Yet he was also stunned to consider these planes could possibly be real, something that’d also occurred to the other nine passengers on the DC-3 that afternoon. All of them stared out through the plane’s side windows as they came in, only forcing themselves back to their seats in the last moments before landing. All present were either officers or high-ranking NCOs — warrant officers and sergeants — and were all British Army. The general discussion on the flight up from London had revealed that none of them actually knew exactly what they were being sent to Scapa Flow for, other than that it was to become part of the security detachment for a new base there, and that there’d be the ample opportunity for all of them to further their own combat and field craft skills at the same time.
In Kransky’s estimation — and his judgement was usually exceptional — most of the men were highly-skilled indeed, if perhaps lacking in actual combat experience. They’d certainly been eager to hear of what he’d seen in China and France, and had listened intently to everything he was willing to tell. Their unwavering interest and constant urging had prompted him to be more forthcoming than he might normally have been, and it’d helped pass the time in any case.
From the moment they’d appeared over HMS Proserpine and the Hindsight base however, the conversation had centred solely on the incredible aircraft below, although with no air force officers being present, nobody could manage anything beyond pure speculation. Kransky suspected, looking at those aircraft, that perhaps the average RAF officer mightn’t be much more help anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, the men had disembarked from their aircraft and stood in line on the runway, their duffel bags piled at their feet. They were met on the flight line by two officers, an army brigadier and an RAF air vice marshal with an Australian accent, and it quickly became apparent that the latter of the two in charge.
“Welcome to the Hindsight Interception Unit, gentlemen: part of the HMS Proserpine naval anchorage…” the Australian began, waving away their attempts at coming to attention. “At ease… at ease… you’re not here to brush up on your drill.” He smiled as they relaxed, some a little reluctantly. Kransky, who’d never once stood at attention in his life, remained casual throughout it all, but nevertheless watched every movement with interest.
“My name’s Max Thorne…” the man continued. “I’m the ranking officer in this area of the base. I don’t intend to throw my weight around all that much unless absolutely necessary, but I thought you should all know that straight off the bat. My colleague here is Brigadier Nick Alpert of Army Intelligence — he’s one of my far-too-many executive officers and advisors here on base…” the remark raised a grin from Alpert “…and it’s he who’ll mainly be in command of liaison and security matters here at Hindsight. This unit’s quite separate from the rest of the Scapa Flow Naval Base, you’ll quickly see: it’s a tri-service establishment, which countenances no favourites or seniority among any of the services… the only seniority here is me…” He grinned again, the expression making it fairly clear that wasn’t going to be an issue for many.
Thorne then made his way along the line, individually greeting each man and speaking a few words before moving on to the next. As he reached Kransky, he took a few more moments than with the others: the name ‘Richard Kransky’ was one he’d recognised from the list of prospective security personnel the moment it’d been presented to him.
“Major Kransky… I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Thorne began with a slightly guarded smile, shaking the man’s hand.
“Nothing too bad, I hope,” the American replied with a broad, lopsided grin, while totally and purposefully ignoring correct protocol in order to gauge the man’s reactions.
“All good, I’m pleased to report,” Thorne replied without a blink, ignoring the deliberate faux pas with equal intent. He knew the man by historic reputation and was very pleased to have him on board. He wasn’t going to start dragging him across the carpet for matters that Thorne himself cared little for. “You’re excellent reputation as a field operative precedes you: we’re grateful to have you here with us. You’ll be heading up the security team these boys’ll be putting together, and as such I’ll expect you to work closely with me and Nick here while we’re at it.”
“Sure it’ll be a pleasure, sir,” Kransky replied, deciding this time to show at least some deference to rank, now the Australian had passed his unofficial ‘test’. He could assess a lot in the first few seconds of meeting a person, and he could already see the man had a few problems judging by the condition of — and look in — his eyes (not to mention the whiff of alcohol on his breath at close range). Thorne also appeared to be under a lot more pressure than he was probably used to, but the man also gave every indication of being a straight-up kind of guy. On the face of it, he certainly seemed unlikely to be a hard-ass as far as regulations were concerned, and those were the types of men Kransky liked working with: men who cared about what was important rather than the pointless minutiae that many ranking military officers seemed preoccupied with. “Sure it’ll be a real pleasure,” he repeated, and actually meant it.
Curragh Internment Camp
County Kildare, Ireland
Wednesday
July 17, 1940
Cold wooden barracks, damp earth, icy winds and barbed wire: if ever a single, short sentence could describe the Curragh Internment Camp, that would’ve been close in Eoin Kelly’s informed opinion. He was certainly in an excellent position to pass judgement, having been held now for six months, and Kelly had to admit there were tougher prisons on the face of it — Portlaoise, Arbour Hill or Mountjoy in Dublin, to name a few — but the worst part of the Curragh wasn’t necessarily the conditions.
Kelly was a man in his mid-forties, of barely average height and sporting a shock of unruly red hair that refused to turn grey. His face was generally nondescript, other than a completely winning smile that perfectly complemented his affable and slightly roguish nature. His personality and powers of persuasion had been of great use to him both personally and professionally over the years, although ultimately even he had to admit they hadn’t been sufficient to prevent him ending up at The Curragh.
Special Branch’s Broy Harriers had picked Kelly up on a frosty afternoon in December of 1936 as he walked along Dublin’s Cloniffe Road, minding his own business. At the time, he’d been working under Seán O’Brien, the newly-appointed Intelligence Officer for the Irish Republican Army Council, and had been sought by the Special Branch for some time as a result of his activities within the IRA. Although there’d been no real offence for which he could be officially charged, that was a minor detail that mattered little to the Special Branch of the day when dealing with the Republican Army. His apprehension alone had provided them with an appropriate charge in any case: illegal possession of a handgun.