The Spy and His Lovers
The
Gdynia Incident
By - Tony Mattey
Sexually Explicit Warning
The story contains sexually explicit passages where four letter words are spoken intimately, and there is the occasional use of swear words.
Published by Tony Mattey at Smashwords 2011
Revised 2012
Copyright 2011 owned by Tony Mattey.
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transferred in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher.
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This book is a work of fiction; names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author was born in 1946 in England. In 1961, he joined the Royal Air Force, and left in 1970. In 1973, during the height of the Cold War, he accepted an assignment to work in Poland behind the Iron Curtain. He departed Poland in 1977. In 1978, he accepted another assignment in Indonesia and later Singapore, returning to the UK in 1984.
The author used an excellent base MS Word Template supplied by epubtemplates, and modified for Smashwords http://tonym779.kindle1.hop.clickbank.net
Photograph purchased, Oleg Zabielin Ukraine (123rf.com).
Chapter 1 - Military Intelligence (1973)
Chapter 3 - The Cafe and Rebecca (1973)
Chapter 5 - Weekend in the Country
Chapter 6 - Familiarisation and Training
Chapter 11 - Aldershot and the Paras
Chapter 12 - Laura’s Apartment
Chapter 13 - Unexpected Surveillance
Chapter 14 - Training by the Paras
Chapter 15 - Search and Evasion
Chapter 16 - Last Weekend with Laura
Chapter 17 - Surprised to meet Pam
Chapter 18 - Final Preparations
Chapter 19 - The Beautiful Polish Contact
Chapter 22 - Harry’s Parents (1946)
Chapter 23 - Arriving in Vladyslavovo
Chapter 24 - HM Submarine OENONE
Chapter 25 - Fresh Air and Safe
Chapter 26 - Heading to the Farm
Chapter 27 - The Worst News Possible
Chapter 1 - Military Intelligence (1973)
The phone rang beside me on the kitchen table; the sound totally broke my thoughts on the mess my marriage was in. Picking up the handset, but before I could give my name, a male voice spoke clearly and quietly, “Good evening, Mr Harry Mellors?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Clark, I am with the British Government, and I understand you are a radar and computer expert employed by Serranti Scientific Division,” he stated in a clipped voice.
Frowning and somewhat surprised at the call, I replied tongue in cheek, “I wouldn’t say expert, as the definition of an expert is, ‘an ex’, as in has been, and a ‘spurt’, meaning, a drip under pressure.”
There was silence, except for his breathing. So, no humour there I smiled to myself. “Sorry, yes, I have worked on radars in the past in the RAF, but at present I work with medical and scientific electronics and their associated computer systems.”
“Yes we know.”
Do we, I thought. “What’s this all about?” I queried, wondering who the heck he was.
“We would like you to come up to London for a chat,” he replied in the tone of an official order and not as a request.
Just like my service days and an officer to boot me thinks. “Who are you and what sort of chat?” It immediately ran through my mind they were going to call me back into the service, but surely, that would have meant a serving RAF officer at the Ministry of Defence making the call, and he would have presented himself by stating his rank.
“Let’s just say we are a government department with an interest in your experience on radar systems and antisubmarine warfare equipment, and your present work in electronics and computers.”
“So, is this related to my work in Hawaii, or me going to Eastern Europe to install an electron microscope and its computer system?” I queried, trying to fathom out what he really wanted ‘a chat’ for.
Hearing a small sigh from him as he hesitated, “Yes in a way it is, actually, we have cleared it with your Managing Director, so can you make it up to London by fourteen hundred this afternoon?”
This again sounded more as an order than a question. “Hmm, I suppose I can. Where do you want me to come to?” trying not to show any real interest in his request. On my action pad lying on the table, I scrawled the address down just under the list of clothes I had to buy for my coming trip to Poland.
“It’s off the Strand; just ring the bell and ask for me, Mr Clark.”
“All right I’ll be there. Cheerio,” and not waiting for him to say goodbye, I replaced the handset. What the hell was all that about? He didn’t say whether it was Hawaii or Eastern Europe he was interested in, except by saying, ‘In a way it is’.
Reaching for my first coffee of the morning, I sat absently rewriting the number of the building. Smiling to myself, the 6 and 9 were now horizontal. Each figure grew a couple of arms and legs, plus long hair on the top one, and shorter hair on the one below. To finish off, feet, hands, mouths, noses and eyes were drawn in. Admiring my own work, I thought about becoming an artist.
Looking at my Lanco watch, a past gift from my parents, it was just after nine in the morning, and through the kitchen window the weather looked refreshing with a cloudless blue sky. Damn, it was supposed to be my day off for sorting out my own personal property and packing it away into tea chests for when I left this house.
Walking out into the garden wondering what Mr Clark wanted me for; I sipped my drink and breathed in the fresh air for five minutes. Going back indoors and phoning the office, my boss was not in until eleven. Now, I had to drive into work to find out what he knew about all this, before travelling up to London to see the ‘We’. Anyway, the company premises were on the way to London just outside Dorking, so I could leave the car at the station and pick it up in the evening.
Gerald my Managing Director saw me immediately, but he insisted we went for a drive in his car. Gerry, you are a size I thought, watching him struggle to manoeuvre his short but enormous body into his Mini Cooper. After he had caught his breath and settled down, he looked at me and grinned.
“You should have a bigger car boss. Do you pick up your Swiss bosses from Heathrow in this one?”
“No, I usually borrow one of the pool cars. You are probably right, but I prefer this one.” We drove away from the office and stopped in a pub car park. As we sat there, I had to open the door because he had just farted.
“Sorry about that, it was last night’s meal,” he smiled. “Harry, I don’t have a clue on what this is all about. A chap called Clark phoned me late yesterday afternoon, and insisted on coming down to see me last night. I thought it was probably related to exporting high tech equipment to Eastern Europe, and the various complicated licencing requirements because the company is Swiss owned, but the equipment is manufactured here. I couldn’t understand why he insisted on coming to my home and not to work where all the licencing documentation is.
Well, around eight o’clock I opened the front door, and was very surprised to see two men and a woman standing there. Well, the men were, but she seemed to be holding onto the entrance pillar. I immediately thought it definitely could not be about licencing. They came in and settled in the study. There was Clark, another chap Smith, and a Mrs or Miss Begod or Begood, but as she had a bit of a slur in her voice, I am still not sure of her name.
Anyway, offering them drinks, they all accepted, and she infact, had three in the short time they were there. Clark wanted a nonalcoholic one as he was driving. I nearly had to give him water as I couldn’t find soft drinks anywhere, but remembering my teenage kid’s party the previous weekend, I found a couple of unopened bottles of coke in between empty ones in a cardboard box by the back door. Clark frowned at the Cola I gave him in a glass, but he didn’t comment, neither did he drink it, so he went without,” Gerald chuckled. “The woman was definitely the boss of the other two. She asked most of the questions about you. Infact, virtually the whole conversation was about you. We did briefly talk about licencing, but they were not interested. At the end of it all, they made me sign a piece of paper covering nondisclosure under the Official Secrets Act. The two men did not ask much; infact one of them, Smith, made one non-related comment, and that was about my painting of a sailing boat on the wall of my study, and how life like it was.
When she stood up to go, Smith had to quickly finish off his second gin and tonic. It was all very serious, no jokes or smiles. Her parting words were ‘This conversation never took place’. I nodded to her, but she raised her black eyebrows and looked at me waiting for my reply. ‘Yes I understand,’ I said clearly. She nodded and turned towards the door.
Showing them out, she stumbled on the step and Clark went to assist her, but she yelled, ‘I can manage myself thank you,’ and shook his hand off her shoulder as she used the pillar to support herself. They eventually left in a black Ford Cortina with Clark driving. Harry, I still don’t know whether she was Mrs or Miss Begood or Begod. She wasn’t wearing a ring on her finger, and she certainly liked her drink,” Gerald smiled.
“What sort of questions did they ask?”
“In a nutshell, they were about your present work and the level of technology used. They asked about your ability to work alone and under pressure. I told them your work was excellent, and especially under pressure, as your job had you flying all over the place fixing the latest systems when others were taking too long to repair them. I continued to explain your support role, with you bailing out our own company engineers who were struggling, and you communicating and coping well with their bosses and the occasional unhappy customer. I especially mentioned the Christmas Eve visit last year, and the drunken Research Director who threatened, if it was not fixed by the day after Boxing Day, he would put the whole lot in the car park. It actually produced a smile out of Smith, when I said you confidently took Christmas day off, and went back and fixed it within an hour or so of arriving on site on Boxing Day.
They asked how you were with your colleagues. Oh yes, also what your attitude to Eastern Europe and Communism was. I said your colleagues respected you, and you worked well with them, but you did prefer to work alone most of the time, unless it was personally teaching or helping another engineer out of a bind.
I commented, I did not think you were particularly interested in politics, but they would have to ask you that. They nosed into your personal life, but I replied, I didn’t know much, apart from you are married to Nicola, whom I had met once at a company Christmas party. So, they dropped that topic.
They asked questions on your previous military life. Well, I only know bits from chatting to you in the pub, so I mentioned Canada and Hong Kong, your soccer, and that you had been bored a lot of the time.” He chuckled, “Again I couldn’t give them much information. Overall, I was not very helpful to them. It was a wasted trip if you ask me Harry. They’ve obviously contacted you.”
“Yes, this morning Mr Clark called me. I agreed to go up to London for a ‘chat’. Oh well, I had better find out what this is all about. Hmm, perhaps I should have asked permission from some chinless wonder in the MOD to work in Eastern Europe. Especially, as it is not so long since I left the RAF, and there is a Cold War on.”
Seeing Gerald frown. “Oh heck, they might not allow me to go,” I joked half seriously.
His mouth opened and his chin dropped, disappearing into his flabby neck. “Bloody hell, I hope not Harry, not this late in the game. You know more than any of the others about the new system we have sold to the Poles.”
“Only joking boss, but you never know with these government types.”
At the station, he looked worried, “It had better be Ok, Harry.”
“I’m sure it will be boss. I’ll talk to you this evening and let you know what was so important for them to come down and see you. Cheers, I’ll see you later Gerald.”
“Harry. It is Gerry, not Gerald. How many times do I have to tell you,” he frowned.
“Yes Sir, yes Boss.”
“Go on get out of here,” he grinned, “You and your yes sir, and yes boss.”
I closed the door. He waved and accelerated his bright red Cooper S away from the station. Shaking my head and smiling as I watched him leave. He loves his speed, and especially at weekends when he has the opportunity to race minis. But his weight is definitely a problem. He would probably go twice as fast if he dieted and then perhaps he might win a race or two. “Damn, my car is at the office,” I said to myself.
That afternoon, in good time just like for a job interview, even though I have only had two in my life so far, I arrived at the nondescript black front door. Thinking the number 69 in brass on the door was an interesting number, I pressed the button marked ‘call’ on the keypad.
A pleasant female voice with a class accent came over the speaker, “May I help you?”
“Harry Mellors, I have an appointment at two with Mr Clark.”
“Is that Clarke with an ‘e’ or without, as we have two here?” she replied pleasantly.
“I have no idea.” Don’t they keep an appointment diary? I wondered.
“One moment please.”
I heard another female voice in the background, “Peter’s seeing a Harry Mellors at two.”
“Mr Mellors, please come up to the third floor, door number three.” The door catch released.
Climbing up the stairs, and straightening my tie, I knocked, opened the door and walked in just as a male voice shouted, “Come in.”
Too slow to catch a cold mate, I’m already in, I thought.
“Oh,” the voice groaned.
The three people standing around a desk near the door had stopped talking, and turning towards me, they looked me up and down.
Good job I had polished my shoes, as I had recently read somewhere, ‘The state of a man’s shoes is the first impression that stays with the viewer, and especially a woman.’ Anyway, my shoes are normally polished every day, so no problem there.
The men opposite me had highly polished shoes, but the woman’s black low heeled ones looked badly scuffed, and in need of a spit and polish. Tut, tut, you cannot be military I thought.
Stepping forward almost as one, they introduced themselves. “Welcome Mr Mellors, I’m Ms Begood,” a brief smile crossed her oval face. She was slightly shorter than my five feet ten, with long black curly hair, and a Mediterranean complexion. She looked very smart and slim in black trousers, and a white classic shirt blouse, but it was a pity about the shoes, and her breath, because as she welcomed me, I smelt the alcohol, probably from an earlier heavy liquid lunch. Gerry had also said, he thought she had been drinking before he met them last night.
Are you ever Miss Be-bad? I wondered, looking into her green eyes. She looked down as if embarrassed, as I smiled and gave her a firm handshake. Her grip was also solid, but she quickly pulled away.
“Mr Clarke with an ‘e’, we spoke on the phone Mr Mellors,” as he put his hand out, but his grip was limp like a dead fish.
I nodded, remembering his voice. Pale complexion, worried eyes, military moustache, light brown hair, six foot or more, straight back, highly polished shoes and razor creases to his trousers, so a Mr, that surely is total rubbish, as he is wearing the deep red and blue striped tie of the Brigade of Guards. I wondered if his bowler hat was hanging up, or on a shelf somewhere.
“Mr Smith without an ‘e’,” he grinned. I noticed Clarke frown. Smith’s handshake was firm. He was about my height, dark hair, slim build, dark blue suit trousers, light blue braces and white shirt. I guessed he was probably navy, but I wasn’t sure as his tie looked old school, but I didn’t know what the navy tie was either. They had introduced themselves as Mr, so I realised they might not be military after all, but these three were definitely Gerald’s visitors from last night. He had also thought the men were military types. Ms Begood, I assumed was a civil servant, as she certainly didn’t look in any way the military officer type, as her hair was too long even for a female officer, so she wouldn’t be able to hide that length under a cap of any type.
I was guided over to a side table, where an older woman not introduced to me was making drinks. As I accepted a coffee from her and said “Thank you.” She smiled pleasantly and nodded. She was older, about my mother’s age and was extremely good looking with medium length brunette hair.
The drink came hot in a mug, large, white, drinking for the use of, or something similar. I smiled, as some things never leave you after you have been in the services. Like item descriptions in reverse order, as if it was a stock item in a store, e.g. Brassiere, 36D, white, breast support, woman for the use of, or some such description. Turning back, and as I sipped my drink, I wonder what your breast support is like Ms Begood?
From the reception come outer office area with its typical old and well used government furniture, we walked into another room, which I thought must be her office. Ms Begood closed the door, and indicated for us to sit down at the oval dinner sized table, which would easily seat eight. Clarke pointed to where I was to sit, which was pretty obvious, with three chairs on one side and a single one facing them. As we sat down, Smith found four beer mats for our mugs.
I felt nervous sitting in front of them, trying not to catch their eyes as I waited. Ms Begood picked up a large buff, dog eared file from the table, and as she lifted it, I saw my name and military number emblazoned across the front cover in large black letters.
“I see you have my life in your hands,” I joked.
A frown appeared, but changed into a slight smile. “It seems an interesting life so far Harry. I may call you Harry?”
That is very forward of you, I smiled, not answering apart from with my eyes and a slight tilt of my head. You are a bit slow on the joke side I thought. You are definitely a civilian or perhaps it’s my humour. “Some of it was interesting, other times not, and sometimes extremely boring,” I replied.
“Is that why you volunteered for a change, and were subsequently posted to Canada?”
“Yes, I was going doolally looking after certain older radar systems around this country. Seeing the opening, I volunteered to go to one of the early warning radar DEW line sites in Gander, Newfoundland. But I was only there for four weeks, when suddenly with only twenty four hours’ notice, I found myself shipped over to Hong Kong for two years. Never volunteer for anything, as you may get yourself killed, I was told when I joined up by some wise corporal drill instructor.”
Smith gave a wry smile.
“You must have been selected for Hong Kong,” she continued.
“Probably not for my technical skills, but because some plonker, excuse my language, in the Central Records Office, must have had a bad weekend, and decided to take it out on me on the Monday morning,” I remarked sarcastically.
“I don’t think so Harry,” she replied.
“Well, leaving Canada stopped me learning to ski. I had just started a skiing course. Also I had met a rather lovely Canadian girl, and as we were both beginners, we fell head over heels together.”
Begood and Smith, smiled at that one, but Clarke frowned.
Now the ‘chat’ commenced in earnest, so I became serious, and after going through my career history to date, Smith asked questions on the work I had carried out on short and long range radars, and what I knew about Russian radar systems?
Ah ha, let there be light. This ‘chat’ is obviously related to my activities in stealing the Russian boat. I nearly said, ‘If you had read my file, you probably wouldn’t need to ask all these questions’, but I didn’t. I now relaxed a little, and said I had only come across two Russian radar systems in 1969, and these had been on a modified Russian Patrol Boat fifty miles north of the Demilitarised zone in Vietnam. Smith asked me to go into detail. So, rattling the old brain cells, I commenced describing my own ‘Boys Own Adventure’ in the Far East. Now the mysterious three seemed to be all ears.
Chapter 2 - In Vietnam (1969)
“A Russian Patrol Boat had been moored beside a pier in a North Vietnamese fishing village for a couple of days. American high-level reconnaissance aircraft had photographed it. It was subsequently identified as possibly being an original Elco PT Boat built in the USA, during WWII, and would have been one of many shipped to the USSR to assist in the fight against Germany. Records showed that after the war, all allied Elco boats had supposedly been accounted for by the US Navy and the Royal Navy.
Now with special interest, the US Military carried out a twice daily photo reconnaissance fly over. Interpretation of the photos showed damage to the hull, but more interestingly, considerable modifications had taken place with an additional large rear cabin built on the deck behind the small open bridge. There was an abundance of communications aerials, and what looked like two enclosed rotating radar antenna on the top of the rear cabin. In the stern, there were two side-facing launchers, possibly for rockets or depth charges. Someone decided the boat should be physically investigated on the ground, and that is when the fun began,” I grinned, sipping my drink.
“Carry on please Harry,” she said in an encouraging tone, tapping her manicured fingers on the table.
“At the time, I was with two air force colleagues in Singapore on R & R. We had been working in Hong Kong, on upgrading the search radars, which look into China. Now we had the time to relax, so we had cadged a lift to Singapore. Well, one afternoon whilst lazing beside the hotel pool, we were approached by a chap in white trousers, brown suede shoes, blue striped shirt, tie and a blazer topped off with a panama. Stroking his moustache, he introduced himself as a British Military Attaché, Colonel Clarence. Taking us away from our sunbathing, we went into one of our rooms for a chat,” I chuckled, looking at Mr Clarke.
Ms Begood looked up; I thought she had been nodding off.
“We subsequently found ourselves ‘volunteering’ to be pitched into the mire of the Vietnam War, even though the Brits were not meant to be in that theatre of operation, or so we thought.” I chuckled, “Bang went the enjoyment of eating cheaply in the outdoor food stalls, and watching the Chinese, Malay and Indian girls go by, and, occasionally talking to them. Plus I thought, ‘volunteering’ a second time was pushing my luck.”
Mr Smith, Navy question mark, smiled knowingly.
“Well, four hours later we took off from Singapore’s Changi airfield in a USAF C130 transport aircraft. For some reason, this one had plenty of soundproofing, but the seats were fairly uncomfortable as was the flight of around three and a half hours to South Vietnam.
After a day on the ground at a staging post, to pick up the appropriate kit, weapons and a new set of dog tags each describing us as Australian Air Force personnel, we hedge hopped in a Huey helicopter to a forward base. On landing, they instructed us on what to do if the base is shelled or attacked by the North Vietnamese. So much for the Demilitarised zone, I thought, not actually knowing how wide it was or if there really was one.
We all said or thought, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers’, but we had no way out as we were now in the front line. One of us even joked about shooting deserters in the trenches in France in 1914.”
“Would you have pulled out if you could have, Harry?”
That’s a sneaky question Mr Smith, if you are a Mr which I doubt. “No I don’t think I would have. The other two might have, but probably not. Anyway, we didn’t have that option. Orders are orders. Do it first and complain afterwards, I was also told in training, again probably by the same smart corporal,” I chuckled. “I was certainly high on the adrenalin rush of effectively going to war.
A day later, just two hours before dawn, the three of us ‘technical experts’ and eight men from a combined Australian Special Air Services (SAS) and US Navy Seal squad, with a US Senior Corporal Grant as team leader, were dropped in the sea from three Huey helicopters about three miles off the coast. Using three rubber dinghies with outboard motors, we headed towards the shore through fairly smooth water. Landing about a mile and a half northeast of the village, the dinghies were lifted over the sand, so not leaving any telltale signs. We assisted by cutting down foliage to hide them. One trooper using a leafed branch brushed away all our foot or flipper prints from the water’s edge to the tree line. Climbing out of our black wet suits, we buried them in the sand in sealable waterproof bags. Every one of us had to identify the location for when we returned.
Now back in jungle green, with our boots on, rucksacks on our backs and weapons at the ready, the three of us surrounded by the others, moved towards the village by walking along the edge of the tree line with the beach. As we came closer to the estuary, and found denser jungle, the trooper on point had to hack his way through the greenery in a few places. It became easier going when we crossed open fields and went around the edges of the rice paddies. Luckily, we did not see anyone working on the land.
Arriving at the first surveillance point, and settling down in dense foliage on the edge of a slight rise, we had clear visibility on a wide arc in front of us, including the village, but not the river. Austin, one of the Americans and Tom, an Australian, dumped their rucksacks, and just taking their weapons, spare mags, and a couple of grenades each, they nodded to the troop leader, and silently moved forward to recce the village and the Russian Patrol Boat. Suddenly Tom came rushing back, as he had forgotten his boiled sweets and water flask.
With nothing to do, we settled down in virtual silence whilst the others kept watch. I tried to catnap in the heat as we had not had much sleep in the last seventy two hours, but it was virtually impossible. I joked about the date I was going to miss this coming weekend with the Chinese Singaporean girl who worked in the nearby hairdressers. I had been with her the night before we were contacted by Colonel Clarence, so that is why I was feeling tired. Now bored, I cut down some saplings and made a few penny whistles, and wondered how these special force’s guys could do this type of work day in and day out.
Six hours later Austin and Tom returned, quietly bantering between themselves about certain words and their meaning in English-English, and American-English, as Tom was explaining that in English-English, slipping your dick into a girl’s fanny did not mean you were trying to put it up her bum. I smiled and looked around me. A couple of the other Americans looked agog as they heard this from Tom, but my colleagues and the other Australian just grinned. “You live and learn,” said one of the Americans, “So, when I go to London or Sydney, I have to remember, not to pat a broad on her butt, and say, ‘Nice fanny’.”
We all smiled, and huddled down around Corporal Grant. Looking around me, the three of us were totally soaked with perspiration, and looking bedraggled compared with the two who had just come back, and the others around us. They all certainly seemed to be used to the climate, even though they were soaked as well. Austin squatted down, and spoke in a southern drawl, “Sit rep. We had to circle the village and come downstream on to it. We were able to clearly see the state of the boat. There were four men on it. Two were working on the outside repairing damage to the bow on the port side. They had a wooden platform rigged up just above the water line. There was plenty of scampering about, some hammering, but not much repairing as we watched. One even did a bit of brushwork with a thick black liquid. We have no idea what it was, paint or sealant I presume.” Austin looked at his watch, “About one hour ago, there were a lot of thumbs up and clapping each other’s back, as it looked as if they had successfully finished the job. Then what do we see? A white man comes out from the bridge.”
“A Russian?” queried Grant.
“Probably, but who knows. He went over and walking to the side, looked down at the repaired area. Turning, he gave them the thumbs up and shook their hands. After a few minutes of clearing up, including removing the platform, they all climbed into a Chinese jeep parked on the ragged wooden pier. With the white guy in the front passenger seat, they drove North West out of the village, and from our recce point we could just see the jeep on the track as it climbed up and over the hill.
They had left two uniformed soldiers to guard the boat; these guys appeared to be pretty lazy as they just dumped their weapons on top of one of the fuel drums on the pier. One settled down to sleep as soon as the jeep disappeared, and the other wandered all over the boat, but every so often, he would come back up on deck and look around, as if he should not have been on board or down below in the first place. The village seems deserted of any civilians, just dogs barking, but they must be somewhere. We feel certain there weren’t others board, but we could be wrong.”
“Na mate, if there was, they would have come up for the celebration.”
“They have probably gone off to report someplace, Tom.”
“Probably Harry mate, or for a celebration with amber nectar down the road,” chuckled the Australian.
“Right, we’ll go in,” replied Grant without any hesitation and pointing with his hand in the direction of the village. “We’ll silence the guards and go on board after dusk. Two of us will stay with you three on the boat, and the others will fan out facing the edge of the village, and on the pier to give covering fire if anyone turns up.”
Tom led as he had already been there. Dogs were barking as we came close to the village, but as all dogs bark in South East Asia seemingly for no apparent reason, no one in the squad seemed concerned except for us three, and we were gradually getting used to the sound. Apart from stopping several times to kneel, wait and watch, we arrived without mishap.
Halting, and waiting for the darkness to come, I felt nervous, apprehensive and excited all rolled into one. When it was just dark enough, two of them crept forward to take out the sentries with either a knife or a pistol with a silencer screwed onto the barrel. We had ten minutes of tense waiting, before two torches flashed almost simultaneously from slightly different locations.
“Good, come on,” ordered Grant.
Sighing with relief, and briefly thinking about the two dead enemy, any concern I had soon evaporated as we were in a war zone. Moving forward from our hiding place at the side of the village, we crept onto the pier where Grant led the way as we walked up the rickety wooden gangplank and headed towards the boat’s bridge.
Looking around the small open bridge area and the chart room, “There’s not much out of the ordinary here, charts, sextant, binoculars, radio transmitter receiver, signalling lamp, hand compass, notebook, parallel ruler, dividers, pencils, a rubber, just all the tools of the trade.”
Vincent had been watching me with his torch shining down on the table, “That must be a word that Tom was talking about.”
I looked up at him, “What do you mean?”
“Your rubber is an eraser at home, but to us a rubber is a protective against a girl becoming pregnant.”
We chuckled.
“Spot on Vincent,” Tom replied, standing behind him.
Continuing my search into a second drawer and the small cupboard, they were empty. Turning around, my torch shone through to the back of the bridge and onto a door into the large aft cabin. The cabin looked as if it had been built on the deck, as it was totally out of proportion in height and width for Patrol Boat.
Vincent walked over and tried the door, “It’s locked, but it’s not a real hatch made of metal, it’s just plywood.”
Looking around, and picking up a fire axe, I went to pass it to him, but instead, we heard and saw the cracking and breaking of wood as he had just grabbed hold of the top of the door with his hands, and forced it out and downwards, so the door just splintered off its hinges.
“A good chap to have with you in a fight,” someone said, as we looked at him. In the light of our torches, Vincent’s perfect set of white teeth shone back as he smiled at what he had achieved.
I thought, if it rains, the water is going to blow straight in that bloody opening. Oh well, we won’t be here long anyway.
Tom, on hearing the noise came back into the bridge and just laughed, “I hope you are going to fix it back on properly mate.”
Vincent turned, not understanding, “What did you say?”
“I said I hope… oh never mind. That’s a job well done Yank.”
“Thanks mate,” replied Vincent, mimicking Tom’s accent.
“Come on, let’s see what we have inside,” I urged.
“Right on cobber,” as Vincent stood to one side, so I could enter.
I turned to Vincent. “Mate, we’ll never know who is who, if you Americans start talking with Aussie accents.”
He held my shoulder with a vice like grip, “Come on Sir, you need to get to work,” he said in his own American accent, chuckling as he walked away.
Using torch light, the three of us commenced investigating the contents. It was an Aladdin’s cave of Eastern Bloc & Russian electronic units in racks, with test equipment all connected up, and cables going everywhere.
“We definitely have an experimental craft here,” I said, looking at the other techies, John Harding and Phil Conway.
“How the hell are we going to sort through all this Harry?”
I had actually thought about this earlier, when waiting for the recce guys to come back from the village. “Phil, we have travelled quite a distance on foot to get here, so we could always steal the boat,” I replied half seriously. “It looks as if they might have just finished repairing it. So, all we probably have to do is start it up, cut the mooring ropes and sail away into the wide blue yonder.”
Grant had been standing quietly behind us, “We could try it, Sir. Or we could trek back to the dinghies with the technical docs and any equipment you select. It would not be much, unless we make several trips, and that would be pushing our luck, as the sailors could be back anytime. I’ll call one of my men from the perimeter, as he is an engine expert, and we’ll check the boat over.”
We continued our investigation, and it looked as if all the detailed technical manuals and schematics were there. The documents alone, with our own rucksacks, would take at least two trips back to the beach for all of us. It was impractical to consider an exit by dinghy and Huey. There were several boxes of spare parts, test meters and tools, which we would not need to take, unless they were specialist pieces.
“We haven’t even looked inside a rack yet Harry. This place is a gold mine. Infact there is everything needed to run a test laboratory, and here we have a floating one,” ventured John enthusiastically.
After ten minutes, Grant and the engine expert Austin came up from below to where we were studying an open electronics rack.
“Well Sirs, this is definitely and old USA built Elco PT Boat. We have checked her out down below, and the engines seem well maintained, and the bilges are dry. It looks as if they’ve had a couple of fairly powerful portable bilge pumps going, as the boat looks as if it had been partially filled with seawater, by the tide marks we found on the woodwork below. The fresh water and fuel tanks are full, probably filled from the drums on the pier. In the past, an additional freshwater engine cooling system has been added to the original one by the Russians. That was probably to help out because of the hot and humid weather around here in the Pacific. That has also been topped up. Austin has checked the electrics, and has found all the relevant switches and engine and water cooling stopcocks. Well Sirs, what shall we do?”
I chuckled, “First of all, stop calling us, Sir.”
Grant smiled, “Well my English cobbers, do we go home by sea on this luxury yacht, or by helicopter after several treks with some of those bits and pieces?” Pointing towards the manuals and the equipment, “We would need to be lifted off the beach, or closer to the village, perhaps in that open area we circumvented. They would need to bring in a bigger chopper to lift us and everything in one go as we couldn’t take all this out to sea for a pickup.”
My mind was made up, as the manuals would not be much good without the equipment, and half the equipment is physically bolted down on the cabin roof or on the stern. “Grant, let’s take the bloody lot,” as I looked at John and Phil.
They nodded.
John replied, “In for a penny in for a pound Harry.”
“Right,” I take that is an affirmative, Sir.”
“Yes Grant, that is an affirmative,” I replied, hoping he is not going to call us ‘Sir’ all the time.
He did not hesitate, just chuckled and shook his head. “You Brits are just as crazy as us, and we are in the Special Forces. Right, I need to plan this out, and make contact, so we have air support as soon as we leave here.”
He picked up the transceiver and walked out and over to the bridge. We heard him calling up his air support controller, probably on an Aircraft Carrier or he might even be land based. Austin and Vincent commenced checking the machine guns in situ.
Austin returned, “They are all Russian, and there is zero ammo on board and on the pier as Tom has checked there. So, we’ll need to rely on our own weapons.”
Vincent had gone off to give the news to the others on the perimeter, and bring them back nearer or onto the boat. After what seemed ages, we huddled beside the bridge, with a lookout on the bow and stern, and two others on the pier hidden behind a pile of rough cut wood, which was probably waiting for shipment somewhere.
Grant came back, “I have made contact, and there was no hesitation on their part. This could save a lot of time and money if we bring it all back in one piece.” Looking at his watch, he said clearly, “A time check, in two minutes at nineteen hundred.” We looked at our own watches, and looking at Phil and John, John raised his hands to say, I know, but what do we do Harry?
“We just reset our watches to nineteen hundred when he says so, and ensure the seconds are zeroed if we can, or remember how many seconds you are out by, I guess.”
“Time check, minus nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, ‘Mark’, plus one, two, three. Ok Harry, John, Phil?”
“Ok, Grant, it wasn’t too complicated was it?” Phil chuckled.
Grant continued, “We cut the mooring ropes at H hour minus two minutes, at nineteen twenty six. The air attack H hour, is nineteen twenty eight. The Aircraft Carrier is fairly close about two hundred miles off, so two Phantom F4 fighter bomber aircraft will come in and take out the pier area, and any visible enemy and trucks in the village. They are already armed with the correct ordinance, which is air to ground rockets, and are now waiting for inflight refueling. We need to light this boat up like a Christmas tree just before the first strike, so they know what to hit and what to miss. We don’t want to be killed by our own side.”
“No, a blue on blue would not be good for Australian and American relations,” chuckled Tom one of the Australians.
John remarked, “I wonder if that is where blue on blue came from, Australians becoming drunk, and picking fist fights with their bluey mates?”
“My God, you Brits are sarcastic at times,” Tom chuckled.
“Be serious for a minute,” frowned Grant. “After the first strike, there should be enough flames from fires to clearly show the pilots whether they need to come around again. If not we’ll have to keep the Christmas tree alight.”
Reality set in, “That gives me two minutes to drive this tub into midstream, turn and face downstream. These engines had better start first time,”
John, touched my arm, “You can do it Harry. Right, let’s see what we have in the way of lights,” as he moved to the broken doorway come hatch to commence the search. Eventually they found two extension lead lamps below deck where they had been used for working on the bow, and three others in and around the electronic equipment.
“Five, plus a couple of search lights should do,” remarked Grant. “Have the search lights angled upwards as we drive this thing out. Also put the five lights around the amidships, and aim them upwards if you can. We really need to have them facing backwards when we switch them on, and forwards as we move into midstream and turn down towards the estuary, but all the time, hopefully keeping them from the villagers seeing or suspecting anything.”
A tall order I thought, as John and Phil went off with two of the troopers and a role of gaffer tape to lay out the lights and connect them up, but not switch them on, as the engines and the generators were not yet running.
Grant placed his hand on the steering wheel, “Harry we need to be in midstream, heading down the river, when the aircraft reach us. Can you do it?”
“No problem, as Austin and I had already investigated the bridge, and decided on the relevant switches, dials and controls I need to use, and it all seems pretty basic, either three sets of everything, or just one.”
Grant nodded in acknowledgement, as he had delegated me to drive the boat, as we had all driven dinghies with outboards on, but I was the only one that had driven anything larger. I smiled with trepidation, as my claim to fame, was motoring a fifty foot sailing cruiser with an inboard auxiliary engine which did about six to eight knots. This one was more like eighty feet in length, and around 50 tons or more in weight with all the additional gear on board. It was powered by three Packard 4M-2500 Supercharged V12 engines, which would drive it through the water at around thirty to forty knots. This boat had obviously survived the last war, after probably being shipped by a North Atlantic convey up to Murmansk in Russia. But, if it had been well maintained, the engines would last forever, and our engine specialist thought they had been well looked after.
Exhilarated, but apprehensive, I thought about the job ahead, as I had to move forward off the pier and turn the boat around in midstream, before we could move down to the estuary and into the open sea. The distance was about nine hundred metres from the village in a fairly straight line. It looked as if we had a high tide just about to turn to ebb, so there was no need to worry about estuary channels, low water and mud. A sense of excitement as well as tension was in the air.
“Time check everyone, H minus six.”
The troopers moved onto the deck and spread out, as we could receive incoming from the village, but hopefully the aircraft will take care of it.”
Grant moved over to John and Phil, “Guys, I think you should take cover in the bridge area or the chart room.”
“Grant, your bosses issued us with semiautomatics and pistols, and we have pouches full of spare magazines, so we might as well use them,” John replied in a firm voice.
Phil nodded, “I agree with him.”
Grant considered the reply, “Right, we have brought several of the empty fuel drums on board, and we are now finishing off filling them with seawater using the portable bilge pumps we found.”
“This eliminates the threat of fuel vapour blowing them up if hit by a shell.” John replied, really not as a question.
“That is correct Sir. You two use them as a shield, and as Harry turns the boat to port, make sure you move over to the other side of them.”
John, chuckled, “I don’t intend having my backside shot off, and it wouldn’t help your career having two dead Brits on your hands.”
Doug, the other friendly Aussie piped up, “Don’t worry cobber, if you’re dead, we’ll just chuck you over the side for the sharks, and say you got scared and jumped overboard into the path of a great white.”
“Ha bloody ha,” chuckled John nervously.
“Come on John, you come down behind this drum with me, and Phil, you go over with Tom. We have to look after our Pommie mates.”
“Ok, mate,” replied Phil in mimicking Doug.
I stayed at the controls, whilst Austin went below to check and babysit the engines. An American was on the bow with an axe. Grant stood in the darkness at the entrance to the bridge on the starboard side. The water was calm except for ebb tide just starting to slowly flow. The wait and the silence, except for all the jungle noises and the dogs was terrifying, but exhilarating at the thought of what we were attempting. Becoming accustomed to night vision, I knew the searchlights would soon ruin it.
Grant looked at his watch. “Don, Louie, come on board,” he shouted down to them.
They extracted themselves from crouching between the woodpiles, ran and leapt up the gangplank onto the deck, and turning, they dropped the plank over the side into the water with a resounding crash and splash.
“Damn! It caught the pier,” Don shouted with a loud exclamation.
“Quiet,” someone whispered.
“Three minutes to go, she is all yours, Harry.”
I looked behind me; Austin came up from below and was at the entrance to the aft cabin. He shouted, “All Ok, below. Go for it Harry,” and gave me the thumb and first finger zero.
I held my breath, and pressed the first starter button. The engine fired, ran for a fifteen seconds and died. “Damn.” I tried again, and this time it ran for longer but died again, “Damn,” I tried the second starter button, the engine burst into life and started miss firing as it ran on low revolutions. “Fuck,” looking at my fluorescent hands on my watch, two minutes left, plus another two before the aircraft arrive. I pressed the third button, the engine roared as if the throttle was stuck open and it was drinking too much fuel. Sweating, and not from the jungle heat, but from the worry that was travelling through my body. ‘Come on, get a grip,’ I said to myself. I shut off the third engine, and now the sound was just of the missing second engine, so, I shut that off as well. I pressed the first one again, and the engine roared into life, and continued past the fifteen seconds that it had previously run for.
“What did you think Harry?” Grant was beside me, and sounding apprehensive.
I shouted, “We go on one, and I’ll keep trying to sort the others out.”
“I can still call off the air strike.”
“No. Cut both ropes now, bow first and we’ll take a chance.” I’m crazy to be here, I thought, feeling my hands shaking as I gripped the wheel and throttle for the first engine.
Briefly grabbing my shoulder to confirm he understood, he stepped quickly outside of the bridge. The engine was now in gear, I started to turn the wheel a fraction. The trooper in the bow looked back as Grant shouted at him. I saw the axe fall, parting the mooring rope, and the boat automatically started to swing outwards, and to tug on the rear mooring rope, which was immediately chopped through, so we surged forward. Knowing we were free, I pushed the first throttle forward and we gradually increased speed and continued the turn. Looking at my watch, there was less than a minute to H hour. I now tried the second engine again, and this time it roared into life, but again started missing, so, as we were now free of the pier and nearly in midstream, I pushed the throttle forward, the engine growled, and as I levered the throttle back, it settled down with steady revolutions indicating on the rev counter. We continued on engines one and two. But, because of the narrowness of the river by the village, I had cut the engines back, and reverse the boat, to bring the stern around to starboard. Throttling up again, we moved forward in midstream, and were now running with the ebb flow towards the sea.
Larry and Doug, with John directing and assisting them, moved the lights around to follow the boats path. The call came over the transceiver, stating the two F4, Phantom fighter-bomber aircraft were just a minute away.
“Are all the lights facing away from the village?” Grant shouted.
“Yes, of course,” came a loud Aussie voice.
“Good, the aircraft will be coming up the river on our port side, so switch the lights on…… Now.”
The lights instantly lit us up like Blackpool funfair illuminations. I lost my night vision, but with the lights already on, I didn’t really need it, so I gave up trying to keep one eye closed for when we extinguished them in a minute’s time.
We were now really on our way, and I felt chuffed, but not for long, as shouts came from the village, and torchlights probed the water around the pier.
“Incoming, port amidships,” someone shouted, as tracers arched towards us.
“Search light, forty five degrees astern on the port side,” shouted another. Shells started to hit the boat and lodge or go through the woodwork. A clear windscreen panel shattered in front of me, and caused me to duck, “Fuck,” I thought, that must have been a large shell to shatter that, and it was too close for comfort, as I raised my head again just enough to see where we were going, and hoped my American helmet would protect me.
Now was time to try number three again, and after two attempts, the engine fired and growled into life. I increased the throttle, and adjusted the other two to match all three engines in revolutions. “Thank the fuck for that,” I yelled, but with the noise going on around me, no one heard, as we moved swiftly down river.
Our return fire was maximised against what seemed to be mainly small arms enemy activity. The bipod mounted light machine gun set up on deck and fired by Louie, soon took out the searchlight and the adjacent heavy machine gun. Our rapid fire, interspersed with tracers arched across the river into the bank and foliage, where it quickly silenced the initial opposition. As the firing and barrel flashes from the riverbank died, it was left in darkness.
“Cease firing, cease firing,” Grant repeated over the din. The thud and clatter of shell cases hitting the wooden deck stopped, and the only sound was the three Packard engines growling along.
Someone laughed nervously, “Well that was easy.”
“We were not in the clear yet,” another yelled.
“Quiet everyone. Roll call.”
Everyone, including the three of us replied in turn to Grant.
The short silence was broken as the firing restarted from the shore, and this time it was coming from two trucks complete with searchlights and machine guns mounted on them, as they followed a jungle track that seemed to run alongside the riverbank.
The Phantom F4s were now here with their first sets of air to ground rockets flying straight past us, and into the village, exploding and cutting a trail of devastation through it. The wooden shacks were decimated, and fires started everywhere. The remaining full fuel drums on the pier exploded in one large whoosh of flame, and an arms dump somewhere near the pier was hit, and that part of the village just erupted with the explosion and flames rising high into the air, and even illuminating us. The aircraft quickly turned, and came back down in the reverse direction for the second strike, and with one following the other they blasted the two trucks off the track as they continued their flight down the estuary to the open sea.
Suddenly, someone shouted, “They are boarding on the starboard side.”
I turned and was shocked to see a small Vietcong in what seemed to be black trousers and vest standing there. His eyes looked fearlessly at me, as he stepped through the bridge’s starboard entrance ready to attack. My pistol was below on the chart table. Reaching for my knife in its sheath, I pulled it out, and crouching, pointed it upwards and at him. As he was bringing his Kalashnikov semiautomatic up to fire, I reached behind me, and swung the wheel to port, and pushed the throttles forward, so the immediate turn of the boat and change of speed knocked him off balance, and he fired haphazardly into the side of the bridge, but away from me. Free of the wheel, I stepped forward and lunged towards him, and as my borrowed eight inch hunting knife was entering his stomach or chest through his black vest, a volley of rounds from somewhere else shaved past me and pushed him backwards and out through the entrance way. He fell back and laid still on the outside decking. With his blood on my knife in my shaking hand, I turned and stepped down and retrieved my pistol off the chart table. Returning immediately, I brought the boat safely back under control and on course, by completing the three sixty degree turn.