Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  “No, sir. The Jerries have been going after military targets in the east end around the harbor area. The searchlight activity and ack-ack fire make quite the show at times.”

  “Really?” Major Randal answered, stifling a yawn. He suddenly felt extremely tired—all the hard training of the past weeks caught up with him, and he dozed off.

  Chauncy carefully put out the major’s cigarette and spread a light coverlet over him.

  While the major slept, delivery people from various specialty shops started arriving with uniforms, boots, a Sam Browne belt, a holster for the Browning P-35, shirts, gloves, and an officer’s hat. Chauncy began to lay out the major’s uniform for that evening. To ensure that it was perfect, he measured the spacing of the badges, insignia, wings, and Military Cross ribbon. A retired sergeant major, late of the Green Howard’s Regiment, organizing his own officer’s uniform was a task he himself had always enjoyed.

  ~ * ~

  Exactly two hours after arriving at the hotel, and after an hour-long nap, Major John Randal stepped out of the shower. He had just put on his pants and boots first, like a typical cavalryman, when there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was room service, he shouted to Chauncy that he would get it.

  Still buttoning his shirt, Major Randal opened the door. Standing there was Lady Jane Seaborn dressed in a simple, single-strap black sheath that left one tawny shoulder bare. Major Randal could see that all her secret agent training had kept her in very good shape.

  Looking at her, he felt as if he had been stabbed in the chest with a frozen icicle. For a moment, he was not sure if he was going to be able to breathe. In that regard, at least, Captain Lady Jane Seaborn actually did remind him quite a bit of his old high school English student teacher. She’d had that exact same respiratory effect on him.

  “No need to rush,” Lady Jane said casually. “I only came by to keep you company until it’s time to leave.”

  “I like company.”

  Later on, when Lady Jane Seaborn’s entourage arrived at the swanky nightclub called the Moonlight Terrace, within walking distance of the hotel, the band was in fall swing. The Seaborn party was cordoned off behind velvet ropes in a reserved section near the orchestra. Since the ballroom was located in what amounted to a giant subterranean cave, in the event of an air raid they could simply party on without the inconvenience of having to interrupt the revelry and retire to a bomb shelter.

  Hundreds of men in uniform, a few of them, quite senior in rank, and women wearing evening dresses were doing their dead-level best to party like there was no tomorrow; for some of them, there just might not be. The attitude in beleaguered London seemed to be a blend of “Live for today, who knows what is going to happen next” and “Anything goes, no regrets,” with a tinge of “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die” thrown in. And there was the distinct feeling that they were all in it together.

  The atmosphere reminded Major Randal of a fraternity party at UCLA or the stag bar at the Army-Navy Club in Manila on a Friday night . . . only much, much bigger. There was a constant roar of sound, and a blue haze of cigarette smoke draped the revelry in a low-level cloud. Major Randal felt stress begin to melt away.

  The band was laying down the boogie-woogie; men and women were shimmying out on the dance floor while a muted spotlight played over the scene. A saucy hostess costumed in a very short dress, fishnet stockings, ridiculously high heels, and a tiny cigarette cap led them to their table.

  Lieutenant Randy Seaborn’s mother, Brandy, turned out to be a stunner on the order of Captain Lady Seaborn. Brandy Seaborn was a vivacious golden girl with hair the color of ripe wheat and a glittering smile. She seemed perpetually happy, to the point that she practically never stopped laughing. The woman certainly did not look old enough to be the mother of a Royal Navy officer.

  Captain Lady Jane Seaborn made the introductions. “Brandy, I would like to introduce you to Randy’s commanding officer, Major Randal. John, this is Randy’s mother, Brandy. She made several trips to Dunkirk in the family houseboat to evacuate troops. Brandy’s quite the heroine.”

  As Brandy Seaborn’s eyes flashed at him in instant friendship, Major Randal could not help but notice they were flecked with gold. She was a sparkler. He was impressed to hear about her rescuing troops from Dunkirk.

  “John, I am sooo delighted to finally meet you! Randy and Jane have told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already. You simply must sit here next to me. We have much to talk about.”

  He found himself wedged between Brandy and Lady Jane. Brandy’s girlfriend, Penelope Honeycutt-Parker, who crewed on the Dunkirk missions in the houseboat, and her mustachioed Royal Dragoon husband, Captain Lionel Honeycutt-Parker, sat across the table. Lieutenant Randy Seaborn was there with a doe-eyed beauty, Violet Westinghouse, who looked like a figurine carved out of porcelain.

  Lieutenant Percy Stirling had shown up with a luscious, scarlet-haired Australian actress who was wearing a bright yellow sheath dress that fit her like a second skin. Red and yellow, kill a fellow flashed through Major Randal’s mind, although he knew that only applied to snakes. The young Scot had better watch his step or he would get bitten—which was most likely what Lieutenant Stirling was banking on.

  Royal Marine Pamela Plum-Martin made a splash when she showed up with a Royal Air Force wing commander in tow. He was a decorated Spitfire ace, wearing the Distinguished Flying Cross ribbon with two bars. The glamorous bombshell did the Royal Marines proud in a shimmering silver evening gown with a long slit up one shapely leg. She gave Major Randal a toothpaste advertisement-quality smile and a little wink. Marine Plum-Martin was definitely a knockout.

  Lieutenant Karen Montgomery arrived looking spectacular and extremely fit. She was with her boyfriend, a Royal Engineer lieutenant who seemed in awe of the new company his girlfriend was keeping. “Commandos!”

  “Is she as much trouble as she looks, Lieutenant?’’Major Randal asked the young Royal Engineer.

  “More, sir.”

  “I had a feeling she might be.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone showed up with his slinky consort, Monica Woodleigh, whose eyes had a glazed look, as if she had just walked away from a high-speed auto crash. Major Randal heard Brandy whisper in protest, “But Errol Flynn never played Zorro!” The dashing Life Guards officer held up the champagne glass he was carrying in salute.

  Brandy leaned toward Major Randal and whispered, “Randy is simply walking on air after his unexpected double promotion. I do believe you are his hero, John. Jane tells me we have you to thank for Randy’s good fortune.”

  “Well, not entirely, Brandy. Terry had a vote, as did the sergeant major. We trust your son to bring us home from our missions. He earned it.”

  “That is simply the most wonderful thing anyone could say to a navy mother, John. I can hardly wait to tell my husband. He and my father should be here anytime now.”

  Then Brandy Seaborn leaned across Major Randal to say to Lady Jane, “I can see we are really going to like your American major!”

  At that moment, Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom and Commander Richard Seaborn, OBE, made their appearance at the party. Vice Admiral Ransom, having won nearly all of the nation’s decorations, was not wearing a single one on his uniform this evening. Commander Seaborn was wearing the Order of the British Empire, awarded to him for his brilliant work routing convoys during the evacuation from Dunkirk.

  The OBE was certainly a prestigious award, but, as Major Randal knew, on occasion it was presented for staff work. In fact, among the ranks of those who earned their living getting shot at, OBE was said to stand for “Other Blighters’ Efforts.” Lieutenant Seaborn was wearing the coveted Distinguished Service Cross, the navy equivalent of the Military Cross, a highly prized valor medal the Admiralty most definitely did not pass out in Cracker Jack boxes. In terms of precedence, the OBE trumped the DSC. In terms of status within the military, every navy off
icer wanted to win the DSC; it was the fighting sailor’s symbol of excellence.

  Major Randal remembered Jane mentioning that the commander might be displeased about his son serving in Raiding Forces. Could he be jealous? Major Randal wondered.

  To be fair, the commander was a big-ship man. During the last war he had served as a sub-lieutenant on the battleship HMS Campbeltown. It had not been his fault that the ship’s captain had entrusted him with the critical mission of going ashore to buy fresh vegetables for the officer’s mess the very day the Grand Fleet unexpectedly weighed anchor and sailed for its one and only fleet action of the entire war, the Battle of Jutland. The commander had not been able to return back aboard ship prior to her departure.

  Nowadays, he routed convoys. “Sorry we’re late, Brandy,” her husband said as he leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “I’ve been tied up arguing with your father. He’s gotten his way as usual; the Razor is going back to sea.”

  “Only as a commodore of merchant convoys making the passage to Malta,” Vice Admiral Ransom explained, almost apologetically.

  Malta was under siege, and the Germans were doing everything in their considerable power to cut it off and starve the isolated population into submission. The crossing to the island was currently rated the most dangerous voyage on the seven seas, under constant attack from German U-boats, Luftwaffe bombers, and even the occasional enemy surface ship for virtually the whole way. Typically, ten ships might sail in a convoy, and it was considered a huge success if three or four made it through. In the Royal Navy it was unofficially referred to as the “Suicide Run.”

  “Look out, Adolph, you’ve had it now,” Brandy Seaborn cried, doing her sporting best to hide her concern for her father. “The Razor rides again! Don’t forget to take your cane, Father.”

  Commander Seaborn was the only one present at the table who did not laugh. He raised a glass. “I hope I am in time to propose a toast to my son’s advancement, at long last, into the ranks of the regular Royal Navy, his promotion to sub-lieutenant, and his imminent transfer to active service on the pride of the British Empire, the battleship HMS Hood.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence at the table. Clearly, Commander Seaborn had not gotten the word. Tonight, apparently, he was part of the proverbial ten percent who don’t.

  The commander’s son disentangled himself from Violet Westinghouse, whose arms had been draped loosely around his neck, obscuring his father’s view of his brand-new shoulder board rank insignia. Lieutenant Randy Seaborn stood up, and his father’s smile turned into a look of shocked disbelief.

  “Sorry, Father. I’m afraid there’s been a slight change of plans.”

  ~ * ~

  18

  HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN

  DISCRETION, ON OCCASION, ACTUALLY BEING BETTER THAN VALOR, Major John Randal decided that this was a good time to repair to the bar. After he had fought his way through the crowd and elbowed his way, at last, to a place he could lean against, he discovered that Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone and Lieutenant Percy Stirling had been trailing along right behind him.

  They all lit up cigarettes and ordered drinks. “I can see both of you two studs are doing a fine job of maintaining the image of intrepid Commando officers at play,” Major Randal said. “Better watch out there, Percy: Red and yellow kill a fellow ...”

  “That’s only with snakes, sir. Besides, I’m carrying a tourniquet in my pocket, just in case.”

  “Better slap it on your neck, old stick,” Captain Stone advised. “From the looks of those blue marks, you’ve already been fanged. Does your mother know you go out with women like her?”

  “Zorro, Miss Woodleigh certainly looks like she has a good personality and probably makes her own clothes,” Major Randal said in an innocent tone. “Do all the girls like her, too?”

  “Monica Woodleigh is a carnivore. How goes it with you, John?”

  “Shopping all day.”

  “Called on Chatterley at Pembroke’s, I see,” the captain said, eyeing Major Randal’s uniform. “Nobody does a military buttonhole like Pembroke’s. Unparalleled. Lady Jane does like her men groomed.

  “Mr. Chatterley told you the complete history of your regiment, I bet,” Lieutenant Stirling laughed. “He knows more about the order of battle than anyone in all of England. The Nazis ought to kidnap him and pump him for information.”

  Major Randal should have guessed that a couple of wealthy young cavalry officers would recognize a Pembroke’s-cut uniform. “He told me the Rangers had originally been called ‘The Devil’s Own.’ I don’t think even the Rangers know that. If they do, they never bothered to tell me.

  “Is it true the king has his uniforms made there?” Major Randal asked.

  “Did you happen to notice the coat of arms on the door and the phrase ‘by appointment,’ John?” asked Captain Stone.

  “Yeah.”

  “That is what is called a royal warrant. Various members of the royal family can issue warrants to selected merchants and tradesmen. Holders of a royal warrant are granted dispensation to display the coat of arms of the person who issued it to them on their front door. In Pembroke’s case, it is the king.”

  Lieutenant Stirling added, “A royal warrant can be withdrawn at any time, should the quality of the workmanship ever decline. They are only slightly less rare than golden hen’s teeth.”

  “Everywhere we went today had one.”

  “No!” Both the young officers cried in unison.

  “Where else did Lady Jane take you?” Captain Stone demanded. “Uniforms, shirts, hats, gloves—boots. Did she take you to Blood’s? Not Blood’s! Tell me she did not take you to Blood’s!”

  “Blood’s boot makers?” Major Randal asked, swirling the ice in his glass. “As a matter of fact—”

  “John, there is a two-year waiting list for a pair of boots from Blood’s, and that is if your family has been a client for generations! Blood’s has not accepted a walk-in client in my lifetime. Your father has to put you on their list the day you are born—provided, of course, he is on it himself.”

  “Well, Blood’s loaned me the pair of Wellingtons I have on. They promised me mine by the end of the week,” Major Randal said. He was enjoying a little payback for not being able to go out and party as the two of them were doing.

  “Damn, that’s a Blood’s Sam Browne belt, too!” Captain Stone cried.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did you know the term ‘blood red’ is not actually a shade of red but the unique color of brown dye that Blood’s uses to cure its leather?”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Unbelievable! She took you to Blood’s? You probably replaced her dead husband, Mallory, on the list.”

  “Where are you staying, sir?” Lieutenant Stirling asked.

  “The Bradford. Terry’s calling in twice a day to let me know how to get in contact with him in case something comes up. Maybe you’d better do the same thing, Percy.”

  “Yes, sir. How do you like the hotel, sir?”

  “It’s fine. The lobby looks like an Indian palace.”

  “Looks like?” Captain Stone shook his head. “It is an Indian palace. The management dismantled one and brought it back from India, piece by piece, two hundred years ago. You should ask Jane. I think she owns it.”

  “I see.”

  Royal Marine Plum-Martin’s much-decorated Spitfire pilot eased up to the bar and ordered a pair of double scotches on the rocks. Major Randal felt a stab of guilt when he realized he had not offered to bring a drink back to Jane, but it quickly went away when he saw the wing commander toss both of them down, one right after the other, a single gulp each.

  The Spitfire ace studied the parachute wings on Major Randal’s chest. “I say, old chap, isn’t it a bit queer to jump out of a perfectly flyable airplane before it even has any bullet holes in it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How many jumps must one make to qualify for parachute wings?”
>
  “Seven.”

  “Hmm ... Three more and I shall have to indent for a pair.”

  Commander Richard Seaborn walked up to the bar. Captain Stone and Lieutenant Stirling grabbed their drinks and made themselves scarce.

  Thanks, guys, said Major Randal to himself.

  The commander looked as though he had something he wanted to say but did not quite know how to get started. “I understand I have you to thank for Randy’s double promotion,” he said finally. “Quite a surprise, that.”

  “Like I explained to your wife, sir, Randy earned it.”

  “Yes, she told me what you said. We are both very proud. Nice of you to let us know how you feel—speaks well of you to say so. However, this promotion does create something of a problem.”

  “I see.”