Thankful for the small crystal radio set from Mother Hélène, Kate set to work. No new messages.
The next time Père appeared, he brought her some coffee. “Your orders still stand?”
Sudden emotion inundated Kate, and what issued from her mouth was hardly intelligible. But her nod communicated.
“I’ve found someone, but it’ll be a while before he arrives. I have a confession to make. When we left Lot, I could have sought one more location there—maybe I should have, so we might have stayed longer. But attentisme has always challenged me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Waiting on events. I would far rather solve life’s puzzles than wait and watch for something to happen. Waiting for word to come is even worse. In my heart, I know my family hid too well for even me to find them.” He sipped his coffee and gave a great sigh.
“Though I believe God watches over them, I chafe at the waiting. There’s far too little control in that. Action—even if it’s the wrong action—appeals to me too much.”
“I’m afraid we’re too much alike, Père. My mentor warned me that times of waiting and resting would be worse for me than taking risks. At least when I do something, I feel my life has some meaning.”
“Even if you don’t particularly like the meaning?”
“You understand me, you really do.”
Later, when her pile of bandages filled a heavy hall table, Père sought her again. “Your guide is ready.”
“You’ll take my radio somewhere safe?”
“Indeed.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you. I suppose you have no idea if they’ll be sending you back?”
“No, but I hope so. If they don’t, maybe I can...”
“Come back to La France when this is all over, to find your father’s birthplace.” Tears glinted in his eyes. “If you do, I hope you’ll come and find me—do you hear?”
Père handed Kate a provision bag he’d somehow managed to put together, and when he hugged her, her eyes overflowed. But then he pressed her fingers with his.
“You’ll be all right. This means you’ve learned so much that those in charge seek your wisdom. Perhaps you’ll be treated like royalty.” He meant well, but the attempt at humor did nothing to temper Kate’s sense of loss.
“Remember in whose name you came here—all will be well.”
“But what if I never see you again?”
“All will be well. Rest in this thought.”
“But...”
“Shhh, now. I know it in my soul—all will be well.” He grasped her shoulders. “You’ve endured difficult changes before—true catastrophes. As He has in the past, so God will continue to be your strength. He knows how to guide you back to us if need be.”
His gentleness and the depth of his tone calmed her. “Oui ... absolument.” But her heart broke when he dried her tears with his sleeve.
“There now. Off you go, then. Grace lights your path and my prayers travel with you.”
The guide, a diminutive fellow with a twinkle in his eye, shouldered his pack. “Venez avec moi—vite!”
Come with me—fast. Was there any other way to travel these trails? His voice melded with an inner one that had strengthened Kate more than once.
Along a strenuous ascent, recollections paraded before her. During her childhood, on the Atlantic crossing, while she searched for Alexandre throughout London, when she met Charles and he offered her a job and a place to stay—the list of times she’d been cared for extended on and on.
Grace lights your path... Not once had guidance and protection failed her, although she’d entertained such doubts. Though she longed for a chance to say good-bye to Domingo, serenity filled her as she lifted him and his family to heaven.
Père’s prophecy steadied her instinctive wild urge to bolt and run back to him. “All will be well.” Strange how such a familiar phrase gained momentum as the words replayed in her mind.
All will be well. Yes, even the frantic fear that she’d never see Domingo again.
All will be well. The light in Père’s eyes shone again as if he stood before her.
All will be well. Suddenly Kate was transported back to high school literature class, with Mrs. Morfordson proclaiming the intention of state of being verbs—“They reveal the very present truth about a situation, class. They show us the way things are.”
All will be well. Step by step, the final portion of the statement resounded, a proclamation that this moment had become acceptable. She could manage whatever lay ahead. She would.
By the time her guide pointed into the distance and cited, “Seulement trois kilometres, mademoiselle,” Kate’s equilibrium returned—the three-kilometer walk would do her good. The dizzy, out-of-control feeling that overcame her when she first read the message from headquarters faded.
Back to London—her next mission, though so sudden and unexpected, beckoned her. What if, on the outside chance, this unexpected interlude meant she would somehow get to see Addie?
~
The C-47 touched down like a jewel riding the darkness to earth. This moonless night, when pilots ought not be flying at all, still saw a successful landing, with the pilot coasting down from about four hundred feet. Flying dark like this, he had to rely totally on his bombardier’s navigational skills.
And so did Kate. She gave a sigh when the process worked. These hardy fellows flew ridiculously low over the radar-soaked French mainland. Then, with German flak surrounding the French side of the Channel, they’d quickly ascend to eight thousand feet when they took off again, to avoid the coastal guns.
At the thought of dropping down seven thousand feet again once Channel water appeared below, Kate’s stomach churned. But before they continued on to England, the pilot said, they had some more cargo to pick up.
Cargo—that could mean just about anything, but considering the brutal battles underway in Normandy, Kate guessed they would carry wounded Allied soldiers back to London.
As they carried Alexandre from Norway after his first crash. Yes, someone had found him and taken him to a safe house until a guide could lead him to a rendezvous point and eventual transport to London.
Keep your mind on the facts ... she grasped for something to calm her mind. No use dwelling on her hurried leave-taking. Those glints in Père Gaspard’s eyes nearly brought her to tears, but before her lay a tough climb, and they had to race.
Better concentrate on the amazing new airplane taking her back to England. From her transmissions, she knew the C-47’s first flight had taken place just a few days ago. Americans were involved, and the latest report said no crashes yet—good news.
Once she climbed into her seat, the pilot wasted no time, and his conversation with his mate diverted her attention. Facts and figures—safe territory.
“RAF Witham expects three more new planes just like this one. These babies are a dream—don’t you love having the aerodrome above you?”
“Yes, but the shorter tail cone excites me more. Someday, maybe we’ll tow a glider across the Channel. Besides, who has time to look up?”
“Well, we’d definitely be in worse shape without Bomber Harris’s night raids over Germany. At least he keeps a lot of Luftwaffe pilots busy there.”
The engine noise increased after takeoff, so Kate heard only snatches between the pilot and the bombardier. “Hidden flak batteries ...wonder why they named this the Dakota...”
The ride took Kate back to the Lancaster that brought her here last December. Seemed like far longer than that, but war played games with Father Time. Moments could take on the significance of entire days, and days could swell into months.
Speculating about the future did her no good—would she be sent back to France, or spend the rest of the war in England, perhaps training other agents? That seemed unlikely, since she still felt she had so much to learn. Would she...
No, no. That line of thinking would never do. She closed her eyes and let the roar convey her back to that other flig
ht, far above the Auvergne.
On that gorgeous moonlit December night with stars spangling the sky, the pilot had alerted her when they came close, and her training had come to the fore. Strangely calm, she’d rehearsed her next steps.
Then the metal hatch had scraped open and wind whipped her face. Stars and moon teased her to gawk at their glory, but she’d somehow focused on her instructions.
Remember, the parachute does most of the work, but you can steer a bit by pulling on the canopy’s risers and suspension lines.
The pilot called, “Ready?”
She replied in the affirmative, though her whole body trembled. He pushed her out, her static line tightened, and the pilot chute jerked free of her backpack. The inflation whoosh brought her breath back, cold and fresh.
Release the main canopy. Extended lines parted the binding at the shock of her weight and cast her to the heavens until the main chute billowed.
Eyes open, chin tucked, knees locked to the rear—so far, so good. Time suspended, melding her body with the night’s indigo blanket and creating an odd sense of comfort. Adrift between two different worlds, the ache in Kate’s chest from her miscarriage let go momentarily and she declared her new identity to the universe.
“Agent Merce descending.”
Months earlier, SOE officers exchanged looks when she requested Code Name Merci.
“How about Merce? Résistance Spaniards and Basques celebrate her festival every year, and like her, you’re on a mission to the oppressed.”
Bend slightly forward from waist, elbows tight into sides, hands over reserve parachute ends, fingers spread.
With all four risers secured, the canopy came under control, and a vast starlit dome over misty valleys surrounding a plateau welcomed Kate to southern France. Her spine tingled as though she embraced a happy surprise.
Turn into the wind, let go the toggle ... balls of feet, calves, thighs, buttocks, and side of back must touch down in a continuous roll.
“Continuous roll—the story of my life ... if only I could float longer.” But the earth loomed closer and closer. Next, silvery grass glistened with dew.
Bawhoosh! The impact burned her calf to the knee. Her chute puffed and fluttered, canopy release assemblies clicked and, jaws clenched against the pain, Kate still carried out her instructions.
Lift latches to free parachute from pack and roll over.
“Please send help.” Back on earth again, staring up at the flawless heavens—but she already needed aid. Her nerves grated at this pathetic landing, despite her perfect training performances.
An approaching shadow started her heart knocking against her ribs. One seven-letter word invaded her senses—Gestapo. She tried to think what to do next as the shadow bent down. Then, warm breath grazed her ear with a man’s whisper.
“Code Name Merce.”
A different concern overwhelmed Kate as she realized the hopeless tangle around her ankle. Panic threatened at the sharp sting radiating her calf, but the stranger knew what to do. He loosed the cord and in one silent, efficient movement, balled it with the chute and buried them in the brush.
When he returned, she attempted to stand, but fell against him, so he palpated the throbbing spot and dressed the entire ankle with cool moss. His obsidian eyes under heavy dark brows calmed her as he retied the string and leaned low, waving her onto his back.
Heat flushed her face at causing him trouble, but the guide’s unflappable demeanor quieted her. Without hesitation, he shouldered her one hundred and ten pounds, ten more in boots and clothing, plus her pack and the radio.
Rock-hard muscle stabilized her. To the east, snowy Massif Central peaks glinted. This plateau must lead to the Pyrénées foothills in the opposite direction. Even after smoky, chaotic London, Kate felt instantly at home. They might have crossed an Iowa pasture instead of south central France.
You’ll drop in south of Vichy, Pétain’s occupied capital. There, villages harbor Jews, downed allied pilots, and others of Gestapo interest. Remember, if you are found out, you understand only French.
Perspiration niggled the back of Kate’s neck when she remembered another of her instructions. She’d failed to smudge her light hair with mud and change into her milkmaid’s garb. But electricity still sizzled up her leg, and her landing trousers kept the blessed coolness in place.
Use your ingenuity. Keep a cool head when you make mistakes.
Ingenuity—she almost chuckled. “The most creative thing I can do is pray. May this man not suffer on my account.” Her guide’s wool jacket absorbed her prayer.
What seemed like hours passed as he pushed through thick brush, stark branches in winter dress, and prickly broom bushes that snagged at her trousers. Finally, another meadow shimmered before them like spun glass. The guide dropped her radio and pack with a solid thunk and eased Kate against something scratchy and dusty, but yielding.
She caught at the stuff with her fingers and sniffed a handful ... hay. The guide hissed a muffled password, rousing a faint response from the dusty mound, as though someone called up from a deep basement.
Satisfied, her guide hoisted her pack and radio into the haystack and with his hand on her forearm, directed her fingers to a warm, chapped hand inside the hay. A moment later, a French phrase dipped in his thick Basque accent brushed her ear.
“Allez avec Dieu.” Go with God. The simple phrase had soothed her like a benediction. Then, like a moon-shadow, her deliverer had disappeared.
But not from her heart. Would she ever see her indomitable Basque angel again?
Scrape ... bang. The sounds of men loading the cargo interrupted Kate’s reverie.
Nothing to do but wait while they loaded the plane, since the pilot’s final words to her echoed stern and clear. “Stay here.”
Kate never knew what they loaded, and once they passed through the airspace over the coast and returned to normal flying height, she relaxed. In fact, the wild day’s events took their toll, and she fell asleep until the pilot’s announcement woke her.
“We made it again.”
Just as she had in so many lorries with Père Gaspard, she bounced in the seat. They’d landed already?
A few faint lights revealed a runway. She shook herself awake—Wickham field.
The bombardier yelled, “Almost there.”
Then a change in the pressure, a bump, and another. Kate’s heartbeat throttled her chest. After a few more jolts, though, the pilot switched off the motor and opened his door. Or someone opened it from outside. A gloved hand reached for hers, and Kate gulped the damp English air.
“Follow me, ma’am.”
Within minutes, Miss G wrapped her arms around Kate. “Welcome home.”
Surprised by her mentor’s emotion and the strong smell of cigarettes blanketing her, Kate drew back. But Miss G seemed not to notice. “We’ll get you installed for the night, and someone will come for you early in the morning to begin your debriefing. I hope you enjoy a good sleep.”
A million questions floated through Kate’s mind, but Miss G’s calm posture quieted them. A good sleep—suddenly, weariness cloaked Kate, in spite of her nap, and it seemed all she could do to obey. Miss G opened a door inside a dormitory.
“Are you hungry?”
Kate shook her head.
“All right. Now, try to still your wild thoughts, since sleep is of the essence.”
But such a gift was not to be. Thoughts of Père Gaspard haunted Kate. She slept, wakened, and dozed again. In a dreamy haze, she envisioned a courier fill the priest’s pockets with more notes to transmit to headquarters.
Clackety-clack-clack. Her radio keys sounded like the noisy ducks Madame Ibarra fed each morning and evening.
Some noise startled Kate awake. Alone in a dismal little room, the sweep of a strobe light over the area befriended her. Would England ever be free from these endless beacons searching the night sky? Technically, London was the closest place to home she knew, but with the constant threat of rocke
ts falling from the sky, it had little safety to offer.
When she woke from another miserable snatch of sleep, Kate shook herself and sat up. Better to sit in a chair until dawn than float between Southern France and here—wherever here was.
Someone brought her breakfast and directed her down the way to a second-story Baker Street room. There, an officer greeted her.
“Good to see you. I trust you slept well.”
“Not exactly. I feel like I’m in the nether world.”
“Mmm ... typical. In a way, you are. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down.”
Real coffee. A spotless cup. A plain old oak chair. Kate took in her simple surroundings, thankful for the hearty coffee. Mrs. T and all of London sacrificed for this brew.
“This morning, it’s that other reality you just left that we’d like to explore. You’ve done well, even with your original assignment foiled, Agent.”
“Thank you.”
“So, tell us about your missions, starting with that original one.”
“My...? You mean with Maurice and...?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Maurice—is he alive?”
Facing Kate over a clean desktop, the officer shrugged. “I’m unable to give you that information.”
“But, surely ... only if he’s alive or not.”
He angled his head. “Actually, I’m not able to tell you because we don’t know yet. Maurice dropped out of contact weeks ago. We had a report of him being imprisoned in Lyon, but no confirmation.”
Kate’s heart plummeted—Gestapo headquarters. “Oh.”
“Perhaps you can give us clues. That’s one reason we called you back. When was the last time you saw him?”
“When he sent me to Albi.”
“From Clermont-Ferrand?”
“Yes. He gave me such specific instructions. I had no idea the circuit was endangered.”
“Mmm... He might not have known yet, either. What about Eugene?”
“I delivered a message to him a few days before that.”
“And what’s happened with him since?”
A Purpose True Page 21