Free The Spy by Marc Eden Page A

be carrying one.” He released his grip. “Ready, Sergeant?”
    â€œAye, sir.” The Sergeant produced two guns: a German Luger and a Schmeisser machine-pistol, much preferred by the S. S. “Tiring either of these babies,” he pointed out, “is something you were not taught when you joined Naval Intelligence.” Commander Hamilton coughed politely, and Llewellyn made a mental note. Officially, Valerie Sinclair was not here. “This one,” said the Sergeant, “is the standard Luger automatic, .30 caliber—”
    She observed.
    â€œâ€”nine bullets to the clip.” He slammed the clip home and handed it to her.
    Valerie proved an exceptional pupil. Acquainted with guns, she gained an understanding of the powerful weapons quickly. Hamilton, hands behind his back, watched with interest. The Schmeisser proved to be the more difficult. “Yes,” said the Sergeant, finally, to the Commander, “I’d say a four-inch group at a hundred yards was respectable.”
    Rifle practice followed: German guns and Allied. Valerie lay flat, propped on her elbows in the hot grass, her cheeks burning and her head ricocheting from the explosions.
    â€œNo no, lassie! Do what you did before. Squeeze the trigger!”
    By noon, hands burned raw from the gun oil, the smell of the powder had her reeling.
    â€œCome along, my dear, we will have a spot of lunch now.”
    â€œPerhaps she’s had enough for one day, sir,” offered the instructor.
    â€œShe is not here to be spared,” Hamilton snapped crisply. “She’ll pull a full twelve hours, along with the men.”
    Valerie appreciated the Sergeant’s kindness and wished some of it would rub off on Hamilton. She turned towards him, trying to hide her bleeding hands.
    â€œI know, I know,” he said gruffly, “but I want you back alive. Learning and talking about violence here, where we are safe, is entirely a different matter from being faced with it. If ever in that position, you may surprise yourself.”
    They reached the mess hall and found a secluded corner.
    Valerie’s hand trembled as she tried to hold the fork. Hamilton, eating at his regular rate, said: “I speak from experience. On the Dieppe raid, code-named WEYMOUTH, I was an observer. All bloody hell broke loose when we landed. It was a very tight corner.”
    â€œYes, sir.” She could see the towering clouds of black smoke. “That was Number Four Commando, sir? Lord Lovat?”
    â€œThat’s right. His orders were to knock out the German battery at Varengeville. The battery was utterly destroyed. A hundred and sixty four men took part in the raid. Fifty killed. The Germans lost three times that number. Pierre, you know, was wounded.”
    She hadn’t known that about Pierre.
    â€œYes, he was a bit more fortunate than the others. Went in with the Canadians, you see. Second Canadian Infantry, the six battalions that attacked Dieppe itself, caught it point-blank, nearly four thousand dead.”
    â€œHow awful,” she said. She waited.
    Hamilton dabbed at his mouth.
    â€œAnd the Navy, how many?”
    â€œOne destroyer, some landing craft, five hundred and fifty men killed.”
    â€œAll those men...” she said.
    â€œNo, by counting the German dead, we could measure their strength. That way, you see, we were able to know exactly what we’d be up against. Our recent landings in Normandy, of course, have been the result.” Hamilton finished his lunch. “Ready?”
    â€œI met Lord Lovat....” she started to say.
    â€œThat’s nice. Come meet the man who trained him.”
    Walking back to the firing range, Valerie said, “You might have been killed.”
    â€œI know how to take care of myself. I received the best possible training yet devised, right here at Commando Headquarters. After Dieppe, I volunteered for the Naval Commando Unit. Unfortunately, I