The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  “Okay. I’ll go and have a chat.” He pulled himself erect and walked into the other room. Dumais was sitting with the Giquels, talking in low tones.

  He looked up. “You’re supposed to knock when you come in here,” he said.

  “Oh come on now, Sergeant Major. If that’s the case, you should post standing orders around the room next door.”

  For a moment, the two men regarded each other. The Canadian took in the bloodstained patch in the tangle of Gladwin’s hair and the Welshman’s unbroken, level gaze. Gladwin broke the stare-out and smiled across at the young French woman. “Merci, Madame, pour un bon repas. C’était délicieux.” Both she and her husband smiled and nodded.

  “Blimey, a blue job who speaks French,” said Dumais. “Bloody amazing.”

  “Trouble is,” said Gladwin with a placatory smile, “that’s about as far as it goes.”

  “Hmm. How’d you get the knock on the head?”

  “Got bashed with the butt end of a pistol.”

  Dumais’ gaze softened. “Ah, yeah. I remember now. You were with the Maquis. I heard a bit about it. Here. Sit down. What can I do for you?”

  “Thanks. I don’t want to take up too much of your time and we’re grateful for what you are all doing for us.” His gaze took in the French couple. “But one or two of us are just wondering how an MTB is going to load us lot and avoid the E-Boats.”

  The Canadian’s eyebrows shot up. “The answer’s simple. It ain’t going to be an MTB. You’re not goin’ to get a battleship but you will get the next best thing. It’s a Motor Gun Boat and more than a handful for any E-Boat. These things are 128 feet long, they carry a crew of thirty six and are powered by three high-speed diesels which give a cruising speed of thirty-three knots, would you believe – to repeat, that’s just the cruising speed. Top ‘o that, they’ve got a six-pounder gun aft, twin turrets on either side and aft of the bridge and a two-pounder forward. I’d like to see an E-Boat take on one of these things.”

  Gladwin nodded thoughtfully. “Wow! Sounds impressive. Can they get close inshore?”

  “No. That’s the snag. They’re a bit too big to come in close and slip under the German radar, so they stand off about a mile out in the bay and send in four or five largish inflatables with a couple of commandos in each to ferry you lot out.”

  “I have to say, Mr Dumais, that I’m impressed. It’s a hell of a lot of trouble for a handful of aircrew.”

  The Canadian gave a grim smile. “Believe it or not, it’s worth it. You’ll know about the bombing campaign and the high losses we’re sustaining. Well, the Yanks are suffering even more, with their daylight attacks. We need every trained man we can get back. Our aim is to pull out at least fifty percent of all the men who survive being shot down. I know how many trips you’ve done. We need you and your experience back home.”

  Gladwin’s face showed his surprise. “How the hell would you know how many trips I’ve done?”

  “It’s my job to.”

  “Are you coming back with us?”

  The little man laughed. “Good God no. I’m here to organise escape routes. That’s what I’ve dropped in here to do and that’s what I’ll do. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out. Now, go and tell that lot back in there that the Queen Mary’s coming to pick ‘em up and,” his voice took on a more kindly tone, “try and get a bit of a kip if you can. It could be a long night.”

  Gladwin stood up. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”

  “Ah, one more thing.” The Canadian lay a hand on Gladwin’s arm. “I have some bad news for you, I’m afraid.”

  Gladwin’s heart leaped. Not Marie, surely…?

  “The doctor and his wife, who sheltered you two nights ago. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “They were Jews. I’m afraid the Gestapo took them yesterday. Their son Bertrand was flagged down as he was driving away from them. He tried to accelerate past the Germans but they riddled him with machine gun fire.”

  “Oh, my God. What will happen to the doctor and his wife?”

  “The Germans have set up work camps somewhere up in the north for Jews and others. They are called concentration camps but they are really death camps. They’ve been sent to a place called Belsen. Yvonne was also arrested. She wasn’t Jewish but someone betrayed her anyway for being a courier. There’s money to be earned that way now.. I’m sorry to say that they picked her up when she got back from taking you to Saint-Brieuc.”

  Gladwin pictured the small, bespectacled figure, with her earnest expression and eye for detail, allowing herself a little smile of pleasure at being able to supply sandwiches on the train. The Sunday school teacher taking her charges on a day-out treat.

  “Oh, God. What will they do to her? Will they…?”

  “Well, they usually do. But she’s tough that little one. She won’t tell them anything.”

  “And after that?”

  “Concentration camp or shooting… afterwards. It’s usually one or the other.”

  “How bloody horrible.”

  “Yeah. It’s grim here. That’s why we need you guys back in action, dropping your bombs.” We can’t let these bastards win.

  Gladwin nodded dumbly and walked back into the other room and flopped down beside Proctor. Slowly, he related the details of the gun boat and the pick-up but, somehow, could not bring himself to tell the New Zealander about the fate of their recent couriers. He wished to mourn for them inwardly, on his own.

  *

  None of them in that stuffy little room slept very much and everyone was grateful when the order came to move. Dumais stood in the narrow doorway between the rooms. “Okay. Here’s the drill. We’re goin’ to walk quietly – and I mean quietly – in single file down the path to the beach below. I’m gonna lead and Georges here,” he indicated Giquel, standing behind him, “will bring up the rear. Now there’s no moon outside and it’s as dark as a nigger’s arsehole, which is just what we want, but that means that goin’ down that damned cliff will be awkward. So take your time and watch where you’re puttin’ your feet. Just under the cliff on the beach there’s a cave and we will collect in there and wait until we receive a signal from out at sea. That’ll be from the MGB which will be lyin’ out there, about a mile out. About a half an hour after that, the boats should arrive on the beach and we will begin to load, quietly and in an orderly fashion. No splashin’ and no pushin.’ There’s a bloody great gun with a search light up there about a kilometre or so away, so please don’t wake the Germans, because they don’t like to be disturbed. With any luck there will be some commandos who will land on the beach and will help to protect us if there is an attack.”

  He grinned. “Any questions? No? ..Goodluck.”

  All candles and cigarettes were extinguished and, slowly, the little cottage began to disgorge its contents of badly-dressed, pale-faced men who made their way, one behind the other, to the edge of the cliff and then disappeared over its edge. As befitted the last arrivals, Gladwin and Proctor were the last two in the file, with only the tall figure of the fisherman behind them. Gladwin looked around but there was no finger of light from the searchlight probing the darkness. Above, he could make out dark clouds scudding along low, blown by a strong westerly wind – good in that it provided covering noise on the beach, but bad in that it could create a rough crossing. He tried to gauge the condition of the sea but he could see little, just a black, featureless plateau stretching out before them. He stepped out warily, glad that his twisted ankle no longer caused him trouble.

  They finally stepped down onto the beach – shingle at first and then soft, white sand – and followed the line of the breakers until they were led into the cave. It was very little more than an indentation in the rocks but it was sufficiently deep to swallow the party completely, so that anyone patrolling the cliff above, or observing the beach from the far headland with binoculars, would see nothing. Gladwin pulled out his watch and cupped his hand over the dial, the better to see the illuminated hands. E
leven fifty. Not long to wait, presuming that the MGB had had an uneventful crossing.

  It was cold in the cave but the tension seemed to lift the temperature and, indeed, Proctor and several others were visibly perspiring. Dumais waited at the mouth of the cave, night binoculars slung round his neck, a hooded but powerful torch in one hand and his watch in the other. The booming surf made conversation difficult but Gladwin edged next to him.

  “You handle the torch, I’ll tell you the time,” he said.

  “No, it’s not as simple as that. To make sure they know it’s us, Giquel will shine a blue light from the beach and I’m gonna climb halfway back up the path and signal from there. But I can’t see my damned watch face. Can you tell me when it’s midnight?”

  “Okay.”

  Ten minutes later, Gladwin tapped his shoulder and the Canadian scrambled back up the path and began flashing the Morse letter B out to sea. Almost immediately, from far out in the blackness, a single pin point of light showed and then cut out. Dumais stayed sending his signal for another five minutes to ensure that a bearing could be taken and then crashed down onto the beach in a show of pebbles. “Okay, boys,” he shouted exultantly above the roar of the waves crashing onto the shingle. “They’re on their way.”

  Immediately, the little Canadian began dividing his party of twenty into four groups of five each. In the cave he told them, “I don’t know how many these rubber ducks can take, what with the navy rowin’ ‘em and the Commandos on board as well, so I may have to rearrange this later. But stay in these groups for now.”

  Everyone now crowded to the mouth of the cave and each man strained his eyes into the blackness out at sea to catch the first sight of the boats that would take them out of occupied Europe. After ten minutes, Dumais climbed back up the cliff and gave a quick flash of the torch again, to help the direct the incoming boats.

  It was Proctor who first saw, beyond the phosphorescence of the surf, the bulbous, black prow of the first boat, lifting high on the waves and then crashing onto the beach. A muffled cheer came from the cave as two black-faced commandos, in camouflage battledress and carrying American-style Tommy guns, waded ashore and, ignoring the waiting airmen, scrambled up the path to the top of the cliff. The boat was dragged half out of the surf by two sailors and then, in quick sequence, three other craft followed it onto the beach, disgorging their own commandos who fanned out along the edge of the surf, facing landwards.

  Dumais ran ankle deep into the water to help pull up the first boat and warmly shake the hand of a tall man in battle dress. “Any more boats to follow?” he shouted.

  “No. Sorry. Only four. We can take five of your men in each of three boats, plus our own chaps, but this blasted thing,” he gestured to the first craft, “has developed some sort of leak and can only take three. It means leaving two of your chaps here for the first trip but, don’t worry, we will send a boat back for them. We will change the rowers and it shouldn’t take long to get back for ‘em. Any trouble with Fritz?”

  Dumais shook his head. “No. So far so good. Okay, we’ll start loading straight away.”

  The Sergeant Major ran back to the cave and pushed the first group of five towards the boats, where the sailors distributed them carefully on the boarded flat bottom of one of the flimsy craft. Two of the Commandos pushed the boat out and then hopped in, as the rowers bent their backs and sent the craft crashing into the surf. Soon it had disappeared into the blackness. The exercise was repeated with the second and then the third, until only the last group of five were left, including Gladwin and Proctor, waiting to climb aboard the last, faulty inflatable.

  The tall Captain in charge of the landing party nodded to Dumais. “I can take all of this lot and return for my two Commandos up on the top there, if you like, Lucien.”

  The Sergeant Major shook his head. “No. To be honest, I’m not too happy havin’ two Al Capones up there with their Tommy guns anyway. If Fritz turns up I don’t want a war – I’d rather cut and run. That’s the way it has to be over here, y’see and anyway it seems quiet enough. Take three of these chaps and your own guys and come back for my last two. They won’t mind waitin’.”

  Giquel was sent back up the path to retrieve the soldiers on the clifftop and Dumais motioned to the tall American and the two Frenchmen to board the last craft.

  “Hey, why are these going and not us?” demanded Proctor.

  “Because they’re prettier than you, that’s why. Any further questions? No? Good, then get back in the cave. A boat will be coming back for you in about half an hour.” He turned to Gladwin. “Sorry, but this rubber ball has gotten itself a puncture or something and can only take seven at the most. I’m letting the Commandos go back because I’m scared they’ll start shootin’ at somethin’ that’s not there. We will just have to wait quietly here until they return for you two. It shouldn’t be long. Okay?”

  “Of course.”

  The Commandos came scrunching down the path and they, plus the two Frenchman and the tall Fortress airman, climbed aboard. Dumais pushed them out and, with a wave from the American to the four men left on the shore, the last boat disappeared out beyond the breakers.

  Brisk as ever, Dumais gestured to Giquel. “Georges, get back home now and clean up the place. Get rid of all those cigarette butts and…” The perplexed look on the Frenchman’s face stopped him. “Ah shucks, sorry.” He repeated his instructions in French and the fisherman nodded and began climbing back up the cliff face. The Canadian turned back to Gladwin and Proctor. “Okay, you guys,” he said. “Now we just have to wait. Shouldn’t be long.” He allowed himself a large grin. “Looks as though this has been one very successful operation.”

  Gladwin nodded his appreciation. “Very smooth, Sergeant Major,” he said. “Very smooth.” But Proctor was still staring glumly out to sea.

  Dumais nodded his thanks and picked up the branch of a tree and threw another to Proctor. “Smooth the sand out,” he said. “I don’t want Fritz to know we’re using this beach.” He nodded to Gladwin. “Threw some sea weed from up there about the place.”

  This done, the three men returned to the mouth of the cave and perched on a shelf of rock. “Tell me,” asked Gladwin, “who funds all this: the cost of getting us and those other guys around the country, those weapons I saw the Maquis carrying, the food we eat and everything?”

  “British Government. At last Churchill has realised the importance of getting you guys home – in terms of morale to the squadrons as well as having your bodies back there to fly the bloody planes – and MI9 at the War Office has been given a reasonable budget now and a bit more muscle. Mind you,” he grimaced, “it’s still an uphill struggle. Göring has complained to Hitler about the ‘leakage’ of flying crews getting back home and the Gestapo is stepping up its efforts all over the occupied territories, particularly in terms of offering rewards for information. That’s why we are trying this route as an alternative to posting you across the country to Spain.”

  “It still seems a hell of a lot of effort and danger to me,” said Proctor, his face looking pinched underneath his beret. “Wouldn’t it be better to let us just hole up in some stalag or other and let the Germans tie up some of their military by standing guard over us?”

  A look of consternation came over the Canadian’s face and Gladwin interrupted quickly. “How did a Canadian Sergeant Major get caught up in all this? Your French, I suppose?”

  “Nah.” Dumais grinned. “My Canadian accent is so strong that any French Petainist would sort me out from a mile away, though much of the time I can get by.” His face took on an expression that, on any other, could have been taken for embarrassment. “No what happened was that I was in North Africa and I… er… had a bit of fun there and formed a sort of private army behind the German lines. So, last year, they picked me out and trained me for this job. I’m chef de mission for what they call Operation Shelburne – that’s getting you guys out by sea and…”

  He halted in mid-sentence f
or, from the cliffs above them and to their right, the bright pencil-thin beam of a searchlight cut through the blackness and picked out an oval of water far out to sea. It wavered for a moment and then began to sweep, searching the wave tops.

  “Shit!” Dumais seized his night binoculars and focused them.

  But the field glasses were not needed, for all three watchers could see now the tiny outline of the last inflatable, caught by the searchlight like a fly in a spider’s web. Immediately, a heavy, long-range machine gun began to fire from the clifftop. The gun belt included tracer shells and the glowing rounds could be seen creeping along the wave tops in a deadly parabola until they caught the little craft and, immediately, it disappeared in a brief explosion.

  “Poor bastards,” whispered Gladwin.

  “It could have been us,” said Proctor, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

  The searchlight’s beam now began to probe further out to sea and hovered way out on something that the three men on the beach could not define. Then a big gun boomed. “They’ve found the MGB,” said Dumais, focussing his night glasses. “But they ain’t hit it. Gee, it’s comin’ fast into shore! What are the silly bastards doin’?”

  Then, even with the naked eye, the boat could be seen: first the great creaming bow wave, followed by the sleek streamline of the craft itself, bouncing across the water towards the shore at what seemed like an incredible speed. “Must be doin’ over forty knots,” murmured the Canadian, his eyes glued to the glasses. “But as sure as hell, she ain’t pickin’ up the little boats. What the hell is she up to?”

  But it soon became clear. Taking what appeared to the watchers on shore to be a huge risk, the craft reduced speed about a quarter of a mile off shore and hove to, caught in the glare of the searchlight. Spouts of water rose all around her as the big shore gun hurriedly tried to adjust range. Then the six-pounders on board the MGB barked into action. Almost immediately the searchlight went out and the gunboat disappeared into the blackness.