by Alan Evans
Suzanne said, “I see you have him with you.”
Albert shrugged and spread his gnarled, brown hands. “He is a city boy and he finds the country too quiet. He says it drives him mad and he likes to come into town. His mother, my sister, was the same. She ran away to Paris and the bright lights when she was less than your age, and she died there.”
Suzanne knew Albert had a soft spot for Louis as he had been fond of his sister. Suzanne thought her a slut who had sponged off Albert. But she could understand a “city boy” being bored. Albert’s café was a tiny bar, dark and spartan, in a hamlet of a few houses. Louis had turned up there a month or so ago, down at heel and broke. He had told Albert, “I am in trouble. The Germans in Paris are looking for me. I killed one of them and had to run for it.”
Albert had believed him and had gone to Suzanne. She had cross-questioned Louis and he seemed genuine. Not satisfied with that she checked his story and found it true: the S.S. and the Gendarmerie in Paris had put out calls for Louis’ arrest. Albert had given him shelter and Suzanne provided fresh identity papers, including the pass, initiated by the Germans, granting permission to live or move in the coastal zone.
Louis had accepted the papers gratefully and with a wink: “You are Resistance, yes?”
Suzanne truthfully denied that; she was not Resistance. She told Louis, “I know someone who can obtain these things. We do not speak of it.” She trusted Albert and Paul but no one else.
Louis said, “If ever I can do anything to pay you back, just call on me.”
And Suzanne had thought: Well, you never know when you may need him. So, later, she gave Albert a map of the area and suggested Louis found his way around and learned the lie of the land. The old man reported that Louis had seized on the chance to go roaming. Suzanne had seen him in St. Jean on several occasions.
Maybe she could trust him... But “maybe” was not good enough. She hesitated, Albert’s insistence making her uncertain. Suppose she was injured, or picked up by the Germans for some reason? Then the landing would fail. Suzanne said, “All right. I’ll take you with me.” She told Albert where they were going and said, “You’ll need a bicycle, of course.”
Albert nodded, “I know where I can borrow one.”
“Then meet me on the road by the churchyard in an hour. No later; we have a long way to go before dark.”
“That is understood.” His face was serious.
Suzanne wondered if that was because of the possible danger, or at the thought of the hours of pedalling ahead. She slid out of the booth and left the café. Louis did not look at her as she passed but she saw he had a drink in front of him, and was watching the girl behind the bar with greedy eyes.
But Louis had seen her go. A few minutes later Albert pushed himself up from his seat and walked stiffly to the door. He paused outside and Louis caught up with him there.
Albert said, “I have a job to do tonight.”
Louis asked, “With the girl?”
Albert did not answer that. “You know where to meet the cart.”
Louis scowled, “Sure. But three hours sitting behind that horse’s arse in the pouring rain! I wish I could go back on the barge.” They had come downriver to the town in a barge that had spent the night tied up near Albert’s café. The barges ran down into St. Jean and discharged their cargoes every day.
“The one we came down on started upriver again two hours ago. It’ll be past my place now. You know that.” Albert turned impatiently and started away. Louis spat in the road and followed him. Albert went on, “You go home. I should be back sometime tomorrow.”
Louis asked, “Where are we going now?”
“I must borrow a bicycle.”
“Going far?”
“Yes.” Albert came to the head of the steps leading down to the main street and started down them. Almost immediately he tripped and fell, threw out his hands to try to save himself but tumbled and rolled to the street below. Louis ran down the steps and helped him to his feet. The old man was shaking and cradling his right arm with his left.
Louis half-carried him to the shelter of a doorway then stepped back to eye him and say flatly, “You’re in no condition to go cycling for miles. I’ll tell Suzanne you can’t do it. Where will I find her?”
Albert shook his head, pain and worry pinching his face, “No. She has to have someone with her, and the time…”
Louis patted his shoulder, “All right. She has to have someone with her and you can’t go, so I will. What kind of job is this, anyway? She said you weren’t Resistance.”
Albert shook his head, “We are not.”
Louis shrugged, “What the hell. It doesn’t matter what you are. We’re all against the Boche and I wouldn’t like anything to happen to that young girl.”
Pain throbbed in Albert’s arm. He saw the sense in Louis’ words and said, “She has to meet a man.”
“A friend?”
“Yes.”
“But you think it might be dangerous?”
Albert muttered, “It could be very dangerous for her to go alone.”
Louis nodded, “And you want me to go along as muscle. O.K. That’s my kind of work and I’ll be able to earn my keep. Where are we going?”
“She’ll tell you later.”
Louis stared at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Before I start a job like this I want to know where I’m going, every step of the way, so I don’t make a wrong turning or a wrong move. In a strange place, once you’re lost or in doubt, you’re dead.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out and unfolded a worn map. “You told me I had to get to know the country around here, remember? Well, I’ve tried. With a bicycle and this.” He tapped the map. “Now you show me. I’m ready to put my life on the line but not wearing a blindfold.”
Albert wondered how he himself would react if asked to go to a rendezvous at night, breaking the curfew and risking being shot, ignorant of his destination and whether the enemy were there. He admitted that Louis’ demand was no more than reasonable and put his finger on the map: “You go there.”
Louis said again, “Are you kidding? The bridge? And she’s meeting him there? That’s guarded day and night by a pair of German troops. I’ve seen them.”
“You’re going to the bridge first because she wants to see it again.” Albert’s broken-nailed finger moved across the map then stopped. “And she’ll meet him here, after dark.”
Louis peered at the map a moment, and muttered, “I think I know that place as well. There’s an old house opposite the corner of that wood. It’s a ruin, been falling down for years by the look of it. You could break a leg or your neck in there at night.”
Albert nodded and winced, “You’ve got the right place. Don’t worry about the house; he’ll be waiting in the corner of the wood nearby.”
Louis folded the map and put it away then slid his arm around Albert’s shoulders. “Come on, old man, show me where I find this bike.”
*
Suzanne went back to the room she rented, changed into low-heeled shoes, picked up a torch and took the Mauser pistol from its hiding place under the floor. She checked the load and that the safety catch was on, then tucked it away in the special pocket inside her trenchcoat. She cast one final glance around the room, ticking through a mental check-list to ensure nothing was left which, if found, might give her away. Satisfied, she closed the door behind her.
She cycled to the churchyard on the road south of the town and waited there. A few minutes before the appointed time she saw a solitary cyclist riding out towards her. Louis stopped and dismounted. He was serious and businesslike as he apologised for Albert: “He fell down those steps coming from the café to the main road, and he’s not a young man. He was worried about you so I said I’d come along. It’s the least I can do. I owe you a lot.”
Suzanne asked worriedly, “Where is Albert now?”
“I got his wrist dressed — I think it’s only sprained — wrapped a blanket around him and
gave him some cognac then put him up on the cart. He’ll be home before it’s dark. Don’t worry. I’m sure he was all right.”
Suzanne was relieved at that. Louis waited and she asked, “He told you about this?”
Louis nodded, “He said it might be dangerous. So I could be useful.” He opened his jacket and lifted the sweater beneath so Suzanne could see the Luger pistol thrust in his belt. “That did the business in Paris.”
He was talking of the murder of a German soldier. Suzanne knew all the details. She said, “No shooting unless we are fired on or in danger of being taken. Understood?”
“Of course.” Louis pulled down his sweater and buttoned the jacket. He swung his leg over the saddle of the bicycle and followed Suzanne. They rode south on side-roads, not talking, saving their breath for the cycling. And they were busy with their thoughts.
*
Paul had locked himself in his small rented room at the top of the house in the new town. The other rooms were empty during the day, their occupants out at work. He packed all his belongings into one of the two big suitcases then opened the other that held the wireless. He leaned out of the window and strung the aerial along the overhanging guttering, then coded the message, short and to the point: “Tonight. Guide present.” He bent over the key and tapped out his call-sign.
He was afraid now, remembering the warning of radio detector vans. He wondered how long they took to get a cross-bearing on an illicit radio, to send the troopers running up the stairs and smashing down the door. He wondered how long he would have to send before his call-sign was heard and acknowledged — if it was heard? And he had to keep trying. Suzanne had emphasised that this operation was vitally important. But he did not know what was involved, only where she was going to meet Michel tonight, and that there was to be a landing.
He heard the faint crackle of morse in his headphones: they had heard him in London. He sent the signal and only had to repeat it once for it to be passed in full. He took a deep breath of relief and packed up the wireless.
He carried the two suitcases down the stairs and along the street. There were few taxis still running at this time of petrol shortage but one stood waiting for business. The cases dragged at his arms but he would have declined help because he did not want anyone to wonder at the weight of the case that held the wireless. Help was not offered. The concierge was a woman in her seventies and the driver of the taxi did not move from his seat. He watched out of slitted eyes as Paul manhandled the cases into the taxi, climbed in after them and panted the address of his destination. The driver grunted around the smouldering stub of a cigarette dangling from his lips, then swung the taxi away from the kerb.
Paul sank back into the sagging, cracked leather cushions of the rear seat. For a moment he relaxed, then stirred uneasily. Here in the car he could smell the rum and he knew it was borne on the breath of the driver. The taxi was travelling at no great speed but these side-streets were narrow and it swayed wildly as it rounded each bend. Paul clung on, hesitating, then leaned forward to protest, “Slow down! You’ll kill somebody!”
The driver’s head turned and he peeled the cigarette from his lip. “Shut your row. I’ve been driving for twenty years.” He faced forward again, hauled on the wheel to turn into the main street and Paul lurched sideways into the door as the taxi heeled over. He glimpsed through the opposite window another car, a black Citroën, charging down on him. There was a squeal of brakes then the shock of impact as the Citroën rammed into the side of the taxi.
Paul still leaned against the off-side door and now this burst open, swung wide. He was somersaulted out of it into the road and a split-second later his cases followed. He stopped rolling and lay face down, gasping as he caught his breath and partially stunned, his vision uncertain so that the street tilted, rose and fell as his gaze wavered.
The black Citroën had in fact been the leader of three travelling in a speeding convoy. Its front had telescoped against the side of the taxi and it was packed with S.S. troopers who now climbed dazedly out of the wreckage. The driver lay still, collapsed over the wheel.
The second Citroën had swerved to avoid the first and halted alongside it. Sturmbannführer Schleger, chief of the S.S. in St. Jean, and Ostmann, his second-in-command, swung quickly out of the car. Like the others, they wore the grey-green service dress and jackboots of the S.S., Schleger with the four silver stars of his rank on his left collar-patch. His narrow face tight with rage, he shouted at the men from the wrecked Citroën, “Find a telephone and call H.Q. for another car!”
But Ostmann, big and burly, with a wide, red, humorous face, walked around to the other side of the taxi. He went to toss the suitcases aside, frowned at the weight of one and yanked it open.
“See what we have here!” he called and stood there, fists on his hips.
Schleger strode around the taxi to join him and stared down at the suitcase. He looked from the wireless packed in the case to Ostmann and shrugged.
“The detector vans reported a fix just before we left. We’d have traced him anyway.” They both turned on Paul where he lay in the rain.
A crowd had gathered and some of them were stooped around him, trying to see the extent of his injuries. A woman was on her knees beside him, trying gently to turn him onto his side. Ostmann thrust his way through the crowd, scattering it. He lifted the woman one-handed and shoved her after the others then jammed his boot under Paul and kicked him over onto his back. That wrenched a cry of pain out of the bruised and dazed wireless operator. He stared up wide-eyed and swallowing with fear. Ostmann told Schleger, “He’s alive. He’ll talk.”
Schleger beckoned the Scharführer, the sergeant in command of the first car, and pointed at Paul: “Put that —” his finger shifted to indicate the wrecked car, “— in there. Then telephone for two cars. One is to take him back. He goes in the cellar and we want to know who he is, his address, contacts. Understood?”
“Ja, Herr Sturmbannführer’
“Then you and your men follow us in the other car. Your driver knew where we’re going. Do you?” But before the man could answer, Schleger snapped impatiently at Ostmann, “Check his map and make sure he knows the way. And if he’s late, then Christ help him!”
He strode back to his Citroën, standing with its engine ticking over softly. Ostmann grabbed the map from the Scharführer and ordered, “Show me!” The man peered, then jabbed a finger at the map. Ostmann threw it back at him: “Right!”
Schleger shouted from the Citroën, “Come on!” Ostmann ran to it, ducked inside and the black car roared away as he reached out to pull the door shut behind him.
Chapter Three - “At all costs!”
The four motor torpedo boats sailed in the evening of that Friday and David Brent commanded in the leader. The last long year, of monotonous patrolling interspersed with flashes of sudden action, had changed him. He was leaner, the face and eyes harder.
Memories still returned to haunt him. Of the girl, smiling in the sunlight or a breathless voice in the dark. Or pale-faced and eyes shadowed with grief, sending him away. And of the motor torpedo boats closing the shore in the night, the flare bursting and hanging high and the cold, hard light. Then the enemy guns opening up and hell taking over.
That was in the past and these were different boats. The girl was lost forever and that action of a year and more ago was just a fragment of history now. The nightmare pictures ran through his mind but he looked out on, and was aware of, reality as he stood on the narrow bridge of this M.T.B. with the other three cruising astern of him in the arrowhead formation. There were six in the flotilla but two were in dockyard hands. That was not unusual.
The boats were clear of Folkestone, on the open sea in the last light of the day and working up to thirty knots, bound for the French coast again. The girl’s face came into his mind at odd times, at sea or in a crowded street, but he usually only remembered the action when there was talk of such. This time the picture was called up by sight of the sold
ier, Captain Chris Tallon, standing at the back of the bridge. Brent could tell by Tallon’s bleak stare that he also remembered the horror of their last meeting. And now the spectre of this new mission hung between them. They were only warned of it yesterday, had met this afternoon and been ordered to sea scarcely an hour ago after a wireless message had been received from France.
The four M.T.B.s carried, shared out among them, a platoon of commandos, thirty-two men, led by Chris Tallon. Seven of them were sappers of the Royal Engineers, trained in demolition. His orders were to land in Normandy, destroy a railway bridge a kilometre inland, stop a train there and rescue a man held prisoner aboard it. David Brent’s orders were to put the commandos ashore where they would be met by a waiting guide. When they completed their operation he would take them off, together with the prisoner. The priorities of Brent and Tallon had been spelled out to them by an admiral with brutal clarity: “The man to be taken from that train is more valuable than the agents working over there, the commandos — or your flotilla. So swim back with him if you have to — but bring him!”
David Brent would carry out his orders, but he thought now that it was one thing to determine priorities in the distant seclusion of a headquarters, another to be faced with the choice in action. He prayed he would not have to make that choice. He glanced at Chris Tallon. They had talked little, had no pleasant, shared memories but Tallon had said, “This operation came up at short notice. I suppose they couldn’t be choosy and we were handy.”
Brent replied, “Looks like it.”
“So we’re the second team.” Tallon had shrugged and smiled, “Still, should be interesting.”
But both knew they were thinking of that night in the estuary under the guns. Each was a reminder to the other.
Brent looked out at the boats slicing through a sea the colour of lead. Of their seventy-foot length nearly half the space below decks was taken up by the three huge Packard 12-cylinder engines that could push them up to forty knots. At that speed they were exhilarating, like flying over the sea. David thought they were sleek and lovely. The crews they carried were men he knew, though not as well as he would have wished; he was a comparative stranger, new to this command and this was the first time he had led these boats in action. What if he was called on to sacrifice one or all of them?