by Lee Jackson
Faucon had a wide, square face with strong features and a slightly receding hairline with nevertheless full, thick hair that lent him a rugged, distinguished look. He was fairly tall and muscular, and he carried himself with a confident, no-nonsense demeanor.
“If there is something urgent to discuss, by all means, you and I can do so now,” Jeremy replied evenly. “It’s been a long day, though, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to release my colleagues to get some sleep.”
“I’d prefer to stay,” Rowena interjected quickly.
“As would I,” Atlas added. “I’m not feeling that we are wanted here, and if there’s an issue about that, I’d prefer we find out about it now.”
Faucon alternated his eyes between the three of them. “I think that’s better, although I have no problem discussing with only the team leader.” He locked his eyes on Jeremy. “If that’s what you prefer.”
“Faucon,” Jeremy said with a touch of sternness in his tone. “Is that what you wish to be called?”
Faucon nodded. “I prefer that you get used to using my codename. The chance for slip-ups is reduced.”
“Then why did you tell us your real name?”
Faucon gave a smile under narrowed eyes. “Because if you will be here for any time at all, you will know who I am. My name is known in these regions.”
Jeremy nodded. “Fair enough.” He glanced at the people assembled around them. “Your group was very effective tonight. They’ve been trained well. We appreciate their reception.”
Faucon acknowledged with a slight bow of his head.
Jeremy locked eyes with him. “If there’s an issue, let’s hear it. Like my colleague, Atlas, I’m not feeling any warmth.”
Faucon half-snickered. “Atlas? Seriously?”
Atlas shrugged. “I didn’t pick my codename. If you don’t like it, we can change it.”
Faucon waved aside the matter and focused again on Jeremy. “I think you should know some of our history here, since the Germans occupied the north of France.” His tone took on an angry quality. “Our province, Touraine, is famous for growing wine.” He glanced at Jeremy as if expecting a reaction. “Wine might seem like a fanciful indulgence for the rich, but it is our livelihood.”
Around him, the gathered Resistance members nodded and voiced their agreement. Faucon continued, his voice sounding hollow. “The Germans laid waste to it,” he hissed. “They try to ship our wine to Germany at prices they set that impoverish us, and they take our foodstuffs too, our produce. In the sixteen months since they invaded, they’ve turned our fertile valley into a wasteland, and our people face starvation.”
“We hope to help drive them out,” Jeremy said. “What’s the problem? I can’t sort through it if I don’t know what it is.”
Faucon took a deep breath, looking thoughtful. “I appreciate that you risked your lives to come here.” He paused and stared directly into Jeremy’s eyes. “I’ve been led to understand that I should take orders from you.”
Jeremy leaned back in surprise. “That’s a strong way of putting it. I think I’d describe my relationship with you as a cooperative one. The nub of the matter is that if England is to supply arms, equipment, and money—literally money dropped in bundles by the thousands of francs—then it should have some say in how those resources are distributed and used. I am the conduit.”
Faucon nodded. “I know that, but I should inform you of some things.” He leaned forward. “I served in Charles de Gaulle’s tank regiment. I fought the Germans in pitched battle. I joined one of the earliest Resistance groups, called Combat, and I organized the local group. I know what I’m doing.”
“No argument there,” Jeremy said, “and you are to be lauded. That should make things easier for us.”
“Let’s get to the heart of the issue.” Faucon took on a challenging tone once more. “Several weeks ago, maybe two months, a man came here—a former French naval officer, but I think he was Swiss.”
Jeremy looked up sharply.
“He brought with him a young lady,” Faucon continued. “She was very nice and capable, and they brought promises of British resources, and sure enough, some arrived by parachute, including money. We are duly grateful. And I will say that he was effective in recruiting new members and joining groups together.”
Jeremy listened now with rapt attention.
“And then he did something very stupid,” Faucon continued. “He came here with a mission to go to Bordeaux to obtain intelligence about the submarine pens. But instead of assigning someone to do it, he went himself.” He shook his head. “Granted, not anyone could go in and out of the base like he did, and the requested intelligence was of sufficient technical difficulty that a naval officer should have done it.” He thrust a finger in the air and growled. “He should not have been both the leader and the operative on the ground.”
His next words struck Jeremy like a thunderclap. “He was captured.”
“How? Where?”
“Coming out of the gate, by the Gestapo. And for that to have happened, someone betrayed him.” A fresh round of anger crossed Faucon’s face. “He was here preaching operational security and training on tactical measures and procedures with other members of his group that he brought, including two British soldiers. They taught ground tactics and demolitions, and that was great.”
“Two Brits?” Jeremy interrupted in surprise. “Do you know their names?”
Faucon shook his head. “They were only here for two weeks, and then returned to wherever they came from. We only used codenames.”
That had to be Horton and Kenyon. “Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”
“We appreciate the help, but in the final analysis, this Swiss naval officer, by his stupidity, exposed our organization, and when it was all over, we were reduced to the same level we had been before his arrival. That was particularly harmful because this was the central group that was uniting the others before he came. That’s why he sought us out.”
Faucon’s voice took on a plaintive tone. “Some of our people were captured. One woman, a girl really, not even out of her teens, was beaten senseless and her right breast was cut off. She died without giving up any information. Others did, though, and a few escaped or were never captured.”
He looked up grimly. “We caught the traitor. He won’t betray anyone again. And I will admit that we used this naval officer’s methods to increase our security.”
Jeremy listened in stunned silence, and for a time, no one spoke, but his heart and mind raced. “You mentioned a woman who came with him. What was her role?”
“She had been trained in London to be a courier as well as a radio operator, when need be, but we never received a radio.”
“We brought one with us,” Jeremy said, and indicating Rowena, he added, “and an operator. And the radio is smaller and more powerful than its predecessor model.”
“That’s good,” Faucon said, bestowing an appreciative look on Rowena.
“What happened to the woman?” Jeremy asked, containing his anxiety.
“She managed to get to a second safehouse. And to give credit where credit is due, we had it set up at the Swiss man’s insistence. She waited a few days and then managed to get back here.” He exhaled. “I think she was supposed to occupy your position until you arrived, but she was in no way qualified for that. I heard about some things that happened to her. She lost her home in Dunkirk, her father was killed, and I heard she saved her sister from rape. She’s brave, and London trained her well for her job, but leading is a completely different skill. She’ll get there, but she’s not there yet.”
Jeremy searched the anxious and determined faces surrounding him, suddenly hoping to see Amélie among them. “Where is she now?”
“I sent her back to wherever she came from.” Faucon chuckled. “I think it was Marseille. The Swiss officer let some things drop. If he ever escapes or is turned loose, he could learn a few things about operational security.” He sighed. “The woman is a n
ice person, but she had no role here. She had no communication to her leader, she brought no experience in tactical operations or organization, and no ability to acquire resources. We all liked her.” With his last statement, he peered around the room for agreement, and his comrades nodded and made sounds of assent. “But she was a fish out of water.” He grunted. “The fact remains that someone somewhere decided that she was more qualified than me or anyone in this area to lead an organization that came together and was effective without their help. We see the value of a united effort, but there won’t be one if all decisions are made at a level so high, we can’t even see it.”
“Good point.” Jeremy turned to Atlas and Rowena. “Any questions or comments?”
When they both declined, he asked Faucon, “So, what do you suggest?”
Faucon spread his arms apart, gripped the sides of the table, and leaned back. “I’m glad you asked that question in that way.” He took a deep breath. “I think you should stay here for a week or two. Maybe three or four. Get out and meet the groups that the Swiss man had strung together. Listen to their concerns, their setups, what they’ve done to date. Assess their various abilities. We want British aid, but we don’t want to trade one form of dictatorship for another, with or without the money you bring.”
He suddenly scowled and pointed a finger at Jeremy as a thought crossed his mind. “You’ll need to be careful. The Germans have taken many of our young men as prisoners of war, and there’s talk of taking more for forced labor in their ‘fatherland.’” He said the word derisively. “We’ll be your guides and provide security.”
He dropped his hands and leaned forward over the table. “When you’ve done all of that, go back to Marseille or wherever it is that your higher headquarters is located. Tell them what you’ve observed.
“De Gaulle wants to build a Free French Army to fight alongside Britain when an invasion becomes possible. We want to help to bring that about.” He held out his hand. “If you can agree to that, then I’ll say again, welcome to France.”
Jeremy studied Faucon. Around them, no one moved or spoke. He turned to his mates. They returned his gaze without expression. Then he looked at the anxious faces hovering over them. At last, he reached across the table and gripped Faucon’s hand in both of his own. “Vive la France.”
66
October 27, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
“So, tonight is the big night,” Paul said morosely as he entered Stephenson’s office and took a seat in front of his desk.
“Oh, cheer up. We’re going to win this war and preserve Western civilization. Surely that must count for something.”
“You know my reservations.”
Stephenson looked up impatiently. “With that supercilious attitude, we’d be sure to lose the war. Think of what that would mean to England, to your family and friends, and to your parents on Sark Island. You’ve mentioned more than once that they must be just above famine rations by now. How will you feel about your righteousness when they starve because actions we could have taken were below our moral code?”
Stephenson became noticeably angry as he spoke, warming to his arguments. “Hitler is putting people on cattle cars and shipping them to their deaths. Should we allow him to continue because we have weak stomachs for hard choices? Ten days ago, the Nazis fired on the USS Kearny in waters off of Iceland, the second US navy ship in less than a month, and the US is still neutral. Do we let that go unpunished? Or should we wait for the next one or the one after that?”
He stood and came around his desk, standing in front of Paul with legs spread apart and hands on hips. “You cling to this notion that if we stay absolutely spotless morally, somehow we’ll bring evil to its knees. Well, when is evil so great that all measures should be taken against it? When should we take them in this conflict? After the first mentally deficient child was euthanized for the good of society; after the second? How about the third? Is the millionth sufficient?”
Paul listened, captured by Stephenson’s passion.
“Hitler has already crossed the threshold of evil that obligates us to act,” Little Bill continued. “And don’t forget that God himself sent the flood to stamp out evil and only discriminated with respect to Noah and his family. Then there was the Angel of Death and the blights and plagues in Egypt. Today, we’d call the latter two biological warfare, but they seem to have been morally acceptable weapons at the time to address the wickedness of that day.
“He’s executed homosexuals for being homosexual. He’s killed Poles for being Polish, Czechs for being Czechs; the Jewish death count grows, and God only knows what the toll is now. He still fights Britain in Africa, terrorizes in the Balkans, and four months ago he turned on his ally, the Soviet Union.
“Stop equating our deceptions with the evil of the Third Reich. I frankly find it offensive. We are not raiding Jewish homes and throwing their families into the streets and terrorizing and killing them. On the contrary, we sacrifice our young men by the hundreds of thousands in bloody conflict to stop his wickedness. We are not promoting a single race as being superior to all others. And we have no global dictatorial aims.”
Stephenson caught himself and stepped down his anger. “We are attempting to stop a man who is the incarnation of all that evil and do it before he develops the atomic means to enslave the world. You’ve been around enough to know that we are not talking science fiction. He’s close to the ability to do exactly that, and only Great Britain stands in his way.
“We fed Hitler lies. We aggravated the fight in Greece to tie up his resources in the Balkans. We agitated in Yugoslavia to cause the coup there precisely to delay Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union and make him defend Romania’s oil fields. We hoped to cost him at least a day, and we got six weeks. His troops are already struggling in the mud trying to get to Moscow, and freezing weather has not even begun to set in there.”
“Winter is now our weapon, and we’ll defeat Hitler because of the deceptive actions we took. In so doing, we’ll ally with Russia and deny Hitler Soviet industrial power, military armaments, and the Red Army. Now, our task is to involve the United States. We still cannot win the war without America.”
He stopped for breath and continued with a stern tone and narrowed eyes looking directly into Paul’s. “It’s time for you to decide to grow up, join in the responsibility for our decisions and actions, or move aside. Great Britain is a tiny island country fighting for survival. It has no time for halfway measures or moral handwringing. And it has no need to apologize.”
When he had finished speaking, Stephenson stood staring at Paul, and then, as if realizing he might have carried the vehemence of his argument past his intention, he closed his eyes briefly, rubbed his forehead, and returned to his seat.
Paul had sat in shock during the onslaught, and when it was over, he stood slowly. Approaching Stepheson’s desk, he said, “Sir, may I speak.”
Stephenson gazed up at him with an almost sheepish look and remnants of defiance. “Of course,” he said brusquely. “I’ve never stopped you. If you’re going to stay, please turn on the radio. The president’s Navy Day address is about to begin.”
“I want to say, sir, that working with you is an honor of a lifetime, one I will always cherish.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m thickheaded, but I see your points. They might be difficult to accept, but I do accept them, and no one can argue that my country is in a death struggle. I won’t bring up the matter again.” With that, Paul walked over and turned on the radio.
“I’m glad to see you coming to your senses,” Stephenson said gruffly, and bestowed the only broad smile Paul had ever seen on him, albeit with still a slight frown.
“Do you suppose the president will address what happened to the Kearny?” Paul asked, returning to his seat while the radio warmed up.
“His time is wasted if he doesn’t,” Stephenson replied. “A Nazi submarine fired on and damaged a U
S warship. Germany had been given fair warning that British ships sailed under US protection. It’s the first time that Americans might sense that the war can come to their shores very quickly irrespective of anything we do. The Atlantic and Pacific don’t provide the same protections they once did.”
By the time Paul returned to his seat, President Roosevelt had finished his opening remarks and was into the body of his speech.
“Many American-owned merchant ships have been sunk on the high seas. One American destroyer was attacked on September 4. Another destroyer was attacked and hit on October 17. Eleven brave and loyal men of our Navy were killed by the Nazis.
“We have wished to avoid shooting. But the shooting has started. And history has recorded who fired the first shot. In the long run, however, all that will matter is who fired the last shot.
“America has been attacked. The USS Kearny is not just a Navy ship. She belongs to every man, woman, and child in this nation. Illinois, Alabama, California, North Carolina, Ohio, Louisiana, Texas, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Arkansas, New York, Virginia—those are the home states of the honored dead and wounded of the Kearny. Hitler's torpedo was directed at every American, whether he lives on our seacoasts or in the innermost part of the nation, far from the seas and far from the guns and tanks of the marching hordes of would-be conquerors of the world.
“The purpose of Hitler's attack was to frighten the American people off the high seas—to force us to make a trembling retreat. This is not the first time he has misjudged the American spirit. That spirit is now aroused.”
Stephenson stirred behind the desk, looking up from a sheet of paper he had been glancing at while the president spoke. He held it up for Paul to see. “This is an advance copy of his speech. He’s doing a good job—hitting all the points. Our contribution is about to come up.”
Despite his comments to Stephenson before the speech began, Paul’s stomach tightened as he listened with strained attention while the president continued. He brushed his hands over his trousers to wipe away gathering moisture.