‘I could do with some fish and chips,’ said White. ‘Eels,’ said Simmons. ‘Baby’s head and smash,’ said Johnson. ‘Kidneys,’ said Mulligan, ‘Lamb’s kidneys with bacon.’ Peter threw scraps of sausage to Totosh, who caught them in mid-air. Although desperate for a cigarette, the section, except Smith and Newman, derisively rejected the Gauloises. ‘Call them a smoke?’ said White. ‘I’d sooner roll Morgan’s shit.’
They had just finished off the food when Totosh began to growl, backing into Peter’s legs and flattening himself on the floor. As he growled, Mulligan called from the window. ‘Corp. Quick. Take a fuckin’ look at this.’
Pedalling down the street towards them was the baker, Gérard. On his crossbar sat his sister.
They were all up at the window. ‘Let’s get the fucker, corp.’
‘Get back from the window. Quiet.’
Gérard had stopped outside the gate. Without a word to him, his sister dismounted, strode up to the house and pulled the front-door bell. The young girl opened the door and stood aside. Gérard leant his bicycle against the railings. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his overall pocket and lit up, blowing the column of smoke slowly into the air with, Peter would have said, resignation.
‘Wait,’ Peter hissed. The crucifix, the carving, the sister’s going straight into Lesort’s house, the brother’s waiting outside—he wanted to understand.
Gérard forced his hand. He walked up to the workshop, turning along the front to go to the privy. Totosh growled and yelped. Gérard looked straight into Peter’s eyes.
****
‘Please, please,’ Gérard begged, his voice shaking, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’ The baker was scarcely able to stay upright, encircled by the section, seething, rifles in hand,. Face grey, knees and hands trembling, he’d wet himself. White had opened his clasp knife. Morgan too, stroking the blade with his thumb.
‘These men want to kill you, I promise you,’ said Peter. ‘We’re supposed to be allies but you sent us into a trap. The Boche were ready, waiting for us. I’m giving you this one chance to explain.’
‘I did nothing wrong. I tried to help you.’
‘“Nothing wrong”? Help us by handing us over to the Germans? You’d better come up with a good explanation before it’s too late.’
‘I tried to help you. I truly went to look for the Germans. They could not have been there.’
‘There they were. Three of them. Because you betrayed us. And they died. Why should you not join them?’
‘Because I told the Germans, not my poor Gérard.’ Clear and firm, his sister’s voice cut in from the doorway. ‘And I told them because this war is over. France is defeated by its own corruption and we must learn from the Germans to rise from the ashes, renewed and purified.’ Her eyes shone. Her bearing was upright, steady.
‘And rise we will.’ The mayor’s voice came over her shoulder.
‘As for my poor Gérard,’ she went on, ‘he did his best to help you. He even led you to the second bridge, as I knew he would.’
Peter said to the section, ‘This man’s innocent. It was this woman, his sister, who betrayed us.’
She came to stand by her brother’s side. ‘If you must kill someone, kill me.’ She lifted her chin and looked Peter in the eyes. ‘I will die for my France, the sacred France I believe will return.’
He had seen such a woman before. But Miriam Baggot would never have betrayed her country’s allies, would she?
Chapter Five
As the Menuiserie Lesort lorry bumped its way along, Peter asked Gérard, ‘Action Française, your sister and the mayor?’
‘Passionate supporters. For them and their like, the defeat of my poor France will be an opportunity for national rebirth. Perhaps if you British had …’ His voice died away.
‘Your sister never married?’
‘Her fiancé died at Verdun. Their child was stillborn. She has found a political soul mate in M. Lesort.’
As Peter stared out at the rolling, wooded countryside, he heard again the gasp from the section as he reached for the shotgun. Smith had taken his arm. ‘You can’t shoot down a woman, corp. Not in cold blood.’ Newman supported Smith. ‘Not a woman, corporal. An unarmed woman. Whatever she’s done.’
The mayor had stepped in front of her, his hands raised as if ready to brush the shot away. ‘Please do not shoot, I beg you. Madame Odette did only what she believed as a patriot was best for her country, something you as a patriot might have done.’ He paused to see what effect his words had. ‘And if you cannot understand that, or find Christian forgiveness in your heart—’
‘Don’t you think we should leave, corporal?’ Newman had broken in, his voice cracking. ‘I suppose he’s called for the Germans and they’re on their way. They must be after us anyway. Can’t we leave now? If you must kill her, get on with it, please.’
The mayor had taken her hand. ‘We have not told the Germans.’ Still all defiance, she’d nodded. ‘We give you our word. I would not want that to happen in my village.’
Standing hand in hand, they’d had had a righteous, unyielding air. Willing martyrs. Volunteer hostages. United in their conviction. Convinced of their purity of motive. ‘White, Morgan, put those knives up. Now.’ He’d pointed the shotgun at the floor. ‘Monsieur Lesort, please go on with your proposal.’
‘My lorry is in the garage. Take it and drive to the coast. I will tell you which route you can best take to avoid the Germans and where to leave it for me. Your soldier is correct in this, you must go.’
Simmons had been a delivery driver and Johnson had been up for car theft. Peter had sent them to look over the lorry. ‘If you don’t mind a peck of sawdust, should be fine,’ Simmons had reported. ‘Tank seems full enough.’ ‘All we’d need is a bit of rubber pipe,’ said Johnson.
Peter had indicated Gérard. ‘He’ll come along. If there’s any trouble, he’ll be the first to go. If he can drive, he can take us, then bring back the lorry.’ The mayor had fetched a map and shown Peter the route that would lead them to a small harbour. He had the old woman and girl bring some food and drink. They were set to depart. The mayor and Odette embraced Gérard.
****
So here they were on the last lap. Last and most dangerous. They would be crossing the German line of advance. Driving straight on, they might make the coast in one long bound, even in this wheezy, juddering old lorry that needed coaxing up hills and round corners. However, sticking to the back roads, stealth over speed, was still the best bet. They must cross one major west–east highway just before the coast. He wanted to do that by night.
Gérard at the wheel, they juddered on in silence. Totosh was curled between Peter’s legs. From time to time he put up his head for Peter to rub. There were glimpses of woods and hills, rolling meadows and pastures, fields of green wheat and oats; he saw long farmhouses and mills by sudden streams, a fortified château. All was quiet in the back of the lorry. The section must have exercised its skill in sleeping whenever possible. “Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, never lie down without catching some shut-eye.”
They jolted over a railway line, splashed across a stream, hubcap deep. The failing light was beginning to turn the narrow lanes into dark tunnels. Headlights? Advertising their presence for miles? ‘We will stop when we see somewhere we can get off the road.’
They forded another stream and went through a shuttered hamlet. Gérard slowed. ‘If you want to stop, this is as good as any.’ He pulled in by a half-timbered, two-storey building, with an overhanging first floor.
A metal sign on top of a pole said Auberge La Belle-Vue. The name was picked out in red, yellow and blue along the beam over the front door. A car park, empty, and some outbuildings stood to one side. Gérard turned off the engine, jumped down and went in, leaving the door swinging behind him. Ordering the section to dismount and disperse, Peter followed.
He was in a large square room with a flagged stone floor and a l
ow ceiling of massive blackened oak beams, cut by hand. Oilcloth-covered tables with cruets and menus were clustered in front of a stone fireplace, wide and cluttered with iron firedogs, griddles and a heavy spit. A low fire of logs threw shadows on an iron fireback. Cinema posters, maps of local sights, photographs of football teams decorated rough whitewashed walls. At the back was a bar with zinc-covered counter, croissants under a glass bell, and mirrored shelves with an array of bottles.
A woman sat at a table by the bar, the restaurant’s only occupant. As far as Peter could see, she was late 20s, perhaps early 30s, plump, with thick blonde hair, waved and cut short. In front of her lay the remains of a meal and a glass half filled with beer. A wireless on the bar was playing accordion music; she tapped a foot and nodded in time to it.
‘Madame, I am looking for somewhere for us – my nine men and Monsieur Michel – to sleep, somewhere off the road. Could we use one of the barns there? We will leave before dawn without disturbing you.’
The blonde woman replied without hesitation. ‘Corporal, I have rabbit stew and no customers. Call your men.’
When the section had shuffled in, she fluffed out her hair and addressed them in French. Peter translated. ‘My name is Micheline and I am pleased to welcome our allies to my Auberge La Belle-Vue. Corporal, if one of your men could help me?’
At once Smith volunteered. To Peter’s surprise, he had some French. He took on the role of her assistant, putting wood on the fire, getting cutlery, cutting bread, serving beer and cider, bringing in plates of stew, helping to clear. He found an apron in the kitchen and tied it round his waist and bantered with the section as he went, making believe he was host of a jolly holiday-party. Gérard had offered to keep watch and took his meal to eat in the lorry. Peter was not sorry to see the back of him for a bit: the man had become increasingly edgy. Smith went out with cheese and wine and reported that Gérard had been out on the road, had hardly touched his rabbit.
What was this? The wireless was playing Tino Rossi. With a little bow, Smith was saying, ‘Je vous en prie. Voulez-vous danser avec moi, Madame?’ He was unlacing his boots and kicking them off, he was taking Micheline’s hand. With a disbelieving smile, she was allowing herself to be drawn up to him. In command, he was leading her into a waltz across the space in front of the bar.
“Ankles”. So light, so supple, so graceful. The real Smith, Peter thought. The music rounded off with a long glissando. He bowed to her. She ducked her head to him. Cheers and a round of applause came from the section; they had even put down their cards from their habitual game of pontoon to watch. She and he were waiting together, poised. A prolonged, intense tango followed.
She was wearing ankle boots and an apron over a gingham dress. He was in creased and stained battledress. But something magical in their dancing gripped Peter – their total rapport, moving as one, detached from their surroundings as if on stage in a spotlight, alone for each other. He had never danced, in his own clumsy way, with Dinah. How intensely she would dance, with that wide smile and laughter in her dark eyes.
‘You speak French.’
‘Not like you, corp, like a Frenchman. I worked the coast and picked up a little bit.’
‘She can dance.’
‘She can and what’s more, she can follow.’
‘I thought you were following her.’
‘That I could, corp. I certainly could.’
They danced again, more lazily and sinuously. She had found him a pair of slippers and his movement was even lighter and more flowing. Even more they moved as one.
With regret, Peter declared lights out. She lit an oil lamp for them to take to an outhouse behind the Auberge and found some old blankets to spread on the concrete floor. As they filed out, she touched his sleeve and asked, ‘May Paul stay for a few minutes, corporal, to help me put things straight again? It’s unusual at this moment to have so large a party.’
****
Rustling in the trees announced the coming of dawn. Wrapped in their greatcoats, the section were still dozing around him. Would today’s stage be the last, see them to the coast? He tried to run through what could go wrong, but all the time some disquiet was worrying at the edge of his mind, something he couldn’t identify. Gérard Michel?
The baker had declared he would sleep in the lorry. It was empty, the man himself nowhere to be seen. Robinson was on lookout duty on the road but hadn’t seen ‘not hide nor hair of him since turning out’. A bicycle had been by the back door: it was gone. That was it, the disquiet: he realised he’d picked up some understanding between brother and sister. The section must leave at once.
Smith came out of the Auberge with a can of boiling water for tea and some bread and sausage. Out of earshot of the rest of the section, he asked for a quiet word. ‘Corp, fact is, well, Micheline wants me to stay with her. She can fix me up with papers – her Dad’s in the town hall – and she says I could get by. We can work together here. We’ve really hit it off. Really. The first time in my life.’
‘Paul, it would be desertion in the face of the enemy. You know I can’t possibly say yes to that.’
‘The truth is, corp, if I go back, I’m a goner. Sooner or later, Fat Tony’ll catch up with me. You don’t know Fat Tony but I’ll be floating off Wapping Stairs. Desertion or no, this is too good to miss. I’ve found Micheline. We’ve found each other.’
‘Smith, you’re a British soldier. At war.’ How desperate the man looked. ‘Gérard’s gone. I think that lot have betrayed us. Jerry’s probably on the way, knows just where we are. We must move.’
‘If Jerry does come, they won’t be looking for one man. And Micheline can hide me.’
Micheline had come to the back door and was watching, so anxiously, so lovingly. Smith’s chance of life. Let him grasp it? Anyway the section might not make it.
‘Paul, in war plenty of soldiers just disappear. Lost, taken prisoner, dead. Get left behind and go into hiding. It could happen to any of us.’ He lifted his voice, ‘When you’ve taken the kitchen stuff back, fall in.’ And in an undertone, ‘Good luck.’ Grasping his chance.
He went over to thank Micheline for her hospitality and nodded. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Safe journey. And a very great thank you for your understanding. You are a good man.’
He lined up the section. ‘Our French friend’s gone.’
‘Fucker’s scarpered,’ said White.
‘And taken the key with him,’ said Peter. ‘Shanks’s pony again.’
Morgan spat and shook his knife. ‘We should have done for the fucker.’
‘Leave it to me, corp,’ said Johnson. ‘Can you ask the missus for a fuckin’ screwdriver or some scissors?’ He disappeared under the bonnet. One minute later he said to Simmons, ‘Turn the crank and keep turning it.’ A minute more and the engine coughed into life. ‘All a-fuckin’-board corp. The fucker could burn fuckin’ out any fuckin’ time.’
‘Simmons drive. Mount up. Go. Go.’
They left still pulling up the tailboard, Simmons crashing the unfamiliar gears and swearing at every crashed change. Someone was bawling above the engine noise. ‘Corp. Is Ankles with you?’
‘No. Isn’t he back there?’
White shouted, ‘No corp. He’s been left.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t one of you report at once? We can’t go back.’ He told Simmons to keep going. ‘He’ll have to catch us up.’ Hadn’t been much urgency in White’s voice.
He’d miss Smith. The man had courage. He’d met the woman of his life and gone for her. Whatever happened, he could say, ‘I acted’.
****
A burned-out German tank silenced them as they came up to the main road, its size and weight, the black and white cross on its side.
‘Give her all you can, Simmons. Whatever happens, keep going, just keep going.’ He should reconnoitre the crossroads, but to stop the lorry could be fatal. He shouted to the others to ‘Lie down!’
The engine racing, Simmons charged the last 20
0 yards up hill to the junction, the lorry almost jumping out of the lane, over the main road, down into the lane opposite, and on, gravel spurting from the tyres, rolling dangerously as Simmons fought it round a series of bends.
The junction had been clear, the main road empty as far as a snatched glance could tell. Craning along the road, he’d glimpsed a Dingo armoured scout car upside down, a Bren gun carrier smashed, a light tank burned out and reduced to a hulk, a truck behind the tank, its windscreen and bonnet shattered, a broken-up motorcycle. No sign of life.
Two or three miles down the lane, the engine died. Johnson looked under the bonnet, touched something and swore. ‘Fuckin’ red hot.’ He slammed the bonnet shut. ‘Poor old thing’s fucked. There ain’t another fuckin’ mile in her.’ He turned to Simmons. ‘You tore the ’eart out of the poor old girl.’ He seemed almost in tears.
‘I ordered him to,’ said Peter. ‘Fall in. Not far to the sea now.’
Chapter Six
Ahead, the sky had the radiance that signalled the presence of the sea. The landscape had changed, the soil becoming marshy, the meadows wetly lush, the drainage channels deeper. It changed again and they were walking steadily uphill between hedges of hawthorn and gorse along the narrowest of lanes. Water meadows had given way to sandy soil and rough grassland dotted with stunted trees. At the top, the lane became a track; the ground flattened into a wide plateau. On the horizon to their right, thick black columns of smoke were rising into the clear air. With dismay, he saw that his men were completely exposed. Turf and sandy soil, wiry tussocks of grass, bushes flattened by sea wind. Not an inch of cover
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