Dockerty Grimes …Agent 008 !

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“ Good morning, sir,” I said as I entered the plush office. “ I believe you wanted to see me. Grimes is the name … Dockerty Grimes.”

‘Q’ looked up from behind his enormous paper strewn desk and through a cloud of cigar smoke. He was Director of the British Secret, Secret Service … so secret even the Secret Service was ignorant of its existence. Hence the two ‘Secrets’.

“I’ve been looking over your record and I feel you are just the man for the job.” Another puff ... then he wheezed and coughed. “Mind you Grimes, its dangerous,” he continued. “ It brought your predecessor’s career to a sticky end. But that Bond fellow was always getting mixed up with women during his assignments.” Another puff ... and the haze almost obliterated ‘Q’s features.

“What happened to him, sir,” I asked.

“Knife in the back. Got to watch your back, you know. A woman did it…”

“So where do you want me to go ?” I enquired anxiously. I was always ready to serve King and country, no matter the personal risks.

“Grimes,” he said most seriously, “I want you to go to Morocco … there’s an Arab drug runner there named Ali. He smuggles the stuff into England by the ton. Must be stopped. You’ll find him at a joint called the Klub Kasbah … it’s a seedy nightclub by the Mediterranean. And you will be contacted by two of our agents. They are working undercover.” He chuckled at his own joke, the import of which escaped me at the time.

“I’m ready to go, sir,” I said.

“Good man ! And remember to watch your back … especially if there are women around.”

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Morocco .. land of mystery, danger … and smells. A taxi took me to the Klub Kasbah … ‘Q’s description had been generous. Inside half a dozen patrons waited for the floor show to commence. Another four Arabs sat around a table examining papers from the important looking brief case. It was my quarry …

The bar-tender asked me what I was drinking.

‘Milk’ I said , little realising it would be a day or two old goat’s milk. Not that the goat was a day or two old but the milk was. I leaned on the counter and eyed the occupants of this night-club reflected in the mirror on the wall facing me.

Then came the announcement from the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen !!! For your entertainment and at great expense to the management, we present the Dolly Sisters with their exotic ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’.” There was no applause. But a three-piece band began to play and the Dolly Sisters , swathed in silken, coloured veils, appeared from the wings.

The patrons continued to puff on their hookahs. The four dangerous looking men behind me continued discussing the papers before them.

It wasn’t until the fourth veil was discarded anyone seemed to take much notice of the performance.

The Dolly Sisters gyrated and swirled, swivelled their hips and wiggled their fingers. And disposed of another veil. It was pseudo-oriental ! But when the sixth veil went a- fluttering onto the floor the customers interest began to rise.

Even I, watching this amateurish manoeuvring in the mirror, was temporarily distracted. Not watching my back !!

There was a cry … from whence it came I knew not … but a husky voice yelled, “Look out !!”

Instinctively I ducked and dodged to one side. Whether the warning had been for me or not , I knew not. But I soon realised that someone had saved my life. The knife … meant for my back , now quivered in the shattered mirror. It had missed me by inches. I turned. Ali and his three co-conspirators all stood facing me , each with an evil-looking throwing knife in hand.

Reaching for the gun in my shoulder holster was out of the question.

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“Goodbye, Mr. Grimes.” said Ali .

All four knives were raised ready to throw when four shots rang out.

On the stage the Dolly Sisters stood with a gun in each hand. Tho’ where they had concealed them beneath that seventh veil I never discovered.

The drug cartel lay dead , one of them sprawled on the table , the others on the floor.

The Dolly Sisters kept their weapons levelled at everyone else whilst I scooped the papers from Ali’s table … and shoved them quickly into my pockets.

“Follow me,” said the one with the husky voice.

I did.

In the back alley a motor bike awaited us. It was a tight squeeze but I didn’t complain. Sandwiched between the Dolly Sisters as one careered down Morocco’s narrow street was an experience not to be forgotten. I hung on to the driver whilst Miss Husky-voice clung on to me.

Veil number seven was blowing in my face.

“Where,” I asked, “ are we going ?”

“ An airfield about ten minutes away,” came the surprising reply.

“ An airfield !!!” I echoed.

“There’s a Cessna waiting for us to get us back to England.”

“ You two are my contacts ?” I asked, somewhat shocked.

“ That’s right …”

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An hour later we had flown across the Channel to a military airbase and been taken by jeep to ‘Q’s office. I handed him the brief case crammed with the incriminating papers.

He puffed his cigar … “ Well done, Grimes ! I see you’ve met Sharee (Agent 009 ) and Rosie ( Agent 666) … hope they helped you ‘watch your back’.”

“Yes sir ! And I watched theirs …..”

“And I told you they were working under-cover…”

“That,” I replied, was an over-statement …”

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Behind Enemy Lines …

In which Wing Commander Dockerty Grimes runs for his life …..

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“Grimes, … come in and sit down.”

“Yessur! Thankyou, sir.” A click of the heels and a salute accompanied Wing Commander Dockerty Grimes reply.

“I need someone to fly a rather dangerous mission,” said Air Marshall Philpott, “ and I believe you are just the chap for the job. As you know, the Germans have invaded France and we want someone to take a look and see if they can spot where they are exactly. There are, of course still some airfields in allied hands where you’ll be able to refuel . We’ll give you the necessary charts.”

“I’ll be glad to help, sir,” said Dockerty.

“Yes, I knew I could count on you. It’s urgent, Grimes. When can you be ready to leave ?”

“Just as soon as my Spitfire is fuelled and warmed up.”

“Good chap !” Philpott rose and offered Dockerty Grimes his hand. “Take care,” he added.

“Yessur !” and, with a click of the heels and a salute, Dockerty Grimes prepared for this latest adventure.

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But first … a phone-call.

“Millie, is that you ? This is Dockerty. Look… I’m sorry about our date tonight but Philpott wants me to do a little job for him. No … nothing dangerous. Don’t you worry. I just have to pop across the channel for a day or so. I’ll ring you as soon as I get back. And whilst I’m in France I’ll see if I can pick up a bottle of your favourite perfume. What’s it called ? Savour of Life. Got it ! Love you. See you soon….”

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(A Battle of Britain Spitfire at the Imperial War Museum, London)

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Less than ten minutes later Dockerty saw the white cliffs of Dover disappear behind him. It would be dusk by the time he reached the first safe airfield … a good place to see if the French had Savour of Life in their store-rooms. Or on their black market….

Yes, they did … and he carefully stowed the precious bottle into the pocket of his flying jacket. Millie would be so pleased.

He also stayed the night in this place, taking off at first light the following morning.

Skimming across the tree-tops he noted a battalion of Germans in one city, a tank division moving toward another, and an airfield with three Messerschmitts still on the ground. What he didn’t expect was the anti-aircraft gun that blasted away at him and caused smoke to billow from his engine. After a few minutes it spluttered and stopped and Dockerty was forced to bring the Spitfire down as gently as he could in a grassy field.

He clambered quickly from the cockpit. Well he knew that in less than ten minutes a carload or two of Nazis, probably with dogs, would be arriving.

Before him was a clump of trees and bushes. On the other side a steep hill descending down to a rocky valley.

Back to the Spitfire, Dockerty ! No time to lose !

Sprinkle some Savour of Life in the cockpit. Then on a glove and drop it a few yards away. Then on some of the bushes. And then hurl that bottle, without the lid screwed on, into the valley.

Two patrol cars had arrived. A dozen German soldiers leapt out. Tracker dogs barked.

Dockerty climbed a tree ……

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The dogs sniffed the cockpit … then the glove … then led the Nazis through the wooded area to the hill top. One dog barked in Dockerty’s direction … less than twenty yards away … but majority ruled and the dogs led their masters down the steep incline.

One lone soldier had been left in charge of the vehicles. Dockerty crept up behind him and thumped him with a rock. He donned his jacket and his helmet. He set fire to the Spitfire, ( he was not leaving that for the Germans !) disabled the engine and radio of one car, found the keys still dangling in the other, and sped off back toward the airfield.

Luckily … or Providentially … a Messerschmitt was just warming up on the runway.

As the unsuspecting pilot approached, he greeted Dockerty with a ‘Heil Hitler’. Dockerty responded with a right to his jaw. He took the keys from the inert form , mounted the cockpit, and headed for home.

Messerschmitt 109

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“Well done, Grimes!” said Philpott. “Jolly good show. It’s a shame we lost one of our Spitfires but the plane you brought back had some pretty helpful charts in it. More than compensated, I’d say.”

“Thank-you sir.”

With a click of the heels and a salute he headed for the nearest telephone.

“Millie … is that you? Yes, I’m safe. But I’m sorry about the perfume you ordered ... I had to use it to put some dogs off the scent. It sure was a Life-Saver to me ……”

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