by Jim Eldridge
He looked at me, startled.
“Why should anything be the matter?”
“I’ve been trained to spot when people are covering up something,” I said.
Jim hesitated, then gave an unhappy sigh.
“Okay,” he said. “If you must know, something’s been hanging over me for a couple of days. Something a bit upsetting. But I’ll get over it. We all do.”
“What?” I asked.
Again, he hesitated, then he looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard before saying. “If I tell you, you’re not to tell anyone else I told you.”
“I promise,” I said.
“I just feel I need to talk to someone, but we’re not allowed to talk about things like this in case it lowers morale.”
“What happened?”
“Guy. He was my … my best friend,” said Jim. “Three days ago he took off with one of your crowd. A girl. Someone must have betrayed them, or maybe it was an accident. Anyway, as he came into land, his plane got shot up. It caught fire.” He fell silent, and I saw his hand go to his face to wipe away a tear. “They both died.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I needed to say it to someone, but there’s no one here I can talk to. And I can’t talk to anyone outside about what we do.” He wiped his eyes again, then took a deep breath. “Please, don’t tell anyone I told you.”
“I won’t,” I assured him. “Who was the girl?”
“The girl?”
“The one Guy was taking.”
“Her name was Yvette.”
Chapter 15
I was too stunned to respond. Jim talked for a bit longer about his friend Guy, but I wasn’t listening. Yvette, dead. Although she hadn’t been part of my group, in a way she had been the one person I felt close to. Maybe it had been the friendly way she’d come up to me when we were at the army base and told me how glad she was I’d got through the “gossip and questioning” test. Whatever it was, I’d liked her. And now she was gone.
Had she been scared, I wondered. Mr Swinton had said that everyone felt scared. That the fear kept us on edge, kept us alive. But nothing could save you if your plane was shot down and burst into flames.
I did my best to force the image out of my mind. I looked at Jim and saw how desperately miserable he looked. Once we were up there, the same thing could happen to us.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized to Jim. “I do feel for you.”
Jim looked as if he was fighting back his tears. He gestured at the open doors of the hangar.
“It’s nearly time,” he said. “The moon is up. You’d better check you’ve got everything.”
I nodded and went to a bench where there were two bags labelled with the name ‘Céline’. I opened them and checked the contents. Everything was there: plastic explosive, coils of wire, detonators, wire strippers.
“Everything’s there,” I said, closing the bags.
“Okay,” said Jim.
He signalled to two mechanics and they rolled the plane out of the hangar into the open air. I climbed up the ladder, settled myself in the rear seat and strapped myself in. Jim hauled the two bags of plastic explosives and wires up the ladder and handed them to me. I dumped them on my lap. There was nowhere else in the tiny cockpit to put them. Jim climbed into the cockpit in front of me and pulled his hatch down. I did the same, fixing mine into place with the catches.
“Testing intercom,” Jim’s voice came over the tiny speaker by my side. “One two three. Do you read?”
I clicked the button on the handset.
“Reading you loud and clear,” I said.
“Roger,” said Jim.
There were the sounds of ignition up front and around me, followed by a roar as the propeller sprang to life, starting slowly at first, then getting faster and faster until it was barely visible as a shimmering blur in the darkness.
There was another click, then Jim’s voice said: “Okay. We’re ready to roll.”
The sound of the plane’s engine built up, getting higher and higher. Suddenly Jim engaged the drive gear and the plane began to roll forward, gaining speed quickly, rushing across the open field. Even though I guessed Jim had done this many times before, I marvelled at how he could see to aim the plane in this darkness. The plane bumped and lurched a couple of times, and the next second we were lifting up.
As we rose higher, it got colder, and I was glad I’d put on thick socks and was wearing the heavy woollen trousers over my skirt, as well as the thick leather flying jacket over my blouse and light jacket. As we flew I couldn’t get the thought of Yvette and her plane being shot down out of my mind. I looked at the bags of explosives on my lap. There was enough here to bring down a railway bridge. If we were shot at, the bullets would pass straight through the plane’s thin skin, hit the explosives, and we would be blown to bits. I did my best to push that thought out of my mind, but it wasn’t easy.
We flew on for what seemed like hours, flying low. Jim and I didn’t talk over the radio – the engine was too loud to make communication easy, and Jim needed to concentrate. We were flying without lights over a country that was mostly dark because, like us in England, the Germans were sticking to blackout rules in France as a protection against bombing air raids.
“There it is!” came Jim’s voice over the radio.
I looked down, and saw four small fires in the distance, creating a box shape. My heart leapt. This was it!
“Let’s hope the Germans haven’t spotted it!” he said.
Or perhaps they’ve set up a fake landing and are lying in wait for us, I thought nervously.
The plane began to fly lower, and soon we were barely above tree height, getting lower and lower, and all the time I was tense, expecting to hear the sound of machine guns opening up.
Then there was a bump, and the small plane bounced, leaping up into the air, before coming down again, shuddering and shaking as Jim put on the brakes.
“Go!” he said.
I undid the catch fastening the hatch cover, then threw out the two bags. I followed them immediately, dropping down from the rear cockpit, not bothering to use the ladder, and landed with a thud on the earth. I put my parachute training into use, rolling with the fall and springing to my feet.
I saw two dark shapes scoop up my two bags and run with them, as a voice close to me said urgently in French: “This way!”
A large bulky middle-aged man and a tall thin young man each grabbed me by an arm and hustled me towards the hedge that bordered the field, following the two who had my bags. Behind us, others were hard at work throwing earth into the four holes in the ground, putting out the signal fires. The plane’s engine hadn’t stopped, and now I heard it rev into life again with a throaty sound, and then turn and accelerate.
The ground beneath my feet was uneven and rutted, causing me to nearly fall a few times, and I realized: this is why they’re holding me. They don’t want me falling over and spraining an ankle or something.
We reached the hedge, and ran alongside it until we came to a gate. On the other side of the gate was an old battered van. The rear doors were open and my bags were being thrown in.
“In!” snapped the middle-aged man.
He got behind the steering wheel, while the younger man helped me inside the back of the van. Then he climbed in and pulled the doors shut.
The van jerked forward, the sudden jolt sending me sprawling, but my fall was cushioned by a pile of sacks, sending a cloud of powder to rise from them, making me cough.
“Flour,” explained the young man. “We’re in the baker’s van, Jules Lemaître. I’m Pierre Megris.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me your real names, in case I get caught,” I told him.
The young man laughed.
“As you’re staying with my family at our home,
that won’t work,” he said. “And Monsieur Lemaître is the one you’ll need to go and see if you’re in trouble. So you have to know who he is. The others …” he shrugged. “You’re right, you don’t need to know their names. But I’m sure you’ll work out who they are once we start work.” He handed me an empty sack. “Put your flying jacket and things in there. That way, if we get stopped, we can try and persuade them you’re along to help load the flour. But it won’t work if you’re dressed up looking like you’ve just got off a plane.”
I did as Pierre said, taking off my jacket and putting it in the sack, along with the things I’d brought with me. Pierre pushed the sack beneath the pile of others, hiding it along with my two bags. So far, I was impressed by their organization. But then, if they hadn’t been so organized they wouldn’t have stayed alive this long.
“You’ll be staying with me and my mother and my little sister, Mimi,” continued Pierre.
“And your father?” I asked, and as I said it I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. From the angry expression on Pierre’s face I knew I’d touched a raw nerve.
“My father’s dead,” said Pierre bitterly. “He was killed in the War.”
I was on the point of saying “So was mine”, but stopped myself in time, remembering the instruction: never give information about yourself, even to someone you think is
a friend.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “That was thoughtless of me.”
He shook his head.
“His death will be avenged,” he said. “That is why you are here.” He shrugged, as if dismissing the subject, and said: “When we get home we’ll get your clothes dusted down and lose that flour from them.”
“Did you have to come and pick me up in a van filled with sacks of flour?” I asked.
Pierre grinned.
“Of course,” he said. “Like I said, Jules is a baker, and if he’s ever stopped by a patrol he’s got the perfect excuse for being out at night: he’s getting flour for the early morning baking. No flour, no bread.” He laughed. “The Germans think he’s okay, because he gives their soldiers cakes and pastries when they come into his bakery. What they don’t realize is that he lets them talk and gossip, and listens to what’s going on, and reports it back.”
“He’s a brave man.”
“He is,” said Pierre. “And he’s not the only one. There are plenty around here who take chances to defeat the Germans.”
“Like you,” I said.
Even in the darkness inside the van, I could see I’d embarrassed him. Mentally, I kicked myself. Despite all my intentions to remain cool and calm, I was talking too much. I guessed it was the excitement of actually being on a mission, being here, in France, behind enemy lines, and meeting the Resistance. I decided to keep my mouth shut; at least, until we were safely indoors.
Chapter 16
The van dropped us off at a cottage at the outskirts of a village. Pierre and I hauled the two bags and the sack containing my flying jacket out of the van, slammed the doors shut, and it drove off.
The front door of the cottage opened and two figures hurried out, an older woman and a girl of about ten. They helped us carry the stuff inside and, once the front door was shut and locked and bolted, they ushered Pierre and me
into a small kitchen, where an oil lamp threw out an eerie yellow glow.
“Welcome!” said the woman, and she gave me a broad smile and a hug.
“Maman, this is Céline LeBlanc,” introduced Pierre. “Céline, this is my mother.”
“Madam Megris,” I said, returning her hug.
“No no,” she rebuked me. “You are supposed to be the daughter of an old friend of mine, and if that was the case you would call me Aunt Berthe.”
“Aunt Berthe,” I nodded.
“And this is Mimi,” said Pierre.
I looked down at a little girl and marvelled at how children as young as this were also putting their lives on the line for the cause.
“Hello,” said the girl. “Thank you for coming here.”
“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” I replied.
“You must be cold and tired after your journey, and you will want to be about your business tomorrow,” said Berthe. “So let’s put some hot food inside you and get you to bed. You’ll be sharing with Mimi.”
“You have my bed. I’ve made up a mattress on the floor for me,” said Mimi.
“Absolutely not!” I said. “It’s good enough of you to let me share your room. I’m certainly not going to put you out of your bed!”
“But you are special!” insisted Mimi. “You are a warrior!”
“And warriors don’t need a bed to sleep in,” I said. “A mattress is more than comfortable.”
The first thing we did was to take my bags, with the explosives and detonators, and hide them in the attic. After that, Berthe put some steaming hot onion soup into two bowls for Pierre and me. It was delicious! Once again it made me realize the different qualities of food available in cities and rural areas, and I determined that when this war was over, I would do my best to try and make a life for myself in the countryside.
Although I was tired and should have slept, the excitement of the journey here to France, and thoughts of what lay ahead, kept me awake. When I finally fell asleep, it seemed I’d only had my eyes closed for a short while before Mimi was gently shaking me.
“Good morning,” she said. “Maman has bread and coffee ready for you for breakfast.”
The bread was delicious, fresh out of the oven. The coffee, though, had a peculiar taste.
“It’s made from acorns and dandelion roots,” explained Berthe, seeing my puzzled expression as I sipped at it. “We haven’t had proper coffee here for a long while, and what there is, the Germans take.”
“Where is Pierre?” I asked.
“He has gone to work. He works at Brubel’s hardware shop. We shall call in there later. It will be a good thing to take you round the village to meet people, to let them see who you are, and that you are one of ours. That will stop them asking questions about you. You are one of us. Céline LeBlanc, the daughter of an old friend of mine from Rouen.”
“Come to stay with you following the unfortunate death of my mother,” I added. “She died recently from pneumonia. It’s still too painful for me to talk about.”
“Good,” nodded Berthe. “Keep to that and it will stop them asking too many questions. From you, that is. They will ask me, of course, and I will tell them the same. What were you doing in Rouen?”
“I’m training to be a teacher,” I said.
“Good,” nodded Berthe again. “Nothing too complicated.”
After breakfast, I set off with Berthe and Mimi to be introduced around the village. Their cottage was at the end of the village, which meant a short walk, but it was very pleasant for me. It brought back memories of when I was small and Mum and Dad used to take me out into the country, to villages very much like this one, Malerme.
As we neared the main square in the village, where the church and school and the different shops were clustered, I saw the first signs of the German occupation. Almost every corner seemed to have a machine gun post, with soldiers guarding the machine gun behind piles of sandbags.
“Do they need that much protection?” I whispered to Berthe.
“They think they do,” Berthe whispered back. “They are terrified of the Resistance launching an attack. But here in Malerme, the boys have decided to play it safe. They concentrate on disrupting German lines of communication. Cutting telephone lines, that sort of thing. Annoying to the Germans, but not fatal. The last thing we want are more and more Germans coming into the village, especially with what you plan to do.”
She suddenly stopped talking and smiled and nodded at a middle-aged woman walking towards them, who nodded in return, although she didn’t smile. The woman
walked on, but I could feel her eyes watching me behind our backs.
“Madame Poitiers,” whispered Berthe. “A dangerous woman. She sneaks information to the Germans.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“To get in favour with them,” said Berthe. “Unfortunately, there are a few people like that in the village. A few do it because, believe it or not, they are Nazis and actually support Hitler. Some do it out of fear, because they are afraid of the Germans and hope the Germans will leave them alone if they co-operate. In some parts of France, the Resistance killed German soldiers. The Germans retaliated by killing ten French people for every soldier who was killed, and fifty people for every officer who was attacked.” She sighed bitterly. “That sort of thing makes people very frightened for the safety of them and their family. So they collaborate with the Germans, passing on information about who might be in the Resistance, and gossip about people who’ve been heard saying bad things about Germans.
“We know most of the people who do it, so we’re careful what we say when we’re around them. But there might be others who are kind to your face, but we don’t know what they’re saying behind your back. So the rule is: trust no one.”
Exactly the same words that Mr Swinton had drummed into me.
Our first port of call was Brubel’s hardware shop, where Pierre was behind the counter. I was introduced to the owner, and his wife who came from the back of the shop to shake hands and welcome me, their expressions very sympathetic to me. From there, we moved on to the bakery, where I was introduced by Berthe to the bulky middle-aged man who’d hustled me into his van the night before.
“Monsieur Lemaître, this is Céline. She’s from Rouen. She will be staying with us for a while.”
The baker gave me a welcoming smile.
“Good morning, Mam’selle,” he said. “Welcome to our village. You will find life different here after Rouen. Less rushing around. A better quality of life, in my opinion.”
“I am sure I will like it here,” I replied. “Aunt Berthe has been very welcoming.”
From the bakery we moved on to a newsagents, then a greengrocer’s, and at every shop I was introduced to the owners and the other customers by Madame Megris with handshakes and smiles of welcome. My identity and back-story was being firmly established.