The Talisman

by Allan Jones

  As she waited for her night vision to return, she began to feel nauseous and made it to the bridge just in time to be violently sick. When it was over, she began to shake and she sat with her head between her knees and took deep breaths, fighting for control until, finally, she was able to rise again.

  She hurried back up the track and retrieved her rucksack and took a long draught of water, then came back to the bridge and remained still for a while, listening. The night was still as she prepared to move off. She reasoned that there would probably not be another sentry post on the far side of the bridge. The normal practice, she knew, was two: one to patrol, one to remain at the post. Still she crouched low to the parapet as she crossed. She paused at the far side for a breather, then moved off at a smart pace, eager to put as much distance as she could from the scene of the crime.

  * * * *

  As soon as he got back to base, Paul hurried to the signals room and sat behind the row of operatives, anxiously watching the clock. His journey back had taken an hour and, doing swift calculations, he reckoned that the pick-up party should call the acknowledgement in at any time after the next two hours had passed. His apprehension grew each time he saw one of the operatives stiffen, then go into action, writing hurriedly on their pads as a signal came in. To ease his tension, he went outside for a walk, but still could not stop himself from constantly looking at his watch. He walked into the bar and had a couple of stiff whiskies, nursing each drink to pass the time.

  He walked some more, suddenly reluctant to go back to signals in case there was bad news. When he finally went back in and sat down, he was awash with tension and worry. One of the operatives caught his eye and shook her head. Paul leapt to his feet and charged over to the woman. “What do you mean? Is it bad? What is it?”

  She smiled at him. “No, just no news yet, that’s what I meant.”

  “Are you the one then? Is it you they’ll contact?”

  “Yes. Relax. These things rarely run to schedule. Plenty of time; they’re only just about due.”

  Paul relaxed a little and smiled at the woman. “Thanks. Listen, do you mind if I sit with you, just till it comes in?”

  “Of course you can. You can help me with this crossword if you like, to pass the time. Pull up a chair.”

  She moved her chair to accommodate Paul as he hurried to get himself in place. She moved the crossword close to him and he smiled his thanks as she squeezed his hand in sympathy. His relationship with Amelia was common knowledge, so she was well aware of what he was feeling. Paul was moved by the gesture as he turned his full attention to the crossword as a welcome distraction. Someone placed two steaming mugs of tea in front of them and he relaxed slightly.

  Another hour passed without incident. They had finished the crossword and were just chatting. Paul had relaxed somewhat and had adopted an optimistic front in the cosy intimacy of the room. He refrained from asking the obvious questions, determined to wait it out. They would hear something soon. Then, the girl sat upright and picked up her pencil and listened intently to her headphones, then began scribbling furiously. Paul bent to read it, but could make little sense of it. The message lasted a minute, then she threw off her phones and bent to decipher the code. His anxiety grew as he watched her face darken as she concentrated. Finally finished, she covered the message with her hand and turned to him, her face full of concern.

  “She didn’t make the drop. The plane never arrived. They waited as long as they could, but it wasn’t safe, they had to go. I’m sorry, I really am, but that’s all.”

  Paul was frozen to his seat in shock, his face aghast. “But…but, what happens now? When will they contact again? When will they know? What can be done?” he stammered.

  “They’ll look for her tomorrow, but if she’s not there…They’ll contact tomorrow night in any case,” The girl said, rising to her feet.“I have to take this to Ops. I’m sure they’ll ring the airfield, see what they know.”

  Paul leapt to his feet. “I’m coming with you, come on.”

  He took her arm and almost dragged her up the stairs in his haste. They flew along the corridor and through the door into the Ops room. She detached herself and hurried to the Major in command. He read the signal, his face darkening. He looked over at Paul as he snatched up the phone and ordered the switchboard to connect him with the airfield. The call seemed to go on forever to Paul, whose eyes never left the Major’s face as he talked quietly into the phone. Finally, he carefully placed the phone back in its cradle and sank with a sigh into his seat. Paul hurried over.

  The Major held up a hand to ward off his questions and rubbed his tired eyes. Paul stood there, wanting to know and yet not. He braced himself to ask the question, but the Major got in first.

  “The plane was shot up; she bailed out. She’s down,” He said.

  Relief washed over Paul as the Major went on. “The pilot reckoned that after the evasion manoeuvres and all, she went in fifty miles south-west of the drop. The plane headed for home on one engine; they weren’t expecting to make it, but it came down in a field barely over the coast. She was given a choice: she chose to jump. What happens now is down to her and her luck, I suppose. I’m sorry, old man, that’s all there is.” He looked earnestly at Paul.

  “What can we do? Is there anything, anything at all?” Paul gasped.

  “Nothing much, I’m afraid; just wait, see if she gets in touch, or if someone sees her. Not much else we can do. The people at the drop will discreetly put the word about as far as they can, but that’s limited. Look, she’s brave and resourceful, you know that! My guess is she’ll head as best she can to where she was supposed to be; she’ll just be a bit late, that’s all. She’ll come through all right, you’ll see. It’s not so bad. She was one of our best trainees; she’s got the talent, she’ll be all right.”

  Paul slumped into a chair, his hands between his parted legs, his shoulders hunched, his head down. The Major went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whisky and poured two generous measures. He came round to sit on the front of the desk and proffered one of the glasses. Paul’s hands were shaking as he accepted the glass and he took a gulp and swilled it round his dry mouth before swallowing, relishing the burn as it went down.

  “Look, old man, there’s no need to panic just yet,” the Major said. “She’s all right as far as we know, just a bit lost, a bit out of place. She’ll know what to do, won’t she? She’s got a cool head on her; she’ll weigh the situation up, measure the risks, take the appropriate action like she was trained to do. She’ll do the right thing, of course she will. Have a little faith in her, man; she’s good, damned good.”

  Paul listened, but it seemed to him that the man spoke from a distance, or he spoke to someone else. “Here, drink up, have another. I’ll tell you what, I’ll send a signal tonight; there’s people in the area she’s in, tell them to look out for her, all right?”

  Paul looked up. “Thanks, thanks a lot. Please do that and if you hear anything…”

  “Of course,” the Major interrupted.

  They drank in silence, then the Major squeezed Paul’s shoulder in comradeship and said, “Right, got to get on, old chap. Stay here if you like; take as much time as you want, eh?”

  Paul nodded and thanked the man again. Though he was still in a daze, the Major’s words did have some effect. He sipped the whisky and gazed into the distance, trying to imagine where she was, what she was doing. He sat there for a while, then stumbled in a daze over to the bar, where he sat in a corner and tried to drink his worst imaginings away, without success. He felt already bereaved as the loneliness engulfed him. Finally, his melancholic stupor tipped him into unconsciousness, and he slumped in the armchair, glass still in hand.

  CHAPTER 9

  Amelia trudged along the track, fear welling up in her. She had felt the need to throw up again a couple of times, but, her stomach being empty, had just heaved and retched. Tears came to her eyes as the full weight of her desperate plight threatened
to paralyse her. She was alone in enemy territory and had already killed; she had only the faintest notion of where she was, and, come daylight, the missing sentries would prompt a manhunt. They would search up and down the railway, probably with dogs. She had to get as far away as she could, then get off the track and find somewhere to lie up till the next night.

  She began to sob as she walked. What the hell had she been thinking? It wasn’t supposed to be like this; she should have been safe undercover by now, not alone, frightened to death and friendless. The thought of capture brought full tears, along with the shame of failure. She stopped for a while to control herself and quell the panic. She would have to try to keep her nerve or she would descend into making mistakes. She needed to be able to think clearly if she was to get out of this mess. With an effort of will, she cleared her mind and set to walking again.

  She knew that she would have to avoid any habitations, not knowing whether she could trust anyone. There were unfortunately plenty of collaborators in France, and then there were those who simply wanted no involvement; resisters were scarce few indeed, but such were her only hope. At some point she would have to approach someone for help; she knew she could not hope to reach her destination on her own, and the odds were really against her. But then again, she was still free! She had to stop again for a while to get her fear under control, breathing deep and willing the trembling away, concentrating on remembering the fieldcraft training. She began planning ahead as she resumed her journey. At first sign of dawn she would leave the track and try to find a hiding place. She needed to get out of the bloodstained overalls and tidy herself up. Some of her burden she would bury, leaving only the case to carry. She decided to keep the weapons with her for as long as she could, reasoning with grim determination that capture, for her, was not an option, never had been! She had already taken two in revenge for Bill, she realised. She hoped that if it came down to it she would take some more before turning the gun on herself. She knew she could do it: she was more terrified of capture than of dying, and it would be quick. Small comfort!

  Twice during the night she had to get off the tracks and hide as trains came along; the first was a long line of boxcars, the second a passenger train, probably full of German troops. Apart from these, she had encountered no obstacles, no stations or guarded points; she had been lucky. Finally, after she had been walking for about five hours, dawn began to slowly break. She heard the sound of running water off to her left, and, being thirsty, she left the track and found a stream running between overgrown banks. She stumbled down the bank and waded into the stream, feeling its icy cold. Pausing only for a short while to drink and splash water over her face, she waded along the stream as silently as she could, avoiding low branches and brambles that threatened to ensnare her. She was comforted by the thought that this would at least slow any pursuing dogs and their handlers for a while. She felt the weight of the gun under her arm, and was reassured a little. Her spirits were rising in tandem with the dawn. She had waded for at least a half mile, casting her eyes left and right in hope of finding a hide. Then she saw woodland on the left horizon and, realising that she had little time left before it would be fully light, she left the stream and, keeping close to a hedgerow, she made her way up the slope.

  She saw no-one as she walked, but when she reached the trees she stopped and looked carefully back the way she had come, and all around her. Birds began to sing as she moved silently into the trees, being careful to leave as little trace of her progress as she went. It was a large wood, perhaps even a forest, and, after a while, she began to relax a little, her fear dissipating in short measures. Then she came across a clearing bounded on the far side by a cliff-wall. There were tracks off to her left and right and signs of men at work. Piles of logs were stacked to season here and there. She took the left track, noting that there were no fresh signs indicating that anyone had been here recently. She came to another smaller clearing where, to her joy, there was a building she recognised as a “Borie”, a circular stone hut with a slate roof that shepherds and woodsmen lived in whilst at work in such remote areas. “What luck!” she thought, as she moved cautiously towards it, leaving her pack and case under a bush.

  She drew the gun and cocked it as she neared the door, in case anyone was in residence. She took a deep breath, worked the latch, threw the door inward, and stepped inside and to the left, away from the light streaming in behind her. The place was empty. She exhaled with relief and went back for her bags, then returned, closed and bolted the door, and sank to the floor, her back to the wall.

  Fear still gnawed at the edge of her consciousness as she took stock of her situation; then, remembering, she dug into her rucksack and retrieved the pack Paul had insisted she take. She scrabbled it open: there were dried fruits, walnuts and chocolate! Heaven! She had replenished her water at the stream and, as she ate and drank, her spirits lifted a little. She thought of Paul and her hand strayed to his brooch still pinned to the inside of her bra. Touching it brought her a crumb of comfort; she was, after all, safe and undiscovered. If her luck held, she might yet reach her destination and make her contact with the Resistance. Things had gone wrong, but she had coped, hadn’t she? She felt tiredness creeping over her. She would have to risk sleep; she needed it, but she took the time to pack away the rest of the food and water.

  She slipped the magazine from the gun and emptied the chamber, putting the round back into the clip. She had been told never to leave a round in the firing chamber for too long as to do so meant more risk of a jam with this model. She reassembled the weapon, put on the safety and placed it on the floor next to her; then, making her pack into a pillow, she lay down and closed her eyes. She was asleep in minutes.

  She woke with a start. She’d been dreaming that she had heard an engine coming nearer and nearer. Reaching her full senses in time to hear it stop, she realised that it was real. She leapt to her feet. There were no windows, so she opened the door a crack and watched. She was debating whether to abandon the building and take her chances in the open, when she saw a man enter the clearing carrying a sack over his shoulder and whistling softly to himself. He was heading straight for her, so she inched the door closed again and, drawing the gun and arming it, she pressed herself against the wall and took deep breaths. He was clearly not a German, but she knew that she could take no chances till she knew what side he was on.

  The whistling grew louder, increasing her tension, then stopped; she knew he was just outside the door. Had he seen anything amiss? A footprint she had missed? After what seemed an age, the door opened and the man strode into the room, swinging the sack off his shoulder to the floor, where it landed with a loud crash.

  She stepped forward and shoved the man in the back so that he fell to the floor in a heap, then she dropped her knee onto his back, winding him, and shoved the pistol into his ear.

  “Keep still,” she hissed. “Who are you, what are you doing here?” she said in French.

  “Please, please, don’t hurt me. I am Gaspar, a simple woodcutter; this is my borie. I come to cut wood, to sell, to the villages; it’s my living. Please don’t shoot me, I have done nothing, please.”

  The man gabbled his words in complete panic.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, yes, I always come here alone.”

  She got up and took two paces back, warning him to keep still, keeping the gun aimed at his back. She looked out of the door and could see no-one, so she closed it and slipped the bolt home, locking it. “Get up,” she said. The man shuffled to his feet, his back to her. “Go and sit against the far wall, sit on your hands, palms upward, facing me; slowly now,” she warned, as the man hurried to do her bidding.

  She sat against the far wall, resting the gun on her knees. The man’s eyes widened as, once he got accustomed to the gloom, he saw his assailant for the first time. He was staring at her chest. She looked down and saw that her front was a mass of dried bloodstains, from where she had manhandled the bodies of the
Germans she had killed. She hadn’t noticed it before and she mentally kicked herself for it; though what difference would it have made?

  She regarded him, saying nothing, waiting for him to speak, to offer something. It was a technique she had learned in interrogation training which served to unnerve your opponent. The man was beginning to calm himself. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, with greying salt-and-pepper hair, cut short above his ears. He had blue eyes, along nose and his firm jaw was covered in a grey stubble. He would have been handsome in his youth and the eyes were open and looked sincere: no shifting, no deceit or malice was immediately evident in them.

  She waited.

  The man shifted his weight and licked his lips nervously, avoiding her steady gaze. His mouth had gone dry and he began to shiver. After a while he broke the silence.

  “Please, Miss, put the gun down. I mean you no harm. I cannot hurt you. I am an old man, too slow. I’m no match for you. Please put it down.”

  She said nothing, but pointedly aimed the gun at him, squinting down the barrel. He whimpered and turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. When he mustered the nerve to look at her again, he saw her slowly and deliberately place the gun on the floor, nearby, where she could pick it up in an instant, her eyes never leaving him.

  He sighed with relief, and some of the tension left his frame. Still she said nothing, continuing to stare at him.

  “What do you want? I’ll do anything. What must I do?”

  “What’s in the sack?” she asked.

  “My tools: axes, saws. I came to get wood, to sell.”