by C. T. Wells
Giselle marvelled at Terese curled up on the floor in a bundle of sacks and blankets; so silent, so stoic. Possibly asleep, but more likely just withdrawn into her sorrow.
Edouard shuffled along the stone wall and sat next to Giselle. ‘Here, have another blanket.’ He draped it around both their shoulders. She said nothing, sitting still and staring out through the doorway above Martin’s head. Moonlit clouds drifted across a slice of sky.
Somehow Edouard’s presence made her thoughts turn to Josef. She knew he was not safe. He had been seen at the château with Martin. His uniform and insignia were his own, and would lead back to him. The car had been seen, and that too would lead back to him. His squadron leader had been murdered, and they had Anton Joubert’s body, which would eventually lead them here. She didn’t know much about Gestapo investigations, but surely it was only a matter of time until they investigated JG27. And worse, she didn’t know what Josef himself would do. He had been so wild when he left her on the beach. What would he do with his rage?
She thought it over for several minutes. Edouard nuzzled closer, but she ignored him. Her thoughts were still with Josef. Surely he would see the terrible position he was in. He could not stay with JG27. The Gestapo would find him sooner or later. Even in his pig–headedness, he must accept that. He had been willing to leave the Luftwaffe and flee if it meant saving his sister, but would he flee to save himself?
If she could make contact one more time, perhaps he could be persuaded to defect. There had certainly been a connection between them. From the first time she had seen him, here in the windmill, she had not felt any hatred. Only concern for someone in trouble. Someone she liked in spite of his uniform. If—no, when—he was taken by the Gestapo, it would be her fault as much as anyone’s.
XXVIII
Reile screwed up his nose. The harbour front in Cherbourg carried the distasteful odour of reeking fish at the end of a hot day. The task at hand was no more pleasant. Willi Boelcke had tied the killer’s corpse to a flagpole in the market square. Up above, a swastika flickered in the evening breeze.
Ropes lashed around the chest kept the corpse upright. There was enough rigor mortis in the body to make a standing position possible, though the dead man’s head lolled to the side.
Earlier he had commandeered a blackboard from a street café. He erased the special of the day and took up a stick of chalk. Reile carefully composed each word in French:
Identify this man for 50 Reichsmarks.
On either side were two young Totenkopf SS soldiers ready to guard the body throughout the night. Standing with the corpse, they made an odd trio.
It was unlikely anybody would enter the market square until morning because of the curfew. But at dawn, stallholders and traders would gather by the hundreds. Reile was certain the body was that of a local farmer. The coarse clothing, the calloused hands and the local soil on the leather boots were good signs. His ruddy, whiskered visage had turned to a ghastly pale, but it was still the face of an outdoorsman. It was possible that this man had regularly brought his produce here to sell to the townsfolk of Cherbourg and it was, therefore, entirely likely that some starving peasant would provide information to the Germans.
The SS guards were ordered to escort anyone who came forward to the nearest telephone and contact Reile at a nearby hotel. The information would have to prove useful, though, before anyone got their reichsmarks.
***
‘I can’t sleep.’ Giselle pulled the blanket around her shoulders as she sat down beside Martin in the doorway. ‘I’m worried about him.’
‘You already spared his life. You did the right thing, Giselle. But he’s on his own now.’
‘But he’s doomed. You said there were Gestapo in the château. They will find him. The uniform. The car. The squadron leader. Something will lead to Josef. He has nowhere to turn.’
Martin’s eyes were hard in the moonlight, unblinking. ‘Giselle, in different circumstances he might have been a friend. But he is our enemy now. He swore an oath to Hitler …’
‘He doesn’t believe in that nonsense. He got caught up in it, and then we deceived him. We have written his death warrant, and he was acting out of love for his sister—maybe you ought to think about that.’
Martin’s eyes went wide with disbelief. ‘Giselle ... what can we do about him? Really, what can we do?’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Now I’m worried.’
‘I am going to find him and bring him back.’
‘What? Are you mad? Are you going to walk into a Luftwaffe base and simply persuade him to defect and join the résistance?’ He shook his head.
‘French girls are always going into the airfield. I’m just another one.’
‘You would pretend to be some pilot’s whore?’
Giselle glared at her brother. ‘Yes. Pretend.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Giselle! What has become of you?’ His voice softened. ‘Listen, I know it’s been a terrible day. We’re all feeling worn out, but this is … impulsive. It’s a stupid, romantic notion.’
‘It’s honourable. Listen, Martin. You say we are fighting for France, no? For liberty, freedom, equality? Well then, we are the biggest hypocrites if we use Josef and then abandon him. I am going to give him a chance.’
‘But Giselle ... it’s not safe.’
She stood abruptly and walked across the damp field towards the trees where the motorcycle was hidden. Behind her, she heard Martin snap, ‘Edouard! Take the machine gun and keep watch over Terese.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to talk some sense into Giselle. I’ll be back soon.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘No! Stay there. We won’t be long.’
Giselle was clambering over the stone wall when Martin caught her.
‘Giselle, I can see you have made your mind up. If you’re going to be an idiot, I’d better come with you.’
‘I knew you’d see it that way.’
***
Inspekteur Eberhard Reile massaged the flesh around his ears. They were still affected by the bomb blasts several hours ago. He would have to ignore the buzzing and summon a clear mind. There was a lot to do, and they would not be getting much sleep.
Boelcke was busy on the telephone in the adjacent room. He was progressively disturbing watch officers in every Luftwaffe unit in Normandy, trying to account for every Citroën Traction Avant in the region. It was proving to be a difficult task, with units having been moved and vehicles redeployed constantly over recent months. But if one had been reported missing or unaccounted for that day, it could lead them to the saboteurs.
Meanwhile Reile set about making calls of his own. The first set of phonecalls summoned all available Gestapo agents in the region. By morning he would have two carloads of agents arriving to join the investigation.
Next he made some arrangements with his local SS connection. Major Stahl of the Totenkopf, the Death’s Head Division, was always obliging when it came to orchestrating a reprisal.
***
Martin twisted the throttle and they rode through the night. Giselle could see he was tense. He had already pushed his luck today. She felt curiously calm. She had dug into her travelling case before they left the forest and changed clothes. A tartan skirt, white blouse, stockings, gloves and a light gabardine coat kept her sufficiently warm. She tried to keep her hair in place with a head scarf.
Martin braked to a halt. He let the bike idle while he turned to her. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Of course. We have to give him a chance to escape to the Free Zone.’
‘The base is guarded. They might let girls in to see the pilots, but not me.’
‘Just park nearby. Pretend to sleep in the sidecar. It’s common enough. You’re just waiting for your sister who is visiting her pilot frien
d.’
Martin shook his head. He checked his automatic pistol and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. Then he revved the bike and they rode on.
A few minutes later he pulled up on a gravel apron near a sentry box. Rolls of barbed wire extended to either side surrounding the airbase. Giselle smiled at Martin. His expression was little short of a scowl. But she knew his involvement was not just loyalty to his half–mad sister—he too felt concern for Josef, and some guilt for using him. The least they could do was offer him a way out.
Several metres away, a sentry in a great coat and helmet shuffled out of the guard hut. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Giselle unwound the scarf and dropped it in the sidecar.
At that moment other motors could be heard. A German truck and a staff car approached from inside the base.
Martin swore. ‘Giselle. Let’s just go.’
‘Shush. It’s just traffic.’
The gate guard waved the vehicles through and they accelerated away towards Cherbourg. Giselle caught a glimpse of young, uniformed men in the back of the truck.
She boldly approached the sentry. She knew how this must be played so she walked in close, batting her eyelids. She spoke in broken German, not attempting to conceal the French accent. ‘Hello, Sir. I have come to visit a friend who lives here at the base.’
The guard was a portly, middle–aged soldier whose nose was dripping in the cool evening air. He looked her up and down appraisingly. ‘Your friend is a pilot, ja?’
‘Yes, his name is Josef. I met him in Cherbourg, and I would be most obliged if you would help me. Perhaps you could telephone him?’
‘I should have taken up flying,’ muttered the sentry.
Giselle winked. ‘It’s not about the flying. It’s the dancing that French girls like. If I told you the name of a club, you could meet someone there, I think.’
‘A club?’
Giselle thought fast. It had to sound convincing. ‘In Cherbourg. It is called Le Club Atlantique. It is on Rue Coluche.’ The street was real. The club was made up, but plausible for someone new to the area.
The guard gave a crooked grin. ‘But do you mean the dancing that you have to pay for?’
‘For Germans, only a little.’
The guard wiped his nose. ‘Who’s that?’ He jabbed a finger towards Martin.
‘It is my brother. He is very kind to take me out on a cold …’
The guard chuckled. ‘Your brother? Hah! You have given me a laugh if nothing else. He is your pimp, no? But, since we are in France, maybe also your brother. What was the name of your friend, again?’
‘Josef Schafer.’
‘Messerschmitt pilot with JG27?’
‘That’s him.’
‘I don’t think he was expecting you, Mademoiselle, because I just took a call saying all the boys from JG27 flew their last sortie of the day and they’ve gone into town. Maybe to Rue Coluche for all I know. That was them in the truck.’
Giselle frowned. She looked away down the road where the vehicles had vanished into the night. She looked back at the guard. ‘Merci. Bonne Nuit.’ She strode away towards Martin.
‘Maybe we’ll go dancing sometime?’ The guard mocked her as he shuffled back to the hut.
Giselle ignored him as she gave orders to Martin. ‘Follow that truck.’
***
The streets of Cherbourg were all but empty. Only the occasional foot patrol of French police could be seen. Wretched collaborateurs! There was no-one else about, not so much as a stray cat to be seen. Maybe cat meat had been on the plate in some of the more desperate homes. The streetlights were not lit, and just an occasional chink of light escaped a hastily covered window.
Giselle sighed as the German vehicles ahead turned into a broad street where a prominent building lorded it over the chimney pots of lesser tenements. The Hotel Meridien. By the look of things, it was about to get an injection of reichsmarks.
Martin idled the bike in the shadows at the intersection as they watched the truck and staff car draw to a halt opposite the hotel. Loud, abrupt German voices were accompanied by the confident but tuneless singing of men already drinking hard before the party had begun.
Men spilled out of the back of the truck, bottles in one fist and back–slapping with the other hand. Giselle watched them from a distance. Was that Josef? Someone with blonde hair was being carted on the shoulders of others. A dozen young Germans moved haphazardly, but always nearer the doors to the hotel.
Martin rode on another block and turned into a side street where he found a hidden service yard behind a pâtisserie. He cut the motor and wheeled it back amongst the clutter of flour sacks and egg crates. ‘You’re really going in there, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. And you can’t come. The only Frenchmen they want in there are the ones who pour their drinks.’
‘I’ll be right here, if you need anything.’ He patted the automatic in his pocket.
‘You don’t have any lipstick, do you?’
XXIX
For Josef, the world didn’t so much revolve, as swirl, around him. How strange he could keep his orientation in a spinning aircraft, yet being carried on his comrades’ shoulders made him giddy. The fortified wine from the manor had done it. He had already swigged a good portion of a bottle in the truck. Until today, he’d rarely touched alcohol, so the wine had coursed through him with great effect. He was floating, somewhere between exuberant and nauseous. His cheeks were numb, but the night air didn’t seem all that cold.
‘Watch out!’ called Wolfe Schiller. ‘Doorframe coming in at twelve o’clock!’
Josef looked up to see the heavy lintel of the hotel door approaching. He swayed back just in time to avoid cracking his skull. His comrades roared with laughter as he nearly fell.
Inside, dim bulbs in faux chandeliers tried to penetrate a strata of cigarette smoke. Josef’s head was in the tobacco cloud and his eyes stung from the smoke. He slid to the ground and steadied himself at a table.
The pilots moved into the place like they owned it, claiming stools at the bar and cues at the billiards table. He watched several French men—civilians—decide their best option was to leave their drinks and exit by a rear door.
A barmaid caught Josef’s bleary eye. She undid the top button of her blouse and pulled a clasp from her hair, letting it cascade loosely over her shoulders. She called out towards the back room and was joined by another couple of girls. Josef’s eyes lingered on them for a moment. He was always curious how normal the poules looked. Pretty girls, but never quite the dead–eyed disease traps he had imagined. Still, looks could be deceiving. He had always thought there was enough to worry about in the cockpit without adding syphilis to the list.
The girls began pouring ale. Josef was overtaken by the tide of Germans ready to drink and celebrate. They had turned back a British bomber formation. The French ought to be thankful.
He was still gripping the edge of a table and letting the room’s dimensions settle back into level and plumb when Dietrich Hofacker walked in with a strange little case like one that would carry a sewing machine. Hofacker, the jeweller, had always been more like Josef. Quiet. Not much of a drinker. Instead of clamouring for the bar, he found a seat in one of the far booths and occupied himself with the items in the little case.
Josef frowned, wondering what was going on. He might normally have sat with Dietrich, but he was on a different mission tonight. There was much to think about. Could he be implicated in Martin’s sabotage? And there was more: British airmen were dead because of him. What did that mean? He was a killer now. He had to try on that knowledge like a new suit, not quite sure whether it would fit him well. And of course, Melitta was dead. She was the last one who mattered.
Too much to think about. Maybe better not to think at all. A bit more of that wine, and he wouldn’t have to worry. He would sort it out
later. Buy some time; buy some numbness, and maybe one day he would figure it all out. Tonight’s mission was a bombing mission, and he was going to obliterate his memory.
What was Hofacker doing over there by himself? He was unscrewing a jar. Setting out some kind of tools. But there was a gap at the bar now and dark eyes offering solace. Josef stumbled across and found a space amongst the animated pilots and the girls who seemed to be appearing from nowhere. Wolfe was already opening another bottle of wine.
Jurgen Brandt entered the parlour. The staffelkapitan had no hesitation in assuming command.
‘Attention!’ Brandt bellowed. The hubbub ceased at once. ‘Tonight we celebrate victory! We gave the British a hiding, and there will be plenty more to come.’ He pointed at Josef. ‘And listen! Not long ago, this lad here was freshmeat from South Africa.’ Even in his half–drunk state, Josef shifted uncomfortably as attention settled on him. ‘But not only has he joined the legendary JG27, he has survived being shot down and is now an experte! This is Shaka. And tonight he scored three British aircraft in one sortie.’
There was a cheer. Those around Josef slapped him on the shoulders.
‘Gentlemen, raise your glasses. To Shaka!’
They drank to him and Josef nodded his appreciation. It brought some life back into him to have comrades drink in his honour.
Brandt continued. ‘I saw tonight how a man can become a ruthless hunter …’
Even though he knew Brandt was raving, Josef felt proud. The affirmation of his comrades came like summer rain on the veldt.
‘… And so I have come up with an idea! We all know Dietrich Hofacker has a good eye and a good hand. I have asked him to bring tattooing equipment, and for any man who becomes an experte, they can have JG27 written into their skin forever. So far, it is just me and Shaka. But, the rest of you, you can join us any day. Shaka! Are you ready? Bring your lager. We have an appointment with Mr. Hofacker.’