by Allan Jones
“Keep watching him, Lieutenant. and I will also. You really think he’ll make a move?”
“Not till we get closer. He’ll wait till the last minute, probably.”
“When I give up my arms, what then?”
“I’ve taken his from him; the rest of the lads will look after you,” Johnson replied He frowned. “When we get up close, that uniform you’re wearing…”
Klaussen interrupted. “I’ve thought of that. There is a British Army greatcoat in my saddlebags; that should cover it. I couldn’t use a full uniform for fear that your lot would shoot me as a spy.” He paused. “Now, let’s get going.”
“Not yet, sir,” Johnson said, and called for some water to be brought from the truck.
As Klaussen drank, he regarded the private who was staring at him. “What’s your name, soldier?” Klaussen asked, lowering the water bottle.
“Clarke, sir – Private Stanley Clarke, but they all calls me Nobby.”
“How are you coping, Private Clarke?”
“Me, sir? Fine, sir…’Scuse, sir, but me and the lads think you’re all right, saving our skins an’ all; just wanted you to know that, I did, sir.”
Klaussen smiled. “Thank you, Clarke. Tell the men they can all buy me a drink when we get to Blighty!”
Clarke gave a gap-toothed grin, took the water bottle from Klaussen’s outstretched hand, and said: “Right you are, sir.”
He saluted, wheeled around, and returned to the car. Shortly after, a collective laugh came from the truck and they all looked at Klaussen, who grinned a wolfish smile and touched the peak of his cap to them. “Now we must go. Lieutenant, have the vehicle close, up to twenty yards behind me; the same signals and orders apply. Let’s hope our luck holds.”
Johnson straightened and ostentatiously saluted, raising his voice so that the men would hear. “Yes, sir!”
The engines were started and they set off down the dusty, rutted track towards some woods on the horizon.
* * * *
She was devastated! Since the telegram, and the letter from his squadron, had arrived, she had been in a daze. Time meant nothing to her, as she read and re-read the letter; a fit of anger took her and she tore the letter up, only to instantly regret it, and she desperately tried to glue the pieces back together. Finally, she put it away, only to find herself re-visiting it, time and time again.
His Hurricane had been shot down over the channel. His friends who had watched him go down reported that he had not been able to bale out, and there was really no chance that he had survived. Still she hoped.
She got up daily to watch for the post, only to see the van drive by, which only brought back the tears. She couldn’t eat, drank only water, and lay for hours on her bed, foetally curled up. She had reverted to sucking her thumb, as she had as a child. When she did heave herself to her feet, the first sight of any of his things sent her once more into a paroxysm of despair. Yet she could not contemplate ridding herself of them; not yet, maybe never. His spare toothbrush, his shooting trophies, his clothes. The things he had bought for her, and the framed pictures of him, and her, together, all plagued her.
She took long walks in the Surrey countryside, carefully avoiding any of the routes they had walked together, keeping her eyes to the ground, away from the vapour trails of the battle that waged far above her head. Charlie had given her the keys to the cottage and told her to stay there as long as she liked. She had jumped at the chance to escape London.
She was in her own world, distant, divorced from the rest, isolated. There was no-one to whom she could turn in her grief; her father was long dead, her mother remarried and in America. The few friends she had had since boarding school had faded away inevitably since she had met Bill, and, since the war broke out, were scattered and further distant still. All the while, since she had Bill, she hadn’t given it a second thought. It was a natural progression: you got married, friends fell away, or not, it didn’t matter.
Now she wished she had made the effort, but it was too late. Her boss at the Air Ministry had expressed shallow sympathy: it was, after all, a common occurrence these days; but he had, because he said he valued her, ordered her to take as much time as she needed. It made her feel guilty, and self-indulgent. Others got on with it, didn’t they? She was grateful, though.
Gradually, day by day, a cold fury built up in her, replacing the grief, so that she alternated one day in indignant anger and the next consumed by grief, until, bit by bit, the anger won and suppressed the grief. On the fourteenth day, she resolved to go back, busying herself packing her kit for the London barracks where she resolved to live, as she couldn’t bear the Hampstead flat any longer. She pressed the creases in her WAAF uniform, shone her shoes till they were immaculate, cleaned every bit of her kit imaginable, and tumbled into bed to sleep a fitful and disturbed sleep.
Next morning, at the door, she stowed the key in its hiding place, took one last look, unsure if she ever wanted to return here, and walked away down the lane to meet the taxi that would take her to the station, and back to the war. Her war!
* * * *
They travelled the dusty track without incident. As the light began to fail, Klaussen halted and waited for the truck to draw near, taking out his map and spreading it across the tank of the motorcycle.
Johnson approached with Sims in tow. Klaussen studied the map intently. Without looking up, he said: “Check how much fuel is left.” Johnson nodded at Sims, who shrugged and went back. “We’re close; we need to find a bivouac for the night.”
Johnson leaned over and studied the map. There was nothing suggested by it. “A night in the open then,” Johnson said.
“Looks that way,” Klaussen replied.
Sims returned. “Almost empty, sir,” he said to Johnson, pointedly refusing to look at Klaussen.
Klaussen spoke: “We’ll have to abandon the vehicles here.” He looked at Johnson as he dismounted from the motorcycle. “Slash the tyres and ruin the engines. Take everything we can carry; we proceed on foot from here.”
Sims looked to Johnson, who nodded. Sims left, barking orders as he went.
They moved in the fading light through the woodland. Klaussen was on the brink of calling a halt, when the point man came running back.“There’s a building ahead, sir,” he addressed Johnson. “Looks to be an old barn or something.”
“Sims, take two men and investigate.”
Sims chose two men and they trotted off. Ten minutes later they returned. “Deserted and half overgrown, sir. Roof’s got a few holes, but otherwise it should do us, sir.” Sims stood ramrod straight as he reported.
Klaussen turned to Johnson.“Leave guards 250 metres both up and down the track, and get the men inside. We leave at first light.”
Once inside, the men asked permission to light a small fire at the far end of the barn, as any smoke would drift into the woods through the holed roof. Klaussen gave his assent, warning them to use only the driest wood they could find. Soon a warm glow illuminated the old barn. The men gathered round it, taking off their boots to give their tired feet some relief.
Johnson came to where Klaussen sat alone, his back against a pillar, and sat beside him. Sims sat apart from all of them, rummaging in a pack he had taken from the Germans. “We have enough food, more than enough, to be comfortable for a few days if we eke it out; same with the water, and,” Johnson reached into his pack, “two bottles of schnapps, which I managed to rescue from Carter, our resident scrounger, before they disappeared, never to be seen again.”
Klaussen laughed. “We won’t need any more food after tomorrow. Either we’ll be dead or we will have reached safety; so let’s have a feast with what we’ve got. Get our strength up. Give the men a bottle to share after they’ve eaten. We’ll keep the other to celebrate if we make it.”
The men were cheered visibly at the news and set about their tasks with a will, brewing tea in an upturned German helmet. The SS flashes on the side were illuminated, and Paul watched,
fascinated, as the hated emblem was scorched beyond recognition.“Perhaps an omen,” he thought grimly.
Presently, Johnson brought his share of the food over to him and they ate in silence, regarding Sims as he ate his, his back to them all. “What’s the story with him?” Klaussen asked quietly.
Johnson finished his mouthful. “He’s a career soldier, joined as a boy, gets to be sergeant and that’s as far as he goes. Passed over for further promotion, resents it, hates people like me who pass him by. Reckons he knows it all. Truth is, he’s a bully. Got him this far; army needs some NCOs like that, but he’s not the right sort for an officer. His men hate him, so do his officers, but they tolerate him as we need every soldier we can get, especially now.”
“Do you really think he’ll try something?”
“I’ve felt his eyes on me every time he thinks I’m not looking,” Johnson replied. “He’ll have a go, given the chance.”
Klaussen raised his voice. “Recall the guard, Lieutenant, I think we’re safe enough here.” He winked at Johnson, who grinned. “Sergeant Sims, go and fetch the guards back for me, will you, old chap?”
Sims’s back stiffened, but he got slowly to his feet. At the door he shot back a murderous glance at the two officers, but they were ignoring him, deep as they were in conversation. The men also ignored his departure.
Presently, he returned with the sentries. Johnson called out. “Anything to report, men?”
“Quiet as the grave, sir.” The other nodded in agreement.
“Warm yourselves up and get some food,” said Johnson. He raised his voice. “Clarke, you may open that bottle now.”
There were muted cheers as the bottle was handed round, while Sims returned to his solitary position. Presently, Private Carter came over to where the two officers sat. “The lads thought the officers could use a drink,” he said, proffering the bottle to Johnson, who accepted it, took a long pull and handed it to Klaussen, who did likewise.
Klaussen beckoned Carter closer and whispered: “And the sergeant?”
Carter leaned closer still and whispered back:“None of us’ld piss on ’im if ’e were on fire, sir, ’scuse language.”
Klaussen chuckled and handed the bottle back. Raising his voice again, he said: “Thank the men for me, and tell them to get some sleep; long day tomorrow.”
“Right you are, sir.” Carter saluted and went back to the men by the fire. Sims settled himself down, but remained awake, schemes running through his mind.
CHAPTER 4
Amy threw herself into her secretarial work. There had been a few raised eyebrows at her return, but, so far, no one had mentioned Bill: it just wasn’t done; but she saw the sympathy in their eyes. Conversations were limited to the business at hand or mundane things. As long as no-one brought it up, she would be all right.
She spent most of her time collecting files, packing them in boxes in case they would have to be burnt if the worst happened. The war was not going well! The army was being evacuated, France was about to fall!
She was on her knees, a pile of files in her arms, when the man approached and addressed her. “Miss Richards, isn’t it?” he asked. She looked up to see a short, stout man wearing a Group Captain’s uniform. He had round rimless glasses and sported a short grey, tobacco-stained moustache.
She put the files in the box and rose from her knees to stand to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir,” she said.
He returned a brisk salute and said in a soft voice: “I was wondering if you would accompany me to the canteen for a cup of tea.”
She was puzzled. “Well, I don’t know, sir, the files…,” she stammered.
His tone became crisper. “They can wait. Come along, we’ve a lot to get through.” He spun on his heels and made for the door. She followed him to the canteen, trotting to keep pace with his brisk stride. He pointed her towards a vacant table, as he ordered the tea.
He sat down, motioning her to do likewise, and placed his cap on the table. His greying brown hair was combed neatly to one side, his parting straight as an arrow, although a tuft poked up rebelliously near his crown. He attempted to flatten it with an absent-minded sweep of his hand, but to no avail, as it sprang back immediately.
“I’m very sorry for all this. You must be wondering, after all, but I just want a little chat for now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said cautiously.
He proffered his hand. “Name’s Hutchison,” he said, as she shook his hand.
“Amy… Amelia Richards, sir.”
“Formerly Amelie Du-Clos, I gather, and let’s drop the ‘sir’, shall we? This is just a little chat.”
Her confusion was interrupted by the arrival of the tea he had ordered with scones and jam: there was no butter. He busied himself pouring the tea, gesturing as to whether she wanted milk, then sugar, and she nodded as she replied: “Yes, but I haven’t been called that for years. When we came back to England, mother and me, she changed my name to Amelia, and then I got married.” A lump sprang to her throat as she said the words, but she controlled herself. He handed her the tea, and they both sipped in silence.
He started working on the scones and prompted her to continue. “My father was in shipping in Marseilles; quite a catch for mother, everyone said. She had a reputation as a flapper, bright young thing, etc. We lived in a big house. We had parties and sailing, our own swimming pool, tennis courts and huge grounds. It was quite a life.” She sipped again at her tea, accepting the scone he had prepared.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell me where you went to school.”
“At first I had a governess, then when I was old enough I went to a boarding school in the country. I was happy there.”
“So you are bi-lingual then.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I was taught both English and French from birth, plus I took German and Spanish at school.”
“Your French would be with a Marseilles accent, then?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
He looked at her intently. “And there would be records of your birth in Marseilles?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“How fluent exactly is your German?”
“I wouldn’t know. Passable, I suppose. It’s been a long time.”
He laid down his cup and leaned back in his chair. She regarded him in silence, sipping her tea. His hand strayed to the wayward tuft of hair. After a while he seemed to make up his mind and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Miss Richards, anything I say to you from now on falls within the Official Secrets Act. I want you to understand that.”
She thought for a while and nodded. “OK.”
“The Ministry of War will very soon have need of linguists, such as yourself, the way things are going, and I think that you fit the bill, so to speak.” He paused, then added, “I can’t say much more, except that the work will be difficult, sometimes risky, sometimes downright dangerous, but it will also be rewarding and exciting, and, above all, it will give you the opportunity to make a real difference.”
“Go on,” she said.
“A new organisation is being set up, very hush-hush, to trainmen and women such as yourself with some, shall we say, very unique skills, then to deploy those people to strike the enemy hard, where it would really hurt him. The orders come from the very top: Churchill has given us the brief to ‘Set Europe Ablaze!’”
She interrupted. “You want me to go over there as a spy?” she said flatly.
“Not just a spy; a saboteur, a liaison officer, an organiser. We would want you to play a key role wherever you are, to co-ordinate resistance amongst the locals, spread black propaganda, blackmail key officials, irritate and annoy the enemy. Don’t give him a moment’s peace. Make him use his manpower, waste their time. You get the picture?”
He peered intently at her through his owlish glasses, gauging her reaction. She remained silent for a while, thinking. Bill popped into her mind and with it the fury she associated with his death. Her hands started to shake and she gr
ipped the teacup tighter in both hands to quell them. Imaginings of herself doing the things Hutchison had spoken of flashed through her, and she felt a growing excitement. With it came a tremulous fear. She didn’t know what to say, how to react.
He sensed this and spoke. “Just think about it for a while. It’s a lot to take in, I know. You needn’t answer me now. Go home and mull it over for a while. I’ve cleared it with your boss, who, by the way, thinks highly of you; he told me that you’re a very brave girl.”
She stammered in surprise: “Me, brave?”
He held up his hand, then reached into his breast pocket and handed her a card. “Give me a ring on this number within the next couple of days,” he said, rising from his chair and donning his cap. “If I’m not there, just give the chap who answers a simple yes or no. If you say yes, I’ll be in touch; but if you say no, and you’re perfectly free to do so, no-one will think any the worse of you, and we’ll forget this conversation ever took place.”
She rose and took his proffered hand. As they shook, she said: “Yes, I’ll telephone soon.” He released her hand and strode off without a backward glance. She sat down again at the table, her mind a whirl. She already knew what her decision would be.
* * * *
They were woken by the sound of heavy gunfire in the distance. Klaussen was on his feet instantly, listening intently. He whispered to Johnson: “Looks like opportunity comes knocking. Let’s pray the gunfire gets louder.” Johnson looked puzzled. “If it gets louder, the lines come to us; if it recedes, the Germans are driving the lines further away.”