Cast No Shadow: A Thrilling WW2 Adventure (Dragan Kelly Book 1)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  When Élise descended after settling the children down, Raymond opened a Riesling from one of the nearby Moselle vineyards and they moved outside to sit and chat about old times, in particular about how Raymond had landed with the Free French on D Day, and as soon as he could be released from duties after the invasion had found Élise. Raymond described his joy at being reunited with his beloved Élise. Kelly agreed mentally that there was a definite air of domestic bliss about the place. He wondered briefly if this could ever work for him but he doubted it.

  Kelly was almost afraid to ask the questions he had come here specifically to ask. This was his last hope in his search for Sybilla.

  His search for her had started after the war as soon as he could extricate himself from SOE and then resign his Naval commission which, at that stage, despite his service in SOE, was still active. He had returned to Grense via Kirkenes and had been shocked by the level of damage and destruction wrought by the retreating Germans in what they had called a ‘retaliatory gesture’. It was more like wanton vandalism.

  He was only just in time to reach Grense before the winter snow made the route impassable. To his horror the village was all but deserted, with only a handful of people remaining. Many of the old wooden buildings had been burned down and little remained but for the vicarage and a few of the chalets, with the ever-present chapel of King Oscar II looking down as it had done for nearly a hundred years.

  A little wooden cottage still stood by the southern slip, deserted and empty, the door swinging eccentrically on the one remaining hinge. Kelly went inside. All the furniture had been removed apart from the simple pine kitchen table, but he closed his eyes and was able to picture it as it once was. He stood by the table in the position where he had once sat. On his left he could see Sybilla and on his right was the large frame of that gentlest of men, Gunnar.

  He reached out to Sybilla, but the spell broke and she was gone.

  In what had been Sybilla’s room he found a tattered woollen scarf caught on a wooden splinter. He convinced himself that it was the very same scarf worn by Sybilla during their trek up to the ridge in his escape to Russia. He held it to his face but there was no scent of Sybilla, only the disappointing fustiness of mouldering wool.

  Reluctantly he dropped the scarf and made his way towards the vicarage. The vicar was accommodating and invited him in for coffee. ‘Yes, he remembered Sybilla, beautiful girl, ran off with a German captain, and poor Hans and Gunnar, killed by the Gestapo, but of course Inga survived.’

  Kelly caught his breath. “Do you know where Inga is? It is imperative I find her.” Kelly tried to contain his emotions.

  “Why do you want to find her so badly?” asked the vicar quietly, eying Kelly cautiously.

  Kelly considered briefly, and then blurted out the whole story, leaving nothing out. The vicar nodded from time to time as he listened. He considered for a moment before nodding again. “Yes, Amundsen told me something of the story before he left for Bergen. He writes me from time to time and occasionally mentions Inga and her family. It is him you need to find. I am not in direct contact with Inga, but I know she is also in Bergen.”

  “Do you know where in Bergen Amundsen is?” asked Kelly anxiously.

  “I have his address here somewhere.” The vicar was already on his feet and rummaging in his bureau. “Ah! Here it is!” he exclaimed with satisfaction as he turned, brandishing a letter above his head.

  There was no doubt that this was the place indicated on the letter given to him by the vicar in Grense; the highly polished brass plaque by the door announced to the world that this was the residence and surgery of Dr Otto Amundsen.

  Kelly rang the bell and waited for a few minutes until a young blonde woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform answered the door. “Do you speak English?” he asked in response to her opening statement in Norwegian.

  She started slightly and stammered, “Yes, I have a little English. How may I help?”

  “I need to speak urgently with Otto Amundsen. It is most important.” Kelly reinforced his message with the tone of his voice.

  “He is with a patient at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”

  Kelly looked resigned; his voice flat. “No, I don’t have an appointment, but I really do need to see him. It is very important.”

  The woman hesitated, turned as if to go inside, then turned back towards Kelly. “You could come back at three. He will be free then. Who shall I say it is?”

  “Tell him it’s Kelly!” The woman wheeled inside and closed the door behind her before he could say more.

  The time between 10 am and 3 pm dragged. The last time Kelly could remember five hours lasting this long he had been in a stinking little dungeon in Archangel. He knocked on the door at precisely 3 pm. It was opened almost immediately. Standing facing him, dressed in an immaculate pin stripe suit, was Otto Amundsen. Kelly wasn’t sure what to do next, but Amundsen had no hesitation. He stepped forward and warmly embraced Kelly.

  “Come in, Dragan. Come in!” He led Kelly into his consulting room where the contrast with Grense couldn’t have been greater. The room was luxuriously appointed with expensive wallpaper and rich drapes. The furniture was modern but clearly of good quality. Kelly was led to a large sofa in one corner of the room and the two sat down together sinking into the plush upholstery.

  “I’m surprised!” said Amundsen.

  “That I’ve found you?” queried Kelly

  “No, I’m surprised that it’s taken you so long!” smiled Amundsen. “I expected you months ago.”

  It was Kelly’s turn to smile. “So, you know why I’m here.”

  “Sadly, I can’t give you the answer you seek. I have no idea where Sybilla is.”

  “It’s Inga I’m looking for. She knows where Sybilla is.”

  “Does she indeed!” Amundsen looked surprised. “I may be able to help you there. Or rather Nurse Olsen may be able to help.” Amundsen moved to the door, opened it slightly and called quietly in Norwegian. The nurse entered and stood facing the two men, Amundsen having returned to the sofa.

  “Nurse Olsen,” said Amundsen, speaking in English, “Mr Kelly is keen to locate Inga Knudsen. Can you throw any light on her whereabouts?” The woman coloured and cast her eyes down, her hands working frantically in front of her.

  Realisation dawned on Kelly. “Inga?” he asked. “You are Inga!”

  She nodded.

  Kelly’s mind was in turmoil; standing a few feet from him was the one single individual who could bring him to Sybilla. He wanted to leap off the sofa and embrace her. Kelly cast a glance at Amundsen who was observing him closely. Standing, Amundsen said, “Inga, I’m just going into reception,” then to Kelly, “Call into reception before you go, Dragan.” Kelly didn’t answer as the Doctor left the room; he was staring intently at Inga.

  She was shorter than her sister, and slighter, but she still had a good figure and the same flawless skin. By any normal yardstick she was an attractive woman, but Kelly wasn’t using an ordinary yardstick. He mentally compared all women to Sybilla. None had ever come close.

  “Inga!” he breathed. She lifted her blue eyes. “Please, sit by me.” He indicated the sofa. Inga squeezed herself into the corner, creating as large a gap between them as she could.

  “Please tell me where Sybilla is.”

  “Why? So you can kill her?” The woman spoke defiantly, a quaver in her voice. Her moist eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and fear, shades of Sybilla.

  Kelly spoke softly and calmly, words he had wanted to say for so long. “Inga, I love your sister. I couldn’t harm her if I wanted to. I need to find her to tell her how much I love her. If she then tells me that she doesn’t want to see me again, I will go away and I will never bother her, you, Otto or anyone else again, but I need to find her and tell her. Please help me.”

  The woman was clearly wrestling with her emotions; tears formed in the corners of her eyes and ran down her face. Hurriedly she wiped them away, and m
ustering as much self-control as she could, she pointedly said, “Sybilla told me you tried to shoot her when you saw her in France.”

  Kelly’s heart sank. “No! That’s not the case Inga. I never fired! I couldn’t fire!”

  Inga’s face contorted with anguish; her lips worked but no sound came. At last, she said, “I want to believe you, for both of your sakes, but I can’t take the chance. She is very precious to me.” She stood. “That’s my final word.”

  Kelly jumped up also, the look on his face revealing his very soul. Inga must have felt sorry for this desperately unhappy man as she grasped his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. “After you left for Russia, Sybilla told me everything. For a brief precious time, you gave her hope and filled her with joy. She was a different person. Thank you for that.”

  Then she left the room.

  Kelly moved to the door and stepped into the corridor. Opposite, the reception door was open. Amundsen was clearly visible. Kelly was choked and unable to trust himself to speak. Instead, he wearily waved an arm, moved to the outside door and stepped out into the street.

  “Did she really call you that?” asked Raymond laughing and arousing Kelly out of his reverie. He became vaguely aware of Élise relating a tale of their time in the burned cottage in Berques filtering into his subconscious.

  He thought quickly. “You mean the mad Irish Serbian?” he asked.

  Raymond chuckled and nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yes, that’s what she called me. You should have heard what she called the priest, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been excommunicated!” They all laughed and continued with reminiscences and small talk until the crying of a child interrupted them.

  Élise looked pleadingly at Raymond who took the hint. Smiling he said, “I will see to Marie, you two talk about old times.” He made his way up the polished wooden staircase.

  Élise rose and walked over to Kelly, placed an arm around his neck and kissed him with a passion. “I have never forgotten you, Dan. I often think of you and I still love you. I am so happy now. Raymond is wonderful, but I just wanted you to know that.”

  “I have never stopped loving you Élise ...” Kelly began but she placed a finger in his lips.

  “I know you still love me, Dan. I can sense it; you don’t have to tell me.” Élise paused for a moment then added. “Have you found her?”

  Kelly was startled. “Who …” Kelly began but again she cut him off.

  “The Norwegian woman. You knew her, didn’t you?”

  Kelly nodded as Élise retrieved her arm from his neck and sat down beside him. He told her the full story. She listened intently, occasionally dabbing her eyes. Kelly concluded, “I love her and can’t get her out of my mind, Élise.” She smiled, kissed him again and moved back to the sofa.

  “If anyone can understand, I can.” She said softly, gesturing upstairs. “And now you are searching for her?”

  Kelly nodded. “I wondered if there had been any tales about her after the war? Rumours even …?”

  Élise shook her head. “Not as far as I know,” she said, “but then I came back here straight after the invasion. I knew Raymond would look for me here.” She paused for a moment. “I know that the resistance was quite keen to ‘interview’ her, perhaps one of their leaders?” She had a twinkle in her eyes as she spoke.

  “Wolf?” he said.

  She nodded. “He went back to his parish in Wisques about the same time I left. It would be worth a try?”

  They were joined by Raymond and chatted as they finished off the wine before Kelly took his leave of Raymond and a tearful Élise to set off on the first leg of his tortuous journey to Wisques. Raymond had asked him to stay the night, but Kelly was keen to get started. He liked Raymond, he seemed a kind and generous soul, but he still marvelled at the change in Élise. He thought he would always picture her carrying a 9 mm pistol with a stiletto stuffed into her waistband, dressed in black with her face covered in soot. That was his Élise. The matron with the two children, busily tidying the house and weeding the garden, that was Raymond’s Élise.

  Kelly made two further visits before making his way north. The first to Marie. Kelly found a broken woman; the war had treated her badly. Marie was one of the victims. The flat was poorly furnished and dark. Her one treasure appeared to be a photo of Andre in a highly polished silver frame that took pride of place on her mantle sill.

  Marie herself was a wreck, clearly suffering badly from her nerves, and chain smoking. At the sight of Kelly, she had burst into tears, pouring out her heart to him. It seemed to Kelly that she blamed herself for everything bad that had ever happened in France, but particularly for the death of Andre. No amount of reassurance from Kelly would comfort her and she was inconsolable.

  Feeling thoroughly depressed, Kelly made his way in a battered old Citroen taxi along barely passable roads to the farmhouse of Claude’s parents. Marie had blamed herself, but perhaps these people would blame him.

  When he reached the farm, the first person he met gave him a start. At first, he thought it was Claude, but he quickly realised the man was too young and therefore had to be a sibling. Kelly felt he needed to make his introduction directly to the parents first and avoided giving his name to the young man.

  Kelly’s worries about his reception couldn’t have been more misplaced. He was received as an honoured guest, a friend of the family. There were tears of course, but so much joy at the memory of their son and the stories told by one of his closest companions.

  Kelly departed the following morning with mixed feelings. He had perhaps made one very unhappy friend even more distressed, but he had brought happiness and fond memories to the family of another friend. Time now to leave it all behind, perhaps to return one day?

  Probably not.

  As he was thrown around in an aging bus, he consoled himself that at least this time he was able to travel on public transport, however bad it was, and could sleep in a hotel bed each night. No more sleeping under the stars, no more huddling in a draughty barn, his mind filled with a mixture of fear and excitement. No more snatched moments of passion with a beautiful girl. No more wondering if he would still be alive at this time tomorrow …

  Pity!

  The house adjoining the church seemed bigger than he remembered. It was old and paint was beginning to peel from the window frames. The walls, in need of a whitewash, were, in places, overgrown with ivy.

  He knocked on the wooden door and it opened slightly, clearly unlocked and off the latch. He hesitated, waiting for someone to answer his knock, and then pushed the door open and stepped inside. The contrast surprised him. If the outside was shabby, the inside was immaculate, albeit spartan. The room was empty, so Kelly walked to the rear door, also ajar and called out, “Padre!”

  Receiving no reply, he went through into a kitchen area. Through the window he could see Rahn sitting slumped, apparently asleep, in a wicker chair alongside an occasional table upon which rested a half full bottle of wine and a nearly empty glass.

  Kelly opened the glass door leading to the patio area, but before he could take a step through it the ‘sleeping’ priest called out, “You’ll need to get yourself a glass, Mr Kelly!” Then with a bound Rahn was out of his chair and across the patio embracing his friend.

  “How did you know it was me, you old fox?” asked Kelly.

  “Wolf!” corrected Rahn. “I am an old Wolf that always sleeps with one ear raised and one eye open.” He chuckled. “Apart from which, you are the only person in the world who calls me ‘Padre’.”

  Having retrieved a glass, a chair and a fresh bottle of Medoc, Kelly moved out onto the patio with Rahn. He decided to get straight to the point.

  “Padre, do you remember the incident when we ‘eliminated’ the German fifth columnist in Berques?”

  “Of course, how can one forget?”

  “You remember the woman?”

  “Ah! The woman, what a beauty.” Kelly looked at the priest askance, raising his eye
brows. Rahn looked apologetic and shrugged. “Yes, I remember her.”

  “Padre, have you any idea what happened to her after the war? Did the resistance find her?” Kelly couldn’t avoid the trace of apprehension in his voice.

  “They certainly looked for her, but there was no trace. One rumour has it that she escaped to England, which seems somewhat unlikely.” Kelly slumped back in his chair looking disconsolate. The priest allowed him to wrestle with his thoughts before breaking in, “Are you going to tell me why you want to find her?”

  Kelly was aware of the sensitivity of this matter; Sybilla to the French was a hated collaborator. At length he said, “Can I speak to you in confidence?”

  “People do so all the time,” replied the priest without the slightest trace of humour.

  For the second time in the space of a few days, Kelly told his tale. The priest remained silent until he had concluded.

  “I knew there was something,” said Rahn. “That’s why I concocted that story about a jammed weapon. I knew you had frozen and I was sure it wasn’t from fear.”

  “Thank God you missed!” said Kelly.

  “For once, God had nothing to do with it,” said Rahn, “I was a marksman in the Legion. I shot wide.”

  “Why?” asked Kelly in astonishment.

  “You clearly wanted this woman to remain alive, even to the point where you were prepared to sacrifice your own life. That was a strong enough reason for me to support you. So, I shot wide to frighten her and get her moving.” He smiled at the memory. “I thought at one point, during that moment of time, that the two of you were going to engage in a deeply metaphysical argument.”

  Kelly smiled in return. “Thank you, Padre, you have kept a dream alive.”

  “I hope you fulfil your dream, Dan. Will you continue to search?”