All Clear

by Connie Willis

  “Which names should we put?” a woman in a pink feathered hat asked. “Our name now or our name during the war?”

  “Both,” the organizer said. “And write the name of the service you were with below it.”

  Thank you, he thought, and followed in her wake, reading the women’s names as they printed them. Pauline, Deborah, Jean. Netterton, Herley, York. No Eileen, no O’Reilly, though the woman in charge evidently hadn’t given all of the women the same instructions. Several had printed only one name, and only a few had listed the service they’d been in. ARP, WAAF, WVS.

  They were beginning to drift out of the lobby into the museum. He needed to purchase his ticket, but there were still several ladies who hadn’t put their tags on yet. Walters, Redding …

  The third woman’s hand shook with palsy when she wrote her name, and when she pinned it to her breast, he couldn’t decipher it, though the first letter might be an O. He’d have to corner her once they got inside and find out.

  The fourth woman, a tiny creature who looked like she might break in two, still hadn’t finished printing her name, though he didn’t see how she could possibly be Merope, whom he remembered as being taller. But he’d grown since then, and people had still shrunk with age in this era, hadn’t they? “Did she say we were supposed to put what unit we were in?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” Walters and the one with the unreadable name tag said in unison and then laughed, and Unreadable Name Tag said, “Walters? Is that you?”

  Walters gaped at her. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “I can’t believe this!” She flung her arms around her. “Geddes!”

  Geddes. Good. It had been a G, not an O.

  “We were stationed at Eastleigh together,” Geddes was telling Redding. “We were Atta Girls.”

  “Air Transport Auxiliary,” Walters explained. “We ferried new planes to their airfields for the RAF.” And if they’d been stationed at Eastleigh, they hadn’t been anywhere near London and couldn’t have known Polly.

  “What did you do in the war?” Walters was asking Redding.

  “Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid,” she said. “I was a land girl. I spent the war shoveling pig muck in Shropshire.”

  Which eliminated her too. That left the tiny woman who’d finally finished printing her name and pinned her badge on. “Mrs. Donald Davenport,” it read, and below it, “Lt. Cynthia Camberley.”

  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Merope wasn’t here.

  Thank God. But he still had no idea where Polly had been, and he still hadn’t found anyone who might know. And Camberley, who hadn’t said if she’d been in London during the Blitz, was already going in with the others. He started after her, remembered he hadn’t bought a ticket, and raced over to the desk, but by the time he got it and went in, they’d vanished.

  Directly inside the door was a bright red signpost with arrows pointing to various exhibits: “The Battle of the North Atlantic,” “The Holocaust,” “Living Through the Blitz.” He followed the last arrow down a corridor to a doorway piled high with sandbags. A bucket of water stood in front of the sandbags with a stirrup pump in it. Above the door was written, “ ‘This was their finest hour.’ Winston Churchill,” and, as he passed through the doorway, an air-raid siren began to warble.

  He was in a short corridor lined with framed black-and-white photographs: a burnt-out church, rows and rows of barrage balloons over London, a street of bombed houses, the dome of St. Paul’s floating above a sea of smoke and flames. At the end of the corridor was another doorway, across which hung a heavy black curtain. From somewhere beyond it, he could hear a drone of planes and the crump of bombs. He went through the curtain.

  Into total blackness. “Look out in the blackout,” a recorded voice said. He peered into the darkness, searching for Camberley. He couldn’t see her, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make out two round white lights with black bars across them which must be an automobile’s headlamps, and on the floor, a white-lined pathway leading to another curtained door, dimly illuminated by the headlamps. And just going through it, Camberley. He started toward her.

  “Connor?” a woman’s voice called from behind him. He turned around and then remembered his name wasn’t Connor here and stopped, hoping the darkness had hidden his involuntary reaction. That was how the Nazis caught British spies, he thought, by suddenly calling them by their real name.

  He continued following Camberley.

  “Connor?” the woman’s voice said again, and he felt a hand on his arm. “I thought that was you. What a lucky coincidence! What are you doing here?”

  Nothing could be seen but the tops of the towers of the palace, and even those only from a good way off.

  —SLEEPING BEAUTY

  Wales—May 1944

  THE PRISON CAMP WASN’T NEAR PORTSMOUTH. IT WAS IN Gloucestershire, and Ernest and Cess ended up driving all night to get there. They got lost twice, once because of their inability to see anything in the blackout and the second time because of the lack of signposts. “Which is a good thing, really,” Cess said, struggling with the map. “If there were signposts, we wouldn’t be able to pull this off.”

  If we can’t find the colonel, we won’t be able to pull it off either, Ernest thought irritably. He hadn’t felt this tired since that endless day in Saltram-on-Sea. If the Lady Jane were available, he’d gladly curl up in her hold, but they were nowhere near water. Or anything else. “Have you any idea at all where we are?” he asked Cess.

  “No. I can’t find—oh, bloody hell, I’ve got the wrong map.” Cess unfolded the other one, peered at it, and then looked out at the road. “Go back to that last crossroads,” he said, and as Ernest backed the car around, he added, “I’ve just had an idea. I think we should get lost.”

  “We are lost.”

  “No, I mean after we pick up Colonel von Sprecht. We should pretend we don’t know where we are.”

  “We may not have to pretend,” Ernest said as they reached the crossroads. “Which of these roads do I take?”

  Cess ignored him. “You could say, ‘Where are we?’ and I could say, ‘Here, at Canterbury,’ and you could say, ‘Give me the map,’ and we could hold the map so he can see it and then argue over where we are. People always say things they shouldn’t when they’re arguing, and it would be far more believable than my saying, ‘Here we are at Canterbury,’ for no reason. What do you think?”

  “I think you need to tell me which road to take.”

  “Bear left. Oh, and we’re going to need a code in case I need to tell you something we don’t want him to hear. Suppose I say, ‘I believe we have a puncture?’ Then you’ll know to stop the car, and we can get out and talk.”

  “No, a puncture’s something he’d be able to feel. How about, ‘I hear a knock in the engine’?”

  “Yes, that’s good. It will mean putting the bonnet up, which will keep him from reading our lips. If I tell you I hear a knock, you pull over—No, I don’t mean now. Why are you stopping?”

  “Because left was obviously the wrong way to turn,” Ernest said, indicating the lane, which had ended in the middle of a sheep-filled meadow.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Cess said, consulting the map again. “Go back to the crossroads again and bear right.”

  “You have no idea where we are, do you?” Ernest asked, backing.

  “No,” Cess admitted cheerfully, “but it’s growing light. That should make it easier to find our way.”

  If he’d known they were going to spend hours and hours wandering around Wales like this, he’d have insisted on delivering his articles to the Call on the way. It would only have meant a half hour’s detour, and he’d at least have something to show for this damned trip. He obviously wasn’t going to have any chance to ask where Denys Atherton was. There wasn’t even anyone they could ask where the camp was.

  “Now which way do I turn?” he asked.

  “Left … no, right…,” Cess said doubtfully. “No, go st
raight ahead.” He pointed. “There’s the camp.”

  Ernest drove up to the gate. “Who are we again?”

  Cess checked their papers. “I’m Lieutenant Wilkerson and you’re Lieutenant Abbott.”

  “Lieutenants Abbott and Wilkerson here to pick up Colonel von Sprecht,” Ernest told the guard. The guard glanced at their papers, handed them back, and waved them toward the camp commander’s office.

  “I’ll inform the commander you’re here,” the sergeant there said. “Please wait here.” He disappeared into the commander’s office.

  An hour later they were still waiting. “What’s taking so long?” Cess asked anxiously. He stood up and went over to the window to look out. “What if the weather clears?”

  “The forecast said it would be cloudy all day, with rain after noon,” Ernest said, looking at the route they were going to be taking. It led straight through the center of the invasion buildup. And Denys Atherton was there somewhere, if he could just find him.

  “What if the forecast’s wrong? The one for the dedication of that dummy oil depot in Dover was wrong. It said the weather would be fair that day, and we nearly drowned. If it’s fair today, the colonel will be able to tell by the sun what direction we’re going, and it won’t matter what we tell him.”

  “It won’t turn off fair. Stop worrying,” Ernest said, still thinking about Atherton. How was he supposed to look for him with a German prisoner in the car? Even if he could think of a reason for asking which would satisfy Cess, anyone he asked might mention their real location, and he couldn’t risk jeopardizing the mission they were on.

  He wished for the thousandth time he knew whether historians could affect events. And which of Fortitude South’s deceptions had worked. Had the Germans believed what von Sprecht told them? Had they even questioned him? And had they believed the faked photo ops and the carefully planted articles in the Call and the Shopper and the Banner? Which ones? The ones he was supposed to have turned in to the Call yesterday?

  “It’s definitely clearing off,” Cess said. “I’m certain I saw a patch of blue. What if he tries to escape?”

  “Who?”

  “The prisoner. What if he tries to run off? Or to kill us? He might be dangerous—”

  “He’s ill,” Ernest said, frowning at the map. “That’s why they’re repatriating him, and if he was dangerous, they’d scarcely have sent us.”

  “A lot you know. Remember that farmer’s bull?”

  “He’ll be handcuffed. Colonel von Sprecht, not the bull. Come here and show me the route we take.”

  Cess traced the route on the map for him. “We go through Winchester—that’s Canterbury—and then south to Portsmouth so he can see the invasion armada and then—”

  “We can’t go through Winchester,” Ernest said. “Its cathedral doesn’t look anything like Canterbury’s. We’ll need to go around.” Cess nodded and made a note on the other map. “And we’d best steer clear of Salisbury. He’s likely to recognize the spire.”

  “Which can be seen for miles,” Cess said, frustrated. “I’ll need to completely redo the route.”

  Good, Ernest thought, it will keep you from constantly looking out the window.

  Cess was making him nervous. What was taking them so long? They could have repatriated the entire German Army by now.

  Cess calculated a new route, wrote it out for Ernest, and went over to the window again to check the sky. “What if the Americans have put new signposts up? If the colonel finds out where he is—”

  “He won’t. Stop worrying. And stop talking. I need to finish memorizing this route before they bring him in,” Ernest said. Which got him five full minutes of silence, and then Cess said, “How long can it take to sign a few papers? You don’t suppose they’re checking up on us, do you? What if Algernon didn’t tell the camp commander what he’s up to, and when they find out we’re not who we say we are, they decide we’re spies?”

  “We are spies.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “They won’t think we’re spies. And the weather’s not clearing. Stop fretting. Haven’t you ever been to the films? Spies are supposed to possess an icy calm.”

  “But what if—” The door opened and the sergeant came in again, followed by the camp commander, two guards, and—between them—the prisoner in a German officer’s uniform.

  Ernest had been wrong—he wasn’t handcuffed. But there was no need for him to be. He leaned heavily on the arms of his guards, and his face was gray. “Lieutenants,” the commander said, nodding at them, and then turned to the prisoner. “Colonel von Sprecht, you are being repatriated to Germany through a program instituted by the Swedish Red Cross. These two officers will drive you to London, where you will be put on a ship to Bremerhaven.”

  Colonel von Sprecht gave no indication of understanding what the commander was saying. What if Tensing had been wrong, and he didn’t speak English? But when the commander asked, “Do you understand, Colonel?” he said, with only a trace of a German accent, “I understand very well.” He drew himself up as he spoke, but the guards nearly had to carry him out to the car. He didn’t look strong enough to survive the journey by car, let alone the sea voyage, and apparently Cess was thinking the same thing.

  “What if he dies along the way?” he whispered as the guards put the colonel into the backseat.

  Cess and Ernest climbed in. Ernest started the car and then adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could see the colonel. He had leaned back against the rear seat, and his eyes were shut.

  And if he stays like that the whole way, this scheme will have been for nothing, Ernest thought, driving south to Swindon, glancing occasionally in the mirror at the colonel. His eyes were still closed. Ernest drove into the town, feeling suddenly nervous. If there was even one signboard saying this was Swindon …

  But Cess’s fears about the Americans having put up signs were unfounded, and the Home Guard or whoever had been in charge of taking down the signposts at the beginning of the war had done a thorough job. There was no name on the railway station and not even an arrow pointing to “Town Centre.”

  “This is Brede, right?” Cess asked, looking at the map. When Ernest nodded, he said, “At the next turning, you go north to Horns Cross and take the Oxney Road to Beckley.”

  “Shh. What if the colonel hears you?” Ernest said in a stage whisper.

  “Don’t worry, he’s asleep,” Cess said, glancing back at him. “I don’t suppose we can stop in Nounsley, can we?”

  “Why?”

  “I know a girl there. A Wren. Name of Betty. She’s General Patton’s driver.”

  “I thought Patton’s headquarters were in Essex. In Chelmsford.”

  “They are, but she’s billeted in Nounsley, and she has a very understanding landlady. What do you say?”

  “No,” Ernest said. “We can’t stop in Nounsley. Or Dover. You know our orders are to take the prisoner straight to London and hand him over to the War Ministry—”

  “Shh,” Cess said, jabbing a thumb toward the backseat. “He’s awake.”

  Ernest glanced over his shoulder and then called back to him, “Colonel von Sprecht, are you comfortable back there?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” the colonel said.

  “If you need anything, sir, just ask. Our orders are to take good care of you.”

  “Would you like some tea?” Cess held up their thermos.

  “No, thank you.”

  “A cigarette?”

  “No,” he said curtly, but at least he was awake and looking at what they’d brought him this way to see: fields full of tents and army vehicles and equipment. Ernest had been worried about their being able to stay on the prescribed route without the aid of signposts, but it wouldn’t matter which road they took. Every one they passed, even narrow country lanes, was lined with Quonset huts or Jeeps parked bumper to bumper or mobile anti-aircraft guns. One of the pastures was crisscrossed with tank tracks just like the ones they’d so carefully ma
de in that pasture. Only the tanks half hidden under the trees at the far end weren’t inflated rubber—they were the real thing. And so were the huge pyramids of oil drums and stacks of ammunition boxes farther on.

  But when Ernest glanced in the mirror, the colonel’s eyes were closed again. They shouldn’t have brought such a comfortable car. “Colonel von Sprecht,” he called, “are you warm enough back there? Would you like a rug?”

  “No,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “It’s rather cold for May,” Ernest said, and when the colonel didn’t answer, Cess asked, “Do you have this sort of weather in Germany?” Still no answer.

  “What part of Germany do you come from?” Ernest asked, and the colonel began to snore.

  You can’t fall asleep, Ernest thought. We’re doing this for your benefit. He drove into a large mud hole, but even the jolt didn’t wake the colonel. Stopping would, but every field they passed was full of soldiers—drilling in formation, doing calisthenics, loading supplies, standing in line outside mess tents. One of them was bound to come over and ask them if they needed directions, so Ernest had no choice but to keep driving. Straight past everything the sleeping colonel was supposed to be seeing.

  There was a village up ahead. Good. If there’s a garage there, I’ll stop for gas, he thought, but there wasn’t one on the village’s single street, and just ahead was, oh, Christ, a signpost. He wasn’t close enough to read it, but he could make out letters and arrows pointing in opposite directions. And there was no side lane he could turn off onto.

  He glanced in the rear-vision mirror, hoping to God the colonel was still asleep. He wasn’t. And in a minute he’d see the signpost. “Look!” Ernest said, pointing off to the other side of the road. “Parachutists!”

  “Where?” Cess said. He leaned across him to look, and the colonel followed his gaze.

  “There,” Ernest said, pointing at nothing. “I hear the Americans are planning to land twenty thousand parachutists in the Pas de Calais area the night before they invade,” and while Cess and the colonel were gawking at the sky, he shot past the signpost.