by Wilbur Smith
Men could wait. She had finished her training. Now it was time to go back to war.
•••
As she walked into Norgeby House the following morning, Saffron felt full of energy and ready for action. In common with Baker Street’s other female agents, she was officially listed as an ensign in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, a rank equivalent to a military lieutenant. On her way up the stairs and along the corridors that led to T section’s offices, she felt she was coming home. The other women she’d met in her time at Baker Street greeted her with friendly smiles. There were cheery hellos from the men and even a couple of jokes about her ability to endure torture. Word of the interrogation had traveled all the way down south from Arisaig.
“Oh, hello, Saffron,” said Hardy Amies’s secretary. “Do come in. You’re expected.”
She was shown into her boss’s office and saw at once that the captain’s three pips on his shoulder tabs had been replaced by a gold and red crown. He was Major Amies now.
“Congratulations, sir,” Saffron said.
Amies gave a gracious nod. “Thank you, my dear. Now, sit yourself down, have a nice cup of tea, and let’s decide what’s to be done with you.”
Saffron perched on her seat, leaning forward as eagerly as a dog straining at a leash, waiting for the one thing she hoped for more than anything else, and confidently expected: an assignment in Europe.
Amies, who seemed to have become both grander and more serious since his promotion, paused as he examined a number of typewritten documents, which Saffron realized must be her reports. She smiled to herself as she remembered sitting in her father’s study at Lusima, waiting while he read through her school reports and exam results. But there was none of the tension she had felt then, waiting to hear what the verdict had been. She already knew how well she had performed on her various courses. There could surely only be one outcome.
“I’ve read them all before, of course,” Amies remarked, putting the papers down on his desk. “I wanted to make sure that they really were as good as I had remembered. Remarkably, they’re even better. You did splendidly, Saffron.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No need to thank me, you have more than earned any compliments I might give. You’ve caught people’s eye, Saffron. Even Brigadier Gubbins has been asking after you. His words were that I must be sure to make the best of such an outstanding prospect.”
“I can’t wait, sir. I want to be of use.”
“And so you shall be . . . but not yet.”
Saffron could hardly believe her ears. Was Amies saying she wasn’t going to be given a job?
“Why not?” she blurted out, so shocked that she could not keep the indignation out of her voice.
“Because I don’t want to send you to your death,” Amies replied. “And it is my judgment that if I were to put you in the field at the present time, you would be either dead, or captured, or both, within a week of setting foot on Belgian soil.”
“I don’t understand . . . What have I done wrong?”
“Nothing, Miss Courtney. You have not failed in the slightest way. But none of your remarkable achievements can disguise the fact that you still could not possibly pass for a Belgian, not even a South African with Flemish Belgian roots.”
Saffron fought to control the tide of anger rising within her. It would do her no good whatsoever to lose her temper now. “I’m sure I could, sir. I have all the necessary field-craft skills.”
“All right, then, imagine we are on a train, traveling from, say, Leuven to Antwerp. I enter the compartment and, seeing a pretty girl, naturally take the seat opposite hers. I am wearing the uniform of an SS-Hauptsturmführer, or captain. I begin a conversation with you, speaking in Flemish. You can hardly refuse to talk to me. I say, ‘I have a couple of days’ leave and I’d like to go somewhere really special, off the beaten track. Where do you recommend?”
“Please be so good as to give me your answer to that question, describing somewhere in northern Belgium, in colloquial Flemish, with the familiarity of someone who knows and loves the place.”
Saffron opened her mouth, realized she couldn’t think of what to say, or how, and thought a bit more.
“You seem puzzled, Miss . . . ?”
Amies had spoken in Flemish. He paused, as a man would who was expecting a woman to supply her name.
“Cour . . .” Saffron began without thinking, caught off-balance by what Amies had said and what he was doing.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you correctly. You said Kor . . . something?” Amies asked.
Saffron wracked her brain for a Dutch or Flemish-sounding name. “Korpman,” she said, though the closest she had ever heard to that was a Doctor Koopman, who used to tend to sick girls at her school in Johannesburg.
“Ah, so, Mevrouw Korpman, would you think it very forward of me if I asked you your first name?”
Amies gave that seemingly polite request the dash of menace that any question posed by an SS officer was bound to contain.
“Eva,” she replied.
“Well then, Eva Korpman, my name is Eberhard Miesel, though my friends call me Hardy. And I realize that I have been most rude. You were about to advise me about my forthcoming leave and where I should be spending it. Please, do proceed . . .”
Saffron shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, in little more than a whisper. All her confidence had disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.
“Don’t worry,” Amies replied, in English this time. “The fact that you couldn’t is no reflection at all on you. It’s simply the proof of your one great weakness. You still can’t think like a young Afrikaner woman, let alone a Belgian one. Your Flemish is competent, but not truly fluent. You need to spend more time with Belgians, talking to them, learning about their country, getting to know what makes them tick.”
“How can I do that, sir, unless I actually go to Belgium?”
“Simple, my dear . . . Belgium will come to you.”
Saffron looked at him quizzically.
“I have thought the whole thing through and I know how to get you into operational shape.”
“Do you, sir?” Saffron asked, feeling the first distant stirring of hope. “Oh, I would like that so much.”
He flicked open a black lacquer cigarette box on his desk, took one out, lit it and puffed before continuing. “What I propose is that you should join my staff in T section. I shall then appoint you as my liaison with the exiled Belgian community in London. Wend your way to Eaton Square. The Belgian government-in-exile has taken up residence there. Come to think of it, don’t you have a place in that part of the world yourself?”
“Yes, sir, Chesham Court. It’s no distance.”
“Excellent. You’ll find that, like most governments everywhere, they’re riven by disputes, rivalries and petty jealousies. They all opposed one another when they had a Belgium to govern, and now they don’t even have that to distract them. Never mind, I’m sure that they will unite in their admiration for you, and the more Baker Street can get in with the various regimes that have taken up residence in London, the better it is for us. Of course, the whole point of the exercise is for you to speak Flemish at all times, unless you’re dealing with anyone who insists on speaking French.”
“I’m happy to speak Flemish all day, sir, but I’ve only got a smattering of schoolgirl French.”
“Well, that’s a start. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time, once you have to. I think you’ll find the work interesting, and the experience of Belgian life invaluable. Get to know them as people, Saffron. Get a feel for the minutiae of their lives: what they like to eat, their favorite music, the books they read, the stories they tell.”
“And the places they would recommend for a weekend’s leave?”
“Particularly them,” Amies said, with a smile. “And there’s one other thing you can do,” he added, extinguishing his cigarette.
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re having w
hat one might call an intense political debate with the Belgians, and their Sûreté de l’État chaps, in particular.”
“That’s the State Security Service isn’t it?” Saffron asked.
“Exactly. The thing is, they’re becoming touchy about the work we’re doing over there.”
“Really, sir? I thought it was going well.”
“Oh, it is . . . from our point of view. We’ve derailed trains, sabotaged a number of German aircraft, blown up railway lines, lorries, electricity sub-stations, even bumped off a senior Gestapo officer and some of his Belgian collaborators. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t quite follow you, sir. Surely the Belgians should be pleased we’re striking back at the people who are occupying their country?”
“That’s a reasonable assumption, Courtney, but not, I’m afraid, an accurate one. The Belgians take a dim view of our activities and are insisting on having the right to approve and, if they see fit, veto any of our operations. They make one reasonable point, which is that their people suffer if the Germans carry out reprisals for our operations. But I don’t think that’s the main issue for them. The two things they care about are, first, that they can’t bear the loss of face, seeing us in charge of things, and second, that they don’t want any damage done to any Belgian industry, or transport, or pretty much anything else.” He arched his eyebrows. “Honestly, the way they go on, you’d think it was their bloody country.”
Saffron laughed. “Well, I suppose it is . . . but not while the Germans are in charge. And they can’t expect to be the only people in Europe who escape untouched. There’s a war on, after all.”
“There is, and if you can persuade our beloved Belgian allies to see that, you will be doing the Allied cause a great service. Now, I have a briefing to give in thirty minutes. We’re ferrying three agents into Belgium on a motor torpedo boat. I shall be discussing their operation with them. I suggest you take notes, familiarize yourself with the plans and get to know the agents. You never know, you may be working alongside them sooner than you think.”
•••
Amies had sketched out the pattern for Saffron’s new life, as he might sketch the design for a new dress. Now it was her job to make it real. She set about the task with her customary energy. Within weeks, she was a familiar face at the Belgian government headquarters, as well as the pubs, restaurants and cafés where the ministers, officials and their junior staff went to relax.
Saffron’s work was helped by being young, female and attractive, and she was often invited to spend time with senior politicians who would show no interest in a man of her age and junior rank. She was in a pub one evening with the Belgian Foreign Minister and the head of the Sûreté, wondering whether the other drinkers realized the eminence of the two foreign gentlemen sitting in one corner of the saloon bar, when the minister said, “Tell me, Miss Courtney, why are your people so determined to leave my country in ruins?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir,” replied Saffron, who was delighted to find that the Belgians were introducing the subject Amies had wanted her to discuss.
“What the minister means,” the security chief interrupted, “is that saboteurs working on British orders are causing a great deal of destruction to our property in our country.”
“Well, sir, I’m sure I don’t know the details of any operations.” She smiled sweetly. “That’s man’s work, don’t you think?”
Before her question could be answered, Saffron spoke up again. “But I imagine that any operations are aimed at the Germans, with the intention of harming them and helping us win the war, so that Belgium can be free again.”
“Maybe so,” said the minister. “But we do not want to go back to our country to find it has been reduced to rubble.”
“Hmm . . .” Saffron pondered. “I wonder what the Londoners in this pub would say about that. They’ve lived through the Blitz. Think of all the terrible destruction they’ve seen. They’ve spent night after night in shelters, wondering if their homes, even their streets would still be there when they emerge. I’m sure everyone in here knows at least one person who has died or been badly wounded, possibly someone they love. Could you look them in the eye and say that Belgium refuses to do its bit?”
The foreign minister had not expected that reply. “Are you suggesting that the people of Belgium are cowards?”
“Oh no, sir, not at all, I wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing. On the contrary, I’m sure Belgians are as brave as the British, and equally determined to beat the Germans. So surely they would be ready to make sacrifices, too.”
“They have,” said the security chief. “They have sacrificed their freedom.”
“Then we must do what we can to win it back for them, no matter what that takes,” Saffron said. “I’m sorry if I sound rude. I’m afraid I didn’t grow up in England. I’m from Kenya, and where I live we’re surrounded by wild animals. Some of them are very dangerous. And if there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s that when a lion gets a taste for human flesh, there’s no point trying to keep out of its way: you have to kill it. You have to kill it, finish it off for good.”
“And is that what you propose to do to les Boches, mademoiselle?”
“I hope to do my duty, sir.”
The security chief nodded thoughtfully. “And what if that includes—how did you call it—man’s work?”
“If that’s what I’m ordered to do, sir, then I will obey my orders to the best of my ability.”
“Well, I wish you bonne chance in your endeavors. In the meantime, may I invite you to join me for dinner? I spent some time in the Congo as a young man. It would be a pleasure to speak to a fellow African . . .”
•••
Three days later, Saffron was called into Amies’s office. “You’re making quite an impression on our Belgian friends,” he said.
“A good one, I hope, sir.”
“An effective one, certainly. You seemed to have put the argument for conducting sabotage operations on their soil with some force.”
“They raised the subject, sir, and I knew how much it meant for us. I hope I didn’t cause offense.”
“You may have pricked the vanity of at least one Belgian minister, but that will only do him good. The main thing is that they know how we feel, and, from what I gather, you’ve made them consider that it’s not wise to tell the British that they don’t wish to see any damage done to Belgium.”
“I was sorely tempted to say, ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe we should leave you to the Germans.’”
“I’m glad that you didn’t say that, Courtney . . . It’s a complicated situation.”
“Am I going pink, Masha?” Yulia Sokolova asked her best friend Maria Tomascheva as they lay on a patch of grass in one of the neatly tended public gardens on the west bank of the Volga River: two seventeen-year-old girls from Stalingrad, basking in the sun, one glorious, cloudless Sunday morning in August.
Maria groaned, raised herself on one elbow and examined Yulia’s bare back. “No, Yulyushka, you’re fine. Now let me sleep, I’m so tired. You know I was on the late shift last night.”
Yulia turned her head, pulled a handful of her straw-blonde hair away from her cornflower eyes so that she could look at Maria and asked, “Do you know what date it is today?”
“Oh . . .” Maria sighed, shaking her head at this refusal to let her rest. She was as golden-haired and blue-eyed as Yulia. People often said that they were more like sisters than friends. She rubbed her eyes. “The twenty-third. Why?” And then the answer struck her: “Oh . . . that again.”
“Don’t say ‘that again.’ It’s three days until my mother’s name-day and I still don’t know what to get for her present. You know how much it means to her.”
“Oh, I do, my darling, I do . . .”
Before Maria could finish her sentence, the low hum of a city at ease was cut through by the wail of an air-raid siren. The girls jumped to their feet. They fumbl
ed with straps and buttons as they made themselves decent, then packed away their towels and books and flasks of water into their bags.
A second later they heard the first explosions in the distance. They looked in the direction of the sound and saw to their horror that the sky was filled with aircraft, advancing toward them in ordered ranks, as neatly as marching guardsmen.
“Bombers!” shouted Yulia. “Fascist bombers!”
The girls looked up, awestruck and terrified as more and more of the German planes appeared. The explosions became much louder and the ground began to shake. Maria grabbed Yulia’s arm and screamed at the top of her voice, “Run for the guns!”
•••
Gerhard was flying at an altitude of six thousand meters. His squadron was arrayed around him in three flights of four planes. They were one element in the vast armada of aircraft, more than twelve-hundred strong, that had flown east over the steppes on this, the first day of the bombing campaign that Generaloberst Wolfram Baron von Richthofen, commander of the Fourth Air Fleet was launching against Stalingrad.
Gerhard carried a mental picture of the city they would be attacking. He thought of it as a huge snake, stretching for twenty twisting kilometers along the western bank of the Volga River. To the north, at the serpent’s head, was an industrial district centered around four huge factories, each of which was surrounded by its workers’ housing. In the belly of the snake lay the city center, a modern showpiece of offices, shops and apartment buildings, cut through with majestic, wide boulevards. To the south stretched a long, bedraggled tail of wooden houses in which so many Russians lived, most single-story shacks, whose appearance and construction had barely changed in two hundred years.