by Allan Jones
“Are you OK?” he said quietly.
“Yes, I think so; just eager to get on with it, I suppose. Never was much good at waiting.”
He hugged her tighter and reached in his pocket. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, extending his closed palm.
She looked at it in panic. “Oh, God,” she thought, “not a ring; please, not now!” She looked up at him anxiously. “What is it?”
He opened his hand to reveal not a ring, but a beautiful brooch. It was circular, a large sapphire surrounded by glittering diamonds, and it took her breath away.As she stared at it, he spoke softly. “It was my mother’s. She gave it to me the day she left; told me it had magic in it, that it would keep me safe, always.” He paused. “And so far it has, and now it’s yours.”
He placed it in her hand, and her eyes misted. “Paul, I can’t, really. Your mother gave it to you, you should keep it.”
“It doesn’t suit me, not my colour,” he joked.
“I love it, but it’s too much. I can’t, really.”
He looked at her earnestly.“ I want… No! … I need you to take it. Something of me to be with you, something that means something to me. There is a mother’s love in it, and my love, and soon there will be your love too; that’s the most powerful magic thereis, that’s what will protect you, and when you look at it you’ll think of me and I won’t be so far away. Keep it as a talisman, and a portion of our love. Keep it safe and it will keep you safe.”
Her eyes were shining with tears as she looked up and kissed his cheek. She smiled. “How could a girl refuse?” she said, kissing him. “Thank you, darling man.” She undid her overalls and shirt .“I’ll pin it here, near to my heart,” she said, as she pinned it inside the cleavage of her bra. “Keep it safe, close to me.”
Paul looked at her and held her eyes. “One day!” he said.
“One day what?” she replied, as she buttoned herself up.
“You know.”
She reached for his hand. “Yes, I know, but don’t say anything, not yet.”
They held each other tightly, kissing softly and tenderly. Then the door swung open as an aircraftsman entered and said, “Time to go, Miss.”
She nodded her acknowledgement and kissed Paul fervently; then reluctantly she parted from him, reaching for the rucksack .“Is that all you’ve got?” he said, as they moved to the door.
“There’s a suitcase in the canister; this is just for the iffy things. This’ll be stashed once I’m over and safe.”
The plane sat on the runway, it’s engines running. They strode purposefully towards it, stopping where the noise of the engines threatened to drown their voices. “How do you feel? You OK?” he said, holding her one last time.
“Frightened, nervous, excited, sad, lots of things.”
“Come back to me,” he said softly.
“I will, I promise.”
“Or I’ll bloody well come and get you, you hear me?”
She smiled weakly and kissed him once more; then she began to walk to the plane. She stopped, then slowly turned to him and called, “I love you!”
The engines revved up, forcing him to shout. “I love you too!”
The engines roared to a crescendo as he watched her being helped aboard. The wind from the propellers swept his hair and took his breath away. He walked backwards, step by step, his eyes never leaving the door of the plane. She appeared at it once more, briefly, and grinned cheerfully and waved to him, then the door finally closed. The plane moved slowly forward, and he watched it gather speed down the runway, hurtling out of his sight. It rose against the gathering dusk and soared upwards, growing smaller and smaller, till he wasn’t sure he could see it any longer; but then, there it was, a speck against a pink cloud, and then it was gone!
He stood for a long time, frozen to the spot, unable to comprehend, unsure of what to do next, until, finally, he heard a shout behind him and turned to see the lorry driver, who was to take him back, waving to him. He turned and reluctantly walked to the lorry, conscious that every step took him further away from her.
* * * *
Amelia sat, her hands resting on the rucksack strapped to the front of her. Her parachute was on, everything checked, needing only to be clipped to the static line just before the jump. The canister lay near the door: it would be dropped first, and she was to follow it down. When it landed, she would be more able to judge the distance to the ground if the light during her descent was bad. As long as she kept sight of it, she would be fine; jumping in the dark meant timing your landing with precision or you risked broken legs, or worse.
A crewman sat opposite, closer to the door, reading a book in the dim light and occasionally talking to the cockpit over his headset. He looked up from time to time and smiled, but otherwise left her alone with her mounting excitement and apprehension. The Flight Sergeant listened to his headphones for a while, then caught her eye. “Just crossing the French coast now, Miss,” he informed her.
She nodded her acknowledgement and straightened herself, taking a deep breath. “This is it,” she thought, “no going back now.”
She knew from her briefings that there was probably another twenty minutes to go before they reached the drop zone, where she would be met by partisans if all went well. She looked at her watch: another hour and she should be safely in hiding and would be able to rest before being taken tomorrow to the café which would be her base and alibi.
She stood, stretched, then checked all the straps she could reach. The airman, seeing what she was doing, got up and checked the rest of her equipment. Satisfied, he gave her a thumbs-up and a smile, then returned to his station and stowed his book away; then he spoke into his phones and readied himself for the job. Amelia watched him, wondering how many times he had done this: he seemed so relaxed, while she was getting butterflies in her stomach.
This was entirely different to the jumps she had done before. She had not felt like this at all; she had looked forward to those jumps, but then they were not into enemy territory like this! She forced away the trepidation, focussing on her training, breathing deep and slowly. Her hand found its way under the rucksack and she felt for the brooch pinned between her breasts. As she held it, she felt herself calming, and smiled inwardly as the thought that the magic was working came to her.
She mentally made the switch to thinking in French, reciting in her head some of the favourite poems of her childhood. Suddenly, she heard an approaching roar. The airman became rapidly alert and shouted, “Get down!” as he threw himself to the floor.
She threw herself sideways off the bench as bullets exploded through the fuselage and ricocheted like angry hornets all around her. The plane dived steeply; she had to reach desperately for something to hold on to. Her hand found the leg of the bench and she hooked her arm round it to halt her sliding descent towards the cockpit. She gritted her teeth as the plane fell from the sky, its angle now almost vertical; then she was thrown violently to her left and her hip crashed against the bench as the pilot fought to regain control.
The pilot of the Messerschmidt cursed as he realised he was out of ammunition. He banked eastwards as he reported the incident on his radio.
Ever so slowly, the nose of the stricken plane began to lift, the insane shriek of the engines settled down and the pressure on her arm decreased until she was able to let go and take stock. She was shaking uncontrollably! The airman was already on his feet, talking urgently into his headset. There was smoke everywhere, though she couldn’t see any fire. She realised that she was breathing rapidly; she fought it and tried to focus. The plane was flying level now, though the port engine sounded different, giving out an unsteady rhythm and the occasional cough. She felt the nose rise and braced herself again. The airman finished shouting into his phones and made his way over.
“Pilot says we’re hit pretty bad, Miss. We lost the blighter that jumped us, but it don’t look good. He says if you’re going to go it has to be now. He’s climbing for height,
then he’ll circle once for you to jump, or you can take your chances with us. It ain’t likely we’ll make it back, mind; we’ll probably have to jump ourselves at some point, but we’re in uniform and you ain’t. You gotta make up your mind now, quick, Miss. What’s it to be?”
Amelia didn’t hesitate. Rising to her feet, she said, “I’ll go.”
The airman nodded, shouted into his mike and made the preparations, hooking the canister’s line up first, then her parachute. Speaking all the time to the cockpit, he heaved open the door. The wind rushed in with the force of a gale and she had to steady herself.
The airman came over to her and shouted in her ear. “We reckon we’re about fifty miles southwest of the drop-zone; ground is small fields, some trees and hedges. Come near the door, keep your hands on the top of your pack, watch me. I’ll throw the cargo out. When I count to three, walk smartly out of the door, straight out, no hesitation. Good luck!”
She gave the thumbs-up, smiled weakly at him and walked near the door. The crewman was listening intently on his earphones, his arm raised high to keep her in position. She watched him intently, trying to ignore the shaking in her legs as the fear gripped her. Suddenly, he dropped his arm, heaved the canister upright, fixed his gaze on her and, satisfied that she was ready, pushed the canister out of the door. Amelia counted to three with him, took three strides to the door, and stepped out.
The wind took her backwards and she plummeted. For an eternity her eyes squeezed tightly shut, before her parachute opened, heaving her swinging upwards, the jerk taking her breath away. She opened her eyes and reached up and grabbed the straps as her vision cleared. She looked around her: everything was black. She tried to spot the plane, but only heard it somewhere above, droning off to the west. An icy calm took her as her training kicked in. She peered downward, beyond her boots, searching for the ground, or any feature, anything at all. Then she spotted the canopy of the other parachute below her and did her best to steer after its direction, keeping her eyes focussed on it.
The half-moon appeared briefly from behind a cloud, and as she watched she saw a silver ribbon magically appear below her, to the north she thought, but that was only a guess. A river! She was able to see the distance to go now and became impatient at the slowness of the descent, mindful of how exposed and vulnerable she was. The canister’s ’chute drifted closer to the river, and she prayed it wouldn’t go over to the far side: she didn’t fancy swimming after it.
Then, suddenly, she saw the canopy collapse. It had landed sooner than she had judged and she hastened to make ready for her own landing. She was counting down the seconds as the ground rushed rapidly up at her. She concentrated and made the perfect landing, rolling as best she could to twist the parachute lines, the quicker to collapse it. Then she was on her feet, reeling it in.
As soon as she had the bundle at her feet, she dropped to one knee and extended her senses, keeping very still, scanning the area, listening, feeling. Satisfied with the silence, she shrugged off the rucksack, then the harness, and, keeping low, crept slowly over to the canister.
Though she had learned that quick movements in the dark are more easily detected, she still felt tempted to hurry! She gathered in the other parachute and took it back to her own; then, carrying both bundles, she made for the tree line at the south of the field, thankful she hadn’t come down amongst them.
She stowed her burden under a bush, drew out the gun and made her way back to the canister. It was too heavy for one person to lift, let alone carry it fifty yards, so she had to open it and make several agonisingly tense journeys before she was finally able to manage the whole. Once she had it all, she dragged the canister over to a fallen trunk where the roots were exposed, leaving a crater. She repacked the canister, keeping her suitcase out, then she stuffed both parachutes and her helmet inside and forced it shut. Using her feet, she rolled it into the root hole and kicked it in as far as she could, then collapsed the bank on top. It was now completely buried, and she was pleased with her efforts. Although she was sweating hard, she decided to keep the overalls and boots on for now. She rested briefly and took some water from her bottle. As she drank, she heard a sound in the distance, growing louder. A train!
Her spirits lifted. Railways always led somewhere! If she could find it and follow it, she could be miles away from here before dawn. She listened intently as the noise grew first louder and then fainter. She fixed her eyes on the spot where she judged the sound had been loudest and eyed the terrain in between, fixing her route.
The railway was to the north, the river to the east, but she had seen it running north to south. Either the railway ran alongside it or crossed it. She gathered up her rucksack and put it on. She checked that nothing rattled by shaking herself vigorously and jumping up and down, then she set off at a steady pace, carrying the suitcase that held her new identity.
The going was not so bad. She had to traverse hedges a lot, sometimes having to detour to find a gap she could force herself through; but, overall, she was glad of the cover. She found pathways, some going her way, others bisecting her path, and each time she stopped and listened intently until she was sure that there was no other movement, before proceeding on. Clouds gathered over the moon and a light wind ruffled her hair as she moved, her eyes on a bearing on the horizon.
She found the railway line after about an hour and she stopped for a while to drink some more of her water and to think: which way to go? She knew that being on a railway line was highly dangerous: they were often patrolled, their bridges guarded. They were best avoided, she had been taught, but she reasoned that this was her best option, better than wandering blindly over unknown terrain. She would just have to be extremely careful!
She reckoned going left would take her roughly north and that before long she would encounter the river, which at some point she might have to cross. Somewhere there would be a bridge or ford; if it was a bridge, she knew it was likely to be guarded, so a ford would be ideal! The line ran through a cutting at this point, so she was able to walk on the track itself, measuring her step to the sleepers to avoid her boots crunching the gravel. Bushes lined the cutting and provided cover if it was needed, so she felt fairly safe to quicken her pace, at least till the cutting ended. Presently, she saw ahead of her that the cutting was indeed ending, and decided to go down amongst the bushes. She moved slower, feeling every step in front before putting her full weight on. The cutting petered out and she stopped behind a bush and strained her eyes forward, keeping very still. Reassured, she made ten yards forward and stopped again, then another ten. She thought she could hear water and strained to listen till she caught it, a faint tinkling: the river was near.
The moon came briefly out, long enough for her to see, about forty yards ahead, a bridge! Damn! So soon!
She moved forward again, very slowly, keeping low; then, feeling she was pushing her luck, she sought the shelter of the bushes again. She decided to leave the rucksack for now and carefully shrugged it off and pushed it into the bushes, mentally marking the spot. She undid the safety clip on the sheath and loosened the dagger. Slowly she drew the pistol, carefully she pulled back the slide, cocked it, thumbed-off the safety catch, took a few deep breaths and stalked forward.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she ignored it, concentrating on moving forward as quietly as she could. She had covered half the distance and had stopped, listening, when she heard footsteps, slow and rhythmic, coming in her direction. She crouched low and peered forward, using her peripheral vision to detect any movement. She crept another ten yards and stopped behind another bush, then risked another look.
She saw a sentry hut guarding this end of the bridge, a faint glow from a hurricane lamp spilling out from it. She could make out the knees of the man sitting in it. The footsteps grew louder and the sentry emerged from the hut as another soldier came into view, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Damn!” she thought. “Two of them.”
She watched a
s they spoke and stopped outside the hut. One of them went in and returned with a bottle of something. As they drank, she moved closer still. Their murmuring voices covered the tiny sounds she couldn’t help making. Holding the gun high, she came to a stop not seven or eight yards from them. She breathed deeply and quietly and focussed on her quarry.
She would have to be quick, but the fact that they both had their rifles slung on their shoulders was a definite advantage!
She waited, steeling herself! She was icy calm, breathing evenly, keeping very still, waiting until opportunity presented itself. They were close together! It would have to be soon. By the light coming out of the box, she saw one of them produce some cigarettes and offer the pack to the other; this was her chance! When they lit up they would be momentarily blinded by the flame! And their hands would be busy!
A lighter flicked, failed to catch. The man tried again, then it was lit! As they bowed their heads to it, she rose up, darted in front of them and fired the gun alternately into each of them till the magazine was empty. The bullets exploded into their chests and threw them back. She dropped the gun, drew the dagger and sprang forward.
They were both dead, eyes wide in shock, smoke rising from their bloodied chests. She sheathed the dagger and secured it, then went back for the gun. She slipped out the empty magazine and threw it over the low parapet into the river, then slammed in a new one, put on the safety catch and holstered it.
She went to the parapet and looked over: the river was beneath and the water looked deep. One by one she dragged the bodies to the parapet, trying to avoid the bloody mess where both their backs had been, and heaved them up and over. The bodies made the satisfying splash that told of deep water. She knew they would sink immediately and stay submerged for some time before they would rise again, swollen and bloated, hopefully miles down-river. She threw their equipment in after them; then, by the light of the hurricane lamp, she tidied the scene, pouring water from their canteens over the bloodiest spot, saving enough to rinse her hands and face. She inspected herself in the small mirror she carried, and, satisfied, blew out the lamp.