‘Where SOE got a copy,’ Grant added, ‘and spotted something.’
Matheson withdrew a sheet. ‘You might as well read it yourself, Trickey. It’s written in plain English.’
Theo took the page and scanned it. Then read again, his brow furrowing.
The killing can be stopped. Only desire and dialogue needed. And trust between two Norman foes. They bleed on both sides. Suggest the sayer be the bridge. Respond via Dulles.
‘I… I don’t understand.’
‘Nor did we at first. Enlighten him, Grant.’
Grant took the sheet. ‘Well, the first two sentences are obvious, as is the last. Then we guessed that “trust between two Norman foes” refers to the opposing commanders here in Normandy, that is to say, Monty—’
‘Grant!’
‘Sorry, sir, I mean Field Marshal Montgomery. And Field Marshal Rommel. Then we hit a stumbling block with “they bleed on both sides”. At first we thought it was a reference to all the fighting, which I suppose it is, indirectly. But then one of our backroom boys spotted it’s also a line from Hamlet.’
‘Spoken by Horatio,’ Matheson added pointedly.
‘Exactly. Which means the next sentence: “suggest the sayer be the bridge” means they want Horatio, i.e. you, Theo, to be the bridge.’
‘Bridge?’
‘Intermediary. Liaison. Go-between.’
Pin-drop silence had fallen in the tent. Another man had entered too, he noted, standing with the others in the shadows. Older, tall, he wore a battered uniform cap and a woollen scarf tucked into his battledress.
‘So, Trickey,’ Matheson went on, ‘the question is, based on your experience of the man, do you concur with this analysis? Or can you think of some other explanation?’
He couldn’t. He took the sheet and reread it a third time. It bore all the hallmarks: Here’s what I propose, Rommel seemed to be saying, and here’s how to do it. Practical, direct and to the point, like the tip of a spear. Classic Rommel.
‘No, sir, I can’t.’
‘Do you believe it originates from him?’
Goodbye, Horatio. Perhaps we shall meet once more. ‘Most probably.’
‘And do you see now why we had to be sure about the Horatio name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Splendid!’ The scarf-wearing officer stirred from the shadows. ‘So glad that’s all settled. Thank you, Lieutenant, and thank you, Colonel Matheson, for all your hard work.’
‘Always a pleasure, sir.’
A ripple of mirth circled the tent. Then: ‘The only question remaining, therefore, is what’s to be done.’
‘General, I thought…’
‘I take it we all agree Rommel’s talking about some sort of local ceasefire.’
Heads nodded. The FANY’s pen hovered.
‘Well, that’s out of the question. The Allies aren’t interested in penny-packet ceasefires. We require total surrender of all Axis forces everywhere. Nothing less. General Eisenhower’s very clear about that.’
‘Rommel can’t deliver that,’ Matheson said. ‘He hasn’t the authority.’
‘Indeed. Thus there’s nothing to talk about. Officially.’
Another silence.
‘Nonetheless…’ The general patted his pockets.
‘Sir?’ Theo raised his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Aren’t the lives worth it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A ceasefire, here in Normandy, even a temporary one. The lives saved. It could be thousands, on both sides, and many civilian lives too.’
‘You miss the point—’
‘All I’m saying is shouldn’t we at least find out what he wants?’
Everyone, he saw, was watching him, including the radio operators.
The general produced a note. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. If you’ll allow me to finish, the answer to your question, seemingly, is yes. Ike doesn’t think so, nor does Churchill, and Stalin certainly doesn’t – not that we’ve told him. But Washington does.’ He waved the note. ‘And why? Because the American public are unhappy about the casualty figures here in Normandy. And since the American public are paying for most of this war, and their menfolk are fighting in it, and they have an election looming in November, it’s considered politically expedient that we should at least look into the matter. So at Washington’s request, we’re sending you, Lieutenant Trickey, to find out what Rommel’s on about. And you’d better be quick about it, because the mother of all offensives is gearing up to get under way here. And once it does, nothing on earth will stop it.’
*
Then he was outside once more, staring breathlessly up at the stars.
Grant appeared. ‘Well done, old chap! That went swimmingly.’
‘Who was that man?’
‘Don’t worry about Matheson, he’s basically on side.’
‘No, the other, the general at the end.’
‘That was Freddie de Guingand, Theo. Monty’s chief of staff!’
‘Montgomery wants this?’
‘He’s about the only one. Says the lives saved warrants it. Like you.’
Two Norman foes. He inhaled damp night air. ‘And the woman. The FANY?’
‘She’s SOE, but not with French ops.’
‘Then—’
Grant pressed his arm. ‘There’s no more news, Theo. I checked with Vera Atkins before leaving. The gen Thérèse Gondrée gave you is the very latest. If we learn anything new you’ll be the first to hear it, I promise.’
He was shown to a room in the main house, an attic garret with sloping roof, bare boards and a bed, and told to await further instructions. A plate of sandwiches had been left together with a bottle of English beer. Shedding boots and battledress he lay down and tried to rest, his head a-swirl with questions and implications. Later he fell into fitful sleep, dreaming of waves lapping on sand and a woman’s cheek on his chest. The next day he was again told to stand by, so passed much of it restlessly wandering the house and gardens of the chateau, now serving as General Dempsey’s 2nd Army HQ. A sizeable workforce filled it, more than a hundred figures in khaki, many with red Staff flashes, hurrying purposefully between rooms marked ‘Maps’, ‘Meteo’, ‘Ops’, ‘Signals’ and one marked ‘Intel’. He saw no one he recognized from the night before, but from time to time a harassed-looking Grant hurried by in a cloud of smoke.
‘Hello, Dennis. What’s happening?’
‘It’s my first time, that’s what!’
‘What is?’
‘This! Running an operation in the field.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really! It’s one thing planning neat little ops from a cosy office in Baker Street, it’s quite another fixing one from a field full of French cowpats!’
‘Is there any news?’
A reply signal had been composed and sent to the American diplomat Dulles during the night, Grant said, which Dulles had duly acknowledged and passed on. But nothing since.
‘It’s a matter of waiting it out. And working on the nitty-gritty.’
‘Nitty…’
‘The who, the where, the when. Above all the how, Theo. These things don’t happen by themselves!’
‘No.’
‘Think about it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’re talking about squeezing a lone British officer through enemy lines, past half a million trigger-happy Jerries, and then somehow squeezing him back again – without getting him killed or captured. It’s no simple matter, I can assure you.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’d better get going. And you’d better hope your chum Rommel comes up with something workable!’
‘He’s not my chum.’
But Grant had gone. Theo resumed his wanderings, sat in the garden, ate a NAAFI stew at lunchtime, then slumped into a library armchair and tried to read the English newspapers, most of which complained of poor Allied progress in Normandy. In other news he read of heavy fighting against the Japanese in the Philippines, a plan for a million Jewi
sh people to settle in Palestine, and a sinister new German weapon called a ‘pilotless flying bomb’, one of which had killed six people in a house in Acton.
Which wasn’t far from Kingston, he reflected, gazing through the window. Nor Hammersmith Hospital. Over a month he’d been in France, he realized, six weeks or more since he’d parted from his parents at Vic’s bedside. And an aeon since he’d left Rosa and the twins at the farm. He tossed the newspaper aside and took to pacing the floor, then on a whim hurried off in search of writing paper, and sat down again, scrawling notes and stuffing them in envelopes. Slowly the afternoon waned. He spent an hour lost in thought by the lake, idly watching dragonflies dart above the mirrored water, then finally at dusk a clerk summoned him inside and led him to a side office where he found Grant sitting at a table.
‘Hello, old chap.’ He smiled. ‘Do have a seat.’ Bathed, shaved and cleanly dressed, his tie straight for once, his cigarettes and ashtray at his side, he looked refreshed, calm and in control again. Before him on the table lay a folder.
‘This is quite a place, eh?’ he began, studying the wood-panelled room. ‘Eighteenth century. Some Norman count built it. Family been here two hundred years, then Jerry invaded and they had to flee. Lovely setting, no?’
‘A clerk said it was Monty’s camp we were in last night. Down in the woods. And that he sleeps in a caravan there.’
‘It’s true, though don’t spread it around. After D-Day he was based in a chateau up at Creully, near the beaches. Then Churchill insisted on visiting, and the place was splashed all over the newspapers. Next day Jerry worked out where it was and shelled it to rubble. Fortunately Monty was away. Since then he prefers his woodland caravan.’
‘I can see why.’
‘He keeps a photo of Rommel on one wall, did you know? Has done since Africa. Says it helps him stay focused. Stops him worrying about home and family and so on.’
Theo nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about my father.’
Grant flicked a glance. ‘He’s poorly, Theo. We must get you home, soon as this palaver’s over.’
Theo stared at the folder. ‘He’s replied, hasn’t he? Rommel.’
‘Yes.’
‘With a plan?’
Grant opened the file. ‘With a plan.’
*
Late the following afternoon he was driven back towards Caen, crossing the Orne at the canal bridge, passing 6th Airborne’s positions, then on, skirting the city to the east. He sat in the back wedged beside Grant, while in front sat Colonel Matheson with the driver. Few words were exchanged, the July sun was hot, the weather close and heavy, and Theo fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. Smartly attired in a new uniform, he felt constricted in shirt and tie, polished shoes, Sam Browne belt, overcoat, gloves and cap. Three captain’s pips adorned his shoulder too, but when he queried this with Grant he was brusquely told it was to stop him getting killed – and wasn’t negotiable. Tugging the shirt collar away from his neck, he sat in silence and stared through the window.
After the canal bridge the traffic began to slow as the military presence grew. They passed one checkpoint, then a second, complete with barrier, barbed wire and guards. ‘Delays up ahead,’ one told them. ‘Jerry unusually twitchy this evening.’
They crept slowly onward, entering the battle-ravaged outskirts of a small town. Wreckage and rubble lay everywhere, craters pocked the streets, smoke drifted and several fires burned. Incoming artillery could also be seen and heard. ‘Colombelles’, the sign read; it lay on the eastern edge of Caen and right on the front line. As a third checkpoint loomed, Matheson wound down his window.
‘Brigade’s expecting us.’ He passed out papers.
‘Yes, sir. They’re in the old police station, on the left there.’
Matheson got out. ‘Wait here, you two.’
The door slammed. Theo felt the knot of tension tighten inside him. Grant, outwardly calm, lit up again.
‘Shouldn’t be long now.’
‘What time’s sunset?’
‘An hour or so. Everything’ll be fine.’
‘I hope so.’
Grant blew smoke. ‘It’s rather droll really,’ he mused. ‘At first I thought we’d have to parachute you in behind enemy lines, or paddle you up the Seine in a rubber dinghy or something equally lethal. Then we considered using the Resistance to smuggle you through, but that was too complicated, and too slow to organize, and there just wasn’t the time. Then came the reply from Dulles and, well, I must concede this way’s simpler, and quicker. Safer too, so long as everyone follows instructions.’
‘Yes.’
‘Especially you. Got the documents?’
‘Yes, Dennis.’
‘Handkerchief?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mine, by the way. Password?’
‘Sternenlicht.’
‘Good. Who’s the contact?’
‘Hans von Luck. Colonel, officer commanding 21st Panzer Division.’
‘De facto commander, Theo, remember, it may be important.’
Matheson reappeared, accompanied by an officer carrying helmets. ‘Comms is all set up between here and 2nd Army HQ,’ Matheson reported, ‘and we’ve been approved to proceed. This is Major Ferguson – he’s going to lead us forward. Tin hats on, let’s go.’
With the crump of mortars and artillery still reverberating all round, the four set off into the town, making their way along narrow streets lined with tall buildings, dodging craters and rubble, gradually moving towards the sound of small-arms fire. Drawing along a cobbled alley, they came to a smashed wall behind which four Scotsmen were manning a machine gun. Beyond them lay the town square, deserted save for a single crumpled body lying beside a burning truck.
‘All secure here, Corporal?’ Ferguson asked.
‘Aye, sir, pretty much.’
‘Good.’
‘Not that you’d know there’s a ceasefire on!’
‘Give it time. Where’s the post office?’
‘Over on the far side.’ He pointed. ‘Straight across, there with the flagpole.’
‘And Jerry?’
‘Everywhere beyond!’
They waited. Twenty minutes passed, the shadows in the square lengthened, the light began to fade, but still the shooting went on, albeit intermittently, sniper fire mixed with mortars and light artillery. Meanwhile, the evening air grew increasingly oppressive. Flushed and perspiring, Theo suddenly peeled off his overcoat and gloves and threw them to the ground. ‘Not wearing them. And that’s not negotiable!’
Matheson shrugged. Another twenty minutes passed. Still the shooting continued.
‘Is that theirs or ours?’ he muttered.
‘Theirs.’ Ferguson squinted through binoculars. ‘Ours stopped at official sunset. As agreed.’
‘Maybe sunset’s different in Jerryland.’ The gunner quipped.
‘That’ll do, Corporal.’ Ferguson leaned towards Matheson. ‘What if they don’t stop?’
‘We forget the whole blasted business and get on with winning the war.’
Ten minutes more. Darkness closed round the square like a veil. Somewhere in the distance a heavier bombardment started up. Matheson checked his watch again. ‘That’s it. Time’s up. Let’s get—’
‘Listen!’
‘I am listening, Trickey! That’s heavy artillery, 88s probably, or—’
‘Yes, but it’s distant. In a different sector, on the other side of the city. There’s no shooting round here.’
Grant fumbled a map. ‘He’s right. Look, according to the intel, 21st Panzer are holding this three-mile ring to the east of Caen. Nothing else. And they’ve stopped. Ages ago. Exactly as agreed!’
*
He’s reminded of two boys struggling across a village street carrying ammunition boxes another lifetime ago. And of walking over the stadium piazza towards a solitary German tank in Naples. That tingling feeling at the back of the neck, and the sensation of nakedness and vulnerability. And a form of detached r
esignation, like fatalism, as though watching someone else do it. Stepping out from behind the gunner’s wall, holding his handkerchief aloft on a stick. Setting off across the deserted square, acutely aware that scores, perhaps hundreds of eyes are watching. Skirting the still-burning lorry and its lifeless driver, his shoes crunching on shattered glass. Reaching the post office, and pushing through the broken door, only to start with terror as it crashes to the ground behind him. On through the darkened shop with its empty shelves and abandoned counter. Groping along a dark passageway to the rear storeroom and the door to the outside. The other outside. Turning the handle to find the door jammed with rubble. Shoving at it doggedly with his shoulder until finally a crack opens and he stumbles out into the night.
‘Halt!’ a voice demands, and he halts. Then vehicle headlights burst to life, blasting him with harsh light. ‘Heben Sie Ihre Hände!’
He raises his hands, still clutching the flag.
‘Wie heissen Sie?’
‘Horatio.’
‘Passwort?’
‘Starlight… I mean Sternenlicht.’
A pause, then finally, and irritably, in English: ‘You’re late.’
CHAPTER 10
He awoke in the more comfortable bedroom of a different Norman chateau than the one he’d slept in twenty-four hours earlier. Blinking at bright sunlight slanting through shuttered windows, he could hear vehicles on the driveway outside, with voices and footsteps on the floors below, and sensed the hour was already late. Bleary and disorientated, he lay studying the ceiling plasterwork and trying to assemble his wits. Then he turned to the clothes hanging behind the door and knew he wasn’t dreaming. Still the uniform of an army captain, they were no longer khaki, but field grey.
‘Good morning, Hauptmann.’ An orderly entered, speaking in German. ‘I have brought hot water for shaving. There are toiletries on the washstand, and a late breakfast is in the salon downstairs.’
‘I… Vielen Dank.’
‘You’re welcome. And Major Brandt requests that you report in thirty minutes.’
‘Who is Major Brandt?’
‘Aide to General Speidel. On the general staff.’
Speidel. Rommel’s chief of staff. ‘Where is the Generalfeldmarschall?’
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