General Thomason is sat behind with his boots resting on his huge, cluttered desk, a tumbler of whisky in one hand and a dossier resting in his lap.
“At ease, guys,” the General says, not looking up from the folder. “Grab yourselves a seat.”
He puffs on a large cigar and seemingly ignores everyone for the best part of five minutes as he continues to read the dossier.
He slaps it shut over-dramatically and tosses it on his desk.
“Good work, guys,” he says as a rare smile crosses his face momentarily.
“After all that, I’m sure that you’re ready for a little vacation,” he says.
Taffy nods vigorously. "Yes, that we are, Sir. “Me Mum’s dead angry at me for missing supper the last time – after she cooked me favourite rarebit, she did. It’s hard to get all the ingredients, what with the rationing and all.”
The General doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Yeah, a nice little vacation is what you all need,” he continues. “I’ve heard that the Med is nice at this time of year. The weather’s a lot nicer than it is here in Limey-land – not to mention up north in Kvalen-land.”
“Where about in the Med, exactly?” asks the Padre suspiciously?
“Gibraltar. That nice, safe little rock well away from all of the troubles.”
“And what are we going to do when we get there?” Piotr asks, even more suspiciously.
“Commander Ian Fleming will meet you and fill you in on the details,” he says. “You must have made a really good impression on it from the Mussolini snatch. He requested you guys in particular for his latest little job.”
Shoulders shrug in resignation all round.
“Have all your kit ready for you to leave at 1930 hours. If you need any Kraut ammo for your weapons, request them from the QM. Full load-out. You may be gone for quite a while.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all. Gloria will see you out.”
And with that, he picks up another dossier and starts to read.