Cold Harbour Read Free

the Geneva Convention, you understand that?”
    “Yes, Mr. President.”
    Roosevelt stared up at the ceiling. “Correct me if I get my history wrong, Brigadier, but isn’t it a fact that during the Napoleonic Wars, ships of the British Navy occasionally attacked under the French flag?”
    “Indeed it is, Mr. President, and usually when sailing French ships taken as prizes of war and recommissioned into the British Navy.”
    “So, there is precedence for this type of action as a legitimate ruse de guerre ?” Roosevelt observed.
    “Certainly, Mr. President.”
    Hare said, “It’s a point worth making that in all such actions, it was customary for the British to hoist their own flag just before battle commenced.”
    “I like that.” Roosevelt nodded. “That, I understand. If a man must die, it should be under his own flag.” He looked up at Hare. “A direct order from your Commander-in-Chief.You will at all times carry the Stars and Stripes on this E-boat of yours and if the day ever dawns that you find yourself sailing into battle, you will hoist it in place of the Kriegsmarine ensign. Understood?”
    “Perfectly, Mr. President.”
    Roosevelt held out his hand again. “Good. I can only wish you Godspeed.”
    They both shook hands with him and, as if by magic, the young lieutenant appeared from the shadows and ushered them out.
    As the limousine turned down Constitution Avenue, Hare said, “A remarkable man.”
    “The understatement of the year,” Munro said. “What he and Churchill have achieved between them is amazing.” He sighed. “I wonder how long it will be before the books are written proving how unimportant they really were.”
    “Second-rate academics out to make a reputation?” Hare said. “Just like us?”
    “Exactly.” Munro looked out at the lighted streets. “I’m going to miss this town. You’re in for a culture shock when we reach London. Not only the blackout, but the Luftwaffe is trying night bombing again.”
    Hare leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, not tired but aware of a sudden fierce exhilaration. It was as if he’d been asleep for a long time and was awake again.
    THE FLYING FORTRESS was brand new and on its way to join the American 8th Air Force in Britain. The crew made Munro and Hare as comfortable as possible with Army blankets and pillows and a couple of Thermos flasks. Hare opened one as they crossed the New England coast and moved out to sea.
    “Coffee?”
    “No thanks.” Munro positioned a pillow behind his head and pulled up a blanket. “I’m a tea man myself.”
    “Well, it takes all kinds,” Hare said.
    He sipped some of the scalding coffee and Munro grunted. “I knew there was something. I forgot to tell you that in view of the peculiar circumstances, your Navy has decided to promote you.”
    “To full Commander?” Hare said in astonishment.
    “No, to Fregattenkapitän actually,” Munro told him, hitched the blanket over his shoulders and went to sleep.

chapter two

    As Craig Osbourne reached the edge of St. Maurice, there was a volley of rifle fire and rooks in the beech trees outside the village church lifted into the air in a dark cloud, calling to each other angrily. He was driving a Kubelwagen, the German Army’s equivalent of the jeep, a general purpose vehicle that would go anywhere. He parked it by the lych-gate that gave entrance to the cemetery and got out, immaculate in the grey field uniform of a Standartenführer in the Waffen-SS.
    It was raining softly and he took a greatcoat of black leather from the rear seat, slipped it over his shoulders and went forward to where a gendarme stood watching events in the square. There were a handful of villagers down there, no more than that, an SS firing squad and two prisoners waiting hopelessly, hands manacled behind their backs. A third lay face down on the cobbles by the wall. As Osbourne watched, an elderly officer appeared, wearing along greatcoat with the silver grey lapel facings