______
Late the next morning, Jacques and Natalie were joined by Emily, Ian, and Mike for one of Claridge’s renowned room-service breakfasts. Just as they were settling down to eat, the service china was rattled by air raid sirens and the sound of one of Germany’s buzz bombs.
Mike and Jacques exchanged nervous glances. The three Londoners seemed content to continue the conversation and enjoy their breakfast undisturbed.
When the bomb hit, it must have been within a block of the hotel. The noise of the explosion was deafening, and the building shook. Almost immediately, they could hear the sound of another approaching bomb and people outside their room running down the hallway.
Near panic, Mike asked, “Where are they all going?”
“Oh, they’re just heading for the underground right across the street,” Emily said.
“I don’t care how accustomed you all are to this sort of thing,” Mike said, “it’s scaring the hell out of me! Can we join the others?”
The Londoners remained calm but indulged their guests by making their way into the crowded tube station. Families and groups of friends sat huddled next to each other, trying hard not to show their anxiety about what was happening above. They were safe, but their homes, offices, and neighborhoods were at risk. All they could do was wait until the all-clear signals sounded so they could go street-side and inspect the damage.
A young man sitting on the platform quietly began playing his guitar. Almost out of instinct, Natalie and Emily joined him and began to sing upbeat songs, the kind people liked to hear during wartime. Those who had been huddled together, talking quietly among themselves or lost in thought, began to listen. Gradually, they sat up, more erect and hopeful. They even started to request their favorite songs. It was not long before everyone was singing and smiling, and for a short time, the war overhead seemed to have been forgotten.
Jacques realized that Natalie’s singing for the scared, war-weary Britons wasn’t about work—she clearly loved doing it. This was her true theater.
It was mid-afternoon before the all-clear siren sounded.
“Hungry?” Ian asked, brushing himself off.
“Famished,” Emily said, taking his arm and heading for the exit.
“A little change of scenery would be nice,” Natalie added.
Mike and Jacques followed behind, shaking their heads in wonderment. “I guess that stiff-upper-lip image isn’t an exaggeration,” Mike said.
“Oh, you Yanks did fine. Experiencing a bombing for the first time can be terrifying.” Natalie laughed.
“Well, I don’t know about a stiff upper lip, but I could sure do with a stiff drink,” Mike said.
The five friends made their way to the French Club, a meeting place for the free Poles, the free French, the French Resistance, and loyal neighborhood patrons. The French Club was known for its colorful clientele, its generous drinks, its onion soup, and Maggie, its legendary proprietress.
When Maggie saw Ian and Emily, two of her regulars, she let out a “whoop!” which was part of her legend. The six-foot-tall, fifty-year-old peroxide blonde gave Ian a big bear hug, almost smothering him with her enormous breasts. Then she planted a wet kiss right on his mouth.
“Where have you been? I thought one of the air raids had finally done you in!” she said, releasing him. Then she turned to Emily, extending her hand and politely saying, “Good afternoon, Miss Emily, it’s nice to see you again.”
Mike smiled to himself. Maggie and the other patrons spotted Natalie as soon as she turned from hanging up her coat. “Welcome to the French Club, Miss Cummins. It is always such a pleasure to have you here,” Maggie said cordially.
All eyes were riveted on the popular star when Maggie let out her second “whoop!” louder and longer than the first. The proprietress was staring at Jacques, halted in her tracks.
She and Jacques stood still, looking at each other. They hadn’t seen each other for eight years. In his soccer-playing days, Jacques had spent a lot of time at the French Club. After their matches, win or lose, he and his teammates would always go to Maggie’s place. Still dressed in their soccer uniforms, they were always looking to celebrate—victory or defeat, it didn’t seem to make much difference.
As the team’s captain and most energetic member, Jacques had usually been the one in the center of trouble. Maggie would call him her “naughty little boy” and make him stand on a chair and apologize to her other patrons for his “discourteous” behavior. They loved each other as only longtime friends could.
“Jacques Roth, you have broken poor old Maggie’s heart! Where the hell have you been for the last eight years?” she asked as she grabbed him in her best bear hug, kissed him on both cheeks, and gave him a big wet one right on the mouth. Pushing him away from her, she held him at arm’s length and looked him right in the eye. “Jacques, have you been faithful to your dear old Maggie?”
“Mais toujours, Maggie!” he answered in his most seductive voice. Mike thought it was possible, for just an instant, that Maggie blushed.
Maggie turned away, eyeing the other member of their group. “Who else have we got here?”
“Maggie,” Ian said, “I want you to meet an old friend of ours, Mike Stone. You had better be nice to him. His father owns a great big bank in New York.”
“Come ’ere, then,” she said, walking right over to Mike and giving him her customary kiss, just to make sure that he didn’t feel left out.
Some of the regulars already knew Ian and Emily; others wanted to meet Natalie; and they all wanted to meet France’s legendary center forward. Maggie had no choice—she closed the front door and ordered free beers all around. Next, she placed a large cauldron of her famous onion soup on a long table, along with bowls, spoons, and napkins so people could help themselves. It was going to be a hell of a party.
This time, the music would be French. One of the patrons started to play “La Marseillaise” on an old upright piano, long forgotten and stuck away in the rear of the restaurant. For the third time in twenty-four hours, Natalie found herself singing for her friends. To Jacques’ amazement, she knew his country’s songs and could sing them in French.
Who is this incredible woman? One minute she is the celebrated star of the London musical stage, the next she is the warm, witty girl who enjoys entertaining her friends and fellow patriots, and then the next instant she is the amazingly noncomplex tomboy from Sussex—with healthy appetites.
Finally, as the sun was beginning to set and everyone had talked themselves out, an exhausted Natalie excused herself, grabbed Jacques’ hand, and said, “Prince, take me to your castle!”
______
Still a farm girl at heart, Natalie had risen early Sunday morning and had begun preparing the orange juice and coffee while the others were still sleeping.
Alone with her early morning chores, she began to think about the two days she had spent with Jacques. Today may be the last that he and I will spend together for what could be a very long time. I feel that we’ve shared something special, intimate. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend the rest of the day taking a drive down to Surrey? I would like to show him the real me.
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a loud, persistent knocking. Half asleep, Jacques staggered out of his bedroom to the door of their suite and opened it. He was greeted by a large, uniformed man with bright orange hair.
“RAF Sergeant O’Halloran, at your service,” he stated, clicking his heels together and giving his snappiest salute. “I’ve been instructed to fetch a Mr. Stone and a Mr. Roth to Brookings Field as quickly as possible, sir. It seems that your scheduled flight on the Demaureux Bank plane has been canceled due to mechanical difficulties. We’ve been instructed to fly you across occupied France to Geneva in two of our fastest fighter planes, flown by two of our most experienced pilots. Believe me when I say you are in for one hell of a ride.”
Surprised, Jacques stood there for a few seconds with his mouth agape before he wen
t to wake the others. He and Mike showered, dressed, and quickly packed. Just as Jacques was looking around the room for anything that he might have forgotten, Natalie entered, carrying a cup of coffee.
“Here, you might need this,” she said. “This is not the way I would have preferred to say good-bye, but it’s been a lovely two days.”
“Natalie,” he said, taking her by the hands, “I’d like to think that we are not saying good-bye. I hope we are saying, ‘à bientôt, mon ami.’”
Chapter 6
LEAVING LONDON
Arriving at Brookings Field, Jacques and Mike noticed the two British Spitfires warming up on the tarmac. It was impossible to miss them.
One glance told Jacques that these were frontline planes: the repairs to their outside skin showed where bullets or flak must have penetrated. Several black swastikas were painted below the pilot canopy of both planes. Grease and oil stains were everywhere. Painted on the nose of each plane was an image of a scantily clad woman: one was holding a Union Jack, the other was wearing the hat of Uncle Sam.
Sergeant O’Halloran escorted Jacques and Mike into a small locker room inside the hangar. There, he helped them change into flight gear, fitted them with parachutes, and explained how to pull the rip cord on each chute.
Leading them out to the planes, he introduced them to their pilots, helped them get belted into the rear seats, and stuffed their luggage under their feet, the only available space. He then showed them how to eject, should it become necessary.
This all happened in what seemed like a split second, before the two civilians could fully absorb what was happening to them. O’Halloran backed away, and the two planes taxied into position, receiving immediate permission for takeoff. Totally unprepared for the noise, the acceleration, and the sharp rate of ascent, Jacques hardly had time to catch his breath before realizing that they were well out over the English Channel, heading directly toward occupied France.
Just as he was becoming accustomed to the secure feeling of level flight, both planes began to dive toward the surface of the channel. At just the moment when it seemed they were going to hit water, the planes pulled up and leveled off.
They were now crossing France at maximum speed and minimum altitude, in a constantly darting motion. Jacques didn’t know what to fear most—the sound of ground fire passing so close to the plane or the violent twisting of the plane itself. I guess we’re beginning to learn what war is all about, he thought. Buzz bombs in London, burning buildings, enemy flak, and attacking fighters are starting to make war very real and very personal.
He needed to get his mind off his immediate circumstances—but how?
Luckily, he could still smell Natalie’s perfume, drifting up from the scarf she’d given him as he was leaving, which he’d carefully tucked inside his flight suit. He could still imagine the touch of her warm, soft skin and hear her voice singing only to him. Perhaps it was the war; perhaps it was the fact that they’d both known they would soon be oceans apart. Whatever it was, it was obvious that they had grown incredibly close, both physically and emotionally, in a matter of only a few days.
How refreshing it was to be with someone else who was the center of attention for a change. The last time that had happened was three years ago—with Claudine.
Claudine… What’s happening to me? For years, I’ve been content to play the field, never allowing myself to become emotionally involved. Now, there are two women I really seem to care about!
He smiled to himself. I’m a fool. What am I worried about? I’ve only known Natalie for forty-eight hours, and I’ve never even had a real date with Claudine. Besides, I could be dead within the next two minutes.
Just then, the plane twisted sharply.
______
Mike was more scared than he had ever been. Any unexpected, sudden movement of the plane—which happened every few minutes—any gunfire, or any sighting of an enemy fighter compelled him to use the intercom to ask the pilot what was happening.
Unable to answer all Mike’s questions and still concentrate on the task at hand, the pilot began to ignore him. The silence on the other end of the intercom only added to Mike’s anxiety. He wasn’t sure whether his stomach was going to handle all the motion. I sure don’t want to be the sissy who vomits in the back of the plane. Jacques would never let me live it down. That is, if we live…
Sergeant O’Halloran had explained to them that once their planes were discovered, the pilots would increase altitude for more room to maneuver. Higher up, they could change their direction and speed to avoid flak attacks from the artillery below. Very reassuring, Mike thought to himself at the sound of the engine’s acceleration. The increase in their angle of ascent and their sudden rise in altitude told Mike they were coming under fire.
“Hang on, Mr. Stone,” shouted the pilot over the intercom. Warned, but unprepared for the sudden movement, the noise of exploding flak, and the thud of it hitting the plane, Mike was becoming more terrified by the moment. Despite the fact that he was tightly strapped in, he was being thrown around his tiny seating area. You’ve got to find your legs, Mike, just like in the ring.
After surviving the first barrage, he was becoming a little more assured. But just as he thought he was learning to accept the danger of the artillery below, they encountered their first enemy aircraft—in the air beside them.
His pilot executed an abrupt rolling dive to the right, and Mike could hear the noise of the twenty-caliber bullets whizzing past. The sharp deceleration of the plane, as the pilot activated the air brakes, pushed him forward in his seat. From this position, he could hear the noise of the attacking plane before he actually saw the black monster pass above them. The ear-shattering sounds of wing guns were the last thing he experienced before seeing the German fighter explode directly in front of them.
When they finally leveled off, Mike heard the pilot’s calm voice over the intercom: “Mr. Stone, the trouble should be over. We’ll be flying around Paris to avoid the antiaircraft fire and should arrive in Geneva in about forty-five minutes.”
______
As the two Spitfires taxied toward the military hangar, Jacques could see Claudine. She was waiting for them just inside the big door. As they climbed down from the planes, she walked forward to greet them. After giving them each a warm and enthusiastic hug and a kiss on both cheeks, she stood back and said, “Well, let’s have a look at the two of you. You certainly don’t look the worse for wear!”
Jacques wasn’t listening. Her hug seemed a little tighter and her kisses a little longer than a customary greeting between two old friends. Or maybe I’m just wishing…
“Nothing but the best for you bankers,” she said. “How did you enjoy the ride?”
Mike’s experience had left him in no joking condition. “I certainly wasn’t planning on anything like this. Whatever happened to the slow, smooth DC3s? Surely, we could have waited until your plane’s mechanical difficulties were fixed!”
But Jacques’ and Claudine’s attentions were fastened on each other. Dressed in heels and a business suit, hair arranged in her customary French twist, Claudine seemed taller to Jacques, more beautiful, and more… professional than he remembered. Maybe I’ve just been fooling myself to think she ever felt anything for me.
“I’m so glad you made it here safely,” she said. “Father and I are relieved that you saw through my gibberish and figured out the importance of our message. We have a lot to talk about. We’re anxious to spend a few days with you—that is, if you can tear yourselves away from the banking conference,” she concluded, wearing that mischievous smile Jacques remembered from so long ago.
“Claudine, if you and your father are in some kind of trouble, tell us what we can do to help,” Mike said.
“No, it’s nothing like that. A special… opportunity has arisen. Once we arrive at the chalet, we’ll discuss it. But enough of that for now. Tell me what you two devils have been doing.”
______
As Cla
udine turned south toward Chamonix, she was trying to concentrate on her driving, but her mind was focused on the handsome Frenchman sitting next to her.
Am I beginning to see Jacques in a whole new light? Has he matured, or is he still the old love-’em-and-leave-’em cad from college? This is the second time he has come all the way to Europe to assist me. How many girls can say that?
Chapter 7
ROOTS OF EVIL
The Alpine village of Chamonix was nestled comfortably along the northern base of Mont Blanc. It was part of the politically neutral network of ski resorts that crisscrossed the frontiers of Switzerland, France, Italy, and Austria. Skiers and vacationers could move across the borders with ease, even during wartime.
Henri stood outside the front door of the chalet, waiting to greet Jacques and Mike when they arrived. Both of them were sons of two of his oldest friends and banking colleagues. He had been following their impressive careers ever since they had graduated from Cal Berkeley in 1938, along with Claudine.
“Welcome to our mountain home. Mike, I’m pleased to finally meet you. For years, I’ve been listening to your father and my daughter talk about you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Mike said. “They both have certainly told me a great deal about you.”
Shifting his attention to Jacques, Henri asked, “Son, what has it been… three years since your last visit? Thank you for coming all this way on such short notice.”
“Of course, anything for you… and Claudine.”
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 5