See You at the Bar Read online

  SEE YOU AT THE BAR

  David Black

  © David Black 2019

  David Black has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Cover photography (On board HM Submarine Tribune, 1942) by Bryson Jackson © IWM.

  Used with the permission of the Imperial War Museum, London.

  Table of Contents

  Important Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  About the Author

  Important Note

  Readers of the previous Harry Gilmour novels will have noticed that I have consistently sought to set my hero’s story against actual events, and the general course of the Second World War as it unfolded.

  However, the last third of See You at the Bar marks a complete departure from that approach.

  The British campaign in the Dodecanese in late 1943, as described here, is a total fiction.

  While British forces did indeed launch a campaign into the Greek islands, for broadly the reasons I ascribe, the actual strategic decisions, and tactical events bear no resemblance whatsoever to the story I have written. Nor is there an island called Thirios, which I also invented for the purpose of my narrative.

  Just thought I’d better clear that up.

  David Black

  My technical adviser is Captain Iain D. Arthur OBE RN, who is a former Captain (S) of the Devonport Flotilla of the Royal Navy Submarine Service

  To my mate, John

  One

  Harding was still marvelling at the stench of the head bandito, lying there in the long grass, his arse in the air, his bare feet in front of Harding’s nose. He stared sullenly at the heap, its lines picked out in the pale wash of a quarter moon. I mean to say, how could he, Lieutenant Miles Harding RN, the navigating officer of one of His Majesty’s submarines, possibly be persuaded to think of this specimen as being anything so romantic as a partisan?

  That, however, was exactly the word the creature had used to introduce himself to Captain Gilmour. No, it just wasn’t on. Not with that droopy moustache of his, randomly clotted with uneaten food, or the once-gaudy silk waistcoat, now faded to the colour of dried blood that stretched across a hairy belly peeking over his rope-tied waistband. This was a cut-throat straight out of Hollywood central casting. Even in HMS Scourge’s wardroom, with all the competition from the reek of diesel and thirty-odd sailors’ bodies, the beast had managed to smell like a dead goat. So, not surprising really, out here in the clean sea air of a Sicilian clifftop, he continued to smell like a dead goat.

  That, and the fact that this desperado had sat on the very banquette where Harding and his fellow officers ate their meals and had demanded the lolly up front, before either he or the rest of his gang ashore were prepared to even bestir themselves in any direction. It all tended to undermine his claim to be fighting only for the freedom of Italy.

  There was scuffling in the not-quite-darkness, and elbowing himself into view out of the tussock came the blacked-up face of that evilly bland corporal that had been giving Harding the creeps since Algiers.

  ‘Sir!’ he hissed, but not at him. Harding missed the rest of what was being murmured. For the corporal was addressing another shapeless lump of shadow that Harding knew was Second Lieutenant Ewan Pettifer, whose regimental badge said he was Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry and his shoulder flash, a commando. All very dashing, except that Pettifer’s overall presence reeked of a languid repose that told a different truth about him.

  Harding hadn’t been to the same public school as him, but he might as well have been; he knew the type. Entitled, indolent and usually indifferent to the sufferings of others, especially ones he had power over. A rotter in other words. Oh, how Harding hated a rotter. He pushed himself up into a crouch and shouldered his way past the Italian brigand to slump by the corporal, whereupon he began prodding him none too gently in the ribs. The corporal spun, with murder in his eyes, until he saw who was beside him.

  ‘You were saying, Corporal?’ whispered Harding, as if he’d just joined a drawing-room chat.

  Back in Scourge’s wardroom, Captain Gilmour had been very specific about who was now going to be in charge of the landing party about to go ashore, and it hadn’t been Mister one-pipper Pettifer. Neither Pettifer, his NCO thug, nor indeed any of the commandos had been too pleased about that and had persistently made their feelings clear through lots of little acts of insubordination.

  The corporal shut up immediately then looked at the dirt before replying, like he was bored, ‘I wiz just tellin’ Mr Pettifer…’

  ‘Well, you’re telling me now,’ said Harding, like he was talking to a wayward child. All of it in whispers. The Italian brigand rolled onto his back and began chewing on a stalk of tussock, bored. Harding had the impression the rest of their band – the other commandos and the ‘partisans’ stretching down the slope behind him – were doing much the same.

  The corporal began to recount what he’d seen in his swift reconnaissance of the villa. ‘Nice place,’ he said, talking a tone or so louder, like he knew now there were no Jerries close enough to hear him, ‘very flash. No’ fer the likes o’ us…’ a pause, ‘…and no’ exactly bristlin’ wi’ impregnable defences as ye might think would befit a Jerry field marshal’s bunker.’

  Harding thinking, I don’t need a travelogue, and knowing the little bastard was just showing off how cool under duress he could be. But Harding said nothing, wondering only how he could make his own expression seem cool and unruffled, through all the face-blackening, in the dark. Two could play, etc.

  Directly in their path, apparently, was a swimming pool – which was full – and a summer house off to the side. Two Jerry soldiers were inside the summer house, one snoring, the other listening to a radio; a commercial radio playing maudlin popular songs, all of them, ‘in Eyetie’, said the corporal. Then there was a terrace then the villa proper, with big glass doors. There was another Jerry walking round the villa, ‘Paying more attention to smokin’ his gasper and scratchin’ his arse than guardin’ the place,’ the corporal added. Otherwise, no other sign of life. That was the good news. The bad news was there were two Jerry halftracks at the bottom of the drive, about two hundred and fifty yards beyond, and scant cover in between; just a scatter of little rock-walled shrubberies, no more. ‘The tracks are those Hanomag jobs,’ said the corporal. ‘One’s got a half dozen or so infantry lounging around it, tabbin’ it and pickin’ their noses. And the other has a triple twenty millimetre AA strapped to its back.’

  Pettifer rearranged his buttocks on the ground to get comfy. ‘Interesting, Corporal McLucas,’ he said then, with a languorous crane of his neck, to Harding, he said, ‘What’s your plan, sir.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Harding, who then stood up suddenly and walked directly towards the pool. This caused a minor stir among the spread-out raiding party, but Harding wasn’t looking back to notice. Although he was smirking to himself over how his just jumping up like that had probably, at last, bestirred Pettifer out of his too-cool-for-school langour. But he’d only done it because he could see how the low summer house masked him from the villa and the drive. He
was up to its wall in fewer than a couple of dozen strides. He could hear the music from the radio now and even the muffled snoring. The terrace beyond was clear. He waited, the big Webley revolver still snug in his webbing holster. Fat lot of good he was going to do with that up against Jerry armed with a 20mm anti-aircraft triple-mount!

  The guard walking the outside of the villa appeared on the terrace. Even though it was in shadow, the moon made his outline clear, and the flare from his cigarette stood out like a lighthouse every time he drew on it. Plod, plod, shuffle, shuffle; he covered the terrace, and as he came to the end, the little beacon of light that was his cigarette went arcing through the air into the nearest shrubbery. The Jerry stopped and lit another one and then was off again, disappearing round the corner. Harding checked his watch. Time passed. He looked over to where he knew his team was hidden. You couldn’t tell. He was impressed. Over ten minutes elapsed before the Jerry reappeared; Harding could hear him crunching on gravel. He checked his watch again. Strange, he thought. The terrace was stone-flagged; why the crunching? When he leaned out to check, he almost shit himself. The Jerry was walking directly towards him; it was only the fact that he was squinting as he blew out a huge lungful of smoke that he didn’t see Harding’s big head jerking back behind the cover of the summer house gable.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Harding hissed to himself. He thought about fumbling out the Webley, but if he even farted now, the Jerry would hear him. He stood frozen. A clump of boots and lots of crashing and voices, and none of them too good-natured either.

  ‘Verschiebung!’… ‘Du bist dran!’… ‘Schweine!’

  Then the shouting stopped, and the language became more amiable-sounding. There was a clatter of a tin mug, pouring and the smell of coffee. A bit of chat, and then more shuffling and Harding heard a different Jerry crunching over the gravel; a lighter man. He wasn’t grinding the pebbles to dust. Harding peeked, much more discreetly, and he saw the back of a battledress and forage cap and a rifle dangling from its shoulder strap, receding towards the villa. He checked his watch and then turned and strode purposefully back towards Pettifer, Cpl McLucas and all the gang.

  When he plonked down beside Pettifer, the soldier was speechless with rage. ‘What…!?’ was all he managed to hiss before Harding told him to, ‘Shut up!’ in the most sotto voce of tones. ‘Get your men, and come with me,’ said Harding, who then grabbed the bandito’s shoulder hard and said, jabbing at the ground with his other hand, ‘Stare qui a guardare!’

  Captain Gilmour, who could speak Italian, had armed Harding in advance with a few key phrases for handling their ‘partisan’ friends, like ‘stay here and watch’. Also, in his new-gained repertoire was ‘come with me’, ‘don’t shoot the prisoners’, ‘run like hell’; that sort of thing.

  Harding stood up and began striding back towards the villa. Pettifer gawped after him momentarily then realised he’d better get moving too. The corporal and the four other British soldiers followed. The little group soon realised that Harding was walking like he belonged here. And that he was leading them in a loop round the back of the summer house so that they’d be approaching the villa up the drive. All six of them fell into step.

  Pettifer caught up with Harding. ‘So we’re just going to walk up and knock on the door?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Harding, with out breaking his stride. ‘We’d wake whoever’s inside. Why d’you think those Jerries have the radio turned down? There’s folk in there trying to get a good night’s sleep. We’re just going to let ourselves in. And we’ve…’ he paused to look at his watch again, ‘… just less than seven minutes to do it… before our strolling Jerry comes back around.’

  One of the German soldiers, perched up on the Hanomag’s triple AA mount noticed the figures moving up the drive between the summer house and the villa. Five shadows, obviously soldiers, marching in line, and an officer out front. All he thought was, good job they hadn’t wandered up to that shack to say hello, he hadn’t realised there were so many of the buggers in there, there wouldn’t have been enough of their schnapps to go round.

  Harding put his hand on the French windows’ handle… and turned it. The door opened.

  His heart could start beating again.

  Pettifer said in his ear, ‘How did you know it would be unlocked?’

  Harding said, ‘It’s a secret.’

  They were in a sprawling art-deco lounge. Completely dark. Just the barest splash of moonlight through the huge window showed the scatter of low sofas and tables. The only illumination inside came from a corridor that led off from the far wall; it picked out the spill of some night light from somewhere down its length. The other men were crowding in behind. Harding walked across the middle of the room towards the corridor. Cpl McLucas was right behind him, unslinging his Thompson gun.

  They had gone only halfway down the corridor when a slight, bare-footed figure in shirttails and a Luftwaffe forage cap suddenly appeared at the far end. He said something like, ‘…wer bist du?’ But more in incredulity than alarm. Harding marched purposefully towards him, stopping only when he gauged he would still be in shadow, and began haranguing the man. Loud, but not exactly shouting.

  ‘Non sparare i prigionieri!’ he accused him… don’t shoot the prisoners… The spindly little Jerry was transfixed; he plainly didn’t understand the language of his ally, so he did the only thing he could think of in the face of obvious authority. He snapped to attention.

  ‘Stare qui a guardare!’ said Harding, sounding even more annoyed. The only effect he had was to make the German airman stand even more rigidly to attention and splutter something guttural, very loud, obviously hoping that would atone for whatever it was he was doing wrong.

  ‘Eseguire come l’inferno!’ said Harding. Run like hell! Barked in the timeless, international tones of someone used to command, berating the commanded. The Jerry didn’t run, however, he just made himself more rigid and jutted his chin higher thus demonstrating total compliance, so that he didn’t notice McLucas stepping forward and hitting him square on the jaw with the butt of his Thompson gun. The little chap went down like a sack of potatoes, blood and teeth splattering the pale walls.

  Pettifer and his commandos spread out through the house at a breathless run; the only sound the light slap of their plimsolls on the marble floor. Harding hefted the fallen little Jerry and dragged him into a small cloakroom-cum-toilet. The Jerry was woozy now, coming round. Harding sat him on the toilet pan and began gently wiping away the blood from his face with a cloth from the sink. As the Jerry’s eyes focused on him, Harding made a ‘zip-it’ gesture across his mouth. The Jerry’s eyes were fixed on him, wide with terror. He obviously thought he was about to get his throat cut. Harding dabbed a bit more then used the soap bar to properly clean the gash along the Jerry’s bottom lip. The little chap now looked more confused than scared, thought Harding. He smiled at him and winked.

  One of Pettifer’s men was at Harding’s elbow. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Mr Pettifer says you need to come and see this.’

  ‘Watch him,’ said Harding. Suddenly, the little Jerry was looking down the barrel of the commando’s Thompson gun, his eyes now back to goggling in fright. Harding said, ‘Where is Mr Pettifer?’

  ‘Round the corner, second on the right. Can’t miss it. The light’s on.’

  Harding gave the commando a backward look, then he eyed the Jerry, still perched on the toilet. ‘Non sparare i prigionieri!’ he said.

  The commando gave him a funny look, obvious, even through his blackened features. ‘Huh?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t shoot the prisoners,’ said Harding in his best ‘it’s a joke’ voice. The commando looked blank. ‘He’s harmless,’ said Harding and then sped off.

  It was a big room with a big table in the middle. The table and one wall were adorned with maps. Sicily mainly, but one of the toe of Italy and the Straits of Messina and others of the western Mediterranean, North Africa and the Sicilian Channel.

 
Pettifer was sitting on the edge of the table, one foot up on one of the numerous chairs around it, with his finger hooked through the pistol guard of a Walther, dangling it insouciantly. In front of him, sitting back on a huge, winged easy chair, was an aristocratic-looking middle-aged officer in his shirt sleeves and no boots. Beside him was a small table with an open bottle of cognac and a big, half-full balloon glass, its contents glittering in the light from a standard lamp behind him. There was an open book, fallen on the floor, and a uniform jacket draped over one of the chair wings. To Harding, it looked as if the man had just been awakened from a nap; a slightly drunken nap.

  ‘This chap’s a Luftwaffe oberst,’ said Pettifer without preamble. ‘A full colonel. According to the flashes on his jacket. And at a guess from the other flashes, a staff officer to boot. Who doesn’t haben sie English. Eh, cock? Neinen gesprechensie?’ This last to the seated German, whose expression had now composed itself from dazed to that of a man sitting through a rather boring church sermon, despite having to listen to the atrocities being committed against his language by this camouflaged thug who’d just crashed in from nowhere.

  ‘Put the gun down, Lieutenant Pettifer,’ said Harding. ‘Remember what Captain Gilmour told us… “Non sparare i prigionieri!”…’

  In the end, it hadn’t been necessary for the oberst to say anything for them to learn everything they needed to know.

  Once Harding had sponged him a bit more and stuck a mug of brandy in his hand, it had been Ulrich, the little gefreiter – Jerry rank for an Aircraftman First Class, apparently – that had blabbed. It was amazing how much you could learn by just waving your arms about; that and the ever-present threat of violence, of course. In fact, he proved to be a veritable treasure trove: He was Oberst Von Puttkamer’s batman. And Oberst Von Puttkamer was one of Field Marshal Kesselring’s chief intelligence officers; and yes, Field Marshal Kesselring, the big cheese, Hitler’s man on the spot for the new Thousand Year Reich’s entire southern flank, had been here but he wasn’t now. And no, he didn’t know when or even if he was expected back.