The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  *

  The morning brought a headache, caused, he felt, as much by the stuffiness of the cave as by his injury. Proctor was no longer asleep at his side in the straw and the cave seemed empty. He pulled on his boots and drew the curtain aside. The view from the edge of the entrance was entrancing: below him stretched acres of undulating tree tops, broken here and there by ribbons of ochre-coloured tracks that wound their way between the trees and down to the plain below. He could see why the cave had been chosen. It was a perfect hideaway, for it commanded the plain. No one could approach without being seen – at least during the day.

  Down below in the clearing, a cooking fire had been lit against the rock face, with a rough board placed some ten feet above it to break up the column of smoke. Men were bustling about and a stream burbled to the right, where he could see Proctor kneeling and washing. He retrieved his haversack and joined him.

  Later, having breakfasted, they were joined by Chauvin. “’Ow is the ‘ead?” he enquired. He seemed to have regained his air of joviality.

  “I think I will live.”

  “Good. Now let us take a little walk. The woods are beautiful in the winter, I think.” He turned politely to Proctor. “You will excuse us, Monsieur?”

  Glumly, Proctor nodded. He was clearly not happy at being excluded.

  The two men walked in silence for a while. Eventually, Gladwin said, “You are a farmer, I think, Monsieur. How can you stay away from your farm? Would not the Germans suspect something?”

  The big man threw back his head and laughed. “Suspect? No. They know. I tell you: my wife is – was – Jewish, so Monsieur Laval, Petain’s so-called Foreign Minister, made certain that she was taken by the Germans two years ago. She was ‘anded over, just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “They take ‘er to a concentration camp. I think she is dead. The Jews are rounded up like cattle to be exchanged for French prisoners-of-war.” He spoke simply, without emotion. “My eldest boy was killed in the war and my second son they took away to work in Germany. I am left on the farm alone, so I cannot work it.”

  The two walked on in silence, Gladwin simply not knowing what to say and Chauvin seemingly deep in thought. “Anyway,” he continued, “I ‘ave been a Communist since three years now. It is the only way against the Fascists, you know. I became a Maquisade soon after that and about nine months ago, I left the farm to set up this place. You know, I ‘ave been taken to London to train and brought back ‘ere to organise the Resistance.”

  Gladwin could not hide his surprise. “What! Did they fly you out and back?”

  “Of course. Your Special Operations Executive – now I think they call it SIS or something like that – did that. They taught me ‘ow to blow up bridges and railway tracks, and to kill Germans. They are very professional. We are not as active now as we would like, because your people keep telling us to wait until they give us permission to go to war properly – after the invasion, I suppose. But we do not need permission to free our country, so we are campaigning now. You know, a little explosion ‘ere, an assassination there. London keeps us supplied with matériel.” His stern features lapsed into a rather smug smile. “Our friends in London don’t know it, but they are ‘elping us to prepare for the revolution.” He indicated a fallen log. “’Ere. Let us sit for a minute.”

  Gladwin lowered himself onto the fallen tree. “But what about de Vitrac? He was not a German, but you killed him in cold blood.”

  “Ah, Monsieur le Comte. I tell you about ‘im now.” Chauvin seemed to enjoy telling the story, but his eyes were cold. “’E was asked to help the Maquis some time ago, but he say no. So we say okay, never mind. Then we ‘ear that ‘e as become active in ‘elping people like you to go ‘down the line’. You know what that is?”

  “Yes, the escape routes.”

  “Exactement. But you must know a little more. The people who operate these lines are not Maquisades like us. They do not fight, as we do. They are good patriots but they are passifs, civilians, you know?” Gladwin nodded. Chauvin’s thin mouth broke into another mirthless smile. “In fact, the SIS in London insist we do not ‘ave anything to do with these people. There is another of your War Office’s departments who deal with escapers, called, I think, MI9, and they are rivals with the SIS, though smaller. You know they fight each other in those dusty corridors in London. Stupid, no?”

  “Very. But what has this to do with de Vitrac?”

  “I am there now. So listen. So we don’t get involved with the escape lines.” He shrugged. “We are too busy anyway in blowing up things and staying alive, you know. But last year, de Vitrac ‘e approach me for ‘elp with two English airmen shot down. I say okay and we ‘elp a little. But, at a railway station, the two English and two of my men with them are captured and my men are tortured and then shot by the Gestapo.”

  Chauvin shrugged his shoulders again and curled down his thin-lipped mouth. “Bad luck, eh? That’s what I think. Then ‘e approach us again for ‘elp with another two airmen. This time I am careful and… what you say…? play for time. But the two men are captured anyway before I give ‘im the decision. So I worry a bit about all this. I set someone to watch de Vitrac. We find that ‘e makes a lot of visits to the German HQ in Hesdin…”

  “Ah,” interrupted Gladwin, anxious to clutch at anything that would help de Vitrac. “I know about that. He was trying to get labour to help him on the farm.”

  The Frenchman lifted his eyebrows incredulously. “But you do not go to the Gestapo headquarters for those sort of permits. Oh no. He was talking to the Gestapo. We are not stupid, you know, and we ‘ave our own sources of information from the bureau there. So, when ‘e come to me for ‘elp this third time – about you and your colleague – I am very careful. I am particularly careful when ‘e say that ‘e ‘as ‘eard from a member of our movement that there is to be a landing somewhere, ‘e does not know where, and could you be the return package on that trip – ah ah! Then I worry.”

  Gladwin squirmed uncomfortably on the log. This was all beginning to fit into place but he still could not begin to believe that de Vitrac, the tall, aristocratic patriot, could be a traitor. And could Marie possibly be involved? Surely not! “Would he really have heard about the drop?” he asked. “I thought you people were very security conscious.”

  “C’est vrai, we are. But we ‘ave known for some time that somebody in this area is working against us and is leaking information to the Gestapo. I made a test against one man who was suspected but ‘e was innocent. This really leave only de Vitrac – the great bourgeois, who ‘ate the Communists. Somehow he find out this thing, you know? But I am still not sure – we cannot kill an innocent man. So I decide to set a trap.”

  Chauvin paused to light a cigarette and his eyes narrowed as he watched the smoke curl upwards. “Now, the SIS people in London want to send an officer, an Englishman, to drop into the Pas-de-Calais to co-ordinate and be responsible for all Resistance activities in this region.” He turned to Gladwin. “Now, I do not want this man. We do not want a British officer telling us what to do – and in particular we do not want to be told that we ‘ave to work with the Gaullists ‘ere. They are amateurs and bourgeois themselves. ” He spat out the word. “But we are told we ‘ave to ‘ave ‘im, and that ‘e will be flown in and we ‘ave to receive ‘im.”

  “Now, I think that de Vitrac somehow know about this man coming in. The Gestapo would love to capture ‘im and – what you say, ‘put ‘im through the mangle’? Yes, to discover ‘ow London is ‘elping the Resistance ‘ere. So your friend de Vitrac decide to use you, both of you, as the cheese to catch the mouse. The bait in the trap, you see?”

  Gladwin frowned and put his hand to his head. “I just can’t believe that man would do this; would be so… calculating. He was helpful and friendly to me.”

  “Of course ‘e was. ‘E knew ‘e could use you. ‘E is cold man. You can see: ‘is brother killed in the war, ‘e never like the English, ‘e think that England let Fran
ce bleed at Verdun in the Great War and did nothing… you can see ‘is thinking on all this. No – ‘e don’t like Germans either, but he prefer them and their Fascist ‘sense of order’ to Communists like us taking over at the end of the war. Everything can be sacrificed for that purpose. You can see it. No?”

  Chauvin spoke quite unemotionally. He might have been explaining a point of history to a child. It brought back the schoolroom to Gladwin. But the Frenchman was not finished.

  “Anyway, de Vitrac ‘he want to use you, so I decide to use ‘im instead. I decide to – what is the English expression? – ah yes, ‘urt two birds with one stone. So I arrange with London to receive this man last night – not at our usual landing strip, because I do not want to reveal where that is – but at this new place in the woods.” He chuckled. “Your colleague was right. It is not exactly suitable. But I fix it for there and then I tell de Vitrac. I tell no one else until the very last moment when my men ‘ave to move. I thought like this, my friend: if the Germans attack the landing then, almost certainly, it is de Vitrac who is the traitor because no one else knows the place. If they do not, then ‘e is innocent.” He shrugged again. “I take a risk, of course, but I move my men to defend the landing and plan a line of retreat and I am ready at last minute to fire the warning light to the pilot. If the landing is bad or if the Germans fire on the plane too early, then we lose this English officer. But we don’t want ‘im anyway, so it is no great loss.”

  His words hung in the air and Gladwin marvelled at the cold, callousness of the man. He took a deep breath. “So you would risk the lives of your men, the incoming British officer and his pilot, and us, for that matter, in this awful… this terrible experiment?”

  Chauvin blew a thick column of smoke into the air. “Do you know what the Gestapo do when they catch one of my men, eh?” His voice, like his manner, was cold and unemotional.

  Gladwin shook his head.

  “They torture ‘im, of course, to make ‘im tell them who we are, ‘ow we work and where we ‘ide in the forest. They do it by ‘olding a blow torch to ‘is feet and ‘is genitals. They burn ‘im slowly.” He turned his gaze fully onto Gladwin. “This is no game of what-you-call it – cricket, my friend. You bomb from ‘igh up. We see the enemy from very close. They are disgusting barbarians. We are realists. We fight ‘ard. It is the only way.”

  The great shoulders shrugged again. “As it ‘appened, de Vitrac gave ‘imself away, anyway, by trying to stop the alarm light going up. It was easy, then, to take the decision and shoot ‘im. As I say, he was a traitor. ‘E ‘ad to be killed for the safety of my men and, anyway, such a man is better off dead.”

  Gladwin closed his eyes and conjured up a picture of the tall, patrician figure saying of the Communists: “They will destroy everything, everything, I say…” Then, into the confusion of his mind a further, disturbing thought entered. “And, in all of this,” he asked, trying to keep his voice level, “what of Madam de Vitrac? Was she involved in his treachery?”

  Chauvin shot him a keen glance, leaned across and flicked the end of the green scarf tied around his throat. “I think I know why you ask, my friend. No, we do not think she knew about de Vitrac. He keep ‘is own counsel always and tell ‘er nothing. She is a good young woman. She sends eggs and vegetables to those women whose husbands ‘ave been killed. She is also a little naïve, I think. When I came to see you the other day, she asked ‘ow things were at my farm.” He threw back his head and roared his great laugh. “The farm I left six months ago!”

  “But what will happen to her now?”

  “Well, the Germans will not ‘arm ‘er because ‘er ‘usband ‘elped them – why should they ‘urt ‘er? No. And we will not ‘arm ‘er. It is not ‘er fault that ‘er husband was a bastard, eh? No, I think the family ‘as money somewhere. She will not starve. Les aristos never do.” He drew on his cigarette for the last time and crunched the end under his heel. “Now we must go back. Come.”

  “One more thing,” said Gladwin. “What do you propose to do with us?”

  “Ah yes, the most important thing, n’est-ce pas? Of course. This morning I talk to London on the radio. They want us to get rid of you quickly – you remember that SIS does not want us to be involved with being postmen for packages. I am to ‘and you over tout suite to one of the lines.”

  “We get posted to Spain?”

  “Normally, yes. But these people I ‘ave talked to near ‘ere ‘ave a better idea.”

  “Flying again?”

  “No, mon ami.” The cold smile came back. “I do not think that MI9 – the little branch at the War Office who look after escapers, you remember?” Gladwin nodded. “Well I do not think they are close to the RAF. But they are to your Navy. There ‘ave been some pick ups by fast little gun boats from Brittany beaches…”

  “…I thought those had been discontinued.”

  “I would not know. It is not my business. But you will be picked up tomorrow and taken to Brittany for escape by boat. It sounds crazy to me, because the coast is well guarded, but your mother in London, MI9, want to try. Uh – good luck my friend.”

  “Good lord.” A mixture of emotions ran through Gladwin’s mind: amazement that so much attention was being lavished on them in London, and fear at the dangers of a Channel crossing at a time of invasion alert. Then another thought occurred to him – one that gladdened his heart.

  He seized Chauvin’s arm to halt their walk. “Monsieur Chauvin,” he said, “I will not pretend to you. Madam de Vitrac and I are in love. I cannot leave her here now without her husband. I must take her with me to England.” The look of alarm that came into the Frenchman’s eyes made him hurry. “Look, neither Proctor nor I speak much French. She will be invaluable as an escort for us. I’ve heard that the Germans don’t suspect travellers who have a young woman with them. She will help – and I know she will want to come. I know you can arrange it. Please…”

  Chauvin’s face could have been chiselled from stone. “No, monsieur. It is out of the question. You must be mad to suggest it.” He seized the Welshman’s arm in emphasis. “Look. After the fight in the woods last night and the discovery of de Vitrac’s body, the whole area near that farm’ouse will be crawling with Gestapo. Don’t be stupid my friend. You should be old enough not to let your ‘eart rule your ‘ead. You know,” he frowned and the intensity in his face made him look even more like Jean Gabin, “this is not some ‘ollywood love story that is being played ‘ere. It is a matter of life and death – and it is often death. Now, you do not want to endanger that young woman’s life, do you?”

  Gladwin lowered his eyes. “Of course not. You are right, of course.”

  “Of course.” The joviality returned to Chauvin’s manner. “The war cannot last forever. Come back when it is over and farm with that pretty little thing ‘ere, in glorious Communist France, eh?”

  Gladwin summoned a grin.

  “But I ‘ave one further thought for you,” said Chauvin. “Your companion, what is it… Proctor. You ‘ave a dangerous journey a’ead of you. He is weak. He can betray you – whether ‘e means to or not. You should get rid of ‘im.”

  “Get rid of him? How on earth would I get rid of him?”

  The eloquent shrug came back. “We can do it for you…a little walk in the woods, one bullet. It would be nothing.”

  Gladwin’s jaw dropped. The incongruity of the barbaric suggestion, made so lightly in the middle of the beautiful wood, where bars of winter sunshine dappled the golden leaves at their feet, made him wonder for a moment if he was dreaming all this… “one bullet, it would be nothing”. He shook his head in shocked disbelief.

  “Eh bien. It was just a suggestion. But remember: watch the man, ‘e could be a dangerous burden to you. Now come. I ‘ave much to do.”

  The two walked back and Gladwin joined Proctor, who was sitting in the clearing in the sunshine with his back to the rock face. He looked up, his thin face a mixture of apprehension and annoyance at being left alo
ne. “What’s up, then? Have you been plotting something? I’m going to be left behind, aren’t I? I knew it would be something like that.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Proctor. Stop whining.” He thought, if you only knew… “Of course not. As a matter of fact, we are being moved out tomorrow. We are going to be taken to Brittany and picked up at night by a Royal Navy fast gun boat from there and taken across the Channel back home. A refreshing sea trip. Sounds great, don’t you think?”

  Proctor’s jaw dropped then his face tightened into its characteristic sneer. “You must be mad.” Then his eyes widened at the enormity of it all. “Picked up in the middle of the night from some beach by a pathetic little launch! We’ll either drown in a bloody storm or be shot out of the water. Not me, mate. You go. I’ll just go and quietly give myself up. No problem. See the war out in a nice snug prison camp, thank you very much.”

  Sighing, Gladwin lowered himself to sit next to the New Zealander. “Now look,” he said, as though talking to a wayward child. “If you think it through, you will realise that you don’t really have a choice in this, old boy. When you give yourself up, do you know what will happen?”

  “What do you mean? They’ll just throw me in the bag, I suppose.”

  “Well, a bit more than that, I should say. You see, because of the fight last night, they will know that you were involved with the Maquis. The Germans know that it was a drop and also a pick up. So they will cross-examine you about these people.

  “So?”

  “What will you tell them?”

  “I’ll… er… just give ‘em my name and number, as is laid down in the Geneva Convention. I’ll be a prisoner-of-war.”

  Gladwin put his face close to Proctor. “Listen, you fool. It will be the Gestapo interrogating you, not some fat French policeman. If you don’t give ‘em what they want, they will torture you.”

  Proctor looked around him uneasily. “Well… ah… I will just have to tell ‘em what I know, won’t I?”