Voices on the Wind Read Online Free PDF Page B

good team; four top instructors, experts in their fields. They concentrated on the French Section, known as F. Their students were all destined for the SOE operation in France if they survived the final selection course. Activity in F Section had been building up steadily in the last year. Some of their pupils, as McKay called them, had already distinguished themselves establishing resistance groups all over France. A number had been captured and were dead.
    He wondered sometimes whether Taft worried about them as much as he did. It would be difficult to judge. He never referred to anyone after they left. He was a dour, surly man, devoid of charm. McKay had nothing in common with him but a determination to pick the very best out of the men and women and not let anyone doubtful slip through. They often disagreed until the last moment.
    â€˜Well,’ McKay said at last. ‘We’ll have the new ones by tonight. Derain, Le Brun, Hunter, Sansom, Gunn and Fitzgerald. Let’s hope we’ll find one of them turns out useful.’
    â€˜Fitzgerald’s only a kid,’ Taft said snappily. ‘Bloody ridiculous sending someone of that age.’
    â€˜That’s what I said,’ McKay agreed. ‘But the boys in Baker Street hand-picked this candidate for some reason. I made no impression at all.’
    â€˜Must have lost a few then,’ Taft grunted. ‘But that’s not our responsibility. We send them out of here able to look after themselves, fit as fleas and raring to go. What gets buggered up in Hampshire is another matter. Getting cold out here.’ He hunched his body up against a sudden squall of wind that tore at the loch water, lashing and whipping at it in a fury. The rain spat down on them.
    â€˜Christ, what a climate,’ Taft muttered.
    McKay ignored the remark. ‘Michaelson is the conducting officer; this is his fourth group in three months. I hope he’s in a better state than last time.’
    Taft turned away from the sheeting rain, his head sunk down into his shoulders like a turtle. He surprised McKay by saying something in defence of Captain Michaelson.
    â€˜He looked at the end of his tether last time,’ he said. ‘Living with them day and bloody night without a break for weeks on end. He shouldn’t be back so soon. Typical Baker Street.’
    There was a running war between Taft and the senior officers in F Section. The last time Captain Michaelson had spent five weeks with a group of six trainees on the loch, Taft hadn’t found a good word to say for him.
    â€˜Let’s turn back,’ McKay suggested. He looked at his watch. ‘Hickey and his lot will be back in half an hour. The new lot should get here around seven if the train’s on time.’
    The storm was passing and, as the clouds cleared, a brilliant patch of sky was reflected like a sapphire in the loch. Taft hated the place; McKay had grown up there and he loved it above anywhere else in the world.
    Katharine was so stiff she ached when she got up and pulled her baggage off the rack above her head. The train hissed at the platform, sounding like a punctured tyre. Doors were opening and banging shut and the guard was shouting ‘Lossiemouth, Lossiemouth’. The station’s name had been blacked out.
    She heaved her bag on to the platform, shoved the door shut and got her ticket ready. She felt creased and grubby after the endless journey. Her smart new WAAF officer’s uniform had been slept in and it looked like it. She went through the barrier and waited outside. Five other people stood about, kitbags at their feet. Four men and a woman. Two in army uniform, two in RAF. The woman wore a smart khaki uniform. Kate recognized it. The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. FANY. The Americans choked on that one. An officer with three pips on his overcoat was walking towards them. Kate didn’t hesitate; she joined the group. She saw him frown and wondered what she had