by Bodie Thoene
At the end of a column the chin of a small, pink-cheeked boy trembled with emotion. “Chin up, Jean-Claude.” Paul patted him on the shoulder. “This will be over very soon. The Boche will be soundly beaten, and we will all be together here again.”
Two rows back an eight-year-old named Pieter, who had grown attached to a bay broodmare named Germain, sniffled uncontrollably.
“Be brave, Pieter,” Paul enjoined.
“It is Germain, sir. Poor Germain. I have heard what they did to horses in the last war. Will she be made to haul a wagon? Will they kill her for meat?”
“She is in foal, Pieter. When you return she will have a colt at her side. The broodmares of the Ecole de Cavalerie do not haul wagons. Ever.”
At this the child brightened. And so it went on down the line. Colonel Michel Larousse, commandant of the school, made a stirring speech, calling on each cadet to wipe his tears and serve France with dignity by being good students and thus good soldiers.
But they were leaving the horses behind, and that was hard to take. Their first week in school they had memorized the words of Marshal Soult in his message to the school in 1840: “Horsemanship is not everything in the cavalry, but everything is nothing without it.”
One hundred years later the Ecole de Cavalerie still operated on that principle. Therefore, without horses, everything seemed as nothing to the two thousand children with warriors’ hearts who plodded onto waiting buses for the journey to the train depot in Arras. Suddenly they were mere foot soldiers.
In spite of the bright blue sky and the autumn colors in the trees, it was a gloomy day. The war was no longer exciting unless one was at least thirteen years old and dressed in the dark blue uniform of a Cadre Bleu cadet.
The evacuation of two hundred thousand civilians from Northern France had taken place in the first forty-eight hours after the declaration of war. In Strasbourg, Alsace, on the German border, each person had been allowed only forty kilos of personal effects.
What to take? Old photographs or blankets? A precious heirloom or an extra pair of shoes? It was a terrible ordeal, and yet they knew from the last war that the possibility of occupation by the Germans was much more terrifying a prospect. Not everyone left, but nearest the border, entire villages now stood ghostly and deserted in the late-autumn haze.
The majority of the evacuees were placed in tiny farming villages like Perigueux. The Alsatian dialect was close to pure German. This problem was solved by double staffing in every store and public building. In the post office there were two clerks. One spoke Alsatian; the other spoke the local dialect. In the police headquarters there were now Alsatian policemen as well as the rural French gendarmes. So it was in the schools and even in the churches.
But double staffing did not prevent personal resentment against the Alsatian intruders. The farm communities had not been asked how many evacuees they could take in; they had simply been ordered to prepare for their arrival.
Ripples of refugees spread southwestward until the migration even affected the public and private charities in Paris. The nuns of St. Vincent de Paul were given a list of names of children arriving at Gare du Nord. They were ordered to make room in their orphanage to accommodate two hundred German-speaking Alsatian youngsters. Public institutions and private individuals were asked to open their doors to the overflow of Northern France.
Rose and Betsy Smith were visited personally by Monsieur Comperot, assistant minister of Civilian Relocation, who came to No. 5 Rue de la Huchette on a chilly afternoon.
He observed the ground floor of the three-story building that served as dining room, kitchen, schoolroom, and laundry. He smiled nervously at Madame Rose when she told him that the thirty children in their charge lived in dormitories on the upper two floors.
“Madame,” he began, “it is very difficult. You are American, it is true, but what I must say is as one human to another. Compre vous?”
Rose was always delighted to speak as one human to another. Frequently, however, it meant that one human had a favor to ask of the other human.
“But of course, Monsieur. We consider ourselves citizens of Paris and of France. How can we help?”
“There are certain children among the evacuees . . . difficult cases, Madame. We simply cannot place them.”
“Difficult?”
“They are seven children who have been residents of a sanitarium in Alsace.”
Rose gestured out the window of her cluttered little office to the happy squeals of children playing soccer on the cobbles. “Our children are very healthy. . . .”
“These are not unhealthy, Madame. Not now.” He swallowed hard. “They are crippled. Infantile paralysis. Polio, as you Americans call it. All of them affected in one way or another. Five in wheelchairs. Two manage on crutches. First they went to the community center in Perigueux. Farmers came in and picked children to take home. No farmer wants a child who cannot haul water or feed the milk cow. It is the same all over. We brought them by train to Paris. By then every place was full. There is some room at the insane asylum. But to put them into an institution would seem most cruel, Madame. They cannot climb stairs, which prevents them from being placed nearly anywhere. But as you can see, your facility is ideal. If you might make a place for them on the ground floor?”
Rose and Betsy shared a look of pleasant compliance. “But of course, Monsieur. We will make room for them. The other children will help us with them.”
Monsieur Comperot mopped his brow with relief. “There are hundreds of others like them who are not so fortunate. They will be placed in hospitals for the duration.” He drew a deep breath. “Of course the Boche will not pass the fortifications of the Maginot Line. Simply a precaution. But we all know what they did to unfortunate Polish children with physical limitations.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Emptied the hospitals of useless mouths. Put them in a closed van and ran the exhaust fumes into it. They have no mercy, these Boche.”
Betsy puffed up her tiny frame in indignation. “Rest assured, Monsieur Comperot. Even if they got past the Maginot, even if they came to Paris . . . if ever they came to No. 5 Rue de la Huchette, they would not pass!” She held up her fist, which seemed a fragile weapon to wave in the faces of imaginary Nazis.
Still, the gesture was sweet. Monsieur Comperot seemed comforted. “Ah. You Americans! You must write your president Roosevelt and encourage him to come along with France again. Together we will settle the matter once and for all. You are not truly neutral. Not at heart.” He thanked them and finished his cup of coffee with a flourish.
“And how long do we have to prepare ourselves for the arrival of our new children, Monsieur?”
He glanced at his watch and stood abruptly. “Within the hour, Madames.” He gave a Gallic shrug and placed his bowler on his head. “The nuns at St. Vincent de Paul assured me you would not refuse.”
4
The Best Gunner
Badger Cross did not forgive David Meyer for shooting up his Hurricane. The RAF instructor dedicated himself to the task of making the three weeks at Aston Down Operational Training Unit pure hell for the young American. On every occasion, and to every newcomer, he introduced David as the best gunner in the RAF.
“Heartless, he is. Nerves of steel behind the gunsights. Or at least nerves of tin! The Nazis love this chap! He shoots up our own planes on the field!”
The combination of nerves of tin and heartlessness resulted in the moniker Tinman for David. Badger, who lived up to the ferocity promised by his name, meant this as an insult. By the end of the brief training period, however, David was putting out his hand and cheerfully presenting himself as the Tinman. He took the ribbing with unfailing good humor. This increased Badger’s hatred. Like a fraternity pledge, David determined that the moment would come when he would turn the tables on his tormentor. Badger Cross, who outweighed the American by forty pounds, seemed to welcome the prospect of finishing off the Yank who had punctured his plane.
Three weeks
of OTU were packed with formation practice, aerobatics, and night flying, all of which proved that Tinman was an excellent pilot. This fact disappointed Badger, who would have liked to see the “cocky Yank” flounder miserably. But the hostility of Badger only served to strengthen David’s friendships with the other pilots, like Hewitt and Terry Simpson, who did not like the arrogant, acid-tongued Badger either.
However, on their first leave in London before being assigned to operational squadrons, David left the pub-hopping group of pilot officers. He struck out on his own after Badger chugged three pints of Guinness and declared, “I can whip any man here! Man of steel or—” he leveled his hot gaze on David— “man of tin!”
David did not fancy spending his first night in London behind bars. One more pint down Badger’s throat would mean that an altercation followed by jail was a real possibility.
There were no affordable hotel rooms in the entire city, it seemed. When he inquired at the Savoy Hotel, the price of a single was too high after the wad he had just spent on a new RAF uniform at Moss Brothers. So David spent the night in the opulent lounge of the men’s lavatory at the Savoy.
An RAF pilot snoozing in an overstuffed chair within earshot of the urinals did not perturb the elderly men’s-room attendant who had himself fought in the last war in France. Running an officer out onto the cold, black streets of London would be positively unpatriotic, he declared. So David slept very comfortably until just before dawn, when the rattle of a custodian’s buckets and mops woke him.
“Sir, wireless reports a contact with merchant ship Collingwood. It was attacked by a U-boat about two hours ago.”
“Does it require assistance?” asked Lt. Commander Trevor Galway.
“Negative, sir. They were shelled but escaped. They can make it into port. Request that we alert other ships in the area.”
“We’ll do better than that. Mr. Fry, give us a course to the reported position of the sighting. Full ahead, if you please.”
South of the Canary Islands, even the far-spent year had a pleasant, summery feel. Accounts like the one just rendered interrupted what was otherwise a quiet morning. Cruising along the coast of Africa, the destroyer HMS Fortitude patrolled the sea-lanes, protecting British shipping. There was a great need for such protection, despite the peaceful feel of the predawn air. Since the outbreak of the war, over one hundred merchant ships had been sunk by German submarines, raiders, or mines. Over half had been British.
An hour of steaming at top speed brought Fortitude to the area referred to by the freighter. From this point, the destroyer became a hunting dog, casting about over the surface of the Atlantic for any clues as to the whereabouts of the sub.
On the horizon was a fishing boat heading northwest. “Attempt to contact that craft,” Galway ordered. “Ask if she has seen any other vessels in this area.” While he waited for a reply, he studied the ship through his binoculars. The fishing vessel had two stubby masts and a jumble of nets heaped up on her stern.
“She does not acknowledge, sir,” was the report.
“Well, she must have passed through long after the U-boat,” Galway pondered aloud. “She’s only making five knots.”
“Should we warn her?” Fry asked.
“I can’t imagine a U-boat skipper wasting a torpedo on a fishing smack,” Galway said, still gazing through the field glasses. “She rides so low in the water and . . . Mr. Fry, sound action stations!”
Within seconds the stillness of the morning was shattered by the strident clanging of the warning gong. Sailors hastily turned out of their bunks and hurried into their battle gear.
Captain Pickering appeared at Galway’s elbow. His uniform blouse was buttoned crooked, and a glop of shaving cream was behind one ear. “What’s this, Mr. Galway? Attacking a fishing boat?” he asked incredulously.
“Take a look, sir,” requested Trevor, passing the binoculars. “I noticed how long and low the profile was, but when I studied the cabin amidships it became clear.”
“It’s a U-boat!” Pickering exclaimed. “Mr. Galway, give the order to commence firing as soon as we have the range.”
Fortitude carried four turrets of five-inch guns, two each forward and aft. Her gun crews needed no urging to rouse them to the attack; many had friends or relatives among the five hundred British lives lost at sea since the war began.
The two forward positions barked out their first rounds within a second of each other, vying for the honor of claiming the kill. The shots missed but bracketed the disguised submarine on both sides.
“What is the purpose of the deception?” Trevor asked. “To sneak up on victims?”
“Why would a vessel that can attack submerged need such a ruse?” Pickering said. “No, she must be damaged in some way and unable to submerge. She’s hoping her trick will save her on the surface in daylight. Well done, Mr. Galway. Your sharp eyes have seen through the deception.”
The next shot from number-one gun landed just astern of the supposed fishing vessel’s cabin. The explosion blew one of the phony masts in half and exposed the gray metal of the conning tower. Movement was seen on the sub’s deck. Sailors ran aft toward the pile of nets.
The heap of mesh was thrown aside, revealing the U-boat’s own cannon. But before the German craft could fire a single time, another shot from Fortitude made a direct hit, splintering the gun and catapulting its crew into the water. The sound of cheering from the number-two gun turret was heard clear up on the bridge.
“She’s settling lower, sir,” Trevor reported. The U-boat sank beneath the waves, but whether because of the harm done by the shelling or to attempt to escape was not clear.
Another round from the number-one gun knocked the top off the submerging conning tower, and then the sea was empty of all but ripples.
“Cease firing,” Pickering ordered. “Prepare to roll depth charges!”
The officer on the stern of Fortitude stood, stopwatch in hand, timing the rush of the destroyer to the exact spot where the U-boat had disappeared. When the clock’s hand swept around the dial to the precise instant, he shouted, “Roll one! Roll two! Roll three!”
Moments after the warship rushed past, fountains of water erupted from the ocean, spraying three times higher than the radio masts. Four times she charged over the spot, making the figure-eight pattern of the hunting dog who has run his quarry to earth. After the tenth explosion, the face of the sea was littered with thousands of dead mackerel caught by the underwater concussions . . . and an oval-shaped oil slick that bubbled up from below.
“Cease depth charge,” came the command. “That’s finished it. Well done, lads; well done all. Helmsman, take us back to look for survivors of the German gun crew.”
It was the dog that Pilot Officer David Meyer first noticed that dawn as he walked alone in London’s St. James Park.
An enormous Saint Bernard, with a curving white plume of a tail, a black-masked face, and drooping jowls, sniffed and lifted his leg against the white trunks of the plane trees, as if his aim in life was to mark every tree in the park. The animal was unaccompanied. Dragging his brown-leather leash, he chased a gray squirrel and then proceeded to relieve himself beside a heap of sandbags surrounding an antiaircraft gun emplacement. This drew verbal fire from the gun crew on duty.
“Get that bugger out of ’ere, mate! Why look! It’s lef’ a stinkin’ pile big as one of the cav’ry ’orses!”
David was about to deny ownership when the thing turned, wagged, woofed, and ran to him. It jumped up on his new RAF pilot officer uniform. David pushed the beast down. Too late. A streak of muddy paw prints marred his trousers, and white strings of saliva clung to his tunic. Thwarting a second joyous assault, David grabbed the leash and, with a swift jerk, ordered the Saint Bernard to sit.
Miraculously the animal obeyed. With long dripping tongue lolling to the side, he gawked at David adoringly.
“Good dog.” David patted the large square head firmly and scanned the wide expanse of the park for an
yone who seemed to be missing a Saint Bernard.
And then he saw her. Red hair was pulled back in a single thick braid that glistened in the morning sun. She was petite and pretty, and her face appeared freshly scrubbed. In her early twenties, she was half jogging, walking, and holding her side as she hurried up the gravel path toward David. She was wearing a man’s topcoat that hung almost to her ankles. The hem of a white cotton nightgown peeked out over the tops of large black galoshes.
“Duffy! You’re lookin’ for a trashin’!” she shouted angrily in a soft Irish brogue.
The dog’s ears perked up. He glanced her way very briefly but remained contented and unconcerned at the side of the RAF pilot who held his leash.
David smiled and ordered his captive to heel. Duffy did so, and the two walked calmly toward the pained and angry pursuer.
“Looking for something?” David smiled and extended the leash to the young woman who was flushed and panting so hard she could hardly speak.
“The Thing!” she managed.
“He’s a Saint.”
“Saint, indeed!” She gave the inattentive Duffy a whack on his hindquarters. “A devil is what.” Clutching the coat to her, she spotted the paw prints on David’s uniform. Her eyes were brown and warm and full of remorse. She gasped and scooped up a handful of leaves with which she attempted to brush the saliva from his jacket. “Were you layin’ down when he did that to you?”
“Standing up.” David enjoyed the attention.
“Aw. You’re such a brute, Duffy! Look what you’ve done now to the officer’s uniform!” She tossed down the leaves and put a hand to her head. “I can’t tell you how sorry . . .”
“My name’s David Meyer.”
They shook hands. Her hand was small and soft in his.
“Annie Galway. You’ve met Duffy, I’m afraid. So sorry, Officer Meyer.”
“David.”
“David. RAF is it? But you’re a Yank, aren’t you?”