Butcher and Bolt

by Will Belford

  The sudden scream of a klaxon accompanied by the boom of a heavy-calibre gun made him look to his left. A sleek grey destroyer was surging past, the 3-inch guns in the forward turret firing salvos at the fleeing E-Boat, which was clearly outgunned and desperate to get out of range.

  Joe looked about him. The deck of the gunboat was almost totally destroyed. Blood was streaming into the scuppers and disappearing into the foaming sea, while the boat wallowed in the swell. He closed his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘Quite frankly Lieutenant Dean, we thought we’d lost you for good,’ said Major Benjamin.

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Dean, still standing at attention, ‘there were a few tight moments in there sir.’ His right leg was sending jets of pain up his spine and he winced involuntarily and leant on his walking stick.

  ‘Well sit down man,’ said Captain Jensen irritably, ‘and tell us what the hell happened.’

  The door behind Joe opened and a voice said discreetly, ‘Mr Smith from the ministry,’ ushering in the man Joe had seen only once before at his briefing, a briefing that seemed like years ago.

  They were in a private room at Black’s, one of London’s exclusive clubs. There was a fire in the grate, leather armchairs and walls lined with books. Captain Jensen poured whisky from a decanter and handed around four glasses while Major Benjamin lit a cigarette.

  ‘Richter is refusing to say anything of course,’ he announced between puffs, throwing the match into the fire.

  ‘Well why would he?’ said Jensen, ‘he can only incriminate himself further.’

  ‘Problem is, we only have two witnesses,’ said Mr Smith, ‘Mr Dean here and who’s the other chap? Smythe? Both on active duty. We need them both to write depositions of the event at La Paradis, just in case.’

  Joe smiled grimly to himself. Just in case Smythe and I are killed? Just in case the Allies win the war and we have a chance to prosecute him?

  ‘All in good time,’ said Major Benjamin. ‘So Dean, tell us what happened. In detail please.’

  By the time he got to the point where the destroyer saw off the E-Boat, the porter had come in to refresh both the fire and the whisky decanter.

  ‘Good God Dean,’ said Jensen, ‘so this Bendine woman stayed behind? Does she know the risk she’s running?’

  ‘I don’t think she cares anymore sir,’ replied Dean, ‘about anything.’ Or anyone, he thought to himself. He hadn’t mentioned to the three men that Yvette was pregnant, it didn’t seem relevant. It was none of their business, and if she was planning on aborting the child what difference did it make? One more pointless and unnecessary death among millions. He couldn’t help feeling bitter about her decision. What if it was his child? It might be his only chance to father a child. He could be—most likely would be—killed in the next year. It might be a small comfort to him to know that a part of him continued after he was gone. One more thing out of his hands. What had Lieutenant Hunt said on the gunboat? “Learn to accept that there are some things you can’t control.”

  He tipped his glass back and felt the fierce liquor burn his throat pleasurably all the way down.

  ‘So if you don’t mind my asking sir,’ said Joe, ‘what do I do next?’

  Major Benjamin lit another cigarette with a significant look at Captain Jensen.

  ‘Well Dean, you probably need a bit of time to recover from your wounds, but after that it’s up to you. Would you rather stay with the commandos or rejoin your old unit?’

  ‘There’s a third option,’ interjected Mister Smith, ‘the Australian divisions recently arrived in North Africa, so Lieutenant Dean may prefer to join his countrymen.’

  ‘Well Dean?’ asked Captain Jensen.

  ‘I’d like some time to think about it please sir,’ said Joe, ‘but wherever I go I’d like to take Sergeant Smythe with me.’

  ‘I’m sure we can arrange that,’ said Captain Jensen with a brief smile.

  ‘One other thing Dean,’ said Major Benjamin, ‘the Navy have recommended you for a Distinguished Service Cross for your actions on the gunboat. How did Lieutenant Hunt put it Jensen?’

  Jensen removed a piece of paper from his breast pocket and recited. “When the gun crew were killed, Lieutenant Dean, despite already being wounded, took over the gun, and single-handedly reloaded, unjammed and fired the cannons under intense enemy fire. It was only his continued defence of the boat that kept us afloat long enough for the destroyer to intervene. Without his efforts, the E-Boat would have sunk us within minutes. My crew and I owe him our lives.”

  ‘Dismissed Dean,’ said Major Benjamin, ‘report back with your decision in three weeks, and in the meantime, get some shut-eye will you? You look a hundred years old.’

  Joe saluted, turned uncomfortably and left the room. Outside the door of the club, a familiar figure stood under the portico sheltering from the evening rain, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Smithy, there you are. Bloody hell it’s getting cold out, let’s find somewhere warm can we?’ said Joe.

  ‘I know just the place sir,’ said Smythe with a grin, ‘they have whisky too.’

  ‘Lay on, MacDuff,’ said Joe, ‘and be damned to him that first cries Hold, enough!’

  ‘What’s that then sir?’ asked Smythe.

  ‘Oh just some piece of poetry I was taught at school,’ said Joe, ‘written by an Englishman I gather.’

  The air raid sirens started to wail.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The road to Peille was steep and winding. When the mule finally reached the tiny main square of the town that seemed to cling to the mountain, it was sweating despite the autumn chill. The woman riding it climbed down from its back and untied the suitcase strapped to its rump. Clearly exhausted, she tied the mule to a nearby post and headed to one of the cafes that lined the square.

  The waiter came out and took her order for a bowl of coffee.

  ‘And perhaps a glass of water for madame?’ he asked solicitously, noting the bulging midriff of a woman well into pregnancy.

  ‘Merci,’ she replied.

  It had taken her eight weeks to reach here. Eight weeks in which she had travelled by train, bus and cart, but mostly on foot. She had negotiated the demarcation line separating Vichy France from the occupied zone by taking a detour through the countryside between Vichy and Lyon. That deviation alone had added two weeks to her journey. By the time she reached the foothills of the Southern Alps, the temperature at night was close to freezing, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever make it. Only the kindness of strangers had enabled her to scrounge enough food to stay alive, and to avoid the attentions of the Vichy police, who were increasingly diligent in their practice of identifying Jewish members of society to be handed over to the Nazis.

  A mule had carried her up the last leg: the winding switchbacks of the Route de la Grave that led to Peille, perched on its hilltop, seemingly about to slide down to oblivion.

  The trials of the journey combined with a meagre diet had stripped pounds from her frame, and she surveyed the town square and its distinctive red tiled roofs from a gaunt face. Finishing her coffee, she placed the last of her coins on the table, picked up her case and led the mule up Rue Central to Place St Joseph. At the door of one of the tightly packed houses she knocked. The door was opened by a rotund woman of middle age, her hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. When she saw who was at the door she smiled with surprise.

  ‘Yvette! Mon Dieu, but what has happened to you? Come in my dear come in!’

  Incapable of speech Yvette gestured at the mule.

  ‘Roberto will take care of her, come in girl and make yourself comfortable!’

  Yvette stepped into the house and collapsed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Joe stood at the railing of the troop transport, watching a corvette that was surging past a few hundred yards to port. The waters of the Channel were churned and flung up by the corvette’s propellers b
efore plunging back into the foaming wake. He watched the never-ending motion without really seeing anything.

  ‘Cup o’ char Lieutenant?’ asked Smythe, handing him a tin mug and leaning companionably on the rail.

  Joe took the cup and sipped the bitter liquid. His wounds were improving, and the ache in his head that had seemed permanent a few weeks ago was a dull throb now. Maybe the doctor was right about sea air.

  ‘You’ve been awful quiet lately sir, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so’ said Smythe, ‘do you want to tell me what happened over there?’

  ‘You know Smithy, I’d rather not talk about it,’ said Joe.

  Smythe paused for a minute and gazed out to sea.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he replied eventually, ‘but I’m happy to listen if you change your mind.’

  ‘Thank you Sergeant.’ said Joe, ‘and thanks for the tea.’

  ‘My pleasure sir,’ said Smythe and returned down the gangway, muttering to himself ‘What’s this “Sergeant” business? He never calls me “Sergeant”.’

  Up on deck, Joe stared sightlessly into the waves until the sun set behind him and the world was plunged into darkness.