by Peter Haden
Jan tried desperately to think this through, but try as he might, too many thoughts were tumbling in his head. Seeing Renate again… back to Germany… how would he be able to operate, alone and without the backing of any resistance organisation? Not very coherently, he tried to put these points to the two of them. It was Doreen Jackman who replied.
‘We know it’s all a bit up in the air,’ she responded, ‘and that it’s a lot to ask. But we feel this has to be a risk worth taking. Having someone such as yourself to report on troop movements in the border area just inside Germany could be an enormous bonus for this country.’
‘All right,’ Jan said eventually. ‘Supposing that this all goes to plan – then fine. But suppose that it doesn’t. Let’s say I get there, but Fraulein Raschdorf either doesn’t want to or just isn’t able to get involved. What happens then?’
‘We can’t answer that,’ said Bill Ives honestly. ‘If that’s the case, and the Germans haven’t invaded, maybe you could try coming back the same way you did previously. But if they do attack, then you will find yourself behind enemy lines with no obvious means of getting home. It’s a hell of a risk, I grant you, and not one to be undertaken lightly. But if it comes off, the information you might be able to provide could save thousands of Allied lives.’
‘Put like that,’ Jan said eventually, ‘you don’t really give me a choice.’ For several seconds, he studied the toecap of his shoe, moving slowly almost on its own accord from side-to-side. Finally, he looked back at both of them, although there was neither mirth nor humour in his smile. ‘To me it seems a pretty mad scheme,’ he said dispassionately, ‘almost one of desperation. But just assuming that we are prepared to give it a try,’ he went on, ‘in practice, how do you see things working out?’
‘We have given this some thought,’ replied Doreen Jackman. Jan sensed that she was trying hard to sound reassuring. ‘You could probably cross the border without too much trouble, but this time you will have to carry a certain amount of equipment, none of which would bear scrutiny. So we think a parachute drop, fairly close to the farm. That might be safest, after which it would be up to you to make contact. How would you feel about that?’
‘The plan or the para-drop?’ mused Jan, speaking softly, almost to himself. ‘Obviously I’m going to need a certain amount of equipment – a radio, some emergency shelter kit, a weapon and ammunition... the jump doesn’t worry me, at least not too much,’ he added with a smile, ‘and presumably everything I need could be in drop pack. They mentioned on my course that it could all be stuffed into a sort of canvas kit bag that could be lowered to hit the ground just before I did. Never tried it though, nor jumping at night…’ he trailed off.
‘Spoken to Ringwood,’ Bill Ives pressed on, trying to sound as confident as he could. ‘Sergeant Hathaway sends his regards, by the way. Delighted to see you back safe, and all that. If you agree he’s looking forward to meeting up again. I’m told to tell you there’s still a bit left in His Majesty’s ale fund, whatever that means.’ Jan could not help smiling at the private joke.
Back at Ringwood, they discussed a night jump over a cup of tea in Hathaway’s tiny office. ‘We can give you a practice run,’ he told Jan. ‘But basically, it’s all pretty much the same. You’ll have a fairly heavy kit bag clipped on at the waist, and once you are out of the aircraft and stable you lower it away on a few feet of strapping. It’s a bit hard to see the ground, but at least you will feel a bit of ‘give’ when the kit touches first – only a couple of seconds, though. Then you are straight into the landing roll. But you have done all that before...’ he finished off, hoping to sound reassuring, thought Jan.
‘You must be quite important,’ Hathaway said almost respectfully. ‘Crab Air have laid on a Whitley for you to have a practice jump tomorrow night, and apparently you will fly in the same aircraft over Germany before it goes on to do a leaflet drop on Cologne.’
‘Crab Air?’ queried Jan.
‘Ah, bit of British military humour,’ came the response. ‘The Royal Air Force came into being on the first of April nineteen eighteen. As if the date wasn’t enough,’ the point was lost on Jan, ‘the colour of their uniform was exactly the same as the ointment the Navy dished out to its sailors, when they got infected with nits and other things in their private parts, in cat houses and such in the more dubious ports of the world. “Crab ointment” they called it. Hence the nickname for our colleagues in the Royal Air Force. Wouldn’t use it in their hearing though,’ he advised with a grin.
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Enough of this. Let’s go and enjoy a couple of jars. We’ll do another jump together tomorrow night, then you can go back to your bosses in London as a fully trained, super-expert night time parachutist!’
Which is far from howI feel, thought Jan, a week after his visit to Ringwood. Again, the sickly smell of the Whitley almost overwhelmed him as they droned away from the airfield in southern England. He had managed to pinpoint the farm on a map accurately enough, but as the pilot explained, they would be relying on dead reckoning, so when he landed – assuming he did so safely – he might well be a few miles off target.
The light changed from red to green. Trying hard not to think about what might go wrong, Jan closed his eyes and dropped into the void. His ’chute opened with a reassuring crack and he found himself busy lowering the heavy kit bag to the length of its strap. Despite patchy cloud there was just enough ambient light to distinguish between woodland and fields. He would land alongside a dense copse, although at this stage he had no idea where he was, or in which direction lay the farmhouse. One problem at a time, thought Jan, as he slowed momentarily, the kit bag hitting the ground before he, too, made a perfect landing. ‘Hathaway,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’ve done you proud.’
There was nothing to be achieved till daylight. Jan dragged his kit into the copse. It was a mild night, no rain, so he checked his side-arm before wrapping himself in silk, covering up with a raincoat and enjoying a few hours of surprisingly sound sleep. It was almost a shock to wake at first light to the dawn chorus. Instinctively his hand moved to the grip of the pistol at his side, but there was no need.
He breakfasted on a ration bar and a mouthful of water from his canteen. At sunrise, Jan suspected that he was a little west and maybe a kilometre or two north of the farm. All in all, his aircrew had done a pretty fine job. He decided to establish a temporary base in this isolated spot and then explore on foot. Jan wrapped the pistol inside his raincoat and placed it alongside the kitbag. If he were stopped, he would rely on his documents rather than risk the discovery of an illegal firearm. An hour later, his leaf- and sod-covered position inside the woodland could not have been seen from more than a couple of yards away.
After half an hour’s walking, he finally came to a lane. It was hauntingly familiar – where he had stepped out of the Opel cabriolet what now seemed a lifetime ago. Keeping well to one side of first the road and then a track to the farm, Jan settled behind a clump of bushes to watch the dwelling. It was maybe a hundred metres away. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Renate at the kitchen window.
Sometimes it was good to be careful. But Jan sensed that right now he had to throw caution to the wind. There was a light on in the kitchen, but he was not in Renate’s line of sight as he walked slowly towards the door. Jan stepped sideways to tap very lightly on the window pane. Seconds later, her hand covering a mouth agape, she was lifting the door latch. ‘Mein lieber Gott, Jan,’ she exclaimed, ‘but what on earth are you doing here?’
She threw her arms round his neck, hugging him and pulling him into the kitchen at the same time. Strangely, Jan felt that he had come home.
Chapter 25
Glancing round quickly to confirm that they were the only occupants, Jan allowed himself to be drawn into the warmth of the kitchen. Renate took his face in both hands. Suddenly she kissed him once, briefly but hard on the lips, then released him and step
ped back, at the same time looking him up and down.
‘You’ve changed,’ she said abruptly. ‘You look bigger... heavier, I mean. You really are more of a man than the person who drove me across Germany!’
‘It’s good to see you again, too,’ he chided gently. ‘But are we safe here?’ he added urgently. ‘Who else is in the farmhouse?’
‘Just the two of us,’ she answered. ‘Old Carl, who comes to help out each day, is on the farm, but this morning he’s hedging and ditching two or three fields away. Sit down,’ she told him, pulling out a chair. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Jan told her that after a night in the open a cup of hot coffee would be a godsend.
He watched as she turned the handle, tipped out the ground coffee and poured on boiling water. Renate was wearing jodhpurs that made no secret of her figure and a plain white blouse. Jan had not forgotten that she was a beautiful young woman. He could hardly take his eyes off her as she poured two cups, set them on the table and sat opposite. He warmed his hands around the hot drink.
‘So, tell me,’ she said simply. ‘Where have you been, and what have you been doing?’ Jan knew he couldn’t dissemble. Not with Renate. She had to know, if only for her own safety.
‘I made it into Belgium then with the help of the British embassy back to England,’ he began. ‘Once there, I spent some time under training,’ he went on, deliberately not going into detail, ‘then returned to Poland for a while to liaise with the partisans. Unfortunately, through no fault of our own, we were compromised. The group moved on and I took my brother and a young woman called Hedda back to the United Kingdom. Johann helped us to steal a fishing boat, but when we were about half-way to Sweden a German flying boat opened fire on us. We managed to shoot it down... your father had given us two machine guns. But I’m very sorry to have to tell you,’ he said as gently as he could, ‘that Johann didn’t make it. We buried him at sea.’
Renate gave a small gasp at the news. Jan could see that she was upset, even though she had not had all that much contact with Johann. He waited whilst she sat quietly for several seconds, looking down at her hands. Eventually she lifted her head. ‘Please go on with your story,’ she said in a small voice.
‘The British intelligence people think that Germany will invade France and the low countries any time soon,’ Jan told her, ‘and as we have virtually no assets in this area I am ordered to find out as much as I can. That’s about it,’ he concluded. Jan had deliberately not asked her for assistance.
‘So you’re a spy,’ she said slowly and deliberately. ‘You know that if they catch you, it will be an execution?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘And for anyone caught helping me,’ he added bluntly.
Renate stood and walked round the table, obviously thinking about what she had just been told, and where she stood in all this, before sitting down again.
‘Jan, if it had not been for you, I would not be living here in comfort and relative safety,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not stupid. This farm is near the Belgian border and all of us round here know that the Wehrmacht is gathering in assembly areas. You haven’t asked for my help as such,’ she went on, ‘but I bet it’s no coincidence that you were deliberately chosen for this mission in precisely this part of Germany.’
They looked at each other for several seconds. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘But much as I wanted to see you again, I can complete this mission without any further contact between us. Just forget that I was ever here. And thank you for the coffee.’ He smiled and set both hands on the table, obviously about to rise and leave.
‘Stay there,’ Renate commanded sharply, quickly placing both hands over one of his. ‘First, you know what the Nazis threatened for me. Second, I have had hardly any news from my parents, but I do know that my father is being forced to work for the regime and my mother is seriously at risk because she is Jewish. And now they have killed Johann. So, if you were to ask me if I supported Herr Hitler, the answer would be absolutely not.’ She sighed. ‘I love my country, but not what is happening to our poor Fatherland. We all know there is a bigger war coming. If we win, God help my people and God help me. So much as I love Germany, I have to hope that we lose...’ she tailed off softly.
Renate tried hard to inject a sense of brightness and optimism into her voice. ‘So, tell me how I can help you, Jan Janicki. If I am caught, then I’m lost. But if the Nazis win, I’m probably lost anyway. So, whatever I can do... I will.’
Jan thought quickly. ‘Who’s living here at the moment?’ he asked.
‘Just me and Tantchen Meta,’ she replied. ‘That’s Frau Holzer, but she asked me to call her Auntie Meta. Her husband, Klaus, was a lovely man, but he was a lot older and not in good health. He died just after Christmas. Meta has a daughter, Gisela, who is a student in Cologne. After all the legal things were settled Meta told me that she had been well provided for – her Klaus was eventually a bank manager before ill health forced him to retire, and he and his family were quite well off.’ She paused for several seconds. ‘They were hoping for a few more quiet years on their small place in the country, but sadly things didn’t work out like that. Meta went to Cologne last week to stay with Gisela. Now that the will and the finances are all in order, she was thinking of buying a small flat so that Gisela wouldn’t have to rent and they could spend more time together.’
‘Any other family?’ asked Jan.
‘Just an older brother, Hans, named after Meta’s first husband who was killed at Verdun,’ she told him. ‘Hans is in the Wehrmacht, on the staff of some senior officer, although he joined a Panzer regiment originally. For all I know, he might not be stationed too far from here, but Meta hasn’t heard from him for a while. I’m not sure how well they get on – he didn’t take it too kindly when his mother remarried. I have only met Hans a couple of times,’ she concluded, ‘but I think it’s fair to say that I don’t much like him. He’s very Nazi – probably a party member.’
‘So, you are here on your own at the moment?’ Jan confirmed.
She nodded. ‘I don’t know when Meta is coming back, but I don’t think she’ll be away for long. The flat buying aside, she just needed a break from here, after the funeral and everything. In the meantime, I’m sort of in charge...’ she tailed off. ‘So, what can I do to help,’ she asked, with what Jan recognised as an attempt at normality.
He thought quickly. ‘Just in case anything goes wrong, for instance I am discovered,’ he told her, ‘there has to be no evidence that you have been involved in any activity not in the best interests of your country. Weapons and equipment I can hide, well away from the farmhouse. But two things would really help. First, I need some form of shelter – I could survive in the woods, but it would not be easy. And second, ideally I need some means of moving round the local countryside other than on foot. The Opel would be too conspicuous and in any case, it would lead straight back to you. But perhaps I could steal a bicycle or even a small motorbike. That would be best.’
Renate thought for a few minutes. ‘Petrol’s not easy to come by, these days,’ she said. ‘The Wehrmacht has priority. A bicycle wouldn’t be a problem. You can still buy one, and if I did it for you, no-one would think anything of it. If asked, I could easily claim that I bought it because the Opel has been laid up and then the bike was stolen – so no problem there. But as I see it, the first difficulty is to find you somewhere to stay. The estate doesn’t run to farm cottages; it’s much smaller than home.’
‘Perhaps one of the outbuildings, then?’ asked Jan. ‘The stable or the barn? I have German papers, so you could reasonably explain that I turned up here looking for work, and because so many young men have joined the Wehrmacht, including Hans, and because Frau Holtzer’s husband died recently, you were only too pleased to take on someone you assumed to be an itinerant farmhand. I can build myself a shelter in one corner of the barn. All I would ask from you is the occasional hot meal and
perhaps the luxury of a bath. You would not be out of pocket,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘I am well provided with money.’
‘That would work,’ she said pensively, a forefinger resting on her lower lip. ‘But it still leaves the problem of how you are going to travel around. A bicycle isn’t going to be very efficient and it wouldn’t be much use if you were challenged. But you could ride.’
‘You have horses?’ he asked.
‘Three,’ she explained. ‘There is our old plough horse. Then Meta’s mare – I exercise her most days, but she is getting on a bit and in any case she couldn’t carry your weight. But Herr Holzer bought a grey gelding about eighteen months ago, before he was taken ill. He and Auntie Meta used to ride out together, but Gunnar’s only been in the stable or the paddock for the past few months, although the tack is all there. I think it would be safe enough if you stayed here tonight – I can make up a bed and I’m sure you could use a hot meal. When we have had coffee, we can look over Gunnar, then perhaps make a plan.’
Later that morning they saddled up Gunnar and Jan took him for a gentle trot and then a canter, first round the paddock and then over a couple of fields. The horse was a little out of condition but well-schooled – he took a couple of jumps easily enough. Jan was careful not to let him anywhere near being blown, but Gunnar seemed to relish his first proper ride out for quite some time. Not a challenging horse, maybe, but a good, serviceable mount – just the animal a responsible dealer would sell to a not very experienced and elderly rider. Jan was confident that after a few hacks to improve Gunnar’s fitness, the horse would take him round the countryside at a respectable clip. He was well pleased as he slid off the saddle and led him back to the stable.