh, there was a little shooting, but they got clean away. Bloody cheek, though.’ He grinned and held up Joanna Grey’s report. ‘Just like this.’

  ‘You think it would work?’ Radl demanded eagerly. ‘You think it possible?’

  ‘It’s impudent enough.’ Devlin threw the report down. ‘And I thought the Irish were supposed to be the crazy ones. To tumble the great Winston Churchill out of his bed in the middle of the night and away with him.’ He laughed out loud. ‘Now that would be something to see. Something that would stand the whole world on its ear in amazement.’

  ‘And you’d like that?’

  ‘A great ploy, surely.’ Devlin smiled hugely and was still smiling when he added, ‘Of course, there is the point that it wouldn’t have the slightest effect on th
e course of the war. The English will simply promote Attlee to fill the vacancy, the Lancasters will still come over by night and the Flying Fortresses by day.’

  ‘In other words it is your considered opinion that we’ll still lose the war?’ Radl said.

  ‘Fifty marks on that any time you like.’ Devlin grinned. ‘On the other hand, I’d hate to miss this little jaunt, if you’re really serious, that is?’

  ‘You mean you’re willing to go?’ Radl was by now thoroughly bewildered. ‘But I don’t understand. Why?’

  ‘I know, I’m a fool,’ Devlin said. ‘Look what I’m giving up. A nice safe job at the University of Berlin with the RAF bombing by night, the Yanks by day, food getting shorter, the Eastern Front crumbling.’

  Radl raised both hands, laughing. ‘All right, no more questions, the Irish are quite obviously mad. I was told it, now I accept it.’

  ‘The best thing for you and, of course, we mustn’t forget the twenty thousand pounds you’re going to deposit to a numbered account in a Geneva bank of my choosing.’

  Radl was aware of a feeling of acute disappointment. ‘So, Mr Devlin, you also have your price like the rest of us?’

  ‘The movement I serve has always been notoriously low on funds.’ Devlin grinned. ‘I’ve seen revolutions started on less than twenty thousand pounds, Colonel.’

  ‘Very well,’ Radl said. ‘I will arrange it. You will receive confirmation of the deposit before you leave.’

  ‘Fine,’ Devlin said. ‘So what’s the score then?’

  ‘Today is the first of October. That gives us exactly five weeks.’

  ‘And what would my part be?’

  ‘Mrs Grey is a first-rate agent, but she is sixty-eight years of age. She needs a man.’

  ‘Someone to do the running around? Handle the rough stuff?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And how do you get me there and don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it?’

  Radl smiled. ‘I must admit I’ve given the matter considerable thought. See how this strikes you. You’re an Irish citizen who has served with the British Army. Badly wounded and given a medical discharge. That scar on your forehead will help there.’

  ‘And how does this fit in with Mrs Grey?’

  ‘An old family friend who has found you some sort of employment in Norfolk. We’ll have to put it to her and see what she comes up with. We’ll fill the story out, supply you with every possible document from an Irish passport to your army discharge papers. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds passable enough,’ Devlin said. ‘But how do I get there?’

  ‘We’ll parachute you into Southern Ireland. As close to the Ulster border as possible. I understand it to be extremely easy to walk across the border without passing through a customs post.’

  ‘No trouble there,’ Devlin said. ‘Then what?’

  ‘The night boat from Belfast to Heysham, train to Norfolk, everything straight and above board.’

  Devlin pulled the ordnance survey map forward and looked down at it. ‘All right, I’ll buy that. When do I go?’

  ‘A week, ten days at the most. For the moment, you will obviously observe total security. You must also resign your post at the University and vacate your present apartment. Drop completely out of sight. Hofer will arrange other accommodation for you.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m going to see the man who will probably command the assault group. Tomorrow or the next day depending on how soon I can arrange flights to the Channel Islands. You might as well come too. You’re going to have a lot in common. You agree?’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I, Colonel? Won’t the same bad old roads all lead to hell in the end?’ He poured what was left of the Courvoisier into his glass.

  Five

  ALDERNEY IS THE MOST northerly of the Channel Islands and the closest to the French coast. As the German Army rolled inexorably westward in the summer of 1940 the islanders had voted to evacuate. When the first Luftwaffe plane landed on the tiny grass strip on top of the cliffs on 2 July 1940, the place was deserted, the narrow cobbled streets of St Anne eerily quiet.

  By the autumn of 1942 there was a garrison of perhaps three thousand, mixed Army, Navy and Luftwaffe personnel and several Todt camps employing slave labour from the continent to work on the massive concrete gun emplacements of the new fortifications. There was also a concentration camp staffed by members of the SS and Gestapo, the only such establishment ever to exist on British soil.

  Just after noon on Sunday Radl and Devlin flew in from Jersey in a Stork spotter plane. It was only a half-hour run and as the Stork was unarmed the pilot did the entire trip at sea level only climbing up to seven hundred feet at the last moment.

  As the Stork swept in over the enormous breakwater Alderney was spread out for them like a map. Braye Bay, the harbour, St Anne, the island itself, perhaps three miles long and a mile and a half wide, vividly green, great cliffs on one side, the land sliding down into a series of sandy bays and coves on the other.

  The Stork turned into the wind and dropped down on to one of the grass runways of the airfield on top of the cliffs. It was one of the smallest Radl had ever seen, hardly deserving of the name. A tiny control tower, a scattering of prefabricated buildings and no hangars.

  There was a black Wolseley car parked beside the control tower and as Radl and Devlin went towards it, the driver, a sergeant of Artillery, got out and opened the rear door. He saluted. ‘Colonel Radl? The commandant asks you to accept his compliments. I’m to take you straight to the Feldkommandantur.’

  ‘Very well,’ Radl said.

  They got in and were driven away, soon turning into a country lane. It was a fine day, warm and sunny, more like late spring than early autumn.

  ‘It seems a pleasant enough place,’ Radl commented.

  ‘For some.’ Devlin nodded over towards the left where hundreds of Todt workers could be seen in the distance labouring on what looked like some enormous concrete fortification.

  The houses in St Anne were a mixture of French Provincial and English Georgian, streets cobbled, gardens high-walled against the constant winds. There were plenty of signs of war—concrete pillboxes, barbed wire, machine-gun posts, bomb damage in the harbour far below—but it was the Englishness of it all that fascinated Radl. The incongruity of seeing two SS men in a field car parked in Connaught Square and of a Luftwaffe private giving another a light for his cigarette under a sign that said ‘Royal Mail.’

  Feldkommandantur 515, the German civilian administration for the Channel Islands, had its local headquarters in the old Lloyds Bank premises in Victoria Street and as the car drew up outside, Neuhoff himself appeared in the entrance.

  He came forward, hand outstretched. ‘Colonel Radl? Hans Neuhoff, temporarily in command here. Good to see you.’

  Radl said, ‘This gentleman is a colleague of mine.’

  He made no other attempt to introduce Devlin and a certain alarm showed in Neuhoff’s eyes instantly, for Devlin, in civilian clothes and a black leather military greatcoat Radl had procured for him, was an obvious curiosity. The logical explanation would seem to be that he was Gestapo. During the trip from Berlin to Brittany and then on to Guernsey, the Irishman had seen the same wary look on other faces and had derived a certain malicious satisfaction from it.

  ‘Herr Oberst,’ he said, making no attempt to shake hands.

  Neuhoff, more put out than ever, said hurriedly, ‘This way, gentlemen, please.’

  Inside, three clerks worked at the mahogany counter. Behind them on the wall was a new Ministry of Propaganda poster showing an eagle, with a swastika in its talons, rearing proudly about the legend Am ende steht der Sieg! At the end stands victory.

  ‘My God,’ Devlin said softly. ‘Some people will believe anything.’

  A military policeman guarded the door of what had presumably been the manager’s office. Neuhoff led the way in. It was sparsely furnished, a workroom more than anything else. He b
rought two chairs forward. Radl took one, but Devlin lit a cigarette and went and stood at the window.

  Neuhoff glanced at him uncertainly and tried to smile. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? Schnapps or a Cognac perhaps?’

  ‘Frankly I’d like to get straight down to business,’ Radl told him.

  ‘But, of course, Herr Oberst.’

  Radl unbuttoned his tunic, took the manilla envelope from his inside pocket and produced the letter. ‘Please read that.’

  Neuhoff picked it up, frowning slightly and ran his eyes over it. ‘The Führer himself commands.’ He looked up at Radl in amazement. ‘But I don’t understand. What is it that you wish of me?’

  ‘Your complete co-operation, Colonel Neuhoff,’ Radl said. ‘And no questions. You have a penal unit here, I believe? Operation Swordfish.’

  There was a new kind of wariness in Neuhoff’s eyes, Devlin noticed it instantly, and the colonel seemed to stiffen. ‘Yes, Herr Oberst, that is so. Under the command of Colonel Steiner of the Parachute Regiment.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Radl said. ‘Colonel Steiner, a Lieutenant Neumann and twenty-nine paratroopers.’

  Neuhoff corrected him. ‘Colonel Steiner, Ritter Neumann and fourteen paratroopers.’

  Radl stared at him in surprise. ‘What are you saying? Where are the others?’

  ‘Dead, Herr Oberst,’ Neuhoff said simply. ‘You know about Operation Swordfish? You know what they do, these men? They sit astride torpedoes and …’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ Radl stood up, reached for the Führer Directive and replaced it in its envelope. ‘Are there any operations planned for today?’

  ‘That depends on whether there is a radar contact.’

  ‘No more,’ Radl said. ‘It stops now, from this moment.’ He held up the envelope. ‘My first order under this directive.’

  Neuhoff actually smiled. ‘I am delighted to comply with such an order.’

  ‘I see,’ Radl said. ‘Colonel Steiner is a friend?’

  ‘My privilege,’ Neuhoff said simply. ‘If you knew the man, you’d know what I mean. There is also the point of view that someone of his extraordinary gifts is of more use to the Reich alive than dead.’