Blue Noon

by Robert Ryan

  An orderly, dressed in the classic blue French overalls, but adorned with prominent Red Cross arm bands, came across and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Come on, Odile,’ the newcomer said in strangled French. Switching to English, he looked down at Neave: ‘Well, at least this one’s breathing.’

  The rifle report was so close it made them start and all three looked around to see a young soldier slump down onto the platform, a neat, self-inflicted wound in his forehead. Odile put a hand to her mouth as the body twitched one last time and Neave groaned at the casual waste of a life. The situation was slipping away into despair, he realised. Inexperienced soldiers were taking what they thought was the honourable way out.

  The orderly knelt down and examined Neave’s tunic where it had been partly cut away from the wound. ‘Odile.’ He looked at her and repeated: ‘Odile. We can save this man.’ Neave could tell he was trying to snap her out of it, and slowly she turned and looked down at her patient.

  ‘Odile. Please.’ The orderly reached up and touched her arm. ‘You can’t do anything about that one.’

  She finally nodded and crouched beside him and Neave passed out as Odile began to work on the wound again.

  Neave came awake with a jerk, to find his side bandaged and no sign of seepage. He touched it and winced a little, but at least his insides felt more in than out now. His head was swimming, though, and he had a raging thirst. He looked around for Odile. Nice name, he remembered. The orderly, though, had spoken in English. Strange.

  It was morning. The shelling had stopped, although the atmosphere was still heavy with dust and smoke. He could hear the sporadic crack of rifles, the BEF clearly conserving ammunition. At least someone was still holding out, though, and the thought made him feel proud.

  He did a double-take when he saw the uniform of the man striding across the tracks towards him. A German officer, a Walther pistol in his hand, with a strange metal crescent bobbing around his neck. Behind him, cautiously crouched over their weapons, were a dozen or more Wehrmacht soldiers. Neave automatically reached for his rifle. A pile of Enfields lay stacked at the end of platform two. He’d been disarmed. They had surrendered. Or, in his case, someone had surrendered him.

  The German officer with the metal necklace seemed surprised to see him sitting there, leaning against the dank wall, a blanket across his legs. He came and stood before him.

  ‘All over, is it?’ Neave asked.

  The officer nodded. ‘Sichelschnitt.’ The voice sounded muffled and Neave realised the constant explosions must have affected his hearing.

  Sichelschnitt?

  The German made a scything motion with his left hand. Ah. Sickle-cut, although Neave had become more concerned about the Walther pistol in the man’s right hand, which, he realised, was pointed at his heart.

  ‘You kill him and you’ll have to kill me.’ The voice rang out across the platform and the German spun round. It was the blue-overalled orderly, now emerged from the front of a wagon-lit, wiping his hands on a grimy cloth, speaking in French. Then he repeated the sentence in bad German. The German hesitated, looking down at his gun as if surprised to see it. Neave was fairly sure the man had no intention of killing him, but he might just be wrong.

  ‘And me.’ It was Odile, stepping down from the rear of the carriage. ‘Captain …?’ That’s it, thought Neave, get the bastard’s name.

  The officer slowly holstered his gun. ‘Sonderführer Diels. Feldgendarmerie.’ So, thought Neave, the strange necklace indicated he was military intelligence of some sort. Diels looked down at Neave. ‘And this man is a prisoner of war. I have responsibility for interrogation and removal of all enemy forces from this area. All men who are fit to be moved will be transported out to a transit camp.’

  Neave was suddenly weary to his soul at the prospect.

  ‘He’s not fit to be moved,’ said Odile firmly.

  Diels hesitated, then, as he turned to go, he said, ‘We shall be back as soon as he is, then.’

  ‘Come on, old chap. Wake up. Must have worn off by now.’ It was the Red Cross orderly, speaking perfect English. ‘Come on, Neave, snap to it, we didn’t give you that much.’

  Neave opened his eyes, blinked hard, and focused enough to take in his surroundings. It was afternoon, another hard, bright day. He could see German troops, and a small column of British walking wounded lined up on a far platform, a column of grey, drained men, leaning on each other for support.

  The orderly unwrapped something and handed it to Neave. A sausage roll. A British sausage roll, albeit a rather squashed one. He realised he was ravenous and gratefully took it.

  ‘How long have I been out?’ asked Neave as he chomped.

  ‘Off and on … a day.’

  ‘Christ. What’s happening?’

  ‘Rumour has it Jerry is knocking seven bells out of Dunkirk now. As for here, well you can see, old boy, those that can walk are being taken off for what they call processing. The rest of you have a little time while they organise transport. I have to get you into one of the carriages.’ He indicated the nearest wagon-lit.

  The orderly gave Neave a sip of water and helped him to his feet. His legs felt feeble, and he was grateful for the support. ‘You’re English?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t shout about it, old chap, there’s a good fellow.’

  Neave nodded. ‘But …’ He couldn’t keep the distaste from his voice. ‘Are you a deserter?’

  ‘Hardly.’ The man chuckled at the very thought. ‘Just keeping a low profile. Picking up what I can.’

  They reached the carriage and Neave was half carried, half pushed through the corridor and into a couchette that smelt of carbolic with, underneath, the faint, ferric tang of blood.

  Neave slumped back. ‘What did you give me that put me out for so long?’

  ‘Drop of morphia.’

  He felt his side spasm. ‘Well, it’s wearing off now.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re pretty well patched up. Couple of grazed ribs, although you lost a fair bit of juice. Head’ll clear in no time.’

  ‘Who are you exactly?’

  ‘Name’s Mason. And I’m no deserter. Been here since thirty-nine off and on.’

  ‘Ah. So, you’re …’ Neave couldn’t think how to put it delicately. ‘One of the intelligence chaps?’

  Harry Cole hesitated, before tapping the side of his nose. ‘No names, no pack drill. You should know that, Neave.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. You’re an officer of some description, I assume?’

  Harry smiled. ‘Captain Harry Mason. But no need to stand on ceremony. What we’ve got to do is get you out of here.’

  ‘I knew a Daniel Mason. At Eton?’

  Harry racked his brains quickly, dredging up Wing Commander Gilbert’s background. ‘We Masons were always Winchester chaps.’

  The door slid back with a screech and Odile stepped in. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bit fuggy,’ said Neave. ‘Could do with another drink.’

  Odile nodded. ‘Listen, the Germans are bringing trucks tomorrow morning for those who aren’t mobile. If you can’t walk you will be driven to a camp. I told them you were still too weak to move, to buy some time.’

  ‘Is there any way you can get me out before then?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘There are Germans everywhere.’

  ‘We could put him with the burial detail,’ blurted Harry.

  Odile shrugged. ‘I suppose. I thought you were taking that slot?’

  Harry found himself saying, ‘I think I can do more good here in France. I think the Lieutenant can do more good if he isn’t in some POW camp.’

  Neave blinked hard and nodded. ‘Well, yes. Could be you’re right, Mason.’

  ‘The next burial detail is first thing tomorrow,’ Harry explained. ‘At the citadel grounds. There’ll be one German guard if it follows the same drill as this morning. There are two French soldiers on burial duty who have agreed to help.
It won’t be hard to slip away. But we can only misplace one cadaver per trip. If we lose too many bodies, someone’ll notice.’

  ‘Worth a shot,’ said Neave. ‘But I don’t fancy being buried alive if it all goes wrong.’

  ‘If we get the German guard distracted, there is a culvert deep enough to hide in. It runs for a thousand metres downhill, then you are on the coast. Beyond that … you’re on your own.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Uniform’s a problem, though.’

  ‘We’ll get some civilian clothes to put under it. You can strip off the uniform in the culvert.’

  Neave coughed and grimaced. Odile checked his bindings and asked Harry if he could fetch some water. As Harry opened the door to leave, Neave said, ‘Captain Mason …’

  Neave didn’t see the strange look that flitted across Odile’s face at the mention of the name and rank. ‘In case I forget, thank you. I’ll remember this.’

  Harry smiled thinly as he reluctantly left the two of them alone.

  Neave was aware of someone in his compartment at three in the morning, over near his few belongings. He raised himself on one elbow. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Me.’

  Harry stepped forward so that, in the glare of the dockside krieg lights shining through the carriage windows, Neave could see his face. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hoping for someone else?’

  Neave laughed and felt a spasm in his ribs. He lay back, his breathing shallow. ‘She is prettier than you Mason.’

  Harry couldn’t argue with that, but wasn’t sure he liked Neave noticing. ‘Well, there’s not much meat on her.’

  He saw a flash of teeth in the half-light. ‘Hard to tell under that uniform.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I think that’s the idea. Cigarette?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘So what will you do here, Mason, after I’ve gone? How will you wage your war?’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t approve.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do. Skulking around, pretending to be someone you aren’t. It’s …’

  ‘Ungentlemanly?’

  ‘Well, it’s unconventional.’

  Harry sat on the compartment’s metal fold-down chair. ‘I think this is going to be a rather unconventional war, Neave. There are times when conventional soldiering just won’t do.’

  ‘And that’s when they wheel out people like you?’

  Harry nodded. ‘What about you, Neave? What will you do? Report back to your unit?’

  Neave snorted. ‘My unit is either dead or behind barbed wire, I suspect. I don’t know, in truth. I don’t know what happens next.’

  ‘The Germans cross the Channel.’

  ‘Then our job is to stop them, Mason.’

  Harry laughed. ‘What, between us, you mean?’ He felt his accent slip and corrected it. ‘Me over here, you over there? A pincer movement?’

  Neave laughed as well, but in short bursts to protect his damaged side. ‘They could … they could do worse. I’m not sure about how you chaps fight your wars, Mason. But I wish you luck.’

  Harry got up and put a hand on Neave’s shoulder. ‘You too. Now rest up, you’ve got two more hours before you get to play dead.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Harry left the compartment without bothering to rearrange the items he had been rifling through when Neave awoke. Nothing worth having anyway.

  Nine

  AS THE FIRST CURVATURE of the sun rose above the horizon, Harry watched the dozen bodies being loaded into the back of the old baker’s truck, the limbs occasionally flopping out from the soiled windings as they were carried by the two weary French soldiers and slung onto the heap. Nearby, the sleepy German on guard duty kept an eye on proceedings, glancing more often at Odile, who stood next to Harry.

  They tried not to stare when the next-to-last body was lifted, that of Neave, but the phoney corpse sagged and the head lolled free in a very convincing manner. Pretty good acting, thought Harry, better than he would have managed.

  Harry scratched at his cheek stubble and looked at his fingernails. They were thick with grime and blood and pus, the hands of a dedicated worker. It might be a strange role for Harry, but this was pretty much the only option in town at the moment. Death and glory or POW being the others. No thanks. Best stick with his nice nurse with the wall eye, he reckoned, see where that might lead.

  After his narrow escape from the Stukas—and the Redcaps—at Croux, he had headed west to the Channel ports to try to get back to England. On the road, in the chaos of a whole country on the move, he had heard that non-fighting personnel—‘useless mouths’ in the army’s charming phrase—were being shipped out from Calais.

  He had purloined a motorcycle and ridden to the port, but without decent papers he had been unable to get past the bureaucratic bulldogs who were in charge of embarkation. Then one of them had noticed his leg. The wounds to his face had more or less scabbed over, but his thigh had taken something heavier.

  In the aftermath of Croux he’d bandaged it as best he could, but the quayside guard had noticed the seepage and packed him off to the hospital, where a nurse called Odile had removed the offending items—two pieces of metal of unknown origin—and cleaned and dressed the wounds, telling him how lucky he had been not to have bled to death.

  As she tended him, Harry gave Odile his standard cock-and-bull story about being a downed pilot on a secret mission—not dissimilar to the old Gilbert tactic—but he had also offered to help her in her work. There was something about her—and it wasn’t just those dark looks—that made him want to assist, to make sure she got through this nightmare intact. Accepting his offer, she had packed him off to the Gare Maritime, where an aid station was treating less serious wounds to the battered and demoralised troops falling back into the city.

  Harry couldn’t fully explain why he hadn’t run when the bombardment began, but had adopted the guise of a French orderly as the Germans got closer, telling Odile on her daily visit that he would be shot as a spy if they discovered who he really was. To top it all, he’d now given up his best chance of escape to Neave. Harry was beginning to think he was losing his touch.

  Odile gripped his arm and he looked up to see Sonderführer Diels, with a Schmeisser-wielding soldier, the machine pistol held threateningly at waist height, heading their way. Odile flashed a signal for the two French soldiers to get a move on and they pushed up the tailgate and headed for the cab. As the engine stuttered and caught, issuing an alarming cloud of black smoke, the Schmeisser man detached himself from Diels and stepped onto the running board next to the driver. The sleepy German shrugged, tore his eyes from Odile, slung his Mauser over his shoulder, and took his place at the opposite door. The truck pulled away with double the number of Wehrmacht escorts they had expected. Odile uttered an oath under her breath.

  ‘Mam’selle. Good morning.’ Diels didn’t acknowledge Harry’s presence.

  ‘You are up bright and early, Sonderführer,’ Odile said.

  ‘I thought you might need a decent breakfast. We have a field kitchen—’

  ‘Thank you, Sonderführer. No.’

  ‘It’s not much—’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Thank you all the same.’

  Diels changed tack. ‘You speak English, don’t you?’

  Odile nodded.

  ‘We have over twenty thousand prisoners. We are short of English interpreters. We brought along plenty of French speakers, but we didn’t quite anticipate such a haul of British soldiers.’

  Odile smiled. ‘I am a nurse. Not an interrogator.’

  Diels shrugged. ‘Not interrogation. Just the collection of a few simple facts.’

  ‘All the same, no. Thank you.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said, his tone hardening. ‘It does mean you must leave. This entire area is to be cleared of civilians by tomorrow. We can offer you transport to Lille.’ He turned to go. ‘The English Lieutenant. What happened to him?’

  ‘Dead,’ she said qu
ietly. ‘Septicaemia.’

  ‘Ah. One fewer to worry about.’

  Neave could feel the mass of bodies pressing against him as the van bounced over the ruined streets, bucking in and out of potholes. He understood now what was meant by a deadweight. As the gruesome cargo tossed around him, he worked himself free of the bindings, ready for the signal that he should make a run for it. One of the Frenchmen would distract the guard with a cigarette around the far side of the truck, and then feign a coughing fit as he lit his own. They had promised Neave he would be laid out next to the culvert, which he could roll into and sprint down before the German noticed. Remember to take the sheet with you, they had stressed.

  The last of the drugs seemed to have left his system and the vagueness they had inflicted had gone, leaving a bone-aching tiredness. God alone knew how Odile and that Mason felt, they could hardly have slept at all. Mason was a bit of a strange fish. He’d always hated being called ‘old’ anything, boy, chap or man, and Mason had a sackful of the damned things. Very odd, him being there. Decent of him to give him his place in the burial party, though, to donate selflessly his own chance of escape. He owed him that.

  The whine of ineffectual brake linings announced their arrival well before they ground to a halt. Neave took a last lungful of stale air and let his muscles relax, willing them to rubber.

  He felt a weight removed from him as the first body was lifted and then hands grabbed him, neck and feet, and he let himself sag like a hammock. He allowed the breath to leak gradually from his body and was glad he did because he hit the ground with such force, it would surely have exploded in a tell-tale burst. He closed his eyes and squeezed, trying to focus away from the pain of the sharp rock in his back, and waited for the sound of false camaraderie and the cough.

  Voices. German to his left now. And German to his right. Two Germans: that wasn’t correct at all.

  He heard the dragging of more corpses to the tailgate, the grunts of the Frenchmen, the thunk of the lifeless on earth. He counted. All out now, all lined up. Time for the distraction.