by C. T. Wells
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Anne. I’m not allowed to talk to you.’
‘So far you’re not very good at keeping the rules.’
She kept a stern look on her face. ‘Well, there’s a few things you must know. You must wear these clothes. I have taken your uniform. There is a bathroom across the hall. You are permitted to wash, but not to shave.’
‘He has a lot of rules.’
Anne shrugged. ‘That’s the way he is. It doesn’t pay to ask questions around here. But it does pay rather well to do what you’re told.’ She handed him the clothes. ‘Breakfast is in the conservatory when you are ready. After that, Mr. Payne will finish working on your tooth.’
‘Thank you, Anne. I won’t tell Lucas about our conversation.’
‘You probably won’t see Lucas until later. He prefers to sleep in.’ She stood there for a moment and her bright lips moved as though she was about to say something else, but decided to stick to the rules at the last moment. Then she abruptly turned and walked away, leaving the door open.
Fifteen minutes later, Josef found his way down to the conservatory. He was showered, but unshaven, and wearing clean clothes: beige trousers and a white cotton shirt, both of which were baggy on his lean frame. They had not given him any shoes.
The conservatory was a large tiled space, and pleasantly warm. It looked out over the gardens and was furnished with comfortable chairs and a small dining setting. Mr. Payne was already enjoying some bacon and eggs and the smell of real coffee reminded him of a time before rations.
Mr. Payne looked up. ‘Ah, good morning! There’s breakfast on the sideboard for you. Come and join me. Not supposed to talk to you, though.’
Josef nodded and collected a tray of food from beneath a brass lid. He wasted no time in sitting down and falling ravenously on the hot food, but soon slowed down. He could only chew on one side of his mouth.
‘How’s the mouth?’ asked the dental surgeon.
‘It won’t kill me.’
Payne nodded. ‘Coffee? It’s decent stuff. None of that wretched chicory nonsense. If you have it lukewarm it won’t set off the nerves in your jaw.’
Josef nodded and accepted a mug.
They sat quietly for a few moments, and Josef felt his strength returning with the food. He hadn’t eaten since before the flight.
Quite suddenly, Mr. Payne glanced about him and leant in closer to Josef. ‘What’s it like, then? Flying a Messerschmitt?’
Josef smiled but it hurt his injured mouth. How often do you take breakfast with the enemy? He sipped his tepid offee and considered the question. ‘You feel alive. When you are in a fighter, it is so responsive that you think you are flying all by yourself. It’s not some machine in which you are travelling, it is you.’ He wondered if he had rendered the idea properly in English.
‘But your Messerschmitts … how do they go against our Spitfires?’
‘Fighter pilots talk about this all the time. The consensus is that the 109 climbs and dives faster but the Spitfire turns a little faster. It probably comes down to the pilot, and who has the altitude, the sun, the fuel–load.’
‘So you have you shot down any of our lads?’ Mr. Payne seemed fascinated by the air war. No doubt it was in the minds of every Englishman. On the front page of the papers, broadcast on the BBC, sometimes played out right above them.
‘No …’ Josef trailed off. He had already said far too much. Perhaps the food, the comfort, and the dentist’s earnest questions had disarmed him.
A new voice cut through the conservatory. ‘Jagdgeschwader 27, Jagdfliegerfuhrer 3, Luftflotte 3, based out of Cherbourg.’ It was Lucas, and his German pronunciation was perfect. He was dressed in an oriental robe. The hair that had been perfectly slicked down yesterday was now as dishevelled as a tramp’s. He paused to light a cigar.
Mr. Payne looked down into his empty coffee cup. He looked guilty at having been caught conferring with Josef, like a schoolboy caught talking out of turn.
‘How do you know this?’ Josef was confounded by Lucas’ uncanny knowledge.
Lucas arched his eyebrows theatrically and gestured for them to wait. He returned into the hallway and reappeared a moment later carrying a large section of the rudder of Josef’s Messerschmitt. The bright yellow metal bore the insignia of the squadron. Lucas displayed it proudly. ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’
‘So the Tommies found my plane.’
‘Not much of it. But enough to work out where you’re from. Then again, now that we have a partnership, you would have told me all about Luftflotte 3, wouldn’t you?’ He gave Josef a wink.
Josef stared at the floor He was enslaved to Lucas, no two ways about it. But he had to protect Melitta any way he could. ‘Have you cabled Johannesburg?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s all in hand.’
‘Can I get some proof of that?’
‘Of course you can, Josef. Our people in Johannesburg will send through confirmation from Melitta herself. Now, you might want to clean your teeth for Mr. Payne. We want all that dental stuff fixed up this morning. No shaving, though, Josef. You must look like a man on the run when you reach France. Did you meet Anne? Miss-Anne-Thrope, I like to call her. Get it?’
Josef got it. He just didn’t find it funny.
Lucas chuckled to himself. ‘Very apt, I should say. She’s a looker, but as frigid as a polar bear. Did Miss Anne tell you not to shave?’
‘No. She’s not allowed to speak so I had to read her mind.’
Lucas’ face hardened. He pointed the section of rudder at Josef. ‘Don’t get sarcastic with me, lad. We might each have our own agenda in this partnership, but you ought to keep it civil.’
Josef said nothing.
Lucas poured himself a whisky and ambled out into the garden to drink it. Evidently he preferred a liquid breakfast.
‘Perhaps we should get started,’ Mr. Payne said.
By the middle of the day Josef’s broken tooth was professionally capped. Now there was only a faint line between the base of his tooth and the new crown. Mr. Payne had been taken away in Mr. Hood’s Ford and Josef had been locked in the upstairs room to rest and recover.
Josef, however, had no desire to rest. He was wary of Lucas, trying to get the measure of him. He felt like a mongoose watching a cobra, but he was sick of the feints. It was time to pounce. When he saw him next he would demand evidence of Melitta’s wellbeing. And he would demand to know exactly what Lucas expected of him.
He would begin regaining control by determining his location so, as soon as Mr. Hood’s Ford drove away, he started work on the closed window. It had been crudely nailed shut, but his captors had neglected to remove a tea–set from the sideboard, and using the cutlery he levered the window far enough to get his fingers under it. Gripping the sash and straining upwards, he was able to pull the nails out of the sill. It would have been harder had it been skew–nailed, but whoever had tried to secure the room had not thought of that. Maybe Lucas himself had done the nailing. He didn’t seem the practical sort.
Josef climbed out onto the steeply pitched roof. Using hands and feet he scrabbled up to the apex where the brick chimney rose from the slate tiles. A radio mast had been fixed to the brickwork. He kept low, crouching between the tiles and the chimney and making it difficult for anyone on the grounds to spot him.
From the high point, Josef could survey the entire countryside. The home was set amidst a huge garden surrounded by hedge. The driveway was lined with poplars and curled away to the south. To the north side was an airstrip, and beyond that was green pasture and narrow tracts of forest.
He started looking for topographic features to help pinpoint the location. At the foot of the driveway there was a creek, and to the northwest a distinctive saw–tooth profile of hills. Using his watch and the sun to ascertain the cardinal points of the compass, he estimated t
he summit of the highest peak to be west of north west.
If he had flight charts or survey maps he would be able take a back–bearing from the hills and find where that line intersected the creek, thereby locating the estate. There was little he could conclude other than the fact that he was still in the Tavistock region. If Lucas did not have such a hold over him, he would try to escape. But knowledge is power, so establishing his location seemed like a smart idea.
The familiar sound of an aero engine penetrated his thoughts. An aircraft was approaching the estate. Not wanting to be seen, he slid back to the window and climbed in. Just in time.
A darkly painted, high–winged aircraft flew in right over the top of the house, turned upwind and touched down on the grass strip behind. It was a Westland Lysander. In the air they were no match for a 109, but the Lysander had a remarkable short–field capability that made it ideal for clandestine operations. He knew the British were already making flights in and out of occupied France with these planes, but the Luftwaffe struggled to intercept them because almost any decent forest clearing or field was a possible destination for a Lysander sneaking in low over the channel and using moonlight for navigation.
The aircraft taxied up to an archway cut through the hedge, which linked the airstrip to the garden. Two men climbed out of the plane: a pilot, in a RAF flying suit and a rangy middle–aged civilian wearing a starched grey suit and a homburg hat. He pulled a leather satchel from the passenger seat, stepped down onto the grass and strode towards the house. The pilot sat down on one of the wheel spats and lit up a cigarette.
Josef lost sight of the civilian as he passed below the roofline, heading towards the conservatory. From his vantage point, he continued to watch the Lysander pilot. The man finished his cigarette and shifted from sitting on the wheel spat to lounging on the ground in the shade of the wing.
Josef considered his options. There was no–one else around. He could slide to the edge of the roof and drop to the ground. He would pause in the garden to pick up one of the solid timber garden–stakes he could see, then approach the dozy pilot from behind and belt him over the head with the stake. Within a minute he could be airborne. Imagine flying back to France in a stolen RAF plane! He reckoned he could fly a Lysander. It was probably similar to the German Fieseler Storch. If he could operate the radio, he could alert Luftflotte 3 before they shot him out of the sky and he could be back amongst his comrades for dinner.
But, of course, there was Melitta to think of. It cut him through him like tracer. His cooperation with the English was her only chance. Josef gripped the window sill. He was trapped.
IX
‘Sir Frank!’ Lucas greeted the man in the homburg with an attempt at enthusiasm. He was aware of being caught in his dressing gown and bleary–eyed with drink in the middle of the afternoon, but a senior intelligence officer was not a man to keep waiting.
Sir Frank seemed not to notice Lucas’ dishevelled state. He was a brusque and humourless fellow at the best of times and he did not even offer a handshake as he entered Sloane House. He marched through with a spine as rigid as a musket. ‘Moreling! Interesting developments with your Messerschmitt pilot.’
‘Do you want to see him?’
‘Never mind about that. I’ll brief you on what we are expecting. How about the drawing room?’ He removed his hat and smoothed his greying hair that was already fixed solid with Brylcreem.
‘Yes, of course. A drink, sir?’
‘Black tea. No sugar.’
Lucas called Anne to make tea before leading Sir Frank into the dim drawing room. Sir Frank went straight to the broad walnut desk. He switched on a lamp and swept aside Lucas’ clutter to make room for his satchel.
‘Now, Lucas. Pay attention.’ Sir Frank drew a map out of the satchel and unfolded it carefully. It showed the United Kingdom and Western Europe. Different sections of Europe were shaded in different colours corresponding to different German air fleets. ‘As you are aware, Northern France, Belgium, The Netherlands and even Norway are all lined with Luftwaffe units waiting to bomb us into submission or oblivion, whatever comes first.’
Lucas nodded.
‘The bulk of the Luftwaffe attacks come from northern France, but you must be aware of their command structure in order to carry out the orders I’m about to give you.’ Sir Frank drew three black and white portrait photographs from the satchel and placed them on the map in specific locations. He pointed at the one he had located in Normandy. The photograph depicted a jowly and heavy–set man whose brutal countenance was adorned with a monocle. He was almost a caricature of German arrogance, but Lucas knew something of this adversary, and his reputation for tactical cunning.
Sir Frank tapped the German’s grainy, fleshy face. ‘Generalfeldmarschall Hugo Sperrle, commander of Luftflotte 3. He controls all the air fleet assets west of Le Havre.’ He paused to glance at Lucas, confirming he had his full attention before indicating the photograph of another Luftwaffe Officer. ‘And this is Generalfeldmarschall Albert Kesselring, Commander of Luftflotte 5 which spans northern France and Belgium and beyond.’
He jabbed a finger at the middle photo which had eclipsed Paris on the map. ‘Overseeing both their operations is the Luftwaffe chief Hermann Goering. You probably recognise him.’
‘Yes, sir. Fat Nazis in fur coats are unforgettable.’
‘Yes, well, you must understand that these three men are the greatest threat Britain has ever faced. They are powerful, egotistical and ruthless. There is but one advantage in facing this trio. They are not of the same mind. Kesselring, here in the north–east, underestimates the resources of our Fighter Command and he advocates a terror bombing campaign on London.’ A pained expression passed over the hard planes of his face. Civilian casualties were already mounting with every night. A concerted attack on London would be horrific. ‘Sperrle, on the other hand, argues for sustained attack on airfields and aircraft factories.’
Anne delivered a tray of tea and set it on the desk as Lucas studied the photographs. ‘What of Goering? He is the Supreme Commander. He will be the decider, won’t he?’
‘Yes. At present they are still attacking our airfields, but Kesselring definitely has influence with Goering.’
‘So who has the better strategy?’
‘Sperrle. He is our greatest threat. We can take months of blitzkrieg on our cities—at a terrible cost, of course—but we can only last days or weeks if they eliminate Fighter Command’s resources.’
Lucas frowned. ‘So it is actually better for us if they bomb London?’
Sir Frank nodded gravely. ‘If Sperrle wins the argument, we are doomed.’
‘Might Goering change his mind?’
‘Goering might do anything. He is vain and unpredictable. What we must do is limit Sperrle’s opportunity to persuade him to change his mind and direct all their resources at Fighter Command. Yesterday I had the opportunity to have Goering assassinated by agents in Caen. I aborted the mission. At present, he is more use to us alive because, in Goering’s absence, Sperrle’s argument may prevail over Kesselring’s.’
‘So my orders are to eliminate Hugo Sperrle?’
‘No. At least, not as a first option. He is often in Germany, which makes it harder, and an obvious assassination may only legitimise his argument. What we have to do is eliminate the intelligence used to assess Fighter Command’s combat strength and our capacity to put more planes in the sky. Let him argue, but let it be with no basis.’
Lucas scowled. How do you make a man in another country lose an argument? It sounded almost impossible, yet he found it tantalising. Where was Sperrle getting his information about Fighter Command? ‘The intelligence could be from anywhere. Spies here in England could be telling him about Fighter Command’s strength.’
‘Maybe scraps of information here and there. But the Luftwaffe’s main source of intelligence is aerial photography. For
weeks, camera–equipped Messerschmitts have been flying over England and taking shots of our industrial areas, our airfields, radar installations.’
Lucas suddenly realised his opportunity. ‘And my new prisoner was just such a pilot. Photo–reconnaissance.’
Sir Frank smiled briefly. He allowed himself a sip of black tea as though it were a celebration. ‘You have caught yourself a most useful little fish. Find out where the reconnaissance film reels get taken, where they are developed, who analyses them, how this information gets to Hugo Sperrle. This is how Sperrle is assessing Fighter Command more accurately than Kesselring. This will be our target.’
Lucas paced the drawing room. The alcohol–induced fog had left him and a new clarity had taken its place. ‘So I will send him back to France and have him work his way up the photo–reconnaissance food chain.’
‘Yes.’
‘What if we find the hub of photo–reconnaissance intelligence? My pilot might stop short of sabotaging it.’
‘Yes. But you will have other human assets in place too. The résistance operatives I had tasked with the assassination of Goering are now being redeployed to the Cherbourg region to assist you in this. Have your Luftwaffe boy identify the destination of the film reels and then have the résistance cell sabotage their intelligence.’
Sir Frank withdrew another photograph and laid it in front of Lucas. Three youthful civilians sitting on a park bench: carefree Parisians. The first man wore a blazer and an open–necked shirt. He was reclining with a cigarette in one hand, and half–smiling at the camera, as though the world amused him. Strong–boned, with a slim, athletic build, his posture suggested a relaxed self–assurance.
The second man was smaller and wore a crumpled shirt and a beret. He had dark eyes in deep sockets. He didn’t have the easy masculinity of the first man, but he was attractive in a brooding, intellectual sort of way. Of the three, he was the one most aware of the camera, posing formally, ensuring it captured his best angle.