Return to the Field

by Return to the Field (retail) (epub)

  ‘Sod him, then…’

  He’d taxi back to about the point where he’d landed, so as to take off this way into the wind, over their heads. Moonlight flashed on his goggles as he leant over: ‘Tell ’em stand clear, will you?’

  A wave: she returned it. Throttle opening then, drowning her voice. Not that it mattered, the old man and the other one had seen the desirability of moving. Rosie meanwhile adjusting to the fact – as the noise built up again, marooning her in her own thoughts – that the circumstances were already entirely different from those which had been envisaged. No ‘Hector’, so no train tickets. Which on reflection – a few seconds, no more – mightn’t be such a bad thing either. She hadn’t really liked the train tickets dodge any more than she had the business of the parcel. And here and now what did make immediate and good sense – as had been urged on the pilot a minute ago by this thickset character who, as the Lizzy came racketing towards them with its tail up, was yelling in the ear of his younger helper to see old Gaston got home safely – was to get the hell out, and quick.

  Not by train, though. Not picking up any damn parcels, either.

  Chapter 2

  Dawn was in the sky behind her; the moon had gone down half an hour ago. The lanes were a mass of flooded potholes and the bicycle with her two suitcases on it was top-heavy, and had taken a bit of getting used to. She had the hang of it now, well enough. She had the lighter case in front of her, jammed on end into the pannier, and the one containing the Mark III transceiver and her pistol and the wad of cash was roped to the carrier behind. She hoped that if she was stopped during the day by patrols or at roadblocks they’d content themselves with a look into this easily accessible one, not make her struggle with the knots on the other. It might depend, of course, on whether or not it was a routine inspection – how hard they might be looking for a girl on a bike heading towards Rennes – which in turn might depend on the answers to various questions about ‘Hector’. On the other hand they might only be in search of black-market produce – a duck or a pound of butter.

  Jeannot – the man in the woollen hat – had transferred the pannier – panier, in French – from his wife’s bicycle. She’d have paid them for it if she could have done so without giving away her own intentions, but as far as they knew it was only on loan to her, to be recovered with the bicycle itself in a few hours’ time. Embarrassing, rather; they weren’t well off, and effectively she was robbing them. It was to get the pannier that she’d gone with him to the house; he’d stashed this bike near the landing-field earlier in the day, so that she could have gone directly to the station. Mightn’t have been such a good idea, she thought, looking back on it. All right in summer, to have killed a couple of hours snoozing in a ditch, but it would have been a dangerously long time to have had to hang around on a small country station. The bike had been provided by ‘Hector’ at some time in the past and had been used by other incoming agents who’d left it at the station for Jeannot or his wife to pick up later; and they were under the impression now that Rosie – or rather ‘Zoé’, as they knew her – was following the same procedure.

  ‘‘Zoe’ in English, but now in the French ‘Zoé’, with accent.

  Jeannot had told her, ‘First train that stops will be the milk train. Likely you’ll be the only one boarding. But nobody’ll fuss you.’ Glancing at his wife – gypsy-dark and broomstick-thin… ‘Nobody’d ever think she wasn’t French – eh?’

  ‘No, they would not. In fact—’

  ‘I am French. You could call me Zoé, by the way.’

  ‘Ah. Well…’

  ‘A stranger in a place where you all know each other, though?’

  ‘You’ll need to see the station-master, to leave the bike with him. Mention my name – you’re a friend, that’s it.’

  ‘Might there be Boches around?’

  ‘Not at this hour.’ A shrug. ‘Not unless – you know, a flap on, or—’

  ‘Right.’

  Who was to say there wouldn’t be a flap on?

  Madame – Jeannot’s wife, Rosie didn’t know their surname and didn’t need to – had given her a mug of coffee that was ersatz but better than most – ground barley, she’d guessed – and a hunk of bread with cheese. Another debt: but she’d insisted they could spare it. Adding then, ‘He’d have tucked in. Obviously won’t come now – no point. But he’d expect us to take care of you.’

  ‘Might need to take care of himself!’

  Jeannot had mumbled it, his cheeks bulging. Rosie had asked him what he meant, and he’d shrugged, ‘Could’ve run into trouble.’ His wife had crossed herself. By ‘trouble’ he’d have been thinking of arrest, of course. They could have had no reason to suspect treachery, wouldn’t have been doing this now if they’d had even a sniff of it. To Rosie they seemed extraordinarily matter-of-fact about it all. Their house was a bar-restaurant-tabac; they lived over the shop, and a former kitchen at the back was let as a workshop to someone who made and mended wheels for farm-carts. The restaurant part of the business specialized in rabbit stew, game pie and so forth; Jeannot was a poacher and well known for miles around – not least to the local police, who turned blind eyes, had a free meal now and then, and if he’d been found prowling around in the middle of the night wouldn’t have suspected him of anything other than snaring a few rabbits.

  She was glad to have had the food and the warming drink. There were several things she needed to resolve, but the one clear essential was to get out of this district, well out, and preferably all the way to Rennes in time to contact ‘Giselle’ before curfew. She could have decided to take it more slowly and spend a night on the way – finding lodgings in one of the villages she’d be passing through, or sleeping rough, but nights in lodgings or hotels involved certain risks and it wasn’t the best time of year for camping-out.

  The distance was about a hundred and twenty kilometres. On the face of it, a marathon; but she’d done as much before, and recent bouts of pre-deployment training had left her fit enough. The weather didn’t look like making it any easier, but at least she wouldn’t bake inside her heavy clothes as she had last summer when she’d covered similar distances in the Rouen area.

  Seventy-five miles – in about fifteen hours, say. Averaging 5 mph, therefore. Shouldn’t be too bad, if she wasn’t stopped at too many roadblocks. Touching wood – the table – while studying Jeannot’s maps, a local one showing the narrow lanes between here and Tiercé and another that covered half Brittany, including the whole of her route to Rennes. She’d let them think it was the railway that interested her – the route she’d been supposed to have taken, south to Angers and then up to Le Mans, and west.

  ‘There.’ She’d put her finger on the map northeast of Rennes. ‘There’s Fougères. Must be – what, fifty kilometres, from Rennes?’

  ‘About that. No more, I’d guess.’

  Jeannot had muttered, ‘Not a bad little town, Fougères.’

  Let not the right hand know…

  Not even people like these. Exceptionally courageous people. In a population where most kept their heads down, wanting only to get by, and thousands worked actively for the Germans, Résistants like these formed a very small, outstandingly brave minority. But information could be wrung out of the bravest of the brave – out of Jeannot, for instance, while they held a knife to his wife’s throat. Or vice versa. Here and now, they knew very well the risks they ran, and the penalties… About this night’s events, meanwhile, all they could tell Rosie – Zoé, they’d called her once or twice – was that earlier in the evening they’d heard the BBC message they’d been waiting for, about Bertrand leaving hospital – ‘Hector’ having alerted Jeannot to it a week ago, at the same time giving him the recognition letters which he’d also been passing to London. He’d made a habit of this, apparently, since an earlier occasion when he’d only just made it to the landing-field, arriving on foot across country after the gazo in which he’d been travelling had run out of fuel. He’d almost killed himself ge
tting there, and since then had made sure receptions could go ahead without him if they had to.

  ‘If he’d had to go elsewhere – or run into trouble of some kind…’

  ‘If he had – you’d expect to hear of it?’

  ‘We’d hope to.’ A nod. ‘No guarantee we would, but—’

  ‘And you’d clear out, at once?’

  ‘Well, that’s a problem.’ He’d shrugged. ‘The way we live – our life’s here, nowhere else. All right, I could sneak off and join the Maquis, but whether this one here’d stand the rough living—’

  ‘I’d make as good a Maquisarde as any of them!’

  A shrug: ‘Might have to. Not the first time we’ve discussed it, believe me. There’s no easy answer though. Well – we’d hang on, that’s the long and short of it. Trusting ‘Hector’ to keep his trap shut.’ Staring at his wife, wanting her agreement: she’d nodded, and told Rosie, ‘He’s a good man. If anyone could, he would.’

  Meaning ‘Hector’ wouldn’t crack under torture. And maybe she was right. She and Bob Hallowell.

  It would have been pointless to have warned them, anyway. When there was nothing positive to say, nothing one knew. And Jeannot had just told her they’d sit tight anyway.

  She’d checked the time, and he’d seen her doing it, pushed himself up from his chair. ‘Yes – want to be on your way, don’t you?’ Cramming in a last mouthful… ‘You’ll find the way, eh? Don’t want me to come along?’

  ‘I’ll find it. Thank you very much. And I’ll leave the bike in the care of the station-master.’

  ‘Tell him it’s my wife’s. Hélène’s, tell him.’

  ‘You’ve both been very kind.’ Shaking hands. ‘Hélène…’

  ‘Adieu, Zoé.’

  * * *

  Getting light – after a fashion. The village she was about to enter was called Champigné. Entering it as she was from the south she’d turn left at the crossroads presently, on to the road for a village called Lion d’Angers, about twelve kilometres away. Judging by Jeannot’s map it ought to be a better road.

  Women and girls on bicycles were commonplace on the French roads. With virtually all the men between eighteen and fifty away in POW camps or labour camps or munitions factories in Germany, women by and large had to fend for themselves and for their families – part of which meant foraging, cycling long distances sometimes to visit farms or black-market sources where this or that commodity might be obtainable. Families couldn’t live on only the official rations. And in any case, with no petrol available, and only doctors and other special categories entitled to permits to own or drive gazogénes – cars, vans and lorries converted to run on either charcoal or bottled gas – bicycles were for most people the only way to get around. To and from work, for instance: even this early there’d be some on the roads.

  Only the suitcases, Rosie thought, might make her conspicuous. But it was a reasonable hope that if they were looking for her at all they’d reckon on her travelling by rail. Might even have decided to stake out the Le Mans consigne – if they thought any agent in her or his right mind would walk into such a potential trap: let alone try to collect a parcel for which he/she didn’t have the ticket… Other points were that ‘Hector’ shouldn’t have been given her code-name – thus knowing it was a female agent arriving – and would surely never guess that a Section ‘F’ agent would be going anywhere west of Rennes.

  Hence the idea of drawing Jeannot’s and Hélène’s attention to Fougères. The place-name had caught her eye on the map, that was all. But she did have a few things going for her, she thought. She might actually be in very little danger at all, on this journey. Apart from sheer bad luck – catching the wrong eye, looking scared, getting into some kind of accident… She was in Champigné now. In half-light: a cobbled street, old houses in need of repair. A few pedestrians, well wrapped up, an old woman who’d just emerged – standing there somehow blindly – might be blind, that was a light-coloured stick – but there were no other cyclists in sight at this moment.

  A German truck – the sort they moved troops around in.

  Pedalling on towards it. Accepting it as a familiar sight: nothing unusual or very interesting about it, to Suzanne Tanguy. Although the sight of it had shocked her – for a second. First sight of the enemy always did. It was facing this way; with some Wehrmacht unit’s insignia on its wide front mudguards. And there were two other cyclists there now – coming this way, had been out of sight beyond the truck but were angling out to get around it. It was on this side of the crossroads – on its own right-hand side of the street, her left as she approached it – and there were two soldiers in the front, the driver in what looked like a forage-cap and the other in a helmet. Whether or not there were others in the canvas-hooded rear she’d only know by looking back after passing it. Which she would not do. She didn’t even glance at the two in the front as she pedalled past on her own side of the road; just a few yards beyond it she had that left turn to make – and a gazo was overtaking her, simultaneously a heavyweight female cyclist coming wobbling out of the side road with an arm extended…

  The gazo passed, Fatso wobbled out around the truck, and Rosie glanced back before she made her turn. OK…

  And so much for Champigné. The next significant landmark would be about ten kilometres ahead: the rather strikingly named Le Lion d’Angers. She’d turn right there. Before it – about halfway – there’d be a turning to the left which she remembered from Jeannot’s map would lead back southward in the Tiercé and Angers direction.

  She was sorry she’d had to deceive them about the pannier. The bicycle too, really. But the pannier had been Hélène’s personal property; this bike, having been provided by ‘Hector’, was really SOE’s.

  Might send them a hundred francs, she thought. Anonymously – conscience money. Addressed to ‘Hélène’ in care of the chef de gare at Tiercé.

  Might not, though. There’d be a post-mark on it, and the fewer clues one left, the better.

  * * *

  The right turn at this place – Le Lion d’Angers – wouldn’t be at the first intersection, which was a right-angled turn on to the main road to the north, but a right fork just past that, on to another minor road. If there was a sign, it should be marked Segré.

  No rain yet. Grey, fast-moving cloud from the north though, which might well be bringing some. It didn’t feel as if there could be snow about, was definitely less cold than it had been in England.

  Oh, Christ…

  Road-block. She could see two lorries waiting, parked nose to tail, and a big gazo van half across the intersection with its rear doors open and a search in progress. Uniformed French police were doing the searching, but there was a Wehrmacht truck parked on the verge at the corner and Feldgendarmerie standing around nursing Schmeissers. There was also a small saloon car parked on the other side, with a tall man in civilian clothes leaning with his back against it, smoking a cigarette.

  She slowed, and dismounted. Keeping the bike upright so that the weight of the case on the pillion wouldn’t become obvious and excite curiosity. Rehearsing quickly, mentally: Suzanne Tanguy. Papers? Yes – here. The diversion story; en route from Paris, certainly, but also taking the opportunity of visiting my sister… Yes, the Ausweis was issued when I’d intended coming by train, but then when I saw the cost of it, for heaven’s sake…

  ‘You! Going which way?’

  Pointing at her: a Frenchman, in plain clothes – wide-brimmed felt hat, grey raincoat. He’d strolled into the centre of the crossroads. Probably a colleague of the one beside the car. Similar type and clothing. Answering his question, she pointed too – towards that right fork beyond the main road intersection – and called as if she wasn’t absolutely certain, ‘Segré?’

  ‘All right.’ He beckoned to her to go on over. ‘Come on.’

  They’d be checking for black-market stuff, she guessed, wholesale quantities being trucked up that road to Laval and wherever else. Crossing the main road she g
lanced only briefly at the Frenchman, who was still watching her. French Gestapo, very likely: he had that look, and one had heard that in recent months a lot more had been recruited. Many of them had criminal records: that had been the case right from the beginning. The very worst of them were Henri Lafont’s lot, who operated out of 93 Rue Lauriston in Paris where they had torture chambers and Lafont had a steel-lined office for his own protection. But this one might not belong to Rue Lauriston; Lafont and his partner Pierre Bonny, a crooked former Paris cop, mainly targeted communists and Résistants, not black-marketeers, probably wouldn’t waste their time on jobs like this one. Whatever it was… She was walking her bike across the road, having to pass within a few feet of the man in the hat, mounting carefully then when she got to the other side, aware of the bike’s top-heaviness again as she did so. About half the weight in the case on the pillion was the transceiver’s battery; the set itself weighed only about four and a half kilos. It was useless without a battery, of course – until or unless one had access to a main power supply. She was still half-ready for the shock of a shout recalling her: if he’d changed his mind, decided she should be searched. No shout came, though: by now he’d have forgotten her. She was conscious of feeling a bit self-satisfied as she rode on; having walked past him at a range of less than two metres, without apparently showing nervousness or anxiety, despite having this bag on the pillion containing one radio, half a million francs and a 9-mm pistol. Any one of which items would have been a certain passport to ‘interrogation’ and probably – if you survived long enough to get there – to the women’s concentration camp at Ravensbrück.

  L’Enfer des Femmes, they called it. The women’s hell.

  * * *