The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  “Monsieur le Comte,” the Canadian intervened hurriedly, “has been kind enough to say that you can stay here in the attic for a couple of days while the hue and cry dies down.”

  “Indeed,” said the Comte, “for I fear there is no alternative. Our local people are, what shall I say, understandably upset at the murder of their menfolk, so I think it would be better to avoid offering any temptation to anyone to betray you to the Gestapo, who, of course, are our neighbours in the house here.” He gave a thin smile. “But then we can get you away.”

  “You are most kind, sir,” said Gladwin. “You say get us away. Are you, then…?” He paused, not knowing quite how to phrase the question.

  “Ah sure,” said Dumais. “He helped to set up the line here, long before I was involved. We could have done nothing without him and the Comtesse.”

  The Comte bowed slightly in his old fashioned way at the compliment. “We all do what we can,” he said. “Now, please excuse me. I must visit the German general who lives in my house to protest at this latest brutality.”

  That morning Dumais made a brief radio call to London. It was, he said, less of a risk than it seemed, for it was his practice to keep moving and make only one call from each house in which he sheltered, and he had not communicated from the chateau before. He came down the rope ladder with a broad grin on his face.

  “They got through last night,” he declared. “The MGB got ‘em all away – all, that is, except the poor bastards who got caught in that last boat.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to try and get us off that bloody beach again,” said Proctor.

  “No. You boys are going south, down past Bordeaux to the Spanish border. Not to the Med, but at the northern end.”

  Gladwin frowned. “But I thought that that run had been broken.”

  The Canadian shook his head. “Nope. It’s called the The Comet Line and it took a hell of a knock just a year ago. Dedee, the code name for the little Belgian girl who started it and ran it for nearly three years, personally conducting guys down the line, she got caught by the Gestapo.”

  “Killed?”

  “No. Last I heard she was in Ravensbruck concentration camp. That’s as good as being dead. But the line, somehow, has kept going and there’s someone – it doesn’t matter about the name – who organises things down at the Spanish frontier at Saint-Jean-de-Luz. From there, guides are paid to take you over the Pyrenees into Spain. Then, there’s a system to get you into Gibraltar and then home.”

  Proctor shook his head. “It’s a hell of a way.”

  “Sure is. But quite a few have got through that way. We are going to try and slip you into the line. It will take a day or two because this is not my territory, so you must be patient. Whatever you do, don’t mope around standing at the windows. Don’t let yourselves be seen. Let me have your papers again. We may have to make some changes.”

  For the next three days, Gladwin and Proctor stayed holed up in the attic, their frugal meals served to them by an elderly maid who never smiled but was studiously polite. It was, reflected Gladwin, a prison – but the alternative was worse. The main problem, of course, was Proctor. The man’s fragile morale had completely collapsed, it seemed, after the affray on the beach. His constant negativity preyed on the Welshman’s sensitivities until there were times when Gladwin could have wrung his former pilot’s scraggy neck without compunction. How far away was the Spanish border – seven, eight, nine hundred miles? How on earth was he going to sustain the man’s company for so long and in circumstances of danger when each must trust the other? And this, of course, was the point. How would he know that Proctor would not cave in and go running to the nearest gendarme or German soldier, begging to be arrested? And, once under interrogation, how long before he revealed all he knew about the escape lines? Three minutes, at the most. It would have been simpler to have accepted Chauvin’s offer of the ‘quick solution’. Simpler, but unacceptable of course. He shook his head in despair.

  The enforced inactivity meant that his mind returned more and more to Marie and then to his family in Wales. Early on their flight away from Tramecourt, Gladwin had found himself speculating whether, as the days away from Marie increased, his love for her might diminish, rather as a shipboard romance fades when the ship docks. But this had not happened. He found himself thinking more and more about her and conjuring up her smile, her tip-tilted nose and her small, firm breasts. He realised that this meant divorce from Kathleen, a thing unheard of in the community in which they lived. Divorce was for rich people, although he had heard that more and more ‘Dear John’ letters were now being written to poor devils who had been away from home and fighting in North Africa and Burma for years. Perhaps it was as well that he had not time to get to know Caitlin, although his heart fell at the thought of not being with her to see her grow up. Oh shit! Could he face the thought of being parted from Marie until the end of the war? He decided to talk to Dumais.

  During their three days in the attic, it was the Canadian’s practice to leave the loft, where they all still slept, early in the morning and not to return until very late afternoon, just in time to beat the curfew. Gladwin wondered anew at the competence and courage of the man, slipping unrecognised like some modern Pimpernel through hostile countryside, cementing his links with his couriers, making his plans to deliver his ‘parcels’. On the evening of the second day, when Proctor had retired to his bed early, Gladwin confronted Dumais.

  “Listen, Lucien,” he said. “I need to talk.”

  “I know, mon ami,” grunted the Canadian. “My advice is to push the bloody man under a train.”

  “What? Oh, Proctor. Well, I take your point, but this is something serious.”

  “No. I am serious.” His expression gave evidence that he was. “I am worried about him. He could sing like a canary and undo all my work and send a lot of good, patriotic French civilians to their deaths. I’d rather kill the bugger now. No one would need to know.”

  “No, Lucien, you can’t do that. Look. I’ll handle him. I’ll get him back home, with your help.”

  “Well, I ain’t so sure, but okay. So – what’s your problem?”

  “I need to go back to Tramecourt in the Pas-de-Calais, where I was shot down. There is someone I need to see there. In fact, I want to take her with me, back to England.”

  The Canadian’s face froze. He did not speak for some seconds and then said, “fallen in love, have you?” The fact that there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice encouraged Gladwin to go on.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have and it’s really, really serious. I can’t leave her there in that farmhouse in danger. Her husband has been shot and…”

  “Ah, Madame de Vitrac.”

  “Good lord. How did you know?”

  Dumas slowly reached out and put both hands on Gladwin’s shoulders. “Look, my friend,” he said slowly, “you’ve broken the most fundamental rule in the book, which is: don’t get romantically involved in enemy territory with a woman. If you do, you’ll end up in a Gestapo torture chamber as sure as eggs is eggs. Your judgement goes, you begin to take risks and, in effect, your cock starts to rule your head.”

  Gladwin shook his head. “But she could be of great help going down the line. My French is not good enough to go alone and we’ve always had a young girl so far to be courier. She could do that job well and…”

  “Like Yvonne, you mean? Sure. Look what’s happened to her. Probably on a mortuary slab by now, I should think. Do you want that to happen to your girlfriend?”

  “Of course not, but…”

  “Okay. Let me put it to you straight, brother. There are any number of very good reasons why you can’t go back there.” He slammed a stubby forefinger into his palm. “Number one. I am not risking the lives of good couriers to take you back. Number two. You can’t go blundering on your own back to the area where the Gestapo know you landed. Someone would betray you before you got anywhere near Tramecourt. Number three. Our people ba
ck home would never countenance you bringing back some piece of baggage down our line and into London. They would suspect her immediately of being some bloody Mata Hari who has been placed by the Gestapo to seduce you and to learn how we’re smuggling so many air crews outta the country. Forget it Bill.”

  “But that’s nonsense. I must…”

  “I said forget it, brother. And, if you want my help to get you out of this country, don’t raise it again. Is that understood?”

  “Oh, very well.”

  Two more days passed in mounting frustration for the Welshman and growing peevishness from Proctor. Then came blessed relief. Dumais arrived back early from one of his expeditions with the news that they would be moving on the next day.

  “Where to and how?” demanded Proctor suspiciously, his face looking even more pinched and sallow now from the enforced confinement.

  The Canadian did not reply at once but gave them back their documents together with new rail warrants. Gladwin saw that they remained Polish shipyard workers but that their destination had become Adour in the south. Their rail warrants took them from Guincamp back east via Rennes and Le Mans to Tours, where they would catch a mainline train south-west to Bordeaux and then Bayonne. He looked up at Dumais.

  “Yes, complicated,” said the Canadian. “Sorry about that, but we can’t get you a more direct line down south, stuck out up here on the Brest peninsular.” He shot a quick look at Proctor, an expression of half-amusement, half-concern on his face. “But that’s not the worst part.”

  “What?” demanded Proctor. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Well, we can get you to the railway station at Guincamp, all right, though I’m afraid it’s back to the old potato wagon again. But you will be alone all the way to Tours. I just can’t get anyone to accompany you on that part of the trip.”

  “What happens at Tours?” asked Gladwin.

  “You have to change trains, of course, and find your way to the platform for the train to Bayonne. Waiting on that platform – and don’t ask me what time, because I’ve got no idea what time your train will get in, or even if it will arrive at all if the RAF gets near it – well, waiting on that platform will be a middle-aged woman, wearing a red headscarf and a brown, woollen coat. Her name is Dominique – well, it is to you – and she will be expecting you.” He gave a rueful grin. “She will probably be sitting down on a bench, fed up with waiting for you. But don’t worry. She’ll be there. Sit next to her and say: ‘Je m’excuse, mais je suis polonais. A quelle heure est le prochain train pour Bayonne?’ Think you can remember that?”

  “Of course. Then what?”

  “She will take you down the line. I am not sure how far – this ain’t my end of the business, you will remember – but probably to Bayonne. Anyway, she will tell you. I gather there is a safe house in Bayonne with the local Abbe. More than that, I don’t know.”

  “Now listen.” Dumais’ face was hard again. “Even though you are on your own, you shouldn’t have too much trouble getting to Tours. But the line down to the Spanish border is, of course, the main escape route for guys like you and it will be heavily policed. The Wehrmacht, of course, you will recognise by their uniforms. But the dangerous ones are the Gestapo, who don’t wear uniforms, although,” the grin returned for a moment, “they do in a way. The silly bastards all seem to wear trilby hats and long raincoats or rubber macs, reaching to their ankles. A dead giveaway. Take care, but don’t give yourselves away by looking scared. There is a lot of movement across France by forced labour guys, so you shouldn’t stand out, unless you do something stupid.” He directed a stern gaze at Proctor. “Okay?”

  The New Zealander gulped and nodded, looking at the floor.

  “Right. The Comte’s gardener will be waiting for you tomorrow at 8.00 am. He will give you forks and stuff to make you look like hired help and will walk with you to the edge of the estate where the truck is waiting. Get in under them tatties again and when you step out you’ll be virtually home. Now, I’m movin’ on myself tomorrow with my dead giveaway radio set, so you’ve got the easy bit. Don’t worry, we won’t be together. Excuse me now, though, because I’ve got plenty to do.”

  The next morning there was little time to do more than squeeze the Canadian’s hand – a crippling grip, of course – exchange a more decorous handshake with the Comte and accept packets of sandwiches and small bottles of fresh milk from the still-disapproving maid. Then they walked out into a day that, despite its low, grey clouds, seemed to Gladwin to be full of brisk promise. At least, it was refreshing to be outdoors again and away from the cold loft and the depressing attic.

  The jolting journey to Guincamp seemed to take even longer this time, but eventually they stepped down into the same square near the railway station. The driver came round and jerked his thumb towards the station. “Quai numéro deux pour votre train,” he said. “Bonne chance, mes amis.” Then with a wink he was gone, and the two fugitives were alone for the first time since their landing in France.

  *

  Dumais’ forecast was correct. The journey to Tours was slow, for the train seem to wait in sidings interminably at various junctions, but it was uneventful. They merely had to show their warrants at the entrance to the platform at Guincamp to a bored French railway guard, and twice on the train. Each time it was inspected only perfunctorily and there was no sign of police, army or the dreaded men in long coats. Gladwin had no idea what time their train was due to arrive at Tours but it was well after 6.00 pm when it finally reached their destination. Would Dominique still be waiting?

  The station was bustling and presented a reassuring air of normality to the two fugitives. French people of all classes hurried about the platforms: soberly-suited businessmen carrying briefcases; women of all ages, some shabbily dressed under headscarves – none of them red, however – and others with chic little hats tipped forward over well-powdered brows; farm workers with denim overalls showing beneath well-worn topcoats; and schoolchildren, carrying little satchels and what looked to Gladwin like music cases. In fact, if it was not for the German shoulders humping rifles and packs, on their way to defend some peripheral outpost of Hitler’s empire, it could have been any mainline station in Britain.

  Because they were within the station, Gladwin and Proctor did not have to go through the main entry and exit barriers, where all kinds of functionaries seem to hover. They did, however, have to change platforms, where a uniformed member of the Wehrmacht stood beside each ticket guard. Exiting their platform, Gladwin decided to take the initiative and, thrusting his warrant under the guard’s nose he asked, “le quai pour Bayonne, si’l vous plaît?”

  The man nodded to his left. “Numéro quatre,” he said, hardly looking at the warrant. Gladwin nodded his thanks and waved behind him to Proctor. The two marched through and made for platform number four. Here, he tried to repeat the ploy.

  “Est pour Bayonne, ici?”

  The guard looked at him coldly and put out his hand for the travel warrant. He examined it with care and then said something quickly in French to Gladwin. The Welshman shrugged his shoulders in apology. “Je ne parle français,” he said. “Je suis polonais.” He nodded over his shoulder to Proctor. “Mon… er… camarade aussi.”

  The German now took an interest. “Vos papiers,” he growled. Gladwin handed him his identification paper and, helpfully, grabbed those of Proctor and presented those also. Meanwhile a small queue was growing behind them.

  Gladwin turned to Proctor. “Shlosch kipski bridovitch,” he said, in tones of some impatience. The New Zealander’s jaw dropped and his eyes switched anxiously between those of the French guard and the German. The latter was now scowling at the papers. He looked up and asked something of Gladwin, whose heart was now in his mouth and had no idea of whether he was being addressed in bad French, German or – terrible thought – Polish. Nevertheless, he had no choice but to continue his bluff.

  He shrugged his shoulders and jabbed a finger at his warrant. “Bayonne,
Bayonne,” he said. In a gesture of exasperation, the German grabbed his shoulder and pushed first Gladwin and then Proctor through onto the platform, waving them away dismissively. But Gladwin was now almost enjoying his role. He put up a plaintive hand to the French guard. “Eh. Est pour Bayonne, ici?”

  “Oui, oui, oui,” exploded the guard. “Allez. Allez!”

  The two shambled away down the platform, picking their way through the throng waiting for the next train. The platform was crowded, for this was obviously the main line down to the south west, and every bench was taken. But nowhere was to be seen a feminine figure in brown coat and red headscarf. The two reached the end of the station and looked at each other.

  “She’s not here, Taff.”

  “No. But she may have buggered off for a coffee, or something. Or we may be early. There’s no need to panic. Let’s see if there’s a notice board or something, showing the next train to Bayonne.”

  They retraced their steps and saw above them a board announcing that the next train was bound for Poitiers and La Rochelle. The one following, however, due in at 8.10 pm, was for Poitiers, Angoulême, Bordeaux and Bayonne. They had two hours to wait. But where was Dominique?

  They walked slowly back up the platform and eventually found a vacated bench where they could sit and eat what was left of their sandwiches. Proctor leaned across. “What the bloody hell do we do if she doesn’t turn up? We can’t make our way halfway across France on our own.”

  Gladwin grinned, although he felt far from amused. “Why not? I can now speak fluent Polish.”

  “For God’s sake, Taffy. Don’t try that again. I shall have a heart attack. And, look. There’s no way I am getting on that blasted train without this Dominique woman. It’s just not worth it. We could be shot out of hand. Serving officers caught in civilian clothing behind enemy lines can be shot as spies. The Geneva Convention, or whatever, says as much.”