by Phillip Rock
13
IN THE EARLY morning hours of May 10, the sports editor of a Dutch paper awoke to the sound of planes. He was spending a few days on his parents’ farm near Nijverdal, and the sound of the planes made the walls of the farmhouse tremble. He ran out into the dawn to see wave after wave of aircraft flying low from the direction of Germany. There was no telephone at the farm and so he jumped into his car and drove to the village where he phoned his paper in Amsterdam from the police station. He need not have bothered. Even as he was speaking Junkers and Heinkels were over the city, bombing the airport and strafing the roads.
WHAT CAME OVER the wires in the Paris office of INA during the course of the day was ominous and confusing. Trying to separate fact from panicky fiction was a guessing game that Martin, preparing his midnight broadcast to the U.S., was loath to do. He made endless telephone calls to his various sources of information and received nothing but wild speculation, darkest rumor, or euphoric wishful thinking for his pains. By six in the evening he had very little written. Then Albert called and asked him to meet him at the Café Alma in the rue Tronchet as soon as possible.
Albert was pacing the sidewalk in front of the café when Martin pulled up in a taxi. “About time,” Albert said, opening the door for him. “I have a very nervous witness.”
“A witness to what?”
“You’ll find out. Just don’t press him too hard or the bird will fly.”
It was an appropriate allusion. The young man waiting nervously at a corner table on the terrace was a lieutenant in the French air force. He would not give his name, he said. His superiors had warned him to say nothing of what he had seen on patrol that day—not that they had believed him, he added bitterly. The war is a farce. We are going to be sold out by the Fascists!
Martin persuaded him to have a double cognac and quietly calmed him down. The pilot glanced around the nearly deserted terrace, swallowed his brandy neat, and began to talk. He had taken off that morning from his base near Châlons-sur-Marne for a reconnaissance flight over the German lines from Saarburg to the Rhine. He flew at fifteen thousand feet, but in the early light of morning he saw fleets of German fighter planes, an umbrella of them, about ten thousand feet above him. He dove quickly for the deck as his observer spotted Messerschmitts beginning to peel off. He flew on at treetop level, his twin-engine Breguet going flat out, nearly three hundred miles an hour. It was then that they saw the troop movements. Mile after mile of narrow roads clogged with German tanks and trucks, all heading into Luxembourg.
“And did you radio back what you had seen?”
But instantly! He had kept up a running comment for nearly three hours as they flew back and forth, inches above the trees, flying under high-tension wires and zooming up and over small hills. The columns of tanks, trucks, infantry, and horse-drawn transport stretched back farther than the Rhine … a hundred miles at least! Sluggish columns, jamming the few roads. On the way back to France they flew over the southern tip of Belgium and the Germans were there, heading for the Ardennes.
“Are you certain of that?” Martin asked.
The pilot nodded and asked for another cognac. Of course he was certain, and if his observer were here he would be just as certain. The tank columns were entering the forest. They flew low over them and were fired on for their pains.
“And when you landed in France?”
But nothing! He was in the reconnaissance section of Groupe d’Assaut I/52 and none of the bombers were even sent up until that afternoon, and then only to shift them to Montdidier for operations against northern Belgium some time tomorrow. A farce! A scandal! All those fat targets … all those juicy Boche columns jammed nose to arse on narrow roads. It was all too much for him. He was quite distraught.
“Well?” Albert asked after the pilot had gone. “What do you make of it?”
Martin swirled a dollop of cognac in his glass. “A clear light. It was what I expected they would do. The strategy according to Fenton Wood-Lacy. They’ll push through the Ardennes and by-pass the Maginot line between Longwy and Sedan.”
Albert reflectively chewed his bottom lip. “They’d have to cross the Meuse to do that.”
“Hitler won’t lose sleep over it.” He swallowed his drink and shoved the glass across the table. “They know what they’re doing. A high-risk plan, Albert … dependent on the Allies doing nothing for a few days—or doing it badly. They lobbed three pitches straight down the middle today and we just sat back and looked at them. One out … top of the first.”
Albert shook his head. “You and your baseball analogies. I really must see a game one of these days to know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”
Scott Kingsford was pleased, talking over the feedback from New York. “Good broadcast, Marty. No interference to speak of. It looks like Winston took over at just the right time. Poor sap. One day in office and now this!”
The French military censor, a gaunt staff colonel, had let the broadcast proceed without interference. It was, he told Martin and Albert, the orders of General Georges that had kept the French bombers on the ground … to avoid hitting civilian targets in Luxembourg. General Gamelin would soon rectify that error in judgment.
“Christ,” Albert said as he left the radio station with Martin. “There’s more animosity between the French generals than there is toward the enemy.”
“A lot of old feuds and clashes in philosophy. What they need is another Foch to pull them all together, but there’s no such man on the horizon.”
They walked toward the Hotel Crillon where Martin was staying. Paris that early May morning had never looked lovelier. A great many people wandered the streets or strolled through the gardens of the Tuileries as though seeking to impress this tranquil beauty on their memories forever.
The RAF liaison officer to the French High Command was walking his fox terrier in front of the Hotel Meurice. The gray-haired wing commander fell into step beside them. “Monitored your broadcast, Rilke. Quite accurate, as far as it went. Can’t tell you this on the record, or you either, Thaxton … not that you could get it by the censors if I did. The RAF put up bombers yesterday afternoon. Sent over thirty Battles to hit the roads and bridges. Only nineteen came back, and those so shot up I doubt if any of them will fly again. Simply appalling losses and not a bloody thing to show for it. A complete washout.”
“How do you see it, Peterson?” Martin asked.
The wing commander paused and looked down at his dog which was straining against the leash, eager to cross the road and romp in the gardens. “That we are in the wrong place with all the wrong things. I hate to play Cassandra, but I have the most awful feelings of doom.”
They walked on in silence after the officer and his dog had left them. Moonlight flooded the Place de la Concorde.
“Care for a nightcap, Albert?”
“No, thanks. I want to get packed. See if I can catch some transport to the Ardennes.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a very healthy place to be.”
“I think you’re right. But an old war correspondent once told me that to write about war one must go where the war is.”
Martin smiled ruefully. “I was afraid those words might come back to haunt me. Take care of yourself … and never be too proud to duck.”
DEREK RAMSAY MOVED his canvas deck chair out of the shadow of the dispersal hut and into the sun. He was in his shirtsleeves, his jacket with the new rings on the sleeves hung on the chair behind him. Flying Officer Ramsay—and a section leader now that Jolly Rodgers had been declared too old to fly fighters. The three Hurricanes of Green Section were dispersed across the flat, dry grass, engines warmed and ready to go. He eyed them with a sense of frustration. It was the 18th of May and all hell was taking place across the Channel. The squadron that had shared Kentish Hill with them had been sent to France the previous week and grim reports had drifted back. Eighteen aircraft had flown over and now only five were left—and nine pilots dead or prisoners of
war. Half of Fighter Command was across the pond and here sat 624 Squadron on its duff with sixteen new Hurricanes. Not even an intruder scramble in the last few days. Jerry keeping his planes tight to the vest at the moment, like a winning poker hand.
They stood down at dusk, the ground crew pushing the planes into the antiblast revetments. Jolly Rodgers, raised in rank and made station commander as compensation for being grounded, came up to him in the mess.
“Met someone this afternoon who knows you, Ramsay.”
“Who?”
“Stand me a whisky and I might say.”
“All right, you blackmailing bastard.”
“Now, now, lad … be respectful of age and rank. Had visitors from the back-room boys. Chaps from Intelligence—perish the word. Bit of nonsense about installing some sort of recording device in the control center to capture the Huns’ conversation over their R.T.s. Pawky lot, I must say. Pale-faced sods. One of them female, a corking WAAF, all blond hair and limpid blue eyes. Asked about you.”
“Damn! I missed her.”
“Still here, old boy. Over in ops.”
He was out of the mess and running toward the group operations building, a squat concrete structure surrounded by a wall of sandbags. Valerie was there, standing with three officers he had never seen before. Squadron Leader Powell was talking to them, directing most of his remarks to her in his most charming London-barrister style.
“Oh, hello, Ramsay,” he said. “I understand you know the lovely sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Old school chums.” He grinned like a fool at her and she smiled back.
“Ramsay is the first man in our bunch to get a confirmed kill. Had a bit of luck off Margate last month. Splashed a Heinkel.”
“Oh, I say,” one of the Intelligence officers remarked in a high, girlish voice. “Jolly good for you.”
The Intelligence officers had to return to Bushey Heath and Derek walked with Valerie to the car.
“You didn’t tell me you’d shot down a plane.”
“I have better things to talk about on the phone. When are we going to get together again?”
“I have Sunday off.”
“Which Sunday?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
He stopped walking and impulsively took her hand. “But that’s wonderful. So do I. Thank God my section had today’s duty. What would you like to do?”
“Something simple and restful. A day in the country.”
The officers were at the car, one of them looking back. “Whenever you’re ready, Sergeant.”
“I’ll think of some place,” he said as she hurried away.
VALERIE WAS ONE OF six WAAFs billeted in a lovely old house near the edge of the common. It was owned by an elderly widow who took a motherly view of “her girls” and worried more about the possibility of their being seduced by swinish soldiers than she did about the war with Hitler. She was standing by the drawing-room windows and gave Derek a long, hard look as he came up the drive on his motorbike. He had spoken to her many times over the telephone when calling Valerie—she always answered—and he gave her a cheery wave. She did not wave back. Not so three girls leaning out of an upper window, wearing bathrobes, one of them with her hair in curlers.
“Show our Val a good time!”
He grinned up at them. “Do my best, girls.”
Valerie came out of the house wearing a plaid skirt and a pale green sweater, her lovely hair covered with a silk bandanna. She carried a small wicker basket.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Sandwiches, cheese, apples from the orchard, ginger beer, and a bottle of Guinness. Gift from Mrs. Lamb.”
He waved again to the elderly woman and this time she waved back—a barely perceptible raising of the hand.
“Odd sort of woman.”
“Rigid and old fashioned … with a warm heart.” She got gingerly into the sidecar. “I trust you’ll keep to a modest speed. I’m not used to this.”
“Hey,” he said, kicking at the starter. “That doesn’t sound like the Valerie I remember. You would have done handstands in that bucket at seventy miles an hour!”
“If you take a close look, Derek, you’ll see that I’ve grown up a bit. I no longer fall out of trees.”
“That’s good. I thought we might climb one.”
“Where are we going, by the way?”
He kicked the engine into stuttering life. “Back to school.”
A large moving van pulled out of the drive of Burgate House as they approached. Another one, nearly filled, was parked in front of the school, the ramp down and two burly men carrying in desks and chairs. Marian and three boys, ranging in age from ten to fifteen, stood beside her watching the proceedings. They all hurried up to the motorbike as it came to a stop.
“Valerie!” Marian cried, holding out her arms. “Little Valerie! I couldn’t believe it when Derek phoned and said he was bringing you down.” She hugged her tightly as Valerie climbed out of the sidecar. “But not little Val any longer!”
“I’ve grown a bit, Marian. But you … you remain the same. Lovely as I remember you.”
“Oh, dear, you are kind. I look a mess.”
“But what’s going on? Not closing the school, I hope.”
“Moving it, dear. This is the final load. The War Office is taking it over for the duration for some secret reason of its own. We’re moving into a sprawling old house now in Dorset. Lulworth Manor. A view of the sea. Quite pleasant.”
The smallest of the boys stood awkwardly on one foot and stared shyly at Derek.
“Hello, Bertie,” Derek said. “Cat got your tongue?”
“No, sir,” Bertie said. “May I touch your wings?”
“How polite you are! You used to just reach out and grab.”
“Oh, he’s changed,” his cousin said. “Haven’t you, Bertie?”
“One of our major success stories,” Marian laughed. “And you’re another, Derek.”
Marian got into her car with the boys after the second van had rumbled off down the drive. “Enjoy yourselves. The place is yours for the day. Just leave the front door keys under the mat for the army. And do please drop me a line from time to time, Val. Lulworth Manor … Lulworth, Dorset.”
“I will.”
They stood together and watched the car drive away, then Derek removed the wicker basket and a canvas bag from the bike.
“Let me get out of uniform and into some old clothes. Where shall we picnic. The orchard or Leith Wood?”
“Wood … a good, long walk.”
She enjoyed her job, she said as they walked across the fields toward the high meadows and the woods. The only thing that she did not like about it was where she did it—deep underground in a warren of concrete rooms. “I burrow like a mole and you soar like an eagle.”
“There are times when I’d gladly exchange places.”
“What’s it really like, Derek?”
“Oh, as the saying goes … days of pure boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror.”
“When did you shoot down that bomber?”
“The day I met you in the pub.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m not sure. Not very proud of it, I expect. Killing five or six chaps. Nazis, out to kill me … I know all that. Still …”
“You don’t have to explain.” She held on to his hand the rest of the way.
“Remember this glade?” he asked as they sat on the grass and opened the basket.
She looked around, nodding. “Marian’s party for the school … the spot where I fell out of the tree.”
“Care to try again?”
“No, thank you very much.” She lay back in the grass and stared at the trees soaring toward the blue sky. “So peaceful here. Impossible to think there’s a war going on.”
“Hear anything of your husband?”
“Nothing. Half the French army is in blind retreat I understand. Total collapse. What one would expec
t from an army that could give Raymond a captaincy. Poor France.”
They walked back to the school in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun—sunburnt, bramble scratched, and content. The house was cool and dim. Quite a few things had been left behind and they found a kettle, cups, a slightly cracked teapot, and a packet of tea in the kitchen. The gas and electricity were still on and Valerie made tea.
“We must explore,” Valerie said. “I do hope they didn’t take Lenin’s carpet.”
“Of course they must have taken it. What would the soviet do without it?”
“The soviet!” She hugged her teacup. “God, does that send me back. Their trusted, ever-faithful messenger. I’d love to see that room again before we go.”
“Come on, then. Finish your tea.”
It was at the top of the house. Unchanged. The nursery wallpaper still on the walls. Lenin’s carpet was gone, but a chair and an old horsehair couch with no back remained.
“So many memories,” she said wistfully, touching the wallpaper. “I wonder where they are now? Jameson and Agnes Heath-Jones. And remember Gowers?”
“He’s a solicitor. I ran into him one day in London and we had a drink.” The fading sun streaming through the windows touched her hair, golden yellow, luminous as a corona. “You’re a beautiful woman, Valerie.”
She looked at him with her sad little smile. “Odd hearing you call me that. Odder still to think of being a woman at all in this place. Just the Pest and Fat Chap waiting for the soviet to come up the stairs from tea.”
He touched the softness of her cheek, fingers lingering, trailing the delicate jaw. “I can’t think of you that way.”
“Nor I you … now.”
Her body against him, hands clenching his back. Her lips were parted, pressing against his own with an eager intensity. He felt drunk, light-headed and reeling as he moved with her to the couch.
Blue and pink. The nursery at the top of the stairs. Rabbits and squirrels in stately dance across the papered walls. Children at their games. How exquisite she was with the sun touching her body. Ivory and spun gold. The firm, coral-tipped breasts. The sun set in burnt orange across the windows and she moved languidly on top of him, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He stroked the orange velvet of her back and looked at the sunglowed sky that was so beautiful and so deadly and he thought—God—God … please hold this moment forever … never let it pass.