‘Okay,’ Asa said reluctantly, ‘but at least I can fly you down to Laville. Nobody can object to that.’
‘Always nicer to have a friend see you off,’ Devlin said.
It was just after nine the following night, rain pounding in from the Atlantic, when Asa stood in the control tower at Laville and watched the Dornier take off. He opened a window, listened to it fade into the night. He closed the window and said to the radio man, ‘Send this message.’
Devlin, sitting at the back of the Dornier in a flying suit, his supply bag beside him, was approached by the wireless operator. ‘A message for you, sir. A bad joke on someone’s part.’
‘Read it.’
‘It just says: “Break a leg”.’
Devlin laughed. ‘Well, son, you’d have to be an actor to understand that one.’
The Dornier made good time and it was shortly after two in the morning when Devlin jumped at five thousand feet. As on the last occasion, he had chosen County Monaghan which was an area he knew well and adjacent to the Ulster border.
The necessity of a supply bag to the parachutist is that dangling twenty feet below him on a cord it hits the ground first, a useful precaution when landing in the dark. A crescent moon showed occasionally which helped. Devlin made an excellent landing and within minutes had his suitcase and a trenching shovel out of the supply bag, a dark raincoat and trilby. He found a ditch, scraped a hole, put the supply bag, parachute and flying suit in it then tossed the shovel into a nearby pool.
168
He put on his raincoat and hat, opened the case and found the steel-rimmed spectacles which he carried in there for safety. Underneath the neatly folded uniform was a webbing belt and holster containing a Smith & Wesson.38 revolver, the type frequently issued to British officers. There was a box of fifty cartridges to go with it. Everything seemed in order. He put on the spectacles and stood up.
‘Hail Mary full of Grace, here am I, a sinner,’ he said softly. ‘Do what you can for me,’ and he crossed himself, picked up his suitcase and moved on.
The Ulster border, to anyone who knew it, was never a problem. He followed a network of country lanes and the occasional field path and by four fifteen was safe in Ulster and standing on British soil.
And then he had an incredible piece of luck. A farm truck passed him, stopped and the driver, a man in his sixties, looked out. ‘Jesus, Father, and where would you be walking to at this time of the morning?’
‘Armagh,’ Devlin said. ‘To catch the milk train to Belfast.’
‘Now isn’t that the strange thing and me going all the way to Belfast market.’
‘God bless you, my son,’ Devlin said and climbed in beside him.
‘Nothing to it, Father,’ the farmer told him as he drove away. ‘After all, if a priest can’t get a helping hand in Ireland, where would he get one?’
It was later that morning, at ten o’clock, when Schellenberg knocked on the Reichsfuhrer’s door and went in.
‘Yes?’ Himmler said. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve had confirmation from Laville, Reichsfuhrer, that Devlin jumped into Southern Ireland at approximately two a.m.’
‘Really?’ Himmler said. ‘You’ve moved fast, Brig-adefuhrer. My congratulations.’
‘Of course none of this guarantees success, Reichsfuhrer. We have to take even Devlin’s safe landing on faith and the whole business when he gets to London is very open-ended.’
‘There’s been a change in our plans,’ Himmler said. ‘The Fuhrer’s conference at Belle Ile will now take place on the fifteenth.’
‘But Reichsfuhrer, that only gives us a week.’
‘Yes, well we’re in the Fuhrer’s hands. It is not for us to query his decisions. Still, I know you’ll do your best. Carry on, General.’
Schellenberg went out, closing the door, feeling totally bewildered. ‘For God’s sake, what’s the bastard playing at?’ he said softly and went back to his office.
Chapter EIGHT
IN Belfast, Devlin found it impossible to get a ticket for the crossing to Heysham in Lancashire. There was a waiting list and the situation was no better on the Glasgow route. Which left Larne, north of Belfast, to Stranraer, the way he had got across the water for Operation Eagle. It was a short run and a special boat train all the way to London, but this time he wasn’t going to take any chances. He caught the local train from Belfast to Larne, went into a public toilet on the docks and locked himself in. When he came out fifteen minutes later, he was in uniform.