“They won’t be any use to me if I can’t understand what they tell me to do. And I’ll be in the crap if I get stopped by Jerry. Even with false identity papers. I could try playing deaf an’ dumb, but Jerry’s not daft, is ‘e?”
“Well, we don’t have to think about that for a while. My leg’s still giving me gyp.”
“I thought you were better, the last few days. You’ve been walking well.”
“I haven’t wanted to say this before, but I think the new wound is making the old one play up.”
“Oh, Christ.”
Yes, thought Roger; precisely. It’s His hand that’s over me and warning me not to rush back.
“All the same,” Devonshire said, “I wish somebody’d say something about getting us into Spain. Or across to the coast, if there’s any chance of the Navy picking us up.
“We’re a hell of a long way from the coast, old boy.”
“I know that. But that’s all the more reason to try to get home that way. Jerry watches the Spanish frontier like a vulture. He wouldn’t expect anyone to trek halfway across France, east to west.”
“When we go, the Pyrenees will be our best bet. There are hundreds of smugglers’ routes across the mountains that Jerry will never find.”
“Roll on.”
“I’ll speak to Laurent about it today. We might as well plan it now, even if we can’t make a move yet.”
“Yeah, Rodge, that’s right, you ask him. It’ll make us feel better, won’t it, ‘avin’ a plan all ready for when we’re fit to go.”
Speak for yourself, old friend. It won’t make me feel better to know that I’m about to start having nightmares again. Dreams that take me back to being shot down, ditching the Blenheim, spending all those hours, wounded, in the dinghy on the North Sea in winter. Dreams about low-level daylight attacks with the flak ships throwing up so much stuff you could have walked on it. Dreams about lurching around the sky in a Halibag with the searchlights blinding me, the flak pounding fit to burst my eardrums, the night fighters hammering cannon shells and machine-gun bullets through our wings and fuselage; and that bloody undertaker of a second pilot, with his corpse-like pallor and hideous grin, at my elbow. No thanks.
“Yes, it’ll give us a purpose.”
“I’ve got a purpose, chum, already: to muck off from here as soon as I can.” Devonshire gave him a grin. “It’s been a long time without any of that other, an’ all. Can’t say I’ve seen one Froggie bint I fancied. But even some of these tough-looking Resistance popsies are getting to look better every time I see ‘em.”
“With this bloody leg, popsies are the last thing I’m interested in.” Which was, in a distorted sort of way, true enough. But Roger did not want to talk, or even think, about women. His thoughts were on justifying himself and doing whatever it was God had spared him for. Not for more ops, surely. Anyone with over two years on ops already and with a D.F.C. and a D.F.M. to show for it had surely done his fair share and more.
The farmer’s family was astir. He was known to them only as “Laurent”. Like all the Maquisards he had a nom de guerre and when any of his comrades was present and his wife happened to be there she was addressed only as “Madame”. Their surname was never mentioned. Roger and Devonshire used the children’s real names, but as they had been taken blindfolded to the farm this was not considered a risk.
There were two sons in their early twenties and a daughter of eighteen. She was a plain girl with a hare lip. Her brothers were quiet, stolid and imbued with a deep hatred of the Germans. Both had seen action in the infantry in 1940 and one had been the only survivor when his platoon had been massacred after surrendering in a battle in which they were much outnumbered.
As he did every morning, Laurent came stumping into the barn and called up to them.
“All right. It is safe to come down.”
It was the intimate details of a life in hiding which most discomforted Roger. Sanitation was perforce crude. He and Devonshire shared a bucket which they emptied first thing every morning. They used a primitive earth closet in a shed for their other purposes. They washed in an outhouse. They both longed for a bath or shower. The quality of soap obtainable was poor and they had to make razor blades serve until long after they were blunt.
“Bon jour, Laurent.”
“Bon jour, Roger. Bon jour, Sid.” R-r-rojay and Seed.
R-r-rojay and Seed lowered the ladder through the trapdoor and went down to go through the ritual of shaking hands.
“How is your leg this morning?”
“It’s always stiff at first. Getting better every day.” Laurent was tall and burly, gnarled, with stooped shoulders. His eyes were dark and alert, quick to light with humour. He took manifest pride in sheltering these two from the Boches.
“We are going to need your help tonight.”
Devonshire, his eyes darting from one to the other, saw Roger tauten.
“What’s up, Rodge?”
Roger ignored the question. “Another ambush, Laurent?”
Laurent shook his head and smiled faintly.
“You will have a chance to welcome one of your comrades. Perhaps he can make some arrangement for you to return quickly to England.”
“What’s he saying, Rodge?”
Roger still gave no answer.
“What help do you want from us?”
Roger had a queasy feeling that something unpleasant was in store; although Laurent meant it as a treat for them, to judge from his manner. The mention of a quick return to England dismayed him. He had come to terms with his situation and did not want to confront any other course of action in his conscience. Time enough to make a determined effort to escape from France when he felt fully ready for it. He had assured himself that his parents must know that he was alive, and that was all that mattered to him. Devonshire had sent the appropriate signals before they baled out.
“I’ll tell you at breakfast.”
“Come on, Rodge, spill the beans.”
“He says he wants our help tonight. That we’ll have a chance to welcome a comrade who may be able to do something about getting us home quickly.”
Devonshire’s face creased into a broad smile. “Wizard. I dunno what ‘e means, but if it’ll get us out of here, I’ll give him any help he wants.”
“He’ll explain at breakfast.”
Devonshire grimaced. “Breakfast!” He thought poorly of a slice of bread, even spread with fresh farm butter, and a cup of coffee that tasted as though made from coke cinders.
It was Roger’s turn to empty the bucket and then they joined the family in the kitchen. They did not like having to eat before they had cleaned their teeth or washed. They were lucky to have toothbrushes, provided earlier in their escape. They had no toothpaste, so scrubbed their teeth with salt; which the French accepted as yet another mad British eccentricity.
More handshaking with the farmer’s wife and children. Loud supping of the steaming hot coffee. Noisy munching of bread and butter.
Mother and daughter went out to milk the cows and feed the chickens, ducks and geese. The sons went out to work in the fields. Devonshire’s impatience had been as evident as the bubbles in an agitated bottle of soda water. Roger gave his usual impression of imperturbability.
Laurent belched and lit a cigarette.
“Well, now. Tonight we have to prepare a big field six kilometres away, on the other side of a stream for an aeroplane to land.” He looked at the two airmen with his familiar faintly amused grin, pleased that he had sprung on them a surprise which was the last they had expected to hear. He let it sink in, while Roger quickly interpreted. Devonshire sat forward with a flush on his cheeks, almost quivering.
Laurent drew deeply on his smelly cigarette.
“It means setting out lights to guide it in. They come only on nights when there is a full moon, you understand.”
“This is a regular occurrence?” Roger asked.
“It is one of the ways in which agents and wireless op
erators are brought to France, and agents and certain important people who wish to escape to England are taken out.”
“Come on, Rodge, tell us”
Roger interpreted.
“Blimey!” Devonshire stared at Laurent. “Does ‘e mean we can get a lift home tonight?”
“I doubt it.” Roger turned from him back to Laurent. “Sid asks if we are going to be flown out tonight.”
“I am afraid not. There are already two passengers. But at least you can speak to the pilot.”
“You do this often: bring aeroplanes in here?”
“In this area, about every two months. We have not used the same meadow for the last three landings.”
“Ever have any trouble with the Boches?”
Laurent shrugged. “Twice. We lost a few of our people each time, but the aeroplane and its passengers arrived and departed safely; which was all that mattered.”
“How big a party will be out tonight?”
“We keep the number small, to prevent any careless talk or suspicious behaviour. That is also why we need you two. We always use our best people on these occasions. We have been instructed not to postpone the mission: two passengers who are in grave danger of being tracked down by the Boches have to be flown out tonight. And I think there may be trouble. I think the Boches suspect that something is afoot.”
There were twelve of them, ten men and two women; Laurent and his two sons, with Roger and Devonshire, among them.
It was nearly midnight when the two young women Maquisardes came to the farm. The family and the two Englishmen were all in the kitchen; all except the daughter, who was keeping watch near the lane which ran past the farm.
The atmosphere of expectancy was much the same as before a bomber operation. Subdued tension, an assumed breeziness, the making of feeble jokes, the occasional splutter of laughter.
On the outside door a double knock, a pause, another double knock, then a single one. One of Laurent’s sons rose and opened the door a crack while his mother switched off the electric light. The girls slipped in swiftly, the light — a dim one, anyway — went on, the usual handshakes followed, the girls were introduced: Viviane and Perrine.
In the moonlight, Roger had caught a flash of auburn hair as Viviane led the way in. With the light on, he saw her heart-shaped face, wide-set grey-green eyes, short straight nose, full lips. Viviane was almost his own height, with the economical movements of an athlete, the sturdy torse — good shoulders, big bust —that he had noted in women golfers and discus throwers. She looked as though she had been designed to turn her shoulders and twist from her waist. Close-to, shaking hands, he discerned freckles on a clear skin. No beauty, but electrically charged with vigour and sexual magnetism. She had the usual limp French handshake of casual greeting.
Perrine, he barely noticed.
They sat down to a glass of red wine. Laurent handed each of the girls a Sten gun and three magazines. Viviane looked around, noting Roger’s Tommy gun, Devonshire’s Bren, the Stens and Tommy gun of the other men.
Roger wondered what her real name was. But Viviane suited her. He felt the sensation of gentle fingers up and down his spine and shivered. Religion and repentance for past sins of the flesh went out of the window. His trousers felt too tight in the crotch.
All day he had been looking forward to seeing an aircraft with R.A.F. roundels on its wings and fuselage land secretly in this countryside in the heart of enemy-occupied France. Devonshire had been as excited as a boy at Christmas. They had both heard rumours of British and French spies being dropped over France by parachute: all very vague and sounding somewhat over-dramatised. Neither had known that there was a specialised squadron engaged on such work, which ferried agents and French V.I.P. escapers back and forth.
“What kind of aeroplane?” Roger had asked.
The reply from Laurent was the habitual shrug and “A small one with the wing high off the ground when it lands.”
“Must be a Lizzie,” Roger had said to Devonshire. Now they waited, weapons checked and re-checked, and checked again.
Roger watched Viviane strip her Sten with deft speed and reassemble it. She caught his look and gave him a quick wink and a comradely smile. The dim lamplight caught the pinkness of her damp lips and gleamed on her dark red hair.
He smiled back and returned her wink. He felt drawn to her; and by her into a shared conspiracy that excluded the others. It was a feeling that warmed him and was a pleasant accompaniment to the tingling of his spine.
When they reached the stream at the edge of an extensive wood they found the rest of the party waiting for them by the small wooden bridge. Some of them were smoking cigarettes, whose glowing ends they tried to conceal in their hands. Roger did not think much of this. The glow of a cigarette end could be seen from a long way. Within rifle-shot, however.
Laurent took charge at once.
“No more smoking. Renard, you and these three take up positions on the other side of the bridge, to cover us if anything goes wrong and we have to run for it.” Renard. Fox. Some of the Maquisards preferred that sort of nom de guerre to a Christian name. “Tigre...” another of the same, somewhat flashy, ilk, evidently “ you and those two, in the trees at this end of the bridge to give cover. Come on, the rest of you.”
Laurent led them across the bridge. He and his two sons separated to set three torches in an inverted L, slanted into the wind. The Lysander would approach so as to touch down at the end where the single light shone and taxy towards the pair at the other end.
Roger held his handkerchief overhead to check the wind direction. It fluttered faintly. There was little breeze. Laurent had laid the flare path correctly, too. He wondered what was going to happen. Two passengers were to be dropped, two picked up. How would the arrivals leave the scene, where were they going to spend the night? Where were the other two?
Someone...Renard...was crossing the bridge. Two men followed him, looking incongruous in suits and hats, carrying suitcases.
A few grunted greetings and brief comments. Neither man’s face was clearly seen, shadowed by a hat brim. Roger was not interested anyway. He kept looking for Viviane.
She stood with her back to the field, gazing round. Wary, watchful for some unauthorised movement in the surrounding fields or the edge of the wood.
Roger went to stand near her. She gave him a brief smile. He felt a strong temptation to touch her. Where? Lay the back of his hand gently on her cheek...place an arm across her shoulders...slip his hand under her arm and stand close to her for a moment?
Something told him that he’d find himself flat on his back, sprawling on the ground, if he did. One quick dig with the butt of her Sten in his wind, her foot shooting out to trip him, and he’d been down and gasping.
What would she do if he simply went up boldly and kissed her on the mouth?
It was an exciting thought, if impracticable. He held onto it.
Everyone’s head was tilted anxiously, searching the sky, listening.
Roger heard the faint drone of a Bristol Mercury XII at about 1800 revs.
“Here she comes.” Devonshire sounded as excited as he had been looking all day.
A black shape flitted across the face of the moon.
Laurent flashed the letter “Z” in Morse with a torch. Dah-dah-dit-dit. They all waited. Back came the response from the Lizzie. Laurent and his two sons, each standing by a torch on the grass, pointing up vertically, switched it on. They moved away towards the stream.
All of a sudden the Lysander was there, looking unnaturally big, a high-winged, black form like a great insect. Very low, very close. Its wheels touched the coarse grass and it rumbled up the slight slope, emitting the smell of exhaust gas and hot metal, oil and petrol.
Roger and Devonshire began to run after it. So did all the others. The two men at the upwind end, Laurent’s sons, walked. The waiting passengers stood still. Perhaps they were having doubts about leaving, thought Roger.
The few Lizzies Roger
had seen had been on Army co-operation squadrons. This one was slightly different: it had a ladder on the port side, from the rear cockpit. As soon as it stopped, the cockpit hood opened and someone began to scramble down the ladder. He was astonished to see that it was a girl. She stood on a rung, hauling down a suitcase. The second passenger stood and passed another small case down to her.
Roger and Devonshire stood by the front cockpit with Laurent. The pilot was only a shape. They stared up at him as he prepared to climb out.
Roger called up “Nice landing.”
The pilot leaned down. “Who’s that?”
“Roger Hallowesflight lieutenant...baled out of my Halifax three months ago...Flight Sergeant Devonshire, my Wop/A.G.”
By now the pilot had his feet on the ground. He bent to look closely at them.
“Are you types O.K.? I mean, not expecting me to take you back, or anything? These Resistance wallahs looking after you properly?”
“We’re fine. We got shot up a bit before we pranged. That’s why we haven’t been able to get away from here yet.”
“Give me your numbers and your squadron and I’ll report you’re safe. We may be able to pick you up.”
“Anyway, we’d be grateful if you’d get a message to our people.”
“I’ll see what I can do. That’s up to Air Ministry.” He turned to speak to Devonshire. “You all right, Flight?”
“Can’t fit me in, can you, sir? I’m not that big, you know.”
“Sorry, old boy. Full load, with these two, Dosaes I’m taking back.”
The pilot gave his attention to the two passengers, then they climbed aboard.
Automatic weapons began to fire in the woods and in the fields on the opposite side, adjacent to the landing ground.
“Damn!” The pilot gave Roger a shove. “Run, you clot.” He climbed hastily into his cockpit.
Tracer licked across the landing area from two directions. There was more shooting in the woods. Roger looked for Viviane. She and the other girl, Perrine, were firing bursts into the trees in the direction from which tracer was corning. They ran, shooting from the hip.
The Lysander engine revved up, the aircraft slewed round and raced down the gradual slope; and up-wind. Roger stood still, watching. There were trees at the other end. Devonshire tugged at his sleeve.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 59