‘Oh, yes. The Germans knew we were coming.’
‘They could not have done so.’
‘Then they are clairvoyant. Every position we assaulted was ready for us. Our people were shot to pieces.’
‘Brigadier MacLean?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Tito?’
‘I do not know about him, either. The Germans counter-attacked, with panzers, and we were scattered. General Sherepkin is dead, together with all of our people.’
Well, Murdoch thought, the whole hare-brained scheme was his idea, anyway.
‘What of Mikhailovitch?’ he asked.
‘When we realized we were beaten, we contacted his command by radio, and were told that they too could make no headway. By then the Germans were in our midst. Marshal Tito told us to scatter and make for the emergency rendezvous. So I did that. As I say, I do not know what happened to the Marshal and your General.’
‘My God,’ Murdoch muttered. ‘They are probably at the rendezvous. We must get there as quickly as possible.’
‘We are already at the rendezvous,’ Yasmin told him.
‘Already? But...’
‘We could not stay at the cave. Those caves. So we moved here. That is why you are so thoroughly strapped up. We have carried you, for two days.’
His frown deepened as he gazed at her. ‘But you did not come straight here. You went to the old camp first. Why did you do that?’
She smiled at him, and laid his head back on the sleeping bag; the gruel was finished. ‘I went there to find you. Sherepkin is dead. So are all my comrades. Tito has disappeared. It is probable that he too is dead. Your Brigadier MacLean has gone with him. All our unit commanders are dead or missing. So it is very likely that you will now have to be our commanding officer.’ She stood up, and looked down at him. As he looked up at her, past the faintly swaying hem of her skirt. ‘You will have to tell me what to do.’
*
Murdoch first of all had her take the bandages off. His uniform was apparently cut to pieces, and its destruction had been completed by Yasmin as she had extracted him from it. He wondered what thoughts had coursed through her mind at that moment — because at that moment she had, for the first time in her life, truly had him at her mercy. But she had kept him alive. Because of some ingrained sense of duty, that beating the Nazis was more important than any personal feelings? Or for some other quite unthinkable reason?
‘I saved your ribbons,’ she told him, showing him the strip of cloth she had cut away from the breast of his tunic. ‘There are so many of them. Did you get one for killing my mother?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said. It was the first time since their reunion that she had mentioned the pit that lay between them.
‘Well, if you lead us to victory against the Nazis, perhaps I will be able to obtain the Order of Victory for you. Would you not like that?’
‘I might. You would have to find out if my government would let me accept it.’
‘But of course they will. Your government and mine are friends, are they not?’ She studied him as she spoke.
‘Oh, indeed,’ he agreed.
She had obtained some clothes for him, the khaki uniform worn by the partisans, and she stitched the ribbons on to the blouse. But she would not let him get dressed. ‘You are not strong enough yet,’ she told him. ‘You need rest.’
‘How can I command lying on my back in a sleeping bag?’
She smiled. ‘There is not very much to command, at this moment, Sir Murdoch. I can handle it. We must wait and see how many people eventually find their way back to us.’
She was right, of course; as far as he could make out hardly two hundred people had so far assembled at the rendezvous, and more than half of these were women and children. While she was equally right that she could handle the situation, for she had posted guards, organized a cooking and washing roster, and had sent men out to gather food. If it was surprising that hard-bitten guerrillas of more than thirty should so willingly take orders from a girl of twenty-four, the men were also trained Communists, which meant that they obeyed commissars, of whatever age or sex.
*
But he remained anxious to be up and doing, especially as more and more men arrived, all looking battle weary and fatigued . ‘It was terrible,’ said Colonel Vidmar, who was so far the senior survivor. ‘It was a massacre. Our cause has been set back ten years.’
‘Give me those clothes,’ Murdoch told Yasmin next morning. ‘I am as fit as a fiddle.’
‘We shall find out,’ she said. ‘This morning I shall bathe you.’
‘You will not.’
‘How else will I know if you are really well?’
‘You can tell by bathing me?’
‘Of course. Here is the water.’
Four young women stood around him with full buckets. ‘I begin to take your point,’ Murdoch said.
Yasmin smiled, and removed her tunic; the girls took off their blouses; brassieres had never reached the mountains of Montenegro. ‘Now we shall see,’ she said.
He discovered that he was not as fit as a fiddle after all. ‘Of course, you are an old man,’ Yasmin said sympathetically.
‘Not that old,’ Murdoch growled.
‘How long is it since you had sex?’
‘A long time. Two years. But that was by force of circumstances, rather than choice.’ Which was not altogether true.
‘Then perhaps you are atrophied,’ she said. She and the girls inserted him back into the sleeping bag. ‘You have done enough,’ she told her helpers. ‘Go about your duty.’
They seemed reluctant to leave but, like the men, obeyed the commissar.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Murdoch asked in some alarm; she was taking off her boots.
Her skirt and drawers followed them to the ground. ‘A man without sex is only half a man,’ she said. ‘If you are going to lead us you must be a whole man.’
He decided she was right. He had been foolish. Lee had never expected him to be faithful to her, physically, during their long separations; she knew better than most the emotional stresses of combat, and even more, command. And a man without sex was only half a man. He was going to need all his confidence and all his energy to make something of this mess: to have a body as sensual as Yasmin’s sliding into the sleeping bag against him brought back both in full measure.
As she discovered with her fingers. ‘I was being pessimistic,’ she said. ‘But you must take your time. I want you to make love to me as you did to my mother.’
‘I never made love to your mother,’ Murdoch told her. ‘She made love to me, once.’
‘Then I am luckier than she,’ Yasmin said, and lay on top of him, moving to and fro so that her breasts swept across his face while his penis was imprisoned between her legs. ‘Or am I the one making love, now as well?’
‘No,’ Murdoch said, and held her face still to kiss her on the lips.
*
He was just old enough to be her grandfather, if he had married very young. And there was a world of hatred between them, which he had no doubt was only temporarily allayed by their extraordinary situation. Yet perhaps those things made her the more sweet.
Even if the more confusing.
‘I thought you came here to kill me,’ he said into her hair as she lay in the crook of his arm.
‘Perhaps I did. I am not sure. I only know that when I heard you were here, I wanted to be here too.’
‘Because you hated me.’
‘I do not know that any more, either. I told you, this is not a time for hating anyone — except the Germans. But it is also a time for living, while we can, because we do not know when we will die. Is that not true?’
‘Amen,’ he agreed.
She joined him again that night, and proved to her own satisfaction that he was entirely well again. ‘Tomorrow you will take command,’ she said.
But they were awakened just before dawn by excited shouting. Murdoch sat up to watch Ma
cLean and. Markham coming towards him. ‘Well, glory be,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘And we thought...are you all right?’ MacLean asked, peering at him in the gloom. Then he saw Yasmin’s head. ‘Yes, I suppose you are. But I thought...’
‘So did I,’ Murdoch agreed.
‘Then you won’t be needing Sergeant Ferris at your back all the time.’
‘He hasn’t been around much lately, so I have had to make my own arrangements.’ Murdoch got out of the bag and dressed himself. ‘Where is Tito?’
‘I am here.’ The Marshal had Tigger cradled in his arms, and looked tired, as well as dirty. And very grim. ‘You have heard what happened?’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch said.
‘So you are pleased to have been proved right.’ ‘No,’ Murdoch said.
Tito sighed, and sat down; one of the women brought him a glass of wine. ‘It should have been a great success. But the Germans knew we were coming, and where we were coming, and even in what strength.’
‘You mean we were betrayed.’
‘I do not see what else can have happened. If I knew...he gazed at the remnants of his army.
‘Well, we shall have to start all over again,’ Murdoch said.
‘We cannot, until we have discovered who the traitor is, and rooted him out. Or them. Or we will simply be betrayed again.’
Once again he looked over his people. Yasmin emerged
from the sleeping bag and dressed herself, then sat next to
Murdoch. ‘It is a frightening situation,’ she said. ‘Are you the only survivor of your group?’ Tito asked. ‘The only one. They knew we were coming too,’ she said. ‘Mikhailovitch,’ Colonel Vidmar growled.
Tito’s head turned sharply.
‘What makes you say that?’ MacLean asked.
‘Because I had to flee to his people before I could get back here,’ Vidmar told them. ‘I did not then know the true extent of the disaster; I only knew that my forces had been wiped out. Mikhailovitch never attacked at all, beyond a demonstration. Then he pulled his men back into the mountains.’
‘He never attacked?’ Tito asked.
Vidmar shook his head.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ MacLean said. ‘Surely he wants the Germans out of Yugoslavia as much as anyone? And surely he realizes that they have lost the war and must go? Why would he want to help them prolong this agony?’
‘Oh, he wants the Germans out of Yugoslavia as much as anyone, Brigadier,’ Tito agreed. ‘And he knows they have lost the war. He is concerned with what happens afterwards. Who will rule Yugoslavia? General Mikhailovitch and his Chetniks? Or Marshal Tito and his Communists. It would make his ambition much easier to realize, if before leaving the Germans were to destroy the Communists, is that not so?’
‘Good God!’ MacLean said, and looked at Murdoch. ‘Do you accept that, sir?’
Murdoch remembered how, after he had returned from Mikhailovich’s headquarters, nearly two years ago, when Mikhailovitch had realized they were not going to work together, Colonel Kostitch’s camp had suffered a surprise attack and nearly been wiped out.
Tito watched his expression. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You had better report what has happened to London, Sir Murdoch. Ask them from me how long they are going to continue supporting such a man. Tell them that the time has come to make a decision, between us.’
‘You have no proof, as yet,’ Murdoch said. ‘It is purely circumstantial. And you are prescribing a recipe for civil war. I would prefer to be more sure of the situation, Marshal, before I plunge Yugoslavia into yet more horror.’
Tito gazed at him for a moment, then gave one of his grins. ‘Then we will get proof. And until then, we will share nothing with Mikhailovitch. Not even our thoughts.’
13
France, 1944
The military policeman had come on a motorcycle, and Fergus accepted a lift back into the city as a pillion passenger; he was not prepared to wait for any more suitable transport.
He did not want to have the time to think, to wonder...Monique had been in the hands of the Gestapo for very nearly two years. He did not want to have to consider what that might mean, what she might look like. He just wanted to see her again, because she was alive.
The MP threaded his way in and out of rubble and people with great expertise. There were more people now, emerging from the cellars beneath their ruined homes as they realized that the fighting had actually stopped for good, as far as they were concerned , and that the Germans had actually gone, for good.
They were people with much to remember, and much to avenge. Even the MP had to stop when they reached one square, because of the crowd blocking the streets. They were watching an act of vengeance: three young women, stripped to their underwear and with their hands tied behind their backs, were being forced to kneel on the pitted ground while their hair was shorn. They wept, as the men performing the act twisted their heads to and fro, and women stooped in front of them to spit in their faces, and little boys poked at them with sticks.
‘Can you not stop this?’ Fergus asked.
‘Seems they slept with the Germans, sir,’ the MP replied. ‘But even so...you should stop it.’
There was a group of policemen on the far side of the square, watching what was happening.
‘Surely those fellows could break it up?’
‘We’re under orders not to interfere, sir. Unless it comes to a lynching. These people have a lot on their minds.’
A way was cleared, and the motorbike continued on, the crowd pausing in its labours long enough to cheer the British officer. Fergus had a vision of Annaliese being treated like that, her magnificent hair being cut away to the sound of obscene laughter...because, had Annaliese been French, she would have slept with the best available going, and that had to be the occupying forces.
The motorbike turned down a side street and arrived before a rather ordinary-looking building, less damaged than some others although the roof was gone. Here too there was a crowd of French men and women, staring and muttering. There were two MPs guarding the doors, and as the bike stopped they opened them to allow a woman out.
Fergus’s heart leapt, and then sagged. This was an old woman. But who was to say that Monique Deschards was not now an old woman?
But this woman had been expected by the crowd. She paused on the street, blinking in the light, moving slowly and stiffly — she was very thin. Then several people ran forward, to embrace her and weep with her. Fergus heard the word ‘Mama!’ repeated time and again.
They waited for the little knot of people to move down the street, then the MP took Fergus up to the door. ‘Colonel Mackinder to see Captain Lamming,’ he told the sergeant who appeared; Fergus gathered that they were keeping the building firmly sealed.
The sergeant nodded, and allowed them in. Fergus found himself in a very typical police charge room, with a desk, filing cabinet and various chairs; there was no one present now, however, except the MPs. ‘All very civilized here, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘If you’ll come up.’
There was a short flight of stairs to his right. Fergus followed him up and was shown into a comfortable office, again containing desk and filing cabinet, and with a carpet on the floor. Here the window had been shattered by a shell blast, but the mess had been cleared up and the room was otherwise undamaged. The only occupant was a rather young MP captain, who hastily stood and saluted. ‘Lamming, sir. Very good of you to come down.’
Fergus shook hands. ‘Anything I can do to help.’ He was going to let no one know how excited he was.
‘Well, sir...oh, please sit down.’ He gestured at the only other chair in the room. The sergeant withdrew, closing the door behind him. It’s a grim business. The Gestapo pulled out with the rest of their army. In fact, I rather suspect they led the rush. They were in such a hurry they didn’t empty their cells, either by execution or by opening the doors. So we found a good dozen people in here.’
‘I saw one leaving, just n
ow,’ Fergus said.
‘Madame Robert. She is the first we have been able to release.’
‘The first?’ Fergus was astonished.
‘Well, you see, sir, it’s not quite as simple as merely opening a cell door. We are processing these people as quickly as we can, but we simply have to make sure who they are. Nearly all of them claim to have been members of the resistance, but none of them can prove it. Where they can name friends or relatives still living in Caen or nearby, who may be able to vouch for them, that should be all right. But of course finding these friends or relatives in the chaos out there is proving difficult. Madame Robert was fortunate; her son actually came here asking if she was still inside.’
‘Aren’t you being a little unkind?’ Fergus asked. ‘These people must have suffered God knows what torments in this building, and you are keeping them here that much longer simply because they can’t identify themselves?’
‘With respect, sir, the Gestapo may be a pretty unpleasant police force, but it is still a police force. It is possible that some of the people here are criminals rather than resistance fighters. Of course they would claim to have belonged to the maquis, but the authorities aren’t going to thank me for turning, for example, a wanted murderer or sex offender loose.’
‘Hm,’ Fergus said. ‘I suppose you have a point. So what has this Madame Deschards been claiming?’
‘Well, sir, as I told your adjutant, this woman has made the most extravagant claim of all. She isn’t satisfied with claiming to be a maquis. She says she is, or was, actually a British agent, and when asked to name her control in England, she named your father. Well, sir, that made me suspicious, because of course Sir Murdoch Mackinder is a prisoner of war in Germany. On the other hand, she does claim to have been dropped into France before Sir Murdoch disappeared, but then, she could have picked up his name anywhere — or even been given it by her German so-called captors.’
‘You think Monique Deschards is a spy?’ Fergus asked incredulously. But why was he incredulous? Had he not once considered that possibility himself?
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