******
Within the next few days two small paragraphs appeared in the English papers. You may remember seeing them, but I don't suppose you or anybody else thought there was any connection between them or guessed at the long story of intrigue and bloodshed that lay behind these simple accounts. Yet they spoke of an affair which very nearly gave the enemy a priceless secret, and which, but for the chance recognition of a photograph on a dead German pilot, would have placed England in even greater danger. In truth, great events spring from small beginnings.
The first paragraph appeared in one of the London papers and gave a highly coloured account of how two young French-men, making up their minds to come over to England and join de Gaulle, stole an aeroplane from a German aerodrome, “having distracted the attention of the sentries by a clever ruse,” and then flew it across to England where “despite their inexperience” they contrived to land with nothing worse than a few bruises. Well, I thought, that probably refers to us and it's as near the truth as a lot of other things in the papers these days. But I hoped the squadron would never learn of my connection with it. That bit about “despite their inexperience” would not be forgotten for many a long day.
The other paragraph appeared in The Times, very short and to the point.
“From a correspondent in the unoccupied zone. It is learned that following a fight in a Laon café one Frenchman was stabbed to death and another was shot. Two German police who tried to intervene were also wounded. The assailants, who are believed to be de Gaullists, managed to escape in the confusion, and a rigorous search is being made for them.”
******
Two months later, one afternoon in September, I walked into the mess for tea and took the mail from my rack. We had just landed after a tearing fight with a great mass of German bombers over the Thames and I was tired and mentally fagged out. I opened a letter, read it absent-mindedly and then turned to the postcard underneath. It bore a Grenoble postmark and a moment elapsed before I realised who it was from and then I sat up suddenly and read it over and over again with the most intense interest.
It had been forwarded by Air Ministry and was addressed to Peter Claydon, R.A.F., London.
The date was August 10th, 1940.
My dear Peter,
I was very worried till today and then I saw a story in the English papers about two French boys and my heart was happy again. Please give the other boy a kiss and my affectionate regards. I arrived here without too much difficulty and am travelling in the right direction. Perhaps I shall see you again soon.
Your friend,
D'Artagnan.
******
We had to celebrate this. Giselle, Leighton, Dalkeith and I dined at the Berkeley. The major seemed happy at last and was busy digging trenches near Hythe and waiting for the Day, which he assured us would provide some damned good shootin' for all concerned.
We drank two toasts, one to Giselle, who sat smiling happily at the end of the table, looking more radiantly lovely than ever, and the other to Carnac.
“And damnation to the Boche,” added Leighton.
About ten o'clock the Group Captain announced that he had to go back to the office. Dalkeith seemed to think this was a hint for him, as he also rose and said he must be off. We shook hands and they departed.
Giselle and I stayed on, finished the Liebfraumilch and danced to our hearts' content. I felt strangely happy and at peace.
Later we walked along Piccadilly. A raid was in progress and the deep hum of enemy bombers could be heard above the crash of guns and the “whoom” of bombs bursting in the distance. We seemed to be the only people in London. By my side Giselle was humming softly “j'attendrai”; she had done so once before and I remembered the tune; it recalled that anxious day in Amiens when we first met.
In Piccadilly Circus we stopped. “Shall I try to get a taxi for you?” I said. “I think the Underground would be safer just now.” She didn't reply but slipped her arm through mine and we were silent for a little while. Life was very uncertain just now; I think we both hated to say goodbye.
“Au revoir, my Peter,” she said at length. “Take care of yourself.”
“Yes,” I said, “but before you go there's something Carnac asked me to do for him.” Despite the darkness I saw her smiling at me and I folded her tightly, very tightly indeed, in my arms and kissed her. It was the first time I had ever kissed her properly and all my long pent-up love and yearning for her lay behind that embrace. She raised her face to mine and returned my kisses with a sort of controlled ardour that I had never known before, and for a little while there seemed no sound in the world but her gentle breathing.
I remember as if in a dream stroking her soft hair and saying over and over again:
“Oh, Giselle, my darling Giselle, don't ever leave me now.”
“Goodbye, Peter my darling,” she said at length. She put her arms tightly round my neck, gave me one more kiss and then broke away and ran quickly down the steps, leaving me with the words of that haunting song still running through my mind.
“Le jour et la nuit, j'attendrai toujours ton retour.”
Pursuit of Passy Page 42