Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  If the Canadian flier was put off by the lack of response, he didn’t show it. Uninvited, he pulled a chair up to the table. “I have been observing,” he repeated, “and doing some thinking. There is a small service I can provide that should be of interest to you.”

  “What might that be?” Captain Randal asked in the tone of someone who has just been solicited by an insurance salesman.

  “When you fellows get through practicing paddling your little rowboats over here, my guess is you’re going to go across the pond and paddle them on the other side. Now, the thought occurred to me that if you had some aerial photographs of wherever it was you were going to be paddling to over there, it might be of some help to you in your planning.

  “So, if you were to let me know beforehand where that happened to be, I could maybe swing by there while I am out on my routine patrol, waiting for some of these bloody fools to get themselves shot down, and take a few pictures of your objective for you before I have to go do a rescue. I might even squeeze one or two of you Commando types into my cockpit before your mission and fly you over and let you do a visual reconnaissance of your target area ... if you thought it might be any help.”

  “What was it you said you were drinking, old stick?” Lieutenant Stone asked, oozing charm, holding out his open sterling silver cigarette case full of Player’s. “And if they don’t have your brand in stock here at the Blind Eye, Squadron Leader, we’ll be more than happy to send out to collect it for you.”

  “Something else,” the pilot continued, leaning closer. “If you can paddle ashore from a yacht, what would keep you from paddling ashore from my flying boat? Most nights I have very little going.”

  “Could we do that?” Captain Randal asked with a raised eyebrow. “I mean, is it legal under international law?”

  “During rescues, both sides routinely shoot at each other’s air-sea rescue aircraft on sight—in the air and on the water. You won’t find any red crosses on the sides of my ship. They’re a waste of paint and only make a big, juicy target. Nobody is honoring them these days, not when it comes to pulling pilots out of the drink. There is nothing to prohibit you from launching a raid from my flying boat.”

  “I was not aware that the Geneva Convention failed to cover air-sea rescue!” Midshipman Seaborn said.

  “Everyone wants to kill fighter pilots these days, lad—including me, most waking hours.” He looked at the mob around the bar, shaking his head. “And to think I used to be one.”

  “A raid staged out of a flying boat ...” Lieutenant Stone exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke, a thoughtful look on his face. “Now that has to be an original concept.”

  “Which is a good reason to do it,” said Captain Randal. “We’d no longer be restricted to coastal targets the way we’re limited now. And that, gentlemen, opens up a whole new range of possibilities.

  It quickly became apparent that the Canadian aviator had talked his way into a sort of provisional membership at their table in the Blind Eye. Captain Randal quickly began to gather the impression that Paddy Wilcox was the Van Gogh of aviators: mildly eccentric, totally brilliant, and in a league of his own when it came to flying. As an unconventional pilot, he might just be the perfect match for Captain Randal’s force of unconventional soldiers.

  In the “War to End All Wars,” Paddy Wilcox had flown Bristol fighters and shot down an impressive thirty-three enemy aircraft. Nowadays, the RAF refused to allow him to fly fighters because they classified him as being too old for frontline flying duty. The squadron leader was probably lucky the RAF let him fly at all, he said. “I fancy they wouldn’t let me in the air, period, except that at the moment, multiengine, open-sea, amphibious landing-rated pilots happen to be in short supply.”

  At the bar a chant went up from a group of drunken fighter pilots. Two of them were having a chugging contest: Each intrepid though slightly wobbly birdman was working on a full pitcher of beer. Naturally, one was a Spitfire pilot and the other flew a Hurricane.

  “What we really ought to do,” Captain Randal said over the boisterous chanting at the bar, “is locate a Luftwaffe watering hole on the other side, like this one, and slip over some dark night and pay them a visit just before closing time.”

  “You may be on to something there, old stick,” said Lieutenant Stone.

  “The only problem with that idea, sir,” injected Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks in his gravelly voice, “is deciding whom to leave behind. As much as our lads hate fighter pilots, unless we can organize some way for every last man jack of them to go along, we are going to have a mutiny on our hands.”

  The table roared with laughter. Sergeant Major Hicks looked puzzled. Not known for his wit, he was being completely serious.

  “I prefer Glenfiddich,” Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox announced, turning to Lieutenant Stone. “And now I’ll have one of those Player’s.”

  ~ * ~

  5

  LADY JANE

  CAPTAIN JOHN RANDAL HAD TO ADMIT IT: THE SMALL-SCALE Raiding Company had hit an operational wall.

  Their daily struggles to master the rowing skills necessary to get the Goatley dinghies dependably launched, rowed ashore, and returned to HMY Arrow continued. Although the Commandos had significantly improved their small boat-handling abilities, they were still not able to achieve the level of proficiency necessary to guarantee they would not be drowned, be stranded on an enemy coast, or at the very least suffer a boat-handling mishap that would cause the raid to be aborted.

  As if that weren’t enough, Captain Randal had also learned that it was not possible, with the navigational equipment currently available, to designate a pinpoint target on the French coast, sail there in the Arrow at night, and locate it in time to go ashore, carry out their operation, and return home before daybreak.

  On top of all that, the only weapons available were standard-issue .303 Mark III SMLE bolt-action rifles and Webley Mark V .455 revolvers, the newest of which was more than twenty years old; some were nearing fifty. So far, they had been unsuccessful in obtaining the modern Enfield .38s. The most generous thing that could be said about the weapons was that they were not suited for night-raiding operations. The German Army, on the other hand, was liberally equipped with assorted models of state-of-the-art machine pistols—all characterized by high cyclic rates—giving them clearly superior firepower. In any engagement in the dark of night, the Germans would always have the edge.

  With all these circumstances working against them, Captain Randal and the officers and men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company were experiencing a period of high frustration and waning morale after getting off to a spectacular start. Pinprick raiding was proving to be considerably more difficult than it had first appeared.

  Under the circumstances Midshipman Randy Seaborn’s announcement that his aunt would arrive that evening and be in residence for a few days was not the most welcome of news. The last thing Captain Randal wanted right that minute was the added distraction of his naval officer’s widowed aunt, even if she did own the property they were using as their base of operations.

  The arrangement, Midshipman Seaborn informed his commanding officer, was for his aunt to meet them in the Blind Eye at the end of the day’s training. If there had been any way Captain Randal could have prevented her coming, he would have.

  He kept these thoughts to himself, however, as his officers and NCOs sat in their corner of the pub, the fighter pilots swirling around them in full after-action party mode. The Small-Scale Raiding Company troops were a subdued bunch as they waited; the day’s training had been particularly awful, most of it spent being cold and soaking wet.

  The instant Lady Jane Seaborn walked into the Blind Eye, the revelry came to a screeching halt. Every RAF pilot in the room abruptly stopped whatever he was doing to stare at the slim, green-eyed brunette in the simple white dress and heels, a raisin-colored leather handbag slung over her shoulder. Oblivious to the attention, she walked directly over to the table of Commandos.


  Lieutenant Terry Stone stood up. “Boys, let me introduce you to Lady Jane Seaborn, Randy’s aunt.”

  “Hello, Terry,” she said.

  “Aunt Jane,” Midshipman Randy Seaborn said, “This is Captain John Randal, my commanding officer.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

  Whatever mental image Captain Randal had of a grieving widow, Lady Jane Seaborn wasn’t it. He took the hand she offered and felt the firm grip. He knew in that instant that he would never be satisfied with another woman for the rest of his life. And that was too bad, because he also knew she was way out of his league. Randy Seaborn’s aunt was the best-looking woman he had ever laid eyes on; she had the world’s greatest smile.

  Suddenly, he realized she must be the woman Lieutenant Colonel Dudley Clarke and the actor Captain David Niven were jousting over. He had never made the connection, but one thing was certain—as advertised, she was “drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “Aunt Jane works for British Intelligence, sir.”

  “What do you do for intelligence?” Captain Randal asked after they all were seated again at the table.

  “I could tell you, John, but then I would have to . . . well, you understand.”

  “Sorry,” Captain Randal stammered, embarrassed by his gaffe. He was not entirely sure how to address her. He vaguely remembered he had heard somewhere that she was a baroness. At this stage of his life he had exactly zero personal experience with female members of the peerage. And ... had she just threatened to kill him?

  “Just teasing,” she said. “Actually, all I’ve been doing is attending an endless series of training schools.” Lady Jane Seaborn smiled again, lighting up the room as brightly as if she had popped a Very pistol flare right there at the table.

  “I’ve been trained to parachute out of an airplane, sabotage a factory, operate a clandestine radio, derail a train, pick a lock, eliminate a sentry with a hatpin, set up a dead-letter drop, and I can kill a German attack dog with my bare hands, to name a few of the tricks my firm has been teaching me.”

  The men at the table were silent. What could you say to a beautiful woman who has told you something like that?

  Lieutenant Stone, however, was able to rise to the occasion. “Maybe you would like to come along on our next raid, Lady Jane. We can always use a school-certified dog killer.”

  “Have you actually parachuted, Aunt Jane?” Midshipman Seaborn asked.

  “Yes, I have. The people in my firm are required to be parachute qualified. You should all try it. The capability might come in useful someday. I can make the arrangements if you like.”

  The thought of jumping out of an airplane gave Captain Randal butterflies.

  “Now, John,” Lady Jane Seaborn said, turning to him and looking at him levelly with those vivid green eyes, “I want you to bring me up to speed on what you lads have been doing. I hear things haven’t been going so swimmingly down here. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  Captain Randal felt hypnotized. Only one other woman in his life had ever had such a dramatic effect on him, and that had been a long time ago, back in his senior year of high school when the student teacher in his English literature class was Miss UCLA.

  Afterward he thought he probably should not have, but he proceeded to lay out for her all the problems the Small-Scale Raiding Company had encountered, starting with navigation and ending with its critical lack of firepower.

  Lady Jane Seaborn sat listening intently, smoking a Player’s Navy Cut that every man at the table and half a dozen of the fighter pilots had attempted to light the moment she took it out of her cigarette case.

  When Captain Randal finished, she asked, “Have you ever heard of the Royal National Lifeboat Institute?”

  “No.”

  “It operates along the coast,” Midshipman Randy Seaborn explained, “rescuing ships in distress at sea or run aground during storms, at risk of breaking up.”

  “Lifeboat Servicemen are unquestionably the best rough-water small-boat handlers on the globe,” Lady Jane Seaborn said. She flicked her ash into the tray on the table and then stared Captain Randal straight in the eyes. “I recruited eight of them for Randy’s crew and brought them down with me. They’re at Seaborn House settling in right now. In the future, you shall not have any more problems rowing to and from the Arrow in any weather.”

  It grew very still at the table. She had just addressed their most secret fear, the one they never talked about: being left stranded in enemy territory after a raid, unable to paddle out through the surf. In one neat move, Lady Jane Seaborn had endeared herself forever to the officers and men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company.

  She gave the American officer a small smile. “Randy also mentioned to me that you were reduced to wearing your issue athletic training shoes and leggings because British Army boots have metal cleats and he will not allow them on board the Arrow. Are you familiar with an establishment called Purdy’s, John?”

  Captain Randal shook his head.

  “Well, the people there tell me that waterfowlers often wear a lightweight, rubber-soled, canvas-topped lace-up hunting boot. I took the liberty of obtaining two pairs for every man. You may find they are just the ticket for your line of work.

  “Also, I brought along a medical officer from the RAMC,” she continued. “He’s going to put all of you through an intensive course of first aid, at the end of which you will be qualified to receive your St. John Ambulance Certificate.”

  Lady Jane Seaborn turned and looked the Small-Scale Raiding Company’s commander square in the eye again. “Which reminds me, is it really true, John, that you threatened to tie a tourniquet around Dudley’s throat the night he was wounded?”

  ~ * ~

  Like a bolt from the blue, the magnificent Lady Jane Seaborn had landed in their midst, and things were never, ever going to be the same for them again. To everyone’s surprise—and Captain John Randal’s great disappointment—she was gone the next day.

  First aid training began. The Lifeboat Servicemen from the National Lifeboat Institute were infused into the crew of HMY Arrow and began to cross-train as Commandos. As advertised, they were boat handlers without equal; they considered rough surf to be their playground.

  The waterfowler boots turned out to be the best piece of military footgear any of them had ever worn.

  The men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company, like all soldiers Captain Randal had ever met, were happiest when acquiring new skills and being issued new and functional gear, as well as when their unit obtained a fresh infusion of personnel with high-grade special qualifications, particularly ones they could all see an immediate, pressing need for. Morale, which had ebbed to an all-time low, shot back up in very short order.

  ~ * ~

  One day while the troops were on the lawn practicing the tying on of splints and performing other feats of imaginary emergency first aid, a Rolls-Royce towing a small Silver Stream camper/horse trailer pulled up at Seaborn House. Lady Jane Seaborn was at the wheel, and out from the passenger side stepped a tall, white-haired cowboy wearing a long-fringed buckskin jacket. Accompanying him was a pleasantly plump young woman in a chic purple and yellow cowgirl costume.

  “Howdy boys,” the old cowboy called across the top of the car. “Are y’all ready for some R&R?”

  No one really knew what that meant, but every man within hearing distance enthusiastically agreed that he was ready for some.

  Lady Jane Seaborn made the introductions. “Lads, this is Captain ‘Geronimo Joe’ McKoy and his associate, Miss Lilly Threepersons. They have come to provide you with an afternoon’s entertainment: Captain Geronimo Joe’s Traveling Wild West Show and Shooting Emporium.” Some of the Commandos were detailed to help unload the trailer and set up the little traveling ring. Geronimo Joe’s directions and running commentary, expressed in language as colorful as his appearance, made it seem as if the Ringling Brothers Circus had come to town.

  Five overstuffed chairs were carried out on the l
awn and set up for the officers, Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks, and Lady Jane. The rest of the troops arranged themselves on the grass around the ring.

  Captain McKoy rode into the ring on the back of an elderly palomino named Slick. The old cowboy with the Buffalo Bill-style pure white hair performed every riding trick in the book while Slick—who knew his routine so well he appeared to be half asleep—loped around the little ring, never breaking stride.

  Miss Lilly narrated the performance, identifying the captain as having fought Apaches, scouted for the U.S. Cavalry, charged up San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders, and fought crime along the Mexican border as an Arizona Ranger. If he had done everything she described, Captain Randal calculated, he’d have to be at least 102 years old!

  As Miss Lilly tossed glass balls into the air, the captain shattered them on the run with bullets from his matched pair of ivory-stocked, silver-plated, beautifully engraved Colt .45 Peacemakers. He shot from the saddle; he shot lying on Slick’s rump; he shot hanging under the old palomino’s neck; he shot standing up in the saddle. Right- or left-handed— it seemed to make no difference to Captain Geronimo Joe McKoy. The pistols blazed, the glass balls shattered, and Slick went round and round the ring.