In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  * * *

  Sitting with her legs drawn up, hugging her knees. Guillaume beside her, but standing; he’d taken off his raincoat, put it on the ground with his Sten-gun on it, had the ‘S’ phone headset on and the microphone covering the lower part of his face. Both mike and earphones were soundproof externally, so that nothing he heard or said was audible to her. No aircraft audible yet, either. Open ground all around them; the clearing was about seven-fifty metres deep by five hundred wide – more than adequate for a Hudson to land and take off, let alone for a parachutage. It was high ground too, not overlooked from anywhere. Groslin’s van was parked under cover of trees over on the far side, where he’d driven it up off a forest track; stony there, Déchambaud had said, there’d be no tyre-tracks for snoopers to find in daylight. Groslin, a short, fat man who dealt in second-hand goods, which was what he used the van for, was at a paced-out distance of fifty metres to Rosie’s and Guillaume’s right: facing the same way as they were, i.e. down-wind, with Guérin a hundred metres from him in that down-wind direction, Lemartin another hundred on from Guérin, and all three with red lamps ready to shine skyward. They’d switch on when they saw Rosie’s white lamp flashing the recognition signal. The aircraft, flying into the wind, would pass over Lemartin and release its parachute load when it was over Guérin; all being well, the point of impact would be somewhere between Guérin and Groslin.

  Now she could hear it – that faint throb. Not the Boche-type throb, which by now every school-child in Britain could identify: a steadier, more constant note. Expanding – already much less faint. That plane’s navigator would have the ‘S’ phone’s beam triggering response in a receiver-dial in his cockpit: the beam, which he’d be homing in on, had a range which depended on the aircraft’s height, could be as much as a hundred kilometres if it was flying at three thousand metres or as little as sixteen or twenty if it was hedge-hopping. The pilot would have gone up to about five thousand, probably, to pick it up at longish range, but he’d be diving now to a hundred and fifty or two hundred. The latter was the height Marilyn would drop from. Or Lise, or whoever. Could even be top brass – Bodington for instance, Buck’s 2i/c. Sound mounting rapidly: by now Guillaume and the pilot would be in voice-communication, which had a range much shorter than that of the beam.

  This was something bigger than a Hudson, though.

  ‘Flash “R” Roger, Rosie!’

  He’d pulled the mike clear of his face to yell it. Rosie already had the lamp up and aimed, began flashing short-long-short, short-long-short. The three red-covered lights were burning, red pinpricks halo’ed pink, from here in descending order of brightness according to distance. To the pilot’s eye, she thought, they might take a bit of spotting: although they might be clearer from above than at ground level. Guillaume shouted, ‘Dropping one container on this pass, one body next time round!’ Volume of sound expanding fast, and the bomber over the top then – deafening and for a second or two discernible in black outline against stars and moon – no Hudson but a Lancaster and the ’chute whipping away astern of it. Gone – racket fading as swiftly as it had grown – to circle around and come over again on the same path. She heard the surprisingly close-sounding thud as the container hit the ground: containers fell faster than bodies, of course. As she recalled it, dropping-time from two hundred metres – or it might have been a hundred and fifty – was fifteen seconds. Messrs Guérin and Groslin would have that container’s position marked, but for the moment they’d stay put. The Lanc circling – travelling from right to left now, westward. Guillaume doubtless still chatting to its pilot. Safe enough – ‘S’ phone transmissions couldn’t be picked up by any monitor on the ground more than a mile away. That drop would most likely have been from a hundred and fifty metres, this next one would be at two hundred: giving Marilyn an extra second or two in which to compose herself, remember the drill as she prepared for impact with mother earth. Rosie visualizing again: seeing her normally immaculate, elegant friend trussed-up in the harness, sitting long-legged on the bomber’s cold metal deck. The despatcher hooking her ’chute to the static line: maybe encouraging her with a grin and/or a thumb-up sign – if she was looking his way, not peering down through the round aperture in the deck through which in a few seconds she’d be launching herself. Narrowed blue eyes up again from the fast-moving rush of moonlit woods, focusing on the row of lights telling her and the despatcher: Stand by – stand by – go!

  He’d have bellowed it. And that spewed-out white flash – Marilyn?

  Lanc thundering over: Rosie on her feet, Guillaume with one hand on the mike and the fingers of the other on the volume-control, the power-pack on his chest: the vertical aerial jutted from that. He and the pilot no doubt exchanging goodnights, good lucks. Parachute open – thank God – and within seconds a light thud and a shrill whistle – from Groslin, who was already up and running, Rosie on her way too.

  * * *

  ‘Flabbergasted might be the word.’ Marilyn scrambled into the van; she’d divested herself of the parachute harness, which with the two ’chutes would go into the now empty container. Its other contents – the last of them now – were being loaded into the van, Rosie’s in one pile and the réseau’s up against the forward bulkhead; Groslin had spread a tarpaulin over that lot and now got out, shutting and bolting one of the rear doors. Guillaume offering Marilyn the Thermos of pseudo-coffee and package of cheese sandwiches; she told him, ‘Sweet of you, but I had a meal only a couple of hours ago at Tempsford House. Honestly couldn’t face more.’

  ‘Well – these fellows will dispose of it, I’m sure. We’ll leave you to yourselves now. One and three-quarter hours – then I’ll give you a shout.’

  The second door shut quietly; Guillaume’s retreating footsteps then, over hard ground and the litter of last winter’s leaves. He and the others would be standing guard out there for the next hour and a half. Here in the van they’d been left a lantern with a stub of candle in it and a more or less intact spare candle; there was a roll of musty-smelling carpet to sit on. Marilyn gazing amusedly at Rosie: blonde eyebrows hooped, blue eyes, perfect skin and at least the impression of every strand of hair in place. A short laugh: ‘Flabbergasted plus… Here – some time since you had a decent smoke?’

  ‘Oh, boy…’ A packet of twenty Senior Service: she took one, eagerly. Marilyn had a lighter ready, told her as it flared, ‘There I was, semi-stunned and not knowing who or what—’

  ‘Referring to the fact I look like a dog’s breakfast?’

  ‘Well -’ peering through a drift of blue smoke – ‘Since you mention it… But I mean when I banged down. You could’ve been a phoney, deceived our “Boris”. Your return to the land of the living wasn’t all that probable, after all. And “Boris” hadn’t ever seen you – only heard of you, from Lise?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘He and I discussed this when I first descended on him, as it happens. I even showed him some of my wounds, as proof of identity.’

  ‘Did you…’

  ‘But if Baker Street had such doubts, for all they knew they might have been dropping you right in it – uh?’

  ‘Not really. Any doubts were – really, theoretical. Anyway, I volunteered. Lise did too.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tell all – when you have. But as I was saying – I hit the ground, wondering now what happens, and what I get is your casual “Hello, Marilyn, how’s tricks?”’

  Both laughing. Rosie admitting, ‘I’d rehearsed it. I guessed it might be you they’d send.’

  ‘I’d imagined you would have. But—’

  ‘I’d thought of asking “How’s Richard?”’

  Trying it on. Richard had become hush-hush several months ago, although he’d still been there in the background. Evidently still was: all Rosie got was a funny look and a dismissive ‘Thank you, he’s fine.’ What she knew was that he was a senior RAF officer; she suspected he might be married, hence the security clamp-down. Marilyn becoming business-like n
ow: ‘But down to our moutons, Rosie – time being so limited. Start by telling me how you got away from the train, et cetera?’

  ‘All right. But first you tell me – St Valéry-sur-Vanne, am I to take that on?’

  Twitch of the blonde head. ‘You’re under no obligation to. In fact I’d be happier if you didn’t. Lise’d rather you didn’t, too – she’ll be at Tempsford when I get back, hoping I’ll have you with me.’

  ‘How about Colonel Buck?’

  ‘His view is that if you’re up to it—’

  ‘That’s it, then.’

  ‘If you’re set on it. But we’ve got an hour and a half, decide then. The rocket thing’s desperately urgent, of course, and you’re sort of half into it already – that’s Buck’s reasoning, plus the great confidence he has in you. But there is a lot of ground to cover, Rosie, and I’d like to have recent events clear, to start with. Tell me what happened to you?’

  Expelling smoke: she’d been smoking greedily and the air in the van was already fairly thick. Couldn’t risk opening a door, either. Candle-lit fog: peering at Marilyn through it. ‘You’d know it all from Lise, up to the point when she and I made our break for it?’

  ‘You made the break. She thought you’d gone nuts, only went along with it because there wasn’t time to argue. Now, in her view you’re Joan of Arc!’

  ‘Oh, Lord…’

  ‘And Buck has put you in for a George Cross. What’s more, he’s heard from number 82 that you’ll be getting it. Look – no more digressions – you ran from the train, there was shooting—’

  ‘George Cross.’ Staring at her. ‘Me?’

  ‘Number 82’ meant 82 Baker Street – Michael House, SOE worldwide headquarters, a building belonging to Messrs Marks and Spencer. Marilyn shaking her head: ‘I was told to tell you, that’s all. We all love it – especially now it doesn’t have to be posthumous. Honestly, Rosie, we’re all cheering for you. But I don’t want to start blubbing – or waste any more time than—’

  ‘George bloody Cross. It’s – ridiculous…’

  ‘Colonel Buck doesn’t think so, nor do the powers that be. That’s what counts, not what you think. Rosie – come on. They were shooting at you, Lise heard it. Quickly, now – we’ve a hell of a lot to get through – huh?’

  She’d nodded. ‘I was shot in the back – here – and the side of my head – this groove, this one knocked me out, so I was – I suppose sort of corpse-like, smothered in blood – exit wound here, incidentally, near-miss of left bosom… Anyway, they left me lying there, it got dark, I was like a loose light-bulb, sort of on and off, you know? More off than on, I suppose: Then – here’s the miracle – two Free French para officers – Michel and Luc, Michel’s a major, Michel Jacquard, Guillaume told me his military tag is Commandant First Maquis Liaison Group.’

  ‘We know about him.’

  ‘You do?’ Stubbing out her Senior Service, on the van’s metal floor beside the candlestick. Marilyn telling her, ‘There’s a lot of cooperation going on – you’d be amazed.’

  ‘Michel said something about that.’ She was shredding the stub, which if it was left here and the van was searched might get Groslin a one-way ticket to Buchenwald. ‘It was also Michel who found out where the Marchéval factory is. I’d told him about “Hector”, and he offered to – his notion entirely. Then he visited a prominent résistant in Troyes by name of Victor Dufay. You memorizing this?’

  ‘Hope so. Go on.’

  ‘After Michel had been to see him and asked about Marchéval’s, Dufay realized it was a long time since he’d been in touch with a Resistance friend of his in St Valéry – proprietor of L’Auberge la Couronne, which I’m hoping will be my safe-house down there. Jacques and Colette Craillot, both active résistants. They must have tipped off Dufay about the rocket-casings, and he immediately got hold of Michel again – Michel being off on some new brief.’

  ‘We know about it.’

  ‘Do you… But am I right in thinking at least part of the reason nobody’s heard about the rockets until now is there’s no SOE réseau in that area?’

  ‘Probably.’ Marilyn nodded grimly. ‘Another “Hector” effect.’

  ‘Effects plural, surely.’

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. ‘Several individuals, yes.’

  ‘Including one or two who were on that train with us?’

  Another nod: ‘Does seem so. Not from that area, but—’

  ‘Rather underlines the need to do something about him, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Doesn’t it, just.’

  ‘Could you spare another fag? I can tell you the rest in about thirty seconds flat. Michel and Luc took me to a woman – war-widow, Thérèse Michon – who was part of an escape line on the far side of the Vosges Mountains. I say she was part of an escape line because she’s since been arrested.’

  Roughing out the picture – names and places. None of it mattered in practical terms at this stage, although it would when the Boches were driven out and the time came for people to be thanked and recompensed; Baker Street needed to have it on the record, for future reference. Rosie finished, ‘You know the rest. Guillaume’s pianist got the signal out that afternoon. Must have given you a nasty turn?’

  ‘Floored us, Rosie. Absolutely floored us. You see, that was the afternoon of August 2nd, this last Wednesday, only the day after I’d invited Ben to come to Baker Street to meet Lise, hear her story and – well, hear from me, first, that you were dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had that job.’

  ‘So was I. Wish I hadn’t, too – if I’d delayed it just two days—’

  ‘Have you told him yet I’m not dead?’

  ‘No. For one thing, there’s hardly been a minute. Lise’s seen him a couple of times during the week—’

  ‘She has?’

  ‘From the meeting we had in Baker Street, he took her to lunch. I’d have been with them, but I couldn’t, I got called away.’

  ‘Leaving them to cry on each other’s shoulders.’

  ‘Well, sort of. Metaphorically more than actually, though. She is stricken. Her chef de réseau – Alain Noally – you met him, didn’t you?’

  ‘He was more than just her chef de réseau.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘He was really something. I mean really. Quite a bit older than her, but – for her, the beginning and end of everything. As it’s turned out – well, I hope not, but maybe even literally… You say Ben’s seen her – a few times?’

  ‘I think exactly as you say, to cry on each other’s shoulders. Although she doesn’t show it much. She’s shattered, but it’s – you know, locked in. Although she and I have had long talks – right from the start, she was under medical supervision for a couple of weeks, and of course de-briefing, and our relationship’s been helped by the fact I’ve known you so well… Anyway, we decided – or rather I did – that for the moment we wouldn’t tell Ben anything. One couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a hoax – and you see, if you were coming back with me tonight fine, no reason not to—’

  ‘You mean that as I’m not, you might find yourselves having to break bad news all over again.’

  ‘Lise thinks we should tell him. This was only – God, yesterday morning. There hasn’t been time. She’d had supper with him on Thursday night and – look, I’m not keeping secrets from you, Rosie—’

  ‘I’d hope not!’

  ‘He unburdened his soul to her, apparently. I might have mentioned, he was pulverized by what we’d told him. One keeps using that word “shattered”—’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘He told Lise there’s some woman he was involved with – long before he met you, apparently – who married his CO mostly because he, Ben, wouldn’t marry her – if that makes sense—’

  ‘It does, actually.’

  ‘Well, that marriage has broken up now—’

  ‘She’s in the wings again, is that it?’

  ‘Seems so. Ben – well, he’s been crushed, re
member. It might seem like – I don’t know, but when you’re – you know, floundering—’

  ‘She was after him, all right. And I suppose if I’d ceased to exist—’

  ‘Exactly. Rosie, we’ve got to move on, but first two questions – one, should we tell him you’re alive?’

  ‘Yes. Please. And tell him I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye?’

  ‘Well – you couldn’t have. But all right – I’ll have Lise tell him tomorrow. Second question – in view of what I’ve told you – about this other woman – want to change your mind, come back on the Hudson?’

  ‘No. Once he knows I’m not dead—’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘But don’t tell him you’ve told me anything about Joan Stack. Lise needn’t have told you… Is he stationed in Portsmouth still?’

  ‘London – back in his old St James’s Street job. Since soon after you took off. Anyway, Lise’ll tell him tomorrow – as fresh news, it’ll still be less than a week old – and I’ve been out here checking it – which is true… I’ll tell him you send your love and hope to be back – within a few weeks, say.’

  ‘Better say as long as it takes. Otherwise he’s going to be camping on your doorstep, isn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose – yes. Rosie, you are completely recovered, are you?’

  A nod. ‘Completely.’

  ‘There was talk in Baker Street of sending a doctor with me to check you over, but parachute-trained quacks don’t grow on trees.’

  ‘I’m fine. What’s next?’