The Belfair Pinch | Ryan Plut, Author

Selection from The Belfair Pinch

He awoke early Saturday morning, the sun streaming in, the top of Millicent Featherstone’s head buried in his armpit. Supper and dancing at the Turf Club had ended here in his hotel room. The cocktails had been splendid, the supper exquisite. As he’d spun her about the dance floor, Milly had complimented him on his abilities. They’d fit very well together last night. As he dressed he watched her sitting on the edge of the tub in her panties, shaving her legs. When she finished she offered the razor to him, but he had to decline.

“Major Stirling told me not to shave; I’m to grow a beard.” Milly slumped on the edge of the bed, her forearms dangling between her legs.

“Oh, God, they’re sending you to the Balkans, aren’t they?” She pouted, and threw herself on her back, a forearm over her eyes. “Why is it every …” she complained, leaving the rest unsaid. “Do me a favour: if you run into ‘Marko’ give him a swift kick in the ‘ghoulies’ from me.”

“Why?” he asked, laughing, “What did he ever do to you?”

“We had three dates, and he stood me up for two of them.” She sat up.

“I think I won’t. You’ll get much more satisfaction out of doing it yourself, when you see him next.”

“You mean ‘if’ I see him again,” Milly replied, standing and reaching for her brassiere. “Men who go there have a tendency to disappear. I need to go to work.”

“I’ll walk you there,” he offered, but thought to himself, That sounds ominous.

* * *

“Nice bit of stubble there.” Major David Stirling greeted him when he entered. “Having a beard in Yugoslavia is regarded as de rigueur. Every man sports one. Those without a beard are regarded with suspicion. We want you to look as much like a local as possible. Once you reach the ship you can shave.”

“I’ve been meaning to say something about that. After a sinking it’s usual to be given six weeks R&R. Will I be —”

“Sure, six weeks will give you a good start on that beard. In the meantime you can brush up on your Serbo-Croatian.”

“Not that I know any now.”

“I was being facetious. It’s an extremely difficult language. We think you’ll be best served if you only learn a few key words and phrases that may help you bluff your way out of a difficult situation. You should talk as little as possible. Just leave the talking to your contact. He’s fluent in it.” The Major brought out a number of items from his desk and grouped them on the desktop. They got stuck into it straight away. He pushed a tiny bible at him, a raised golden cross embossed on its morocco-leather cover.

“This is a phrasebook you’ll do well to study, disguised as a bible. We’ll arrange for a tutor to coach you on certain days about pronunciation.” Reggie opened it to find onionskin pages filled with tiny type. David then pushed a short stack of paper money at him.

“This is the money they use in Yugoslavia. It’s called ‘dinar’ and we’ll provide quite a lot of it, more than you’ll need, to bribe your way out of any spot of trouble. Corruption seems to be a way of life up that way. Familiarize yourself with the various denominations. You’ll carry this in waxed envelopes sewn into your clothing, for the drop.” Reggie glanced at it, then pocketed it.

“Also sewn into your clothing will be a new set of papers saying you’re Swedish. We’ll take your photograph and gin those up later. Apropos clothing, you’ll be given clothing befitting the country so you’ll blend in while you travel to the ship. We’re working on assembling those for you now.”

“You said, ‘for the drop’? I won’t be parachuted in, will I? I don’t think I can do that.”

“No, we’ll drop you by submarine. You’ll need to walk in the dark approximately five miles overland through dense scrub, the last half mile through town.”

“Do I get a compass? A map? How do I know the route?”

“You’ll be met on a specific beach by your ‘in-country’ contact, Bill Hudson, an agent we planted there in September ’41 for another operation, Operation Bullseye. He’ll guide you there. His nom de guerre — sorry, nom de guerre is French for ‘War Name’ —”

“I know what it means, sir,” Reggie interrupted.

“Oh. … Well, … anyway, as I was saying: when you’re in-country you’re never to refer to any of our agents by their actual names. Never call your contact ‘Bill’ or ‘Hudson’ within earshot of any other person. You’re to call him only ‘Marko’, got it?” Despite himself, Reggie laughed. The major regarded him with a bewildered expression. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. Carry on.”

“Marko will have a wireless transmitting set with him. When you reach the ship, Marko is to send the coded message ‘The goose has landed’.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“No, that’s just too stupid.” The major bridled at this and frowned.

“What do you suggest?” he asked, peevishly.

“Well, I’m from Goudhurst in Kent, … how about, … ‘The Hedgehog Has Burrowed’?”

“Have it your way.” The major said, with a shrug. “Now, we come to this: if your words or your bribes fail, this will be your last resort.” He unwrapped a folded cloth to reveal a pistol laying next to its magazine. “This is a Walther P38 and is an early model – notice the walnut grips. It’s 9mm Parabellum.” Reggie picked it up and hefted it. It was short. The German eagle was stamped on one side, and there were various other numbers on it.

“Walther P38? So, it’s German?”

“The Czech resistance took it from a dead Gestapo officer. Standard issue in the Wehrmacht except the barrel’s been shortened.” Reggie noticed the snub barrel had been machined for threads, and so there was no front sight.

“Does it come with a silencer?”

“No. If you find you do need to use this, you’ll likely be standing within feet of your assailant so I shouldn’t worry about missing.”

“Splendid,” he replied, without enthusiasm. “As I said, I’ve never fired a gun in my entire life – that is, only long guns, never a pistol.”

“Now’s your chance to learn, eh? Take it with you now. Familiarize yourself with it, until you feel comfortable handling it. You’ll be taken into the desert and we’ll coach you. There’s no ammunition in it: we won’t give you that until later.” The major took the magazine and cloth back and placed them in the drawer. “Now just go down the hall to the door marked sixteen, and they’ll snap a photo for your new Swedish identity papers. They’re expecting you. Well, that wraps it up for today. Enjoy your rest and relaxation.” Reggie pocketed the pistol and the phrasebook. After the photo session Reggie surprised Milly in General Stone’s anteroom.

“Have I got news for you! Want to have lunch?” She accepted at once.