Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  Through the metal of the bunk, he could feel the destroyer picking up speed, the metal humming, the thump of the screws increasingly heavy. The lesser evil? Could he say that about his shooting a civilian rather than allowing her to fall into Gestapo hands?

  Madame Lagrange, the colonel had instructed him, was a British agent. And no ordinary agent. She had been planted in the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s household in Paris, had even bolted with them to Antibes, but was no longer part of their much-reduced entourage. There were rumours of contacts between the duchess and the Germans, allied orders of battle passed over. The duke had held on to a cache of secret royal papers. There were concerns in Whitehall over his support for a peace settlement, his friendship with Hitler.

  Now, what price the fact that British Intelligence had planted an agent on the former monarch? The damage Lagrange might do in German hands had plainly put the wind up the highest levels of government and intelligence. No doubt there was much else the woman knew. So, at a level well above this room in The Mansions, a decision had been taken that the national interest required “bring her home or send her to the devil”. And the summons had gone out to Special Duties. Colonel Ponsonby’s eyes had narrowed. A chance to show what SD could do, justify their claim to be the unit for unconventional missions done in unconventional ways – flexible, buccaneering, imaginative. More than this mission was riding on Peter’s – he’d called him Peter for the first time – shoulders.

  The truly crucial thing, the colonel had said, was to plan his getaway. ‘Finding her and dealing with her is one thing. The tricky bit is making good your escape, if you need to. Know exactly how you’ll get out before you get in. That’s a rule of life. Have an alternative in mind. Plan your cover story in case you run into someone. At least you’re in uniform.’

  And, Peter thought, could still be denied. But, after all, why shouldn’t he persuade her that London was a better bet than a Gestapo cellar?

  Equipped with papers, passwords and contacts, off he’d set into the blue June evening.

  ‘This is just the job for you.’ Colonel Ponsonby had walked him to the lift. ‘And a flying start for the section.’

  ****

  At a cacophonous Waterloo, a transport officer had directed him to the furthest reaches of the station for the general’s special train. The entrance to the platform had been roped off and armed military police guarded the barrier, meticulously checking papers and travel orders. On the platform, groups of officers were standing at their ease, chatting. No general yet, he surmised.

  As he’d marched down towards the NCO’s compartments, just behind the engine, an officer had stepped out and called after him. ‘Sergeant. Just a moment.’

  He saluted. ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Peter Hill, isn’t it? I saw you with your mother in The Hague, not long before the balloon went up.’

  ‘Colonel ffoulkes, sir? She said you had been on my father’s Cambridge course.’

  ‘That’s right. Remarkable man. The most stimulating possible time. Really got one thinking. I hear he’s making himself felt in Cairo.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s glad to be of use again.’

  ‘Your mother? Well I hope?

  ‘In eastern Europe, doing her photo-journalism.’

  ‘She entertained us royally. Had a cosmopolitan way with her that opened the eyes of some of my fellow officers. We always spoke French, she and I.’

  ‘It’s her first language really. She never spoke anything else to my sister and me.’

  ‘You’ve not gone for a commission—yet?’

  ‘Not yet, colonel.’

  ‘You’re on our headquarters staff?’ He seemed surprised.

  ‘Temporary attachment, colonel.’

  ‘Ah, the oddbod who’s attached?’ The colonel’s tone had become official. The attached sergeant’s true role was not generally known. No tourists was the condition, so he should expect to pull his weight. ‘I’ll be looking out for what you can plausibly do.’ It was up to him when he left, but he must not depart with any jobs half done. Then, warmer: ‘Good luck with whatever operation you’re set for.’

  Further down the platform, a captain and a staff sergeant had been watching the interchange. He’d halted by them.

  ‘Sergeant Hill, attached headquarters staff, sir. Could you tell me where I should report?’

  ‘So you’re Sergeant Hill. Consider yourself reported. Staff, show the sergeant where to stow his kit. When it’s aboard, sergeant, come back for a word with me.’

  The captain had taken him aside to repeat the conditions of his attachment. And, not quite an afterthought, had he served under Colonel ffoulkes?

  ‘No, sir. He’s acquainted with my parents, and I met him before the balloon went up.’

  ‘You’re serving under him now. He has charge of the general’s admin. And the general likes his admin tickety-boo.’

  Even so, the general had been delayed.

  ‘Still closeted with the War Minister, Eden.’ The staff sergeant had his own sources of intelligence. ‘He’s hammering out the final details. No nonsense from them Frogs.’ Like most of the staff, he’d been with the general since he commanded a corps in Belgium and was in awe of him: in strategy, far-sighted and decisive; in discussion, to the point; in orders, clear and precise; in routine, hard-working, tough but fair.

  The atmosphere had suddenly changed. The general had come aboard. Everyone felt it – as if an electric current were passing through, galvanising them into life.

  And they were off, signals all at green, full tilt through the darkened countryside, blacked-out stations, villages, towns. No glimpse of the grey coastline and darker sea. They were running into the docks. They were embarking on the waiting, blacked-out destroyer, steam up.

  With whoops from its siren, the elderly steel-grey ship was edging away from the dockside.

  He was on his way, back to France.

  ****

  He woke up as the engine note changed. The destroyer was losing way and slowing to a crawl, then heaving to, rolling in the swell.

  When they were allowed up on deck, the sky was dark and the rain pelting down. Through the murk, the port was greyly visible, crowded with shipping, transports, freighters, trawlers, ferries. Why wasn’t the general going straight in? Perhaps the tide was wrong or they had made such good time their berth wasn’t free.

  He had taken refuge from the rain in the petty officers’ mess, drinking hot sweet tea, when he was called over the Tannoy; Sergeant Hill to report to Colonel ffoulkes in the wardroom immediately.

  ‘Going to earn your keep,’ said the staff sergeant. ‘Don’t forget your pistol. Someone to be knocked off. A Froggie, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  Peter managed a smile and cocked his thumb and first finger at the staff sergeant. The old Browning was hard to miss. He left it behind in his kit. The Mauser was another matter. That went with him everywhere, tucked into his waistband.

  He would be going ashore, Colonel ffoulkes explained, with a small advance party to sort out the port commander, a French officer, over their docking. They were held in a queue of transports with a Canadian brigade ahead of them, men, tanks, supplies. The port commander was complaining he’d been given no advance notice of their arrival. A queue was a queue: he could not let anyone jump it. Colonel ffoulkes would be interpreting for the general’s aide. Peter’s job would be to keep a record of the talks and do any other interpretation. ‘Whatever’s brought you here, your French is a godsend.’

  Within the hour the destroyer was nosing its way in and Peter was with the party sent to make sure the docking went smoothly. Later, in their temporary headquarters in a rundown port hotel, he typed up his notes of the negotiations for entry in the staff war-diary, listening with an avid ear to an appreciation of the situation. The general was clear that he could see ‘no hope of the French holding out longer than the next few days’. The “New BEF” of four divisions had to be disentangled from French command and withdrawn,
the 100,000 Lines-of-Communication troops evacuated. As for the vast supply dumps of clothes, equipment, vehicles, stores, petrol – what couldn’t be shipped must be destroyed.

  Time, Peter thought, to be off. If the general was right – and the man carried total conviction – he had only a few days to find and deal with Madame Lagrange. He sought Colonel ffoulkes.

  ‘I was just sending for you, Peter. That was good work. Now I’m putting you into the general’s support party for the French high command at Orléans. No more than a flying visit. The general speaks perfect French, but we must send an interpreter with him and he may need a note-taker. Prepare to leave within the hour. You’ll be going via the Lines-of-Communication HQ at Le Mans.’

  ‘Colonel, my orders are to proceed on my assigned task whenever I think the time is right. Sir, with respect, I think I should go now.’

  ‘You’re attached to this staff on the basis that you pull your weight. I need you for the next two days. That’s my decision.’

  ‘With respect, sir, how will I justify my delay?’

  ‘You don’t justify anything. I will if I choose to.’ He smiled and unbent for a moment. ‘But I will fix onward transport for you once you’re back at Le Mans. By the way, the port commander’s secretary was very taken by your manner. “Quite aristocratic,” she said.’

  ****

  The driver of the general’s staff car must have been a Brooklands professional, skilfully relentless in forcing a way along roads clogged with refugees, past crammed municipal buses, dustcarts, fire engines, from Paris, the Paris region, past packed limousines and family cars boiling out under their load of rain-sodden mattresses, past piled-high lorries and tractors. His skill brought an unbroken stream of obscenities from the driver of the support team’s half-truck as they followed, past carts, barrows, bicycles, prams stacked with a lifetime’s possessions, past weary pedestrians trudging along with their bulging suitcases and knapsacks.

  The pity of the deserted Bourbourg-St Omer road came back to Peter: it had witnessed just such a flood of desperate humanity. A mass flight that saw no choice, he thought, but to keep on, keep on no matter how footsore, worn out, fearful, exhausted. Was this the France that would rise from the ashes, renewed and purified?

  At Le Mans they waited, ate and stretched their legs while the general lunched and made his inquiries and dispositions. Some senior officers left hurriedly for the airfield. Then it was off helter-skelter for a long, dispiriting drive to Orléans, the roads more crowded, the aura of panic driving the refugees more palpable. French troops were among them, with families on their gun carriages and women on their lorries. A middle-aged man shouted that the Boche were in Paris. They were hanging swastikas on the Eiffel Tower. ‘It’s over. Go home. Leave us in peace.’

  He must get to Madame Lagrange. France was disintegrating before his eyes.

  That impression was fortified the next morning as he took notes at the general’s meeting with the French supreme commander – older than Peter expected, small, wizened, and moving stiffly after a car crash the day before. His whole attitude and tone resonated defeat. He had a plan, but no faith in it; he pursued his talks with the general, but had no energy. ‘That it should end like this,’ he muttered. ‘That it should end like this.’ “It” was his career.

  The general had a complete command of French. He listened courteously as the supreme commander explained how his army was no longer a coherent fighting force and he had no reserves. They discussed a plan for a redoubt in Brittany, but neither commander had any expectation of its going ahead—or succeeding if it did. The general’s plain purpose was to detach his men from French command and get them home as soon as possible. He went on to discussions with a second senior French general and found him shocked and staring blankly at his own maps. The general deftly manoeuvred his troop commitments to favour their line of withdrawal.

  Then, with what relief, it was the long drive back to Le Mans, through a swelling tide of refugees and still more fleeing soldiers. When they finally reached the general’s headquarters, Peter found a corner and settled down to transcribe his notes, his aches and stiffness gone with the knowledge that he’d been present as history was made.

  Colonel ffoulkes was nowhere to be found. ‘Looking for a better ’ole,’ said the staff sergeant. In other words, what with the Germans’ headlong advance, he was out searching for a new location for the general’s headquarters, châteaux further west, closer to the ports. Le Mans was asking for trouble. But then the general always cut it bloody fine.

  ‘On your way,’ said the colonel next morning. They were all clearing out. The RAF would take him to their base at Nantes: a truck was leaving in the next hour. His note of yesterday’s conferences had been very highly thought of. ‘When you get back, get in touch. I can find you a place in the general’s équipage.’

  ****

  Two hours or more before they reached the RAF base, columns of smoke reaching high into the air, blown into ragged clouds by the sea wind, had taken him back to Dunkirk’s burning. Only this wasn’t the Luftwaffe’s work. This was destruction before withdrawal, before German tanks came charging down. Ton upon ton, dump after dump of stores, petrol, vehicles, spare parts, uniforms – everything necessary for a long campaign – burning, smouldering, in ashes.

  The RAF men’s headquarters was on the outskirts. Refugees had slowed their journey and he gladly accepted the hospitality of the sergeants’ mess rather than begin his search for Madame Lagrange in the unknown city at night. The intelligence on Nantes supplied by Ponsonby consisted of pages taken from a pre-Great War Baedeker and a more recent Michelin. The Michelin displayed a red ring from a wine glass. Emu, he supposed.

  ****

  Not far from the RAF main gate was a tram terminus. The amateur assassin going to his murderous assignation by tram. It felt fittingly Hitchcock. An elderly French officer on the bench opposite must have been watching him. ‘Good luck, sergeant.’ The officer waved and moved towards the platform. ‘I would not linger in Nantes.’

  He left the tram near the Cathedral of St Pierre, its deep bell sounding, worshippers in Sunday best streaming in. The crowds in the city centre seemed extraordinary for a Sunday morning: cars queuing outside hotels, luggage and parcels choking pavements, cafés seething. Two newspaper kiosks had sold out of local papers. Food shops were packed.

  He found his way into an area where the streets became narrower and the shops smaller, more of a village, more of a Sunday atmosphere. With his pulse hammering, he turned into Rue des Tourelles. Her street. Halfway down, on the corner of a crooked passageway, was the Papeterie & Journaux de la Fosse. Her shop. ‘Perfect cover,’ Ponsonby had remarked. He stopped to shift his pack and glance up and down. A few cars parked, a bicycle propped against a wall, a little girl carrying bread, an old man slowly walking his dog, a woman pushing a pram.

  In the shop window, notebooks, writing paper and envelopes, letterheads, wedding invitations, dictionaries. Behind the door, the blind was down. A handwritten notice regretted to inform patrons that Papeterie & Journaux de la Fosse was temporarily closed due to unforeseen circumstances. The date was two days before. Stuck to the outside of the door was another notice: “If urgent, inquire at Chez Léon, Rue des Tourelles”.

  He turned into the alley and went to the front door leading to the apartment over the shop. Her apartment. The bell jangled, echoing in the passageway, then silence. Two days. His instinct to go had been right. To fail his first mission in such a stupid way. In rage more than hope he tried again. Damn ffoulkes.

  A woman came out of a door further up, close to the corner of the next street, and stared curiously at him.

  ‘I’m looking for Madame Lagrange. I have a message from her cousin in England.’

  ‘She’s gone off to the country. Said she needed a rest.’ Her tone suggested disapproval. ‘The woman who looks after the shop has had a bereavement.’

  ‘Do you know by any chance where I could find Madame Lag
range? It is important for her cousin.’

  ‘She has a house somewhere at the coast. The owner of Chez Léon could know. He keeps keys to the shop and might send on her post.’ She indicated the Rue des Tourelles. The woman with the pram was on her way back.

  Chez Léon. Outside, two weathered metal tables on a wooden deck; inside, a zinc-covered bar, a few oilcloth-covered tables, a prix fixe menu. The patron, Léon presumably, reading a newspaper open on the zinc, a fat balding man in a blue apron, blotchy red cheeks, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his arms spread wide along the counter. Only one other customer. As Peter came in, he glanced up, blew a column of cigarette smoke from pursed lips, then returned to his newspaper and beer: sallow, dressed in a brown suit, face rather like a fish.

  Peter asked for a café au lait and a madeleine. He badly needed something: the RAF breakfast seemed an age ago.

  ‘On your way to the docks?’ Léon had a Parisian accent, working class.

  ‘Saint-Nazaire. Eventually.’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave it long. They say German tanks have passed Tours. That bunch of no-hopers we call the government have hopped it to Bordeaux.’

  ‘Actually, I came with a message for Madame Lagrange from her cousin in England. I thought I could deliver it on my way. But her neighbour just told me she has gone to her house on the coast for a rest.’

  The barman nodded. ‘Pornic.’

  ‘Pornic? Is it far?’

  ‘About an hour and a half on the train. Perhaps a bit more. Nice little resort. Quiet. Good swimming. Madame has a villa there, just outside the town.’ He paused expectantly.

  ‘I think I’ll have a marc. Would you join me?’ The spirit burned its way down. ‘Do you have her address? Her telephone number, perhaps?’

  Léon looked over his spectacles and pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know if I can give her address to any stranger that comes into the bar.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t hand over the keys to the shop, would I?’

  ‘It is very important and I promised her cousin I’d do my best. You can’t write or phone from England now. I’ve diverted to Nantes specially.’ He gestured with his glass. ‘Another? And a café crème, thank you.’