The Betrayed

by Thomas Wood

  “Good night, Robert.”

  “Night, Alf.”

  I pulled the blackout blinds over the windows, the early morning sunshine trying its best to find a neglected corner, or a minute crack to let its rays stream in through.

  As I flopped onto the bed, freshly cleaned and made, I wondered what Jameson wanted from me. I was in no better position than he was to make enquiries about Operation Geranium, in fact he was arguably better placed than I was, especially as I spent most of my time behind enemy lines now.

  But then I gave him some slack. Obviously, it had been weighing on his mind for a while now, the pent-up tears were enough to tell me that, and maybe it had simply been the desire to tell someone else, to share the burden that had made him go on so much about it. I wondered if Jimmy had any inkling about how much his right-hand man had started to distrust him.

  My brain quite quickly succumbed to the rushing waters that flooded my head. It was almost too much for my tired, inadequate mind to take in and process, I doubted that I would ever be able to get my head around it fully.

  Rudolf had been one of the main instigators of Operation Geranium, Robert had managed to discern that much himself, but it was how all the others had slotted in that had started to concern me. There was a possibility, backed up by Jameson’s own suspicions, that the head of our department, Major Jimmy Tempsford, was somehow embroiled in the plot.

  It was true that he had been the first one to even introduce me to the word, by getting me to ask for Joseph Baudouin by mentioning Geranium, but at the time it had seemed like a coincidence that Joseph had reacted so quickly to the call.

  Then, at the declaration that Rudolf Schröder wanted to talk to Jimmy about Geranium, we had been given a first-class ticket out of France, something which would only have been reserved for the most highly classified, or personally damaging material.

  Joseph Baudouin must have been involved somewhere along the line also. If the operation had caused as much embarrassment and shame as it had seemed, there was no way that Geranium would have been Jimmy’s go to codeword for one of his contacts in the field, especially one who he had been friends with before the war. If that was the case, then Joseph had lied about Geranium too, something which I was finding was becoming a common trait between all those who knew about the operation. It was all more than just a little strange.

  As I managed to drag my head onto the pillow, I found myself yearning for an extra five minutes with Rudolf, wishing that he had somehow survived our little escapade. I was certain that I would have learnt an absolute fountain of intelligence from him and he would have been a person that Robert would have loved to have met. Maybe he had heard the radio transmission less than twenty-four hours ago, his heart skipping a beat at the thought that the egg would finally be cracked open.

  Out of the three who seemed to have some knowledge of Geranium, it came across to me that Rudolf was the softest, repentant almost. What I would have done for a few more minutes talking to him, especially in the light of what I knew now.

  As the sun grew in its strength, I began to lose mine, and the willpower to try and humour the thoughts that dashed across my consciousness for half a second, before dissipating into nothing, began to wane significantly. Eventually, I resigned to trying to piece things together with my eyes closed shut, but it did not take me too long to fall into the deepest slumber that I had ever succumbed to.

  When I woke, it wasn’t to the hammering door as an adjutant summoned me, but to the overwhelming thirst that gripped me like a small child to its mother’s hand. I got up and began to move about, feeling ever so slightly more human, revitalising myself with a shallow bath and a good scrub at the skin.

  I enjoyed the almost laid-back essence of Floor 424, the unofficial name of the department’s new digs on the top level of the hotel. It seemed like I was almost surplus to requirements, which made a nice change of pace to what I had become used to over the last few weeks.

  The façade of peace that I came to relish in, was shattered by Captain Robert Jameson, the man who seemed to know everything but nothing, as he practically sprinted over to me as soon as he set his eyes on me. His eyes were bloodshot, the veins so pronounced and noticeable that I wasn’t sure if he’d even tried to get some sleep, or whether he had perched himself on the end of his bed, bouncing his knees around in anticipation for the next working day.

  “Jimmy wants to see us both in his office. Right away. You had breakfast?” he asked flippantly, to which I shook my head.

  “Right. June, coffee and breakfast in the Major’s office, if you please. Thank you.”

  2

  No one said a word until well after June had left the room, laying on a surprising array of food and drink for us. Which judging by the speed she had managed to knock it all up, one could only assume that there was someone, somewhere else in the building, who was being made to wait a little longer for their breakfast.

  Each of us poured ourselves a mug of strong coffee before Jimmy eventually broke the silence.

  “Right then chaps. Obviously we have an issue in the field, one that we need rectified as soon as possible. Have either of you thought through any possible plans of action?”

  I had only thought through one possible way of resolving the whole matter, one that made me feel uneasy about being in the same room, with the same men, about to put the same offer on the table of returning to France.

  Jameson had obviously already had one mug of coffee this morning, as he was well ahead of me.

  “As I see it, Jimmy, there is only really one way around this. There is only one man who has been in the local area. He has the knowledge, the contacts and he knows what he’s doing.”

  If I hadn’t been so tired and everything had been a little quicker to process in my mind, I was certain that I would be blushing.

  “Absolutely not, Robert. No way.”

  “Why not?!” he exploded, his chair shooting from under the desk, as he made his way over to the large window that was pouring light into the room. He paced around for a few moments, trying to calm himself down from inexplicable escalation in his blood temperature.

  Jimmy let him have a few moments before explaining himself, as if I wasn’t even in the room with them.

  “You know why, Robert. You do know why.”

  He let his words linger for a minute or two, before Jameson gave in and staggered back to the table, gulping down another helping of coffee and throwing a sliver of bacon down his neck.

  “Yes, yes. I do. It’s just that…I can’t see any other way around it.”

  “What about you, Alf? Have you had any thoughts?”

  “No, Jimmy. Other than me going back. Which is what I assume you had been thinking, Robert?” he flicked his head towards me, a grin mischievously poking its way outwards, hidden from Jimmy’s gaze. I was beginning to quite like Captain Jameson now, he wasn’t the obnoxious desk jockey that I had always thought he was. He was there for a reason, to end this war.

  “Look, I know it makes sense to send you back, really I do, but we can’t risk it. The people in the area know you, it’s likely that the Germans know who you are now and why you suddenly returned. Plus, we have the added danger of sending you in with the RAF again, it’s a highly dangerous flight now, you know, it shouldn’t have been sanctioned in the first place.”

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair as a headmaster does while deliberating what kind of punishment to dish out on his two worst pupils.

  “If anyone is able to do this Jimmy, it’ll be Alf, you know it’s true. We have got to shut this down.”

  He pinched at any loose skin that he could find on his forehead, squashing it together as he continued to decide on his verdict for me.

  “I don’t want to send someone into a situation where they would more than likely be killed, Robert. I simply won’t send one of my men to their deaths. Understood?”

  I felt Robert’s lips twitching as he bit at his tongue, fighting the urge to argue
back in an explosion. I knew that Jimmy had seen it too, as he pursed his own lips in defence of the onslaught of Jameson’s wrath. The air was tense, but comfortable almost, as if these two men were used to being at one another’s throats, which judging by what Jameson knew of Geranium, would have been a fair assumption.

  I wondered what had happened behind these doors while I had been away, when I had made the radio call about Rudolf wanting to talk about Geranium. Had Jameson come clean about what he knew? Had he confronted Jimmy?

  The thought popped into my head that the only reason that Jameson was still allowed to be working in this department was because of his invisible, yet omnipotent Uncle Rupert in the War Office, over whom Jimmy had no power to try and get him removed from this office.

  Before the air turned blue and faces red, I jumped in between them.

  “I want to go. Jimmy, I need to go. I have ways around the problems. You know I can do it. If we don’t put some sort of plan into action soon, then there will be practically no effective resistance in that whole area, and one day we’re going to need them desperately. We need to be able to rely on them Jim. Come on.”

  He started to chew on the inside of his cheek, and I wondered whether he was genuinely concerned that I would be killed. It hadn’t seemed like he had given me too much consideration when he had me reassigned to a job that could have easily seen me dead less than two months ago. I could feel Jameson shifting around in his seat, as he had the exact same thought, but having to fight the urge far more than I did to actually voice it.

  “Okay,” he whimpered, so quietly at first that we both had to lean into him to hear him repeat it. “Okay. Okay, you can go. But please, don’t get yourself killed. Don’t be so stupid.”

  I wondered if it was his concern for my welfare or the guilt that would be on his conscience if I was to die. I concluded that it didn’t really matter, I was going back to sort this mess out, on my own, just the way that I liked it, determined to get to the very bottom of this murky sinkhole that had opened up before us.

  “But, take some leave first. Relax, sleep, go home, whatever it takes. You need to build your strength back up, I want you at your absolute best. Understood? Two weeks, non-negotiable.”

  It felt weird, being told to go home, as I felt like a vagabond, a nomad, with no real purpose or place to call home, other than France itself. It was all I had really known for the last two years now, having been stationed there for over six months as part of the British Expeditionary Force, and then spending the majority of my time on the run there in one form or another.

  Nevertheless, it still felt good going back to the place that I had grown up in. Seeing the familiar street, recognising the faces, albeit far more aged and concerned, tugged at my heart so much that it made me miss the place almost immediately. It wasn’t the same though, it never would be.

  This would be where Alfie Lewis the child, the teenager had grown up. But Captain Alfie Lewis knew no other life than being in war torn France, and as he stood outside the greengrocers at the end of Moon Street, staring at the posters alerting readers to the fact that Hitler will send no warning, he realised that that was where he had felt most at home in recent times.

  Regardless, I still found myself rapping away at the door, finding it far easier to do so than the last time that I had been there. I looked at the tape criss-crossed over the windows all around, a futile defence against the shockwaves of the German bombs. But, then again, I hoped that the people round here didn’t need too much of defence from bombers, their counterparts in London were soaking up most of the heaviest stuff from the Luftwaffe.

  “They won’t answer lad,” called a voice from the other side of the street, “Oh, Alfie! I didn’t recognise you! You back for good this time or what?”

  “Afraid not Mrs Andrews. Mr Hitler just won’t give up, will he?”

  “Tell me about it!” she shouted, “did you know my Brian hasn’t been able to send me a letter for three months now? I can’t wait for the day when that stupid little Bohemian meets his end.”

  “Do you know where my parents are, Mrs Andrews?”

  “Oh, sorry Alf. Yes, they’ll be down at the church now. That’s where they seem to spend most of their time at the moment. Don’t know what they do down there every evening.”

  “Thanks Mrs A.”

  She began muttering something to me as I turned and paced it off towards St Michael’s, about half a mile away, leaving her to continue sweeping the rubbish from the inside of her house all over her doorstep.

  The church was quite bland and unremarkable, except it had been when I had been dragged there most Sundays as a child. Now it seemed like one of the most peaceful places on earth. As soon as I stepped through the doorway, I felt a peace wash over me, as if there was no war going on in here, like a bubble was somehow preventing any of the death and destruction of the outside from seeping in.

  The walls were bland, painted in a pristine white that made anything else painted in the same shade appear grey. Directly ahead of me was one single aisle, with wooden pews creaking away on either side, all pointing towards the very front of the church, which housed a great stained-glass window. The window had fascinated me as a child, as it depicted Saint Peter clutching at two keys, crossed over above his head, which had apparently been the keys to heaven itself.

  I had spent hours simply staring at it, the vibrant, immersive colours drawing me in and captivating me for entire durations of Sunday services. Once I had turned thirteen though, I barely stepped foot inside the church again, apart from the occasional Easter service or Christmas Eve, when everyone went.

  The keys always reserved a special place in my mind, until the day that I was dispatched to France in late September 1939. The crossed keys of heaven had been painted onto the bumper of one particular truck and, as it trundled its way towards the Royal Navy ship that was to take us to the continent, I couldn’t help but feel buoyed by its presence, as if somehow, it might bring me some good fortune.

  There were a handful of people occupying the pews, but it was the couple sat quite close to the front, on the right-hand side that caught my attention. Both had their heads down, one figure with their arm wrapped tightly around the other and I knew immediately that was my parents.

  I hoped to surprise them, so plonked myself beside them, letting the pew finish its obligatory creaking.

  “Hello Mum. Dad.”

  Mum took one look up at me and burst into tears. Had I said the wrong thing? Should I have come at all? In that moment, it didn’t seem like I should have visited so soon.

  “Alright son,” Dad said, lethargically, handing mum a hankie that had obviously been well used in recent days.

  “What is it?” I asked, immediately knowing that something was wrong, something that didn’t involve me for a change.

  Dad said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes filling with tears while Mum’s head bobbed up and down in front of his face.

  Suddenly it hit me, and I felt sick.

  “Bill…” I managed to utter, gaining no other response than my Dad’s pursed lips and a weak attempt at nodding his head. He wiped the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing loudly. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words were forthcoming, I was completely dumbstruck. My Dad answered my question for me, his voice crackling and taking him far too much time to speak a couple of simple sentences.

  “We don’t know how. Only that it’s happened. We’ve had no word from the War Office yet, just a letter from one of the boys in his section who said he would explain when he’s back on leave. They’re being withdrawn in about three weeks’ time.”

  I sat with them for a few minutes, in contemplation, prayer, numbness, I’m not really too sure now what it was. But in that time that I sat there, nothing went through my mind, other than the picture of my brother, the one who had effectively been a third parent, teaching me the things that I shouldn’t really do, but had marvellous fun doing anyway.

  I couldn’t bea
r to think of him over in Egypt, buried under six feet of desert sand and hoped that one day, we would be able to bury him properly, so that we could visit a decent grave more than anything.

  “Promise me, Alf,” she said, looking at me for the first time since I had sat next to her. “Promise me that you’ll be alright. You’ll make it through the war.”

  “Of course, I will Mum. You know I will. I’m back in London, you know that.”

  I flicked my eyes up at Dad, still hugging Mum into his chest as she sniffed and snuffled her way through the evening. He could tell that I was lying, but he seemed grateful that I had told her what she had wanted to hear regardless.

  I had just made a promise that I knew would be difficult to keep, in a church of all the places as well. I felt horribly guilty, but I knew that my duty went far above my mother’s desires to get me home back safe and, deep down, she must have known that herself.

  It was a promise that I was going to find exceptionally harder to keep, especially as I kept finding myself volunteering to head back over to occupied Europe, each time seemingly coming closer to dying or finding some other way to ruining my parent’s lives. There was an extra responsibility on me now, now that Bill had gone, and it made me wonder why I kept going back, why I kept volunteering. It was like I was addicted, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit it just yet, it was my secret high.

  I could quite easily just stay in London like I had told her I would do, I could be quite safe on Floor 424, with no dangers other than getting a severe papercut from all the paperwork I would need to be sorting. Someone else could pick up the brief for this one, and I could operate it from afar, with a similar chance of success, I deduced.

  But there was always something drawing me in personally, as if without me, it would all fall to pieces and the work would never be completed. I had to be the one to do all the legwork.

  Besides, every time I went back, there was a slim increase in the chances that I would see Cécile again, that she would simply turn up on my doorstep unannounced and offer to help me once again, in the same way that she had done about eighteen months prior.