by Lee Jackson
5
“Do any of you speak French?” Lance asked.
Horton raised his hand. “Enough to get along.”
“Good. I’m fluent. Between the two of us, we should have it in hand. Now listen carefully. There are”—he did a quick head count—“nine of us, and we might pick up more. The French are not our enemies. They probably feel worse than we do. This is their country that’s been savaged. We need to make contact with locals who would give us shelter and food. We’ll have to take every precaution, so we don’t walk ourselves into capture, but we need to take fast action while we still have a smidgeon of strength left.”
“What’s your plan?” Horton asked, looking around at the anxious faces.
Lance told them.
At dusk, the loosely formed squad of men crept into position around a solitary farmhouse. Dogs barked, but the soldiers paid them no heed.
A man walked out onto the porch and looked about, but seeing nothing, he called to his dogs to be quiet and re-entered the house.
The soldiers had watched from a distance all day. A few laborers had shown up for work and then left in late afternoon. A woman hung clothes in the backyard, but aside from them, they saw no one else.
The guns of the previous days had fallen quiet, the Germans had marched their prisoners of war away, and the area where Lance’s group sought refuge had seen only light fighting. It was dormant. Lance was sure that more German soldiers would pour into the area, but at present the army was preoccupied with gaining control of Dunkirk, cleaning up the battlefield, removing their own dead and wounded, and moving the POWs. Those activities provided time for him to act.
They had moved in the dark to surveil this farmhouse, choosing it after much discussion regarding what each soldier had seen while fleeing from the battlefield. This particular farm was isolated, well away from the gunfire. It showed little damage from a passing army, the fields were lush green, and water was nearby. As they had moved into position, they came across a narrow irrigation canal, drank their fill, and washed off their filthy bodies and uniforms.
Just after dark, they moved in closer to the farm and set up a perimeter on the east side of the house. The dogs barked again, a maddening howl that immediately warned their owner that they were serious. Fortunately, they were tied up.
The farmer lumbered out onto the small covered porch, rifle in hand, silhouetted against the light above his head and that of an interior lamp spilling out behind him. Lance and Horton crouched below in shadows on either side of the entry.
“Psst,” Horton called. “Here,” he said in French, just above a whisper. “I’m English.”
On the other side of the porch, Lance watched, ready to spring if the farmer raised the rifle toward Horton. At first, the man seemed confused, or at least startled, perhaps torn in deciding what he should do.
“I’m English,” Horton called again. “I’m hungry. I need food.”
Lance held his breath, but then the farmer edged over to Horton’s side of the porch and looked into the darkness. Horton stood, his arms spread at shoulder height, his hands empty. “I need food,” he said again, and then, sweeping his arm toward the dark fields, he added, “We need food.”
The farmer stood silently. He was big and wore brown rough-cut trousers with suspenders over a soiled white shirt. He stared at Horton without speaking for a full minute. Then he lowered the barrel of his weapon and beckoned.
“Come, come,” he said. “We have to get you out of sight. How many are you?”
“Nine.”
The man stopped in his tracks and turned to Horton. “Nine?”
Horton nodded.
The farmer looked again into the darkness. Then he pointed to a barn barely visible against the night sky. “Take your men there. I will meet you.” One of the dogs barked. “I’ll get them to be quiet.”
Fifteen minutes later, the farmer, Alain Coste, watched as nine hungry men devoured all the bread, cheese, and cold cuts he could muster on short notice. “My wife is making stew,” he told Horton,” but that will take a while longer.” He also brought out fruit juice and water.
“You must remain quiet,” he said, his large eyes worried over a bulbous nose and bushy mustache.
“We understand,” Horton told him. “We won’t stay long. Maybe a day to rest up and get some strength back. We’re headed for Switzerland or Spain, to get home.”
“And then you come back to fight les Boches?” Coste queried dubiously.
Horton chuckled. “Of course. If we don’t, we’ll be fighting them in London.”
“Ah, bien sur,” Coste remarked. “You rest. My friends will help, but please, don’t do anything to endanger my family.”
Lance had remained in the background, content to let Horton take the lead with the kindly farmer. Now he stepped forward and said in French, “You have my word, and thank you for your help.” He extended his hand. Coste alternated his eyes between Lance and Horton. Then he took Lance’s hand in both of his own and shook it.
At first light, the farmer entered the barn and beckoned to Lance and Horton.
“You can’t stay here,” he said, his eyes wide. “The Germans are coming this way, and they are searching every house and barn.” He pulled a large cloth bag from over his shoulder. “There’s bread, fruit, cheese, and meat in here.” Looking around at the gaunt men gathering around him, he added, “It’s not much for so many, but maybe it will hold you up a while.” Handing the bag to Horton, he reached across and grabbed Lance with both hands. “Listen to me. There is a port south of Dunkirk where the British are still picking up soldiers. If you can get there, you might have a chance, but you must hurry.”
Lance stared at him, not quite comprehending. “More evacuations? Are you sure?”
Coste heaved a sigh. “Nothing is certain anymore, but I spoke on the telephone with a friend in Veules-les-Roses.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then handed it to Lance. “My truck is broken down, or I would try to take you myself, but I’ve sketched a map.” He indicated the paper. “Go back to that irrigation ditch. Follow it south, where it joins a spring that feeds it. Follow it upstream to a wooded area. On the other side is another farm. The owner is a close friend. He’ll take you, but you must do exactly as he says. He’s prepared his truck with a false floor on the bed. It’ll be tight, but you all should fit, and he’ll cover it with hay and a load of vegetables. The Germans are setting up checkpoints, but he knows how to avoid them. He should have you there in a few hours.”
For the first time in days, real hope flooded Lance’s senses. Overcome with emotion, he leaned over and hugged Coste. “Thank you,” he choked. “We can never repay you enough.”
Nodding, Coste grasped Lance’s upper arms. “You came to fight for France. That is enough. Now go. Hurry.”
Lance told his men what Coste had said. As they prepared to leave, one by one, they expressed their gratitude. The farmer shook off the compliments, but then took Lance aside one more time.
“Don’t trust all Frenchmen,” he said gravely. “Some sympathize with the Nazis.”
Startled, Lance could only stare. “How will we know—”
“Trust only the people our friends introduce to you. Avoid the rest. I wish I could instruct you better, but there’s no time. You must leave, now.”
6
Two days later, June 10
London, England
Lieutenant Paul Littlefield hurried up the front steps of the requisitioned Metropole Hotel situated between Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place near the center of town. The trappings of the once gracious old building made no impression on him, most of its fine ballrooms and halls having been divided and subdivided long ago into sterile bureaucratic cubicles, its rooms and suites converted to offices, and most of its gilded and marble detail covered over with plywood and plaster.
As he strode down the hall, he ignored the incessant ringing of telephones and the cacophonic clatter of
typewriters mixed with the rhythmic staccato of telegraph machines and the low hum of many people engaged in discussion. Because he had been assigned to the Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as SIS or simply MI-6, he had the clearances despite his junior rank to push his way past need-to-know checkpoints.
He marched directly to Room 424 housing MI-9, a new organization under the War Office’s military intelligence section. This latest element had formed in anticipation of fighter and bomber pilots being downed during air raids, soldiers being separated from their units in battle, or a mix of both types of combatants being captured or simply needing to escape and evade the enemy after being stranded behind enemy lines.
It was organized and led by Major Norman Crockatt, a veteran of the Royal Scots Regiment who had fought during the Great War and left the army in 1927. With war again on the horizon, he had returned to service.
Paul burst through the door and headed straight for the major’s desk. Crockatt, a tall, fit man with dark hair, a high forehead, and piercing eyes over a well-groomed mustache, saw him coming and cast a slightly deprecating glance his way.
“You again, Lieutenant? I suppose you have the same questions?”
“I do, Major.”
“And my answer is the same as I gave you this morning, and twice yesterday and the day before. Have you checked the Red Cross again?”
“I have, and still no news.”
Despite the lieutenant’s neutral expression, Crockatt detected the worry behind it. “I sympathize with you, but our office is not set up to gather the information you seek. Nor do we use what we collect in the way you seem to think. We’ve only been in existence for nine months or so, and we’ve barely started operations. We still have no one in the field, and even if we did, their jobs would not be to locate particular POWs.”
Paul nodded. “I know, and I appreciate your indulgence. I just thought that maybe information might flow through here that would identify where my brothers are.”
“Are you sure they were both at Dunkirk?”
Paul shook his head. “All I know is that my youngest brother, Jeremy, was sent to France to build military infrastructure. His unit ended up getting thrown into the rearguard at Dunkirk. I only know about that from reports coming through MI-6.”
Crockatt grimaced. “I like you, Lieutenant, and I feel I should give you some friendly advice.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t misuse the information you’re privy to. Doing so could cost you.”
Paul heaved a sigh. “I know, sir, and thank you. I’m sure that Jeremy was there. I keep hoping he made it to the beach and got onto one of the boats.”
“I’ve heard that some in the rearguard did manage that,” the major remarked encouragingly, “but there was such confusion and such a mishmash of boats in the flotilla that units are still trying to sort out who made it home and who didn’t. Don’t give up hope. What about your other brother?”
“Lance. Not a clue where he is. I think he was with a company that was supposed to cross France from the south, but when our army was pushed back from the Maginot Line, other units rushed in. I think his was among them, but I’m not sure.”
“With two sons there, your parents must be terribly worried. Didn’t you tell me they live on Sark Island?”
“Yes, and communications between here and the island are very difficult.”
“I imagine they are. I wish I had better news and advice for you. Unfortunately, I don’t, except to say that the odds of ever having relevant news from this office is slim to none. That’s not our mission, and I still have only a skeleton crew. We don’t have the resources. Your best bet is the Red Cross.”
“If the Red Cross gets word, it’ll probably be months. I was hoping to learn something I could get to our parents to ease their minds.”
The two stood in silence, and then Paul turned to leave. As he reached the door, Crockatt called to him. “Lieutenant, would you wait a moment? I’d like to speak with you on another matter.”
Surprised, Paul retraced his steps to Crockatt’s desk. “What can I do for you?”
“MI-9 is the new kid on the block, so to speak, and MI-6 is at the top of the heap, the old venerable intelligence organization that helped win the last war.”
Paul allowed a smile. “You sound like you’ve been around Americans. I believe those are across-the-pond expressions.”
“Right you are, and as I recall, your father is American, so they are not wasted on you.”
“Almost correct, sir. My father is a naturalized British citizen.”
“I see.” Crockatt clasped his hands together and held them over pursed lips. “Mind you, I’m mulling out loud, and what I’m thinking would require difficult-to-get approvals…” He let his voice trail off while his mind was clearly still at work. “You know there will be tension between our two sections.”
“How do you mean?”
“MI-6 is tasked with running foreign agents overseas, and MI-5 handles domestic counter-espionage. MI-9 is chartered to train our forces for survival, escape, and evasion, and to develop networks to assist them in the combat zones. I can see instances where we might use the same people and methods. In fact, I can see that MI-9-developed assets might independently gather intelligence that we would then deliver to MI-5 or MI-6; and by the way, part of our mission is to invent devices to help POWs escape and get that equipment to our men inside the prison camps.”
Paul gaped. “That’s a tall mission, sir. Why would there be tension?”
Crockatt chuckled. “There should be none. We’re all in the same war. But let’s face facts: war is led by generals and managed by bureaucrats. Anywhere you find generals and bureaucrats, you find turf wars. We’ll have both types of people with MI-5 and MI-6. Of that I have no doubt.”
“There could be another player in the mix soon,” Paul said.
Crockatt’s head jerked backward in surprise. “How so?”
Having second thoughts about divulging what he knew, Paul chose his words carefully. “Mind you, this is only rumor at this point. I’ve seen nothing official yet.”
Eyes taking on a steely expression, Crockatt scrutinized Paul. “You’ve piqued my interest,” he said, a note of command entering his voice. “Go on.”
“Yes, sir. Rumor is that Churchill is contemplating a new element to train and assist partisans in the occupied countries in carrying out acts of sabotage directly. It’s to be titled the Special Operations Executive.”
“I’d heard,” Crockatt replied brusquely. As he spoke, he rose from behind the desk, ambled to its front, and leaned against it with his legs spread out and arms folded across his chest.
Alarmed by his demeanor, Paul was at a loss for words, finally managing after an interlude of heavy silence to say, “I’ve heard rumors, but nothing definite.” Another uneasy moment passed, and then Paul asked, “Did I cross a line, sir?”
Crockatt heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m disturbed that the information about the SOE has reached you. At this point, it was to be known only at senior levels.”
Paul felt blood rise in his cheeks. “Sir, I’m an intelligence officer. I work in the section that runs foreign agents. My job is to keep my eyes and ears open, my mouth shut, and to add two and two. I apologize if I’ve said too much.”
Crockatt eyed him momentarily and then broke into a half-smile. “Of course, and you are a good intelligence officer.” He circled back to the other side of his desk and sat down, then leaned back with his hands clasped behind his neck and inhaled deeply. “What have you heard about the German resistance?”
Keeping in mind Crockatt’s earlier manner, Paul hesitated.
The major spoke to set him at ease. “I suppose you’ve heard of attempts by senior members inside the German military and regime to contact British officials in hopes of negotiating an armistice. Such a move would require toppling Hitler in a coup.”
“I’d heard,” Paul said cautiously, “but nothing beyond what you just
said.”
Crockatt remained quiet, scrutinizing him. “We’re still building this organization,” he said at last. “I’d like to transfer you here.” He searched Paul’s face for a reaction.
Paul remained impassive.
“You might get advance news of your brothers’ whereabouts,” Crockatt continued, “or, who knows? You might help one or both of them escape back to England.”
7
Late at night, June 13
Dunkirk, France
Jeremy had left the Boulier house with a great sense of loss. Following the sketch map Ferrand had penciled, he first hid in the shed a few houses down the alley until darkness descended. Then he moved through ruined backstreets and rubble, clinging to shadows, headed to a particular address Ferrand had indicated.
Progress was slow, with only enough light from a sliver of moon and an occasional working streetlight that silhouetted the landmarks he was to follow: the shells of bombed-out homes, churches, and schools.
Alert to crossing paths with German patrols, he stumbled over wreckage and debris, counting streets and alleys and feeling for the waypoints Ferrand had specified, while the stench of damp, scorched ruins spoiled the air.
After two hours, he entered an undamaged barn and found a hay-covered entrance to an underground room indicated on the map. Then he descended into its darkness, closed the trapdoor, and waited on the cold floor. Unable to sleep, his mind wandered to the events that had brought him to Dunkirk, and Amélie.
Despite the gloom, he imagined her honey-colored eyes, her soft skin, her full lips, the auburn highlights of her dark hair, and her slight figure. He heard the music of her laughter and recalled the directness of her conversation and the courage of her actions.
Don’t get carried away, he warned himself. We’re still at war.