Blue Noon

by Robert Ryan

  ‘Morning, Major. How’s the head?’

  ‘Functioning,’ said Neave, annoyed with himself that he had finished the bottle with the Captain. His mouth was dry and there was a persistent knocking behind one eye, whereas the SAS man looked as if he was newly minted.

  ‘Good. Shall we roll? Here. Just in case.’ The Captain handed Neave a Thompson submachine gun and the two of them slipped into the Jeep, with Greville-Bell driving. Behind them a sergeant manned a Lewis gun mounted on a crudely welded framework. The convoy coughed into life, the engines rattling and belching, thick clouds of gritty dust filling the square until the sun began to fade to grey. After fifteen minutes, each one had managed to start, and they jerked forward, heading out to the forest.

  Groups of US soldiers stared at them with puzzled expressions as they swept through the early morning streets, but nobody challenged them. It was just too bizarre a sight, the no-nonsense SAS men leading what looked like a parade of charabancs off on a magical mystery tour. Neave, the barrister, the Lieutenant at Calais, even the one at Colditz, would have been appalled at this affront to army convention. Now he was someone who believed in achieving his aims by any means at his disposal.

  As they left the town and started through the fields towards the forest, Neave felt nervous. Farmhouses, haystacks, copses, any one of them could hold a cluster of German rearguard gunners. He slid off the safety and checked the action of the Thompson. At any other time he would have relished the warm summer air whipping through his hair, but now he wished the open-sided Jeep offered more protection.

  ‘About thirty kilometres,’ yelled Greville-Bell over the clattering of the engines. ‘I reckon another ten before we are likely to see any Jerry.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Is it true that you saved Chartres cathedral, Major?’

  Neave laughed. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘And that the Yanks were going to shell it?’

  ‘To be fair they thought there were snipers in the spire.’

  Greville-Bell turned to him and said, ‘I heard you walked in on your own to prove there weren’t any. Up the spiral staircase to the bloody top and shouted out all clear to the Yanks.’

  It was no big deal, as the Americans would say, although striding into the vast space, its stained glass removed to the safe haven of caves in the Dordogne, had been tense to say the least. ‘There weren’t any up there, that’s true. But I couldn’t shout, too high. So I waved my handkerchief for the all-clear. Felt like some bloody maiden in the tower.’

  ‘You weren’t sure, were you? That there were no Germans up there?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t be absolutely sure, no.’ Indignation crept into his voice. ‘But to blow up Chartres cathedral. It’s just not on, is it?’

  Greville-Bell chuckled and put his foot down.

  It happened, as the Captain had suggested, after ten kilometres, the first warning a tapping from the side of the leading bus as the metal was perforated by a long line of black dots. Neave slumped down in the seat, scanning the fields, but the sergeant already had the snipers pinpointed and Neave was suddenly disorientated by the huge clattering as the antique Lewis gun fired and spent shells began to rain down on him.

  Other SAS men returned fire—there was the lazy thud of the Brens from the buses—and Neave could see it was concentrated on the long, low barn that began to send out small puffs of smoke as rounds hit the rotten wood. The convoy hardly slowed, but the fire was dense and accurate, raking the barn from one end to the other.

  ‘Anyone left, we’ll get them on the way back,’ said Greville-Bell. ‘Quite right not to fire. You would never have hit it at that range.’

  Neave looked down at the Thompson and realised it had never occurred to him to use it.

  They found them on the edge of Fréteval, half starved and completely bedraggled. They ran from the treeline, shouting greetings as the SAS convoy approached, leaping up and down, arms waving. Neave felt tearful pride well up in him. Operation Sherwood had worked.

  ‘Get them on board, quick,’ said Greville-Bell. ‘I don’t want to be caught here. Too much cover for Jerry in the forest.’

  Neave was pulled out of the Jeep by a weeping Pole, who kissed him on both cheeks. A rather more diffident squadron leader held out his hand. Neave took it and nearly didn’t get it back. Langan, the SOE co-ordinator, slapped his shoulder in an overfamiliar way, and Neave had to stop a spontaneous party breaking out among the Anzacs. ‘Listen,’ he yelled, ‘there is hot food and cold drink at Le Mans.’

  ‘And women?’ an Aussie voice asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, and women. And they’ll all be very pleased to see you.’ Not quite as pleased as they were to see the Americans, thought Neave, but let them work that one out for themselves. ‘There are still German patrols in the area, so if you’ll just get on the buses. Leave all non-essential gear.’

  She was standing over to his right, back against a tree, machine gun dangling casually from one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other. He excused himself from Langan and walked over to her. It was only as he got nearer that he noticed the three bodies in the undergrowth, faces covered, one of them with a US flag.

  ‘Odile.’

  ‘Major Neave.’ She touched her hair, aware of her appearance. ‘How nice of you to come and get us.’

  ‘Least I could do.’ He nodded down at the bodies and asked: ‘Who have we here?’

  ‘One maquis, one New Zealander and an American called Marshall. A Jed-something.’

  ‘Jedburgh,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘A plane.’

  ‘A German plane?’

  She shook her head. ‘American. Must have thought we were Germans. Strafed the woods. Killed the first two right off. Marshall,’ she indicated the nearest form, ‘ran out with a US flag, but …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why? It’s not your fault. It’s one of those things.’

  ‘You coming to have something to eat? I’ll get some of the SAS to fetch the bodies.’

  ‘A bath, Major Neave. I need a bath.’

  ‘I’ll find you one. A proper big one.’

  ‘And then? Where are you off to next?’

  ‘Paris,’ said Neave.

  ‘That sounds good.’ She slid her arm through his and they walked back to the convoy, oblivious of the stares as she let her head rest against his shoulder.

  Thirty-two

  September 1944

  AFTER LEAVING PARIS, HARRY had headed east. The roads were congested in both directions, as if the Germans couldn’t decide whether they were retreating or advancing, digging in or making a tactical withdrawal to the Rhine. He had bullied a tankful of petrol from an army sergeant at the Troyes fuel depot, flashing his Gestapo papers and muttering dark threats about defeatism when the man hesitated.

  His path had been erratic, dictated by the needs of food, sleep and fuel, and also the desire to avoid those areas which the Wehrmacht had abandoned to the maquis. That was bandit country. The forged seals and letters he had prepared for himself before leaving Paris counted for something where the Wehrmacht or the SS roamed. Elsewhere, they could be his death warrant.

  Even with the Germans you had to be careful. They were mean and spiteful and any hint of gloating by the locals could be lethal. He had seen the evidence slumped against walls, hanging from lampposts, or remembered with forlorn bunches of flowers at crossroads and on bomb sites.

  The underpowered Opel coughed as it began to climb, heading for the switchback roads that would take him over the mountains and into the Rhine valley. The scenery should have lifted his heart, but it was just so much backdrop to him, the hills and peaks mere obstacles.

  He tried to remember Odile, to stop the memory fading, trying to conjure up her face, her smell, her feel. It all went wrong for him when he lost Odile. If only he had played it straight with her, then he might not be a hunted man now.

  The Opel wheezed up the final snake of road and crested the range at Bonhomme. Below him, he s
aw the hills and the vineyards and the river, a beautiful, forest-pocked vista, dotted with gingerbread villages, all seemingly untouched by the war. Yet he recalled that in Foch they talked about Natzweiler, a concentration camp near here, an extermination centre on former French soil. Of course, Alsace was German now. He had driven right into the lion’s mouth.

  Every deserter was heading west or north, trying to make it to the US or British forces. He was going in the opposite direction on Special Administrative Duties, as his papers had it. He would lay up for a while in Alsace and then head south to Switzerland. There, a new beginning. He was sure post-war Europe would offer him plenty of opportunities.

  Harry stopped and consulted his map, turning north as he reached the foothills, threading through the forests, skirting the vineyards, waving at the odd bemused farmer bringing in the harvest under the looming grey skies.

  The house was up an unmade road, and the car bucked its way up to the enormous gates, one of which was open. As he took the sweeping driveway, he smiled when the château came into view. Like Alsace itself, it was a curious mix, with a huge French mansard roof, but with schloss-style turrets at each corner, looking as if a princess could be imprisoned in each one. It wasn’t pretty, but it shouted old money, a true aristocratic pile.

  Harry pulled to a halt on the gravel and got out, craning his neck as he scanned the vast stone walls for signs of life. Nothing. He checked his tweed suit—the SD uniform was safely packed in the boot—loosened the Walther pistol in his inside pocket, and hoped he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life as he stepped towards the fat oak doors with their ornate black hinges and pushed them open.

  The hallway was grand baronial in style, with lots of dark, carved wood and a staircase which could take an army marching abreast. Its walls had once been lined with paintings of the ancestors, and illuminated by a chandelier of the kind that Errol Flynn or John Barrymore might swing off in a swashbuckler. Now, the dark wood had split into blooms of splinters where bullets had gouged it, the only evidence of the portraits the marks on the panelling where they once hung, and the chandelier was reduced to a frosting of shards on the parquet flooring.

  The house felt cold and damp, as if it hadn’t been heated in months, and there was a strange, sharp smell. He pulled out the Walther pistol and tiptoed over the remnants of the shattered chandelier, heading for the double doors with the huge family crest on each half that looked as if they led to the main chamber.

  The room beyond was in semi-darkness, with most of the full-length window shutters folded across, but enough of the wintry daylight was leaking in for him to recognise her.

  ‘Oh, Hellie,’ he said softly to the Contessa von Lutz.

  Her tongue was purple, squeezed between her lips, her hair had been clippered, leaving isolated tufts here and there, the front of her dress was ripped down to expose her breasts, and the makeshift noose had forced her head to one side. How long she had been there, he had no idea, but the odour suggested a while. He stepped forward to touch her.

  ‘Hello, Harry, I was wondering if you’d turn up.’ He started, nearly pulling the trigger of the gun in shock. He flicked the safety off and advanced, trying to stop his hand shaking, keeping the gun level on the black form he could just make out. The figure was lying with his legs out straight, and Harry could see two empty bottles of Hock next to him. Harry reached across and slammed back a shutter, and looked down at the squinting, unshaven face before him. Pieter Wolkers.

  Odile thought she had seen rowdy celebrations in Paris, but the racket coming from the foyer of the Hôtel Metropole in Brussels was deafening. At the entrance she took a step back as a great cheer went up. Neave was clambering onto the reception desk. He tried to signal for quiet, but the scores of men and women stamped their feet and whistled wildly.

  Odile turned and ushered her four companions in. One was an RAF gunner, who had been in hiding for three years, the others Belgian members of the Comet line who had been betrayed and managed to go underground before the Abwehr got to them. All were pale, nervous and confused, but soon each held a container filled with champagne.

  When it was offered to Odile she shook her head, but indicated it should be passed to the two armed men behind her in the doorway, the Frenchmen who made up her Rescue Team V. Neave had created a series of small mobile units whose job it was to scoop up evaders and their helpers. He had been disappointed that the big camp at Bastogne had not materialised. The airmen and soldiers in the area had suspected that Operation Sherwood was a German trap, and her job had been to find the stragglers and convince them this was a genuine operation.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Neave, ‘thank you very much. I know you are all very happy to be here. I am very happy you are here. And to those who have been badgering me all day—’ He glanced down at a small group of Belgians who quickly examined their feet. ‘There will be an Awards Bureau set up in due course to reimburse expenses and to recommend decorations. But not now. I suggest that over the next few days you put your claims in writing, with dates and amounts and witness statements.’

  Neave reached down and fetched himself a glass, a proper champagne flute. ‘Now, I’d like to thank Colonel Murphy of the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force, who has agreed that SHAEF will sponsor our little celebration here. Thank you, Colonel.’

  Odile looked over at the benefactor, who graciously acknowledged the roar of thanks. Odile was certain she had seen him in Paris, first heading up a documentary film unit, secondly as part of the group which had targeted the cellars of Paris’s best hotels, with the express aim of drinking them dry, part of the orgy of hedonism known as the Ritzkrieg. She would put good money on him not being part of SHAEF, although who settled the bill was a problem for later.

  Neave hadn’t finished. ‘I also want to propose a toast to all those brave Belgians who helped us, especially during the early years. All the members of the Comet line.’ He raised a glass at a gaunt young woman near the front. ‘And my Little Cyclones, the women who took appalling risks with no thought for their own safety. I give you … those who won’t return.’

  There was a rumble of murmured agreement and thin applause. Neave raised his flute and flung the contents down his throat. ‘There will be reports and debriefing and paperwork and lots of it … tomorrow!’

  Another cheer and the pop of more bottles. As Neave climbed down, a man in black jacket and pinstripe trousers approached. The manager. Neave bent forward, whispered something short and sharp in his ear and the man flinched and scurried off.

  Neave pushed through the crowd, shaking proffered hands, occasionally stopping for a word, once or twice hugging a man or a woman. Eventually he made it to Odile who was still near the entrance, her machine gun slung over her shoulder.

  ‘Odile. How did you get on?’

  ‘We found four. What did you say to that poor manager? Look, he’s shaking.’

  ‘I told him we knew about his dealing with the Germans and if he didn’t stop complaining about his precious champagne, I’d make an announcement about it and let the crowd have him.’

  ‘My God. What had he done?’

  Neave grabbed a passing bottle and refilled his glass. Odile noticed it was a ’26 Taittinger. ‘What had he done? Buggered if I know. It was just a wild guess.’ He laughed. ‘Hit a nerve, though, eh? You haven’t got a glass. Here, have mine.’

  She took it and sipped. It was warm and sticky, and she handed it back. ‘It’s OK, I don’t feel like drinking.’

  Now they were being pushed against the perimeter wall as more people arrived, drawn more by the drink and the noise of the party than any knowledge of IS9, she suspected. ‘Are you all right? You look tired.’

  Odile laughed. ‘I’ve looked tired for five years. This is how I always look.’

  No it isn’t, he almost said, then realised he would be giving himself away, would be admitting he had looked in on her while she had slept, in Le Mans, fretting she was never going
to wake.

  ‘What now, Major Neave?’

  A worried look crossed his face. ‘Arnhem. Bloody fiasco. There are thousands of the First Airborne at large. We have to get them back.’

  ‘You have to get them back, Major. I am returning to Paris.’

  ‘Really? Must you?’ A body thumped into him and he was thrust close against her, something he did little to rectify and, he was glad to note, neither did she. ‘I’m not suggesting you come to the bloody bridge with me. There’s enough for RTs to do.’

  ‘No. I can’t follow you round Europe, Major. I’m not a soldier.’ She banged the side of her gun. ‘I am just a nurse who got out of her depth.’

  He touched her cheek. ‘You never got out of your depth.’

  ‘Harry Cole?’

  ‘Sergeant Harry Cole was a bastard.’

  She smiled. ‘He wasn’t all bad, you know.’

  ‘There are men and women who aren’t coming back because of him. Who suffered horribly. You suffered horribly.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He knew she was referring to her child. ‘But there was a time when he was a good man.’

  Neave felt an anger whip up inside him. ‘I don’t believe you. There was a time when he chose not to behave in his usual despicable way, I might accept that.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It was more than that. You liked him once.’

  ‘Never. Please don’t let time and distance soften your heart towards him.’

  She laughed at the flowery phrase. Neave was tipsy from champagne on an empty stomach.

  ‘He was a bad man,’ continued the Major, grabbing her arm. ‘Whose interests and ours coincided for a short while. As soon as they were no longer concurrent, he took the path best suited to Harry. That’s the difference between a man like him and a woman like you.’