Jubilee- Spies and Raiders Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Conor Bender

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Amazon KDP & Barnes and Noble Press

  ISBN 978-1-7351059-0-1

  Editing by Michele Rubin of Cornerstones US Editing

  Cover Design by Anthony Sullivan

  Maps by The Map Archive

  For Jacquelyn. All my love.

  Historical Note

  What follows is a work of fiction, but is based on the events leading up to the fateful raid on the city of Dieppe in the late summer of 1942.

  The political and bureaucratic circus that supervised the planning of this raid is based on historical accounts and interviews by personnel who participated in the raid.

  All SOE events included are based in the realm of fiction, but it is well known that SOE agents were operating in and around Normandy in the time leading up to the raid. The Dieppe raid was one of the few times when all three RAF Eagle Squadrons participated in a joint operation, and all grounds forces cited to have participated in the raid are real.

  Where actual historical characters appear – Lord Mountbatten, Trafford Leigh-Mallory, Bernard Montgomery, Charles Hambro, to cite the more prominent- all actions they are said to perform and do are pure fiction but are based on known documented interactions. That said, events such as General Montgomery’s interaction during a planning meeting with Admiral Hughes-Hallet, and Lord Mountbatten taking time away from planning the Dieppe raid to assist in the filming of his war exploits for the film In Which We Serve, are factual. All interactions by these individuals, although fictional, are grounded in historical evidence. Other characters are composites or inventions.

  JUBILEE

  Prologue:

  ​“Arrêtez! Arrêtez!” The German SS soldier shouted, as the crack of a pistol ripped through the Parisian quiet. Arthur Cutter ignored him and quickly ducked down a narrow alleyway. “Come on, Victor,” he called in French.

  ​Victor scrambled after Cutter, his breath ragged and coming in short gasps. He wheezed and leaned against the wall, struggling for air. “I’m shot,” he gasped, a red splotch spreading on his shirt.

  ​“But you aren’t dead, so move!” Another gunshot echoed down the alleyway as the German soldier caught up to them.

  ​“Bollocks.” Cutter pulled his Walther from his waistband and let off two shots.

  ​The German ducked for cover as one of the rounds snapped against the brick wall inches from his head.

  ​“Let’s go, Victor! If we stop the Gestapo will torture and kill us.”

  ​“I can go no further!” Victor wheezed as he slouched against the wall. He struggled to stand, but his legs buckled underneath him.

  ​Cutter looked at his friend with a combination of concern and urgency. “Victor, if we stop we’re dead.”

  ​“I can’t go on.” Victor choked, his breath becoming more erratic as one of his lungs collapsed.

  ​Cutter gritted his teeth, Victor wasn’t one to quit. “Please.”

  ​Victor looked up at Cutter, his face set in a grimace. “I can’t go on. You know what you have to do.”

  ​Cutter shook his head. “No. I won’t do it.”

  ​The shouts of their German pursuers grew closer. By the sounds it was more than just one or two members of the SS chasing them. Victor coughed and spat out a globule of blood. “We don’t have time. Stop acting like a fucking child and do your job!”

  ​Cutter froze. He couldn’t do it. All the training, all the cautionary tales, none of it prepared him for this. His pistol dangled limply at his side as he stared down at Victor.

  ​“If you don’t do this, they’ll torture me and my family.” Victor looked up at Cutter, his eyes pleading. “Please, just get it over with. Do your job.”

  ​Cutter’s vision blurred as he adjusted his grip on the Walther. His stomach tightened as he raised the pistol. “Je suis désolé.” The crack of the Walther reverberated down the alleyway. He fired two more rounds, one in the chest and another in the head to insure Victor was dead. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” Cutter whispered and turned and ran. The Gestapo wouldn’t capture another SOE agent tonight. Cutter was hell bent on making that a reality. He sprinted down the alleyway and made a few quick turns and found himself at a Christmas market. He took a deep breath and fought back the tears.

  ​With all the willpower he could muster, he holstered the Walther and casually walked out of the alleyway and strolled through the market. He could hear the German soldier shouting as he ran out of the alley but didn’t turn to look. He had to make it to the Seine. He had to get out of Paris and back to London.

  ​“You there, stop!”

  ​Cutter froze. His body tensed and his hand slowly moved to the Fairbairn-Sykes knife sewn into his coat.

  ​“Don’t move!” The voice was closer than before.

  ​Cutter counted the seconds, waiting to make his move. A hand grabbed him and spun him around, bringing him face-to-face with a young, blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan.

  ​The boy glared at Cutter, his ill-fitting uniform making him look like he was playing soldier in his father’s clothes. His mouth was half open, prepared to demand Cutter’s papers, but Cutter didn't give him the opportunity.

  ​In a quick motion, Cutter pulled the knife from his coat and drove it up through the boy’s chin. The knife slid easily through the soft tissue of his neck, surprising and unnerving Cutter. He had never killed someone before, and the realization that he had killed two people in less than five minutes almost made him lose his bearing. Cutter’s jaw muscles tightened as he struggled not to vomit. His eyes drifted to the SS Death Skull perched atop the boy’s cap. The skull leered at Cutter, daring him to escape. It all transpired in the blink of an eye, but for Cutter it could have been an eternity.

  ​The German grabbed at Cutter’s coat, struggling to stand, but Cutter kept his eyes transfixed on the skull. He quickly pulled the knife from the boy’s chin, crimson blood oozing out of the hole he had left. A woman next to him let out a scream as the German collapsed.

  ​Cutter averted his eyes and darted past her, quickly walking away from the body. He kept his fedora low over his eyes, avoiding eye contact with the people on the street and turned a corner. He wouldn’t dare run, running was what guilty people did, what spies did.

  ​His mind raced as he tried to map how he would get out of the city. His worst nightmare had come true. He was on the run from the Nazis, and the one person he knew in Paris, he had just killed.

  ​Cutter traced his way down to the Seine and took a moment to collect himself. “Goddammit,” he whispered softly. He looked out at the inky black water, but all he saw was Victor’s deformed face after his bullet had entered the center of his forehead. He cursed the three Special Air Service commandos who had shown up at Victor’s house with little warning. If it weren’t for them, Victor would still be alive and he wouldn’t be on the run. If by some miracle he made it back to England, he swore he would break the jaw of the SAS sod who had planned this.

  ​Cutter took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

  ​“Think, you idiot. What do I do now?”

  ​Cutter checked his watch and looked around. He wasn’t far from Gare Montparnasse. Wit
h a little luck he could catch a train to Spain. Without another thought he darted down an alleyway and started to make his way to the train station. In the next twenty minutes the entire arrondissement would be flooded with Nazis. He did his best to keep to the alleys and only used the major streets when necessary.

  ​When he was a block from the train station he dumped his pistol and knife in a trash can and made his way to the ticket counter. One of the many German soldiers patrolling the station stood next to the counter and demanded his papers before he could purchase a ticket.

  ​Cutter gave him an annoyed look and shoved his papers into the German’s hands, playing the part of a disgruntled Parisian.

  ​The German ignored him and examined the papers with the practiced diligence of a Prussian drillmaster. Satisfied, he handed the papers back to Cutter and motioned him to the counter.

  ​He hurriedly bought a ticket for Bordeaux and raced to the platform; with a little luck he could be in Barcelona by morning. Cutter thrust his ticket into the conductor’s hands and stonily stared at him as the old man inspected the ticket. Satisfied that all was in good order, the conductor nodded and moved his arthritic hands to return the ticket. Cutter impatiently snatched it from him and, without a word, darted up the stairs onto the train.

  ​As soon as he sat down the train whistle bellowed and the conductor called, “All aboard.”

  ​Cutter swayed in his seat as the train gently pulled out of the station, slowly accelerating toward Bordeaux. Only when the City of Light swept away did Cutter allow himself to crack. His hands started to tremble violently and his stomach turned. He pulled his fedora low over his eyes to hide his tears and sobbed softly. He struggled to calm himself and slowed his breathing. He leaned his head against the cool glass window of the train car and watched as the twilight landscape of France swept by. His sobbing reduced to an occasional hiccup as he steadied himself. Victor was gone, the fact that he was the one who had snuffed out his life was still a surreal fact to Cutter. He watched in a daze as trees whipped by, and said a silent prayer hoping he would never return to France while it was under Nazi control.

  PART I:

  CHAPTER 1

  RHUBARB

  Normandy, France

  November 1941

  The roar of the Supermarine Spitfire Mk. VA’s Rolls-Royce Merlin Five engine vibrated through the airframe of the aircraft, drowning out all other noise inside the cockpit. Flying Lieutenant Ian Faraday of No. 71 Squadron adjusted the trim tabs as he leveled out at 15,000 feet. He checked his course and double-checked the map attached to his kneeboard, and marked his location. He was twenty miles inland off the French coast of Normandy.

  ​He turned and looked toward the horizon; the skies were remarkably clear.

  ​“Ulster Leader, this is Ulster 2, no luck finding a holiday house today, or anything else for that matter,” one of Faraday’s wing mates, Flying Sergeant Stokes, called.

  ​Faraday looked down along the French fields. He couldn’t see anything either. “Alright, Ulster 3, we’re zero for three, what do you say we call it a day?” he asked his other wing mate, Flying Officer Tombs.

  ​“You yanks sure do have strange idioms; we must be hunting in the wrong place,” Tombs said in his clipped English accent.

  ​“Ulster 3, you joined an American squadron, we speak the President’s English here.”

  ​“Sorry, old boy, but might I point out that you are in the RAF and we speak the King’s English like proper fighter pilots.”

  ​“Not in 71 Squadron,” Faraday fired back. He checked his fuel gauge and checked his wing mates. They were both brand new with less than 100 hours of flight time between them, and were still prone to rookie mistakes in Faraday’s opinion.

  ​“Ulster Leader, might I point out that 71 Squadron is no longer exclusively American.”

  ​“Alright, cut the chatter, otherwise you may both suffer the same fate as your American predecessors. The only reason you’re with 71 is because we don’t have enough American pilots.”

  ​“Roger,” they both chorused.

  ​“Damn kids,” Faraday muttered. They were still green. Their tendency to joke on the radio displayed that easily enough, but Faraday trusted them. He checked his map and clicked his mic, “Ulster Flight, turn to heading 3-2-5. How copy?”

  ​“Ulster 3, roger.”

  ​“Ulster 2, copy.”

  ​The flight turned northwest and started a track back to England, the French coast coming into view. Faraday could see Cherbourg over his left wing; in a matter of minutes the English coast would be visible.

  ​“Bandits! Five o’clock low!” Tombs called over the radio.

  ​Faraday searched the sky frantically and spotted them. A flight of five yellow-nosed Messerschmitt 109’s were roughly two miles away flying toward them.

  ​Damn. Faraday had hoped to make it back to England without issue. He could tell the German fighters were on an intercept course with his flight. He adjusted his goggles and mask and pushed down on his mic. “Tallyho! Six Messerschmitts, break left.” He pulled back hard on the stick and pushed left. The Spitfire banked and turned over, rolling into a descent. Tombs and Stokes followed suit, hot on Faraday’s tail.

  ​“We can’t outrun them, but we’re more maneuverable. Use it to your advantage!” Faraday reminded.

  ​“They’ve spotted us.”

  ​“Watch the split!”

  ​The five ME109s broke off into two groups. One hung back while the other took off toward Faraday’s flight.

  ​“They’re coming at us head-on.”

  ​Faraday jotted down their location on his kneeboard and looked up. One of the flights of ME109s was hurtling toward them as though they were playing an angry game of chicken.

  ​“Control, this is Ulster Leader, we are engaged with five, I say again, five ME109s. We are at Angels 1-5 near Cherbourg.”

  ​“Roger, Ulster Leader,” a woman’s voice responded in a curt tone. “At this time we are unable to assist; all aircraft in the area are engaging with German bombers.”

  ​Faraday gripped the circular joystick tightly, “Ulster 2, Ulster 3, we‘re outnumbered. Hit them head-on, take your shots and when we pass you two will break off and head home. I’ll try and draw them off for a few seconds.”

  ​“Ulster Leader, we’re staying with you.”

  ​“Do it, that’s a bloody order!”

  ​Faraday gingerly nudged the joystick, pushing the gunsights onto the middle ME109. He took a deep breath and relaxed his grip. Waiting until the last possible second, he squeezed the trigger as the ME109s raced by. His rounds raked the left wing of one of the planes as it hurtled past. Faraday whipped around, not losing sight of them. He smirked in satisfaction as he spotted smoke trailing from two of them.

  ​“I got one,” Tombs shouted jubilantly.

  ​“Great, now bugger off,” Faraday snapped. He pulled up hard on the stick and put the plane into a sharp turn. “Go, I’ll be right behind you.” Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the two Spitfires split off in the direction of England. Faraday leveled off and checked his fuel gauge; he had maybe another minute. Most of the ME109s appeared to be uninterested in going after Stokes and Tombs, but Faraday spotted two giving chase.

  ​In a calm as if he were discussing the weather, Faraday warned them, “Ulster 2, Ulster 3, you have two bandits giving chase. Stay your course, I’ll break them off.”

  ​“Roger, Ulster Leader. Godspeed.”

  ​Faraday pushed the throttle forward. The Rolls-Royce Merlin engine revved and the odometer began to rocket up into the red. Faraday’s body sunk back in his seat as the Spitfire careened toward the two German fighters. He started to line up a shot with his gunsights. As he inched closer and closer, he peeked at his fuel gauge and saw it start to sag closer to empty. He performed some quick math in his head and doubted he would be able to make the English coast.

  ​His thumb hovered over the trigger of his eight .3
03 Browning machine guns. He was almost in range.

  ​“Come on, ya bastards, just a little to the left.” He was close to a shot. One more kill and he’d be a double ace, Faraday realized and chuckled softly. Just as he was about to depress the trigger, both ME109s broke right and away.

  ​“Goddammit!” Faraday swore, before he even turned to look behind him he instinctively knew what had happened. He had been outmaneuvered and was a dead man.

  ​He looked over his shoulder and spotted two more ME109s bearing down on him. Faraday rolled the aircraft and put his plane in a corkscrew dive, attempting to shake his pursuers.

  ​Tracers shot past his cockpit as one of the ME109s opened fire. Faraday struggled to shake them, but as he tried to lose them in a turn, another spurt of tracers danced around the cockpit. Where the hell did they come from? He felt the plane shudder and checked both wings. Several large holes peppered the right wing two feet from the cockpit. Sloppy, I should have seen them.

  ​Red hydraulic fluid and fuel oozed from the holes and Faraday didn’t need to check his gauges to know he was about to begin losing control of his aircraft. He checked his altitude: 10,000 feet. He pushed the stick forward and went into another dive and banked hard to the right. “Control, this is Ulster Leader. I’ve been hit and will need to ditch in the Channel.” He looked at the map on his kneeboard. “I am approximately fifteen miles due south of Dover.”

  ​“Roger, Ulster Leader, search and recovery boats are being alerted, Godspeed.” The sorrow in the controller’s voice was barely masked. She knew better than Faraday what his chances of survival were.

  ​Faraday scanned the skies again and spotted the flight of ME109s, they had regrouped, accepting Faraday’s fate as a cold death in the Channel. He checked his gauges again; the fuel needle was bouncing between full and empty, as though it were teasing him with the possibility of staying airborne. For a moment Faraday dared to hope the engine had a chance, but was quickly dismayed as the grinding screech of the engine pierced the air and it sputtered and died.