The Talisman

by Allan Jones

  “Better that way. You’ll be counted among the dead, the safe will survive, but the contents will probably be scorched to a crisp. Provided we reach Henri’s, we’ll be home and dry.”

  “That’s a big if. D’ you know the way?”

  “Sure, driven it a few times with Gaspar.”

  She settled in her seat and watched the road ahead. A thought occurred to her. “Oh God! Those poor people in the basement,” she gasped.

  Paul was grim. “I know. There was nothing we could have done for them, they were beyond hope; at least their suffering is over now.”

  “But Christ! My plan would have worked!”

  “Maybe. Now we’ll never know. You know what’s at stake; we can’t risk chances, what ifs, we had to make sure. Now they’ll never know the safe’s been opened! The stuff we’ve got will be even more useful if they’ve no idea.”

  She knew he was right, but needed more convincing. “Anyway, I guess I’ll just have to live with it. Me! Not you! I did it, I killed them!” he said sombrely.

  “It’s my fault too. If I hadn’t…”

  He cut her off. “You had nothing to do with it; it was my decision. Anyway, stop talking about it, it’s done.”

  They drove in silence for a while as she struggled to justify everything crowding her mind. He broke the silence, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve got a present for you,” he said, tossing a leather drawstring purse into her lap. She struggled to open it and peered inside. Diamonds! Lots of them! All sizes.

  “My God! Where did you get these?”

  “Wessendorf’s safe, tucked in the back; probably his retirement nest egg.”

  She smiled. “You bloody thief!” she cried.

  “Better I steal them as any other bugger,” he said with a wide grin.

  “But there’s a fortune here.”

  “So! What of it? Why shouldn’t we have it? We’ll call it our future, shall we? For after the war.”

  She closed the bag, tying a knot in the string, and shoved it deep into her trouser pocket. “Spoils of war, that sort of thing,” she said.

  “If you like,” he smiled across at her.

  A grin spread over her face and she reached on the floor for her knapsack and delved into it. “Well, I guess I’ve got a little confession to make,” she said, as she pulled out the jewellery from the bottom of the bag and held it up. Everything he had made her wear for his pleasure was there: the tiara, the necklace, bracelets, the rings!

  Paul laughed. “Who’s the bloody thief now then?”

  “It’s not stealing; they’re mine! He gave them to me, didn’t he? I’m entitled! I’m allowed!” she protested.

  Paul was still laughing. “Have it your way; you’re still as big a thief as me.”

  “Something else we have in common.” She stowed the haul back in the bag.

  “All in all, a successful night’s work,” Paul observed.

  She lapsed into silence, suddenly deep in thought, then turned to him. “You know, it’s funny, what you said, about our future. I’ve just realised! I haven’t thought that way for a long time.”

  He glanced over at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Well, about the future, I’ve sort of got used to not thinking about it. Since the war started, I’ve come to be thinking that there isn’t going to be one, that’s all. I’ve been living day to day, taking each as it comes. I suppose it’s because we all have this notion that we could all be dead tomorrow, who knows? But now I realise that there is one; we still have a future. We just have to make it happen, don’t we?”

  “Yes, but we have to fight for it; that’s what it’s all about now. We fight for a future that is acceptable to us, not one that is imposed on us. That’s what fighting this war is all about; not just for us, but for all the generations to come. We have to win!”

  “And do whatever it takes,” she added.

  The car sped south as they digested this. Soon they swept into Henri’s yard. Philippe hurried out and embraced them briefly before taking the car away to its hiding place. Henri stood filling the door with his massive frame, illuminated by the light spilling out from within. They carried their packs over and dropped them, as Henri threw a massive arm round each of their necks and hugged them, kissing each in turn on the cheek. “My children! My children! You have come back! My comrades, my brave comrades!”

  He was squeezing them both tight to him, making it difficult to breathe. Amelia heaved at his chest and cried, “Henri, you’re suffocating me! Let go! Let’s get inside!”

  Henri gave one final squeeze, then let go; she kissed his cheek as he stood aside and they entered to a rapturous welcome from Gaspar, Lucille and Andre. Finally, they sat at the table and were presented with steaming bowls of stew. Henri fetched a bottle of pastis, and poured everyone a generous measure. “A toast,” he cried, raising his glass, “to the safe return of our comrades in arms. To victory! To France!”

  “And to England!” Amelia cried, before they drained their glasses as one.

  The fiery liquid made her gasp, but she held the glass out for a refill nonetheless. More exuberant toasts followed; then, as they tucked into the food, Paul related every detail of the night’s work. Amelia’s embarrassed protests were ignored as Paul’s description of her tart’s outfit caused hoots of laughter; she punched him indignantly on his arm, causing him to wince mockingly. Then she was called upon to relate everything of Wessendorf and of how he had met his end. Tears fell from everyone’s eyes amid gales of laughter as she was forced to repeat each gory detail. How hard had she hit him? With what? How many times? How loud did he yell? Then Philippe returned and she had to repeat much of the story for his benefit.

  Presently, the laughter died down and they analysed the success of the mission and its implications for the future. Paul said that they would lie low for a while before radioing for a pick-up. The area would be crawling with Germans before long! He turned to Amelia. “Y’ know, it’s a good thing you never made your contact in Rennes.”

  “How’s that?” She was puzzled.

  Everyone gave him their full attention. “Gibbons had been suspecting that there’s been a leak in the Rennes cell for some time,” he told her.

  “Yes, he told me to be careful, that he had an inkling,” she offered.

  “When you went awol he nearly had a fit! He thought that they had you, that he had sent you to your death; but Rennes replied that they hadn’t seen you and had no word of your capture. You’d disappeared! We tried everyone, but no-one knew anything!”

  “Yes, he kept me locked away in my suite for a while before I was allowed anywhere near going out. Then I was always escorted by those Ukrainians of his. I had no chance to get word out.”

  “Anyway,” Paul resumed, “Picard eventually got the photos to the ‘Colonel’, who sent them un opened, thank God, to SOE. The spy couldn’t have seen them, and once we figured out what they meant, we were in business.”

  He turned to Amelia, but before he could ask, she said, “They were deniable. If I was caught with them, I was going to say I wanted them framed. There was nothing in them for the Germans to find. Only you would be able to figure them out.”

  “So, Gibbons told me to avoid the Rennes people. We guessed you would have left your radio behind, so there was no need. I used it last night to call in the air strike. SOE were to warn the ‘Colonel’ and tell him to scatter his people and go underground for a while. We reckoned the Germans would look to them as culprits for tonight and scour the area, but by now they’ll be long gone; they’ll be safe.”

  “And no-one knows of here,” Henri added, “so we’re all right. Anyway, we haven’t really done anything yet, have we? Apart from providing shelter and transport.”

  “And very grateful we are, Henri, to all of you; this couldn’t have happened without you, and the war’s not over yet − there’ll be plenty of time for action.”

  Amelia reached over and took Henri’s hand. �
��True enough,” Henri sighed, squeezing her hand, ‘but I grow impatient. I want to do more! I want to hurt these bastards! I want to chase them all back to Berlin. I want to crush them! Like bugs!”

  “You’ll get your chance, Henri, count on it!” Paul assured him grimly.

  They drank and talked into the early hours, till finally they admitted it was time for bed. “Same room,” Lucille told them, stifling a yawn.

  As soon as they were in the room, Amelia draped herself drunkenly around him, kissing him slowly and lasciviously, pinning his back to the door. He pulled her blouse and jumper over her head, exposing her full breasts, the nipples swollen in desire. He bent to kiss each one as he undid her belt, then he removed her trousers and knickers so that she was completely naked before him in all her loveliness.

  He picked her up in his strong arms, and, kissing her, carried her to the bed and lay her on it. He paused only to undo his fly buttons before he lay on top of her, fully clothed himself. The rough flannel of his trousers tickled the insides of her thighs as she drew up her legs to welcome him. He entered her slowly, right up to the hilt, then drew back, paused at her opening, then slid in again very slowly. He pinioned her arms above her head and began a slow, rhythmic, precise movement. She tried to move, to encourage him to speed up, such was her urgency, but then he stopped, waiting till she was still, before he resumed the slow, deliberate movement.

  Amelia relaxed, conscious of what he wanted. There was no unclothed part of him she could reach to kiss! So she bit into his shoulder through the coarse woollen jumper. She could feel the first stirrings of her orgasm begin deep within her and she knew that this was going to take a very, very long time!

  In their candle-lit room down the corridor, Lucille knelt on the bed and enthusiastically took Gaspar’s penis in her mouth, as Henri thrust vigorously into her from behind.

  CHAPTER 14

  A week later, Paul stood looking out of the kitchen window, sipping a glass of water. Philippe and Andre had scouted the area on bicycles and had reported increased German activity on the roads. They weren’t looking for partisans, the air raid had ensured that; instead, they were probably, by now, looking for Major Hans Krueger, figuring, as they were supposed to, that he had been the one behind the air raid. Paul had cut his hair even shorter and dyed it brown; he wore glasses and he had driven a small tack into one of his shoes to train himself to walk with a limp.

  As he watched, a man emerged from the barn carrying an axe. Paul’s eyes narrowed as the man began splitting logs on the chopping block. Henri entered the room behind him. “Alas, it is my turn to make the coffee, in my own house. Can you believe it?” he grumbled, as he moved to fill the kettle.

  “Henri, come here, quick,” Paul said. Henri came to stand beside him. “Who is that man chopping wood? Does he live here too?” Paul asked, his voice urgent.

  Henri peered out of the window, then turned back to his task. “Ah, that is only Claude. He is harmless, don’t worry about him.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Paul persisted.

  “He comes and goes; we let him sleep in the barn on the cot. He works all day, simple things, then tonight he will knock on the door and Lucille will give him a few francs and some food, maybe a little wine. He is no trouble; he doesn’t disturb us and we leave him alone to get on with it. He is, as you say, simple, and he cannot speak; he will stay a few days, maybe a week, then he will move on to others and do the same for them.”

  “Does he know anything? Does he know I’m here? Did he see her when she was here?”

  “What is there to know? So far, we have done nothing,” Henri replied.

  Paul was becoming exasperated. “It’s important! Does he know of me, or Amelia? Tell me!”

  “No, nothing. He wasn’t here when she was, nor was he here last night. He must have come early this morning.”

  Paul breathed a sigh of relief. He crossed to Henri and put his arm round his shoulder, drawing him from the room. “Henri, my friend, get the others; we need to talk.”

  As dusk fell, Andre watched the man Claude as he took his tray to the barn. Once he was inside, Andre turned to the others assembled in the room and nodded. “We’ll let him finish his dinner,” Paul announced. “Is everyone clear on what each has to do? Any questions?” There were none. Paul turned to Philippe and Andre. “You’re ready? You know what you have to do?”

  Amelia watched their faces anxiously; she knew it was a lot to expect of them, they were so young! Barely out of their teens. They regarded each other, then Philippe spoke. “You can rely on us. The car is ready.” Andre nodded his agreement.

  Henri spoke up. “Gaspar’s van is out the back; everything we need is in the front room, waiting to be loaded.”

  “Lucille, are you all right?” Paul asked her.

  “I’m ready,” she replied eyeing him levelly. “I’ll do my part.”

  Amelia unrolled the map onto the table. “Let’s go over it once more,” she said, and they gathered round her.

  She pointed at the locations and traced each route with her finger. The rendezvous first, then Philippe and Andre’s route; then, finally, the route to the extraction point where she and Paul would meet the plane coming in the small hours to take them back to England. She and Gaspar had not long returned from the radio’s new hiding place. The worst part had been whilst waiting for the reply: it had seemed an age, every moment expecting discovery by the Germans’ very efficient mobile detector vans. Finally, the one-word reply had come: “Confirmed”.

  Paul looked at his watch and readied himself, picking up the silenced pistol and a flask of brandy. “Right, as soon as I’m in the barn, get things ready. Philippe, Andre, wait five minutes, then get into position.” He moved to Amelia and took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. She hugged him tightly, then watched as he strode to the door. He paused and turned to them. “Good luck, everyone. I should be back in an hour or so.” Then he opened the door and was gone.

  He trod lightly over to the barn door and peered through a knothole inside. Lit by a hurricane lamp, the man was sitting on the floor eating, his back against a bale of hay. Paul slipped quietly through the door shrouded in darkness and approached the pool of light, his pistol extended before him. The man sensed his approach and looked up as Paul emerged from the darkness. “You!” he gasped.

  “So… you can talk, Claude; or should I say Sergeant Ernest Sims,” Paul said, coolly aiming the gun atSims’ head. Sims’ arms flew in front of his face as if to ward off the expected bullet. He cried out in terror. “’Ere, ’ere, don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I can explain, I can explain! Don’t shoot, for Chrissake!”

  “I’m sure you can,” Paul said coldly.

  “I can, I can! Iss not wot you fink, honest! Don’t shoot!” Sims cried desperately.

  Paul waited, saying nothing, and watched as Sims peeped out from under his raised arms, then lowered them slowly, his eyes imploring. Without looking, Paul drew up a nearby stool and sat, his eyes fixed on Sims. The man relaxed visibly until Paul thumbed the hammer of the pistol back, then he stiffened. Paul set down the brandy next to him, saying nothing, letting the tension grow. Finally, he spoke. “You’re going to tell me everything; no lies, the truth.”

  “I will, I will, only put the gun down, point it somewhere else; you don’t need to point it at me! I won’t do nuffin’, I won’t. I’ll stay here an’ just talk, OK?”

  Paul kept the gun aimed. He thought for a while, then spoke. “All right, begin with the events leading up to when we first met.”

  “Wot you wanna know that for?”

  “I’m curious. I want to know what made a British soldier desert to become a witless French peasant. Why would he? What’s the gain?”

  “I’m not a fuckin’ deserter, I’m not! I was drove to it, I ’ad no choice. I was as good as dead if I’d stayed.”

  Paul leaned forward on the stool. “And how’s that?” Sims remained silent. “Come on, I want to know,” Paul barked.
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  “’Ang on, I’m trying to fink. It’s not easy with a gun pointed at yer. Gimme time to fink, will yer?”

  “Time to think of a pack of lies?”

  “No! No! ’Onest, I’ll tell yer, just gimme a minute.”

  Paul watched the physical effort the man was taking to gather his wits. Finally, Sims breathed deeply and began. “We’d been fighting ’em for days, ’itting ’em ’ard, fallin’ back, regroupin’, ’itting’em ’ard, fallin’ back, always the same. There was too many of ’em. We was doin’ good, though;’adn’t lost a man… we killed plenty of theirs, though. We was drawin’ ’em on, see, back to our lines an’our guns. It was a tactic, wasn’t it, established tactic, see; we’d been trained it. Captain Tanner was in command then;’e were a good un,’e was. Knew about soljerin’,’edid. Looked after ’is men, listened to ’is NCOs, fought like a demon along o’ us. Then, well,’e bought it, didn’t’e.”

  Sims went silent for a while. “Well, that’s when it all began to fall apart,” he resumed, “when that twat Lieutenant Johnson took over. ’E was useless, jus’ out of officer school, wet behind the ears, proper upper-class twat! Always ’anging round thecaptain like a puppy dog, ’anging on every word;’e ’adn’ta clue. We started losing blokes, good blokes. All because of ’im. ’E ’ad it in ’is ’ed that it was cowardly to keep retreatin’, kep’ wantin’ us to stand an’ fight. When it came to it, though,’e still called the retreat; but by then it was too late and we kep’ losing blokes cos of it.’E’d leave it jus’ too long, see, that extra couple o’ minutes. I tried to tell ’im, but ’e kep’ ignoring me, wouldn’t listen. Good officers listen to their sergeants, don’ they? It’s NCOs as knows about soljerin’, innit? Backbone of the British Army the NCOs, ain’t they, sir?”