by David Gilman
‘But we have information about you.’
‘People lie. They get frightened. They lie to save themselves. They lie because they want to make themselves look important,’ said Mitchell, being careful to avoid eye contact. They had taught him not to look directly at his accusers if he was interrogated, in case it seemed an act of defiance.
One waved Mitchell’s ration card at him. ‘You haven’t drawn your tobacco allowance for three weeks. Why is that? Where have you been?’
‘I had a really bad cold... I’ve still got a bad chest.’
The two Gestapo officers looked at each other. ‘All right. Let’s start again. Where do you live?
*
After hours of interrogation the two Gestapo, themselves near exhaustion, stepped out into the corridor. They left the door open where Mitchell, soaked in sweat, sat slumped in the chair. Major Knight was waiting.
‘Even if he uses his own background, we think he’ll manage,’ said one man.
‘We couldn’t shake him. But we’re not the Gestapo,’ said the other.
Major Knight nodded his acceptance and the two men walked away. Mitchell raised his head and looked to the open door.
‘Am I going on this damned trip or not, because either way, I need some bloody sleep.’
7
By the next afternoon, Mitchell had slept and bathed and joined Major Knight in the large bright room overlooking the gardens. It was a more relaxed SOE officer who handed Mitchell an envelope as they drank coffee.
‘Do I open this now?’
Knight nodded. ‘Your orders. As much as we can give you about our wireless operator in Paris, Alain Ory. Wherever he is he’s running scared.’
‘And he was definitely part of what my wife was doing?’
‘Yes. The Germans are breathing down his neck. In order to draw out the traitor, we need to set up another circuit. Whoever’s betraying our people will want to get close to you. We’re calling your circuit Gideon, and your code name is Pascal.’
‘The Old Testament sword of God and a French philosopher and mathematician,’ said Mitchell and smiled.
‘Well, we thought it appropriate. Your official identity is Pascal Garon. Mention Gideon only to those who are essential to the circuit. The fewer people know this the better; then if any of them get caught the name Pascal is all they know – unless the traitor gets to you first. Remember one thing over there – three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.’ Knight got up and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He gestured with the jug and Mitchell nodded. They sipped the hot sweet liquid and looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window to the gardens, whose beauty seemed so out of keeping with the violence being created by the men inside the house. ‘And remember, we are there to fight the Nazis. Don’t get drawn into French politics. God knows it’s complicated enough. You’ll discover that there are factions fighting each other. The PCF, the communists, loathe their own armed wing, the partisans of the FTP. You have to be aware of the danger that these partisans will take matters into their own hands and strike at the Germans wherever and whenever, despite reprisals. They pose a threat to the control and stability of their area.’ The major paused and raised the cup to his lips. Then he placed his cup and saucer down. ‘Now, over here, Harry.’
Mitchell followed him across the room to a long trestle table against the rear wall. On the table were a suit, shoes, tie, shirt, overcoat, and a soft narrow-brimmed felt fedora. Documents, small leather suitcase, money belt, a sheathed sleeve knife, a .45 automatic and four clips of ammunition. A folded silk map. Two small pillboxes. A cigarette case. Mitchell touched the items which represented his new identity.
‘By the way,’ said Knight, ‘we’ve given you the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.’
‘Colonel? Why?’
‘The French respond better to someone of rank. Use it when and if you have to.’
Major Knight picked up a fountain pen case. ‘We like to give our people something of a going-away present,’ he said, handing it to Mitchell, who opened it. He took out a gold pen.
‘None of us can imagine the fear and the loneliness of living behind enemy lines,’ Knight explained and somewhat proudly added, ‘it’s gold, no incriminating marks. It’s a very small gesture of our esteem.’
‘No excuse not to send a postcard then.’
‘And it might be helpful should you have to trade or sell it.’
‘Thank you.’
Major Knight took a separate envelope from the table and gave it to Mitchell. ‘Your various passes and identification documents. Only the photographs are missing; we need to do those today. Having lived there you might be recognized so you’ll need to lose the beard.’
‘When do I go?’
‘Tonight.’
*
Later that day Knight’s staff car took them north towards Cambridgeshire. RAF sentries checked Knight’s credentials even though they knew him and his car by sight from the numerous occasions he had visited the airfield. They waved them through the gates of the unmarked airfield.
‘RAF Tempsford,’ Knight said. ‘Home to our Special Duties Squadrons.’
Mitchell didn’t reply. He sat, muscles bunched, holding his small suitcase to his chest. His mouth had dried and his face was cold, his shaven cheeks making him feel even more vulnerable. Hair trimmed shorter than usual, he felt shorn and exposed.
The car skirted the buildings and drove to a hangar’s apron where a short take-off and landing Lysander was being equipped. Its high, slightly reversed gull wings made the aircraft look cumbersome as it squatted on its fixed landing gear, but its reputation was long established, its ability to take off and land in difficult places delivering field agents. Next to it on the apron, a Halifax bomber was being checked as ground crew loaded parachute containers into its bomb-bay doors.
Mitchell followed Knight out of the car and buttoned his overcoat. In one hand he held the shabby hat and in the other his small leather suitcase. Knight strode into the vast floodlit hangar.
‘There’s very little organized over there. Rag-tag resistance groups made up of communists, French interior forces, smugglers, murderers and thieves.’
‘And some ordinary people risking their lives.’
‘Of course. If you’re stopped by the Germans and they check your background tell them you were born in Péronne. That’s what your identity card will reflect.’
‘Why Péronne?’
‘The register office was destroyed during the battle of the Somme in the first war. They can’t check.’
They stopped near a workbench and the major gestured for Mitchell to put the suitcase on it. A plainclothed SOE man approached and put a small case of his own on the workbench.
‘Last-minute checks, Harry,’ said Knight.
‘Good evening, sir. Won’t keep you a moment,’ said the amiable man with a regional accent.
The SOE man began a very professional, gentle search on Mitchell, his fingers all the time feeling for any tell-tale labels.
‘I’m ex-CID,’ said the man. ‘So I’ll find any contraband.’
‘That depends how far you’re prepared to go,’ said Mitchell, trying to relieve his own tension.
The probing fingers suddenly stopped and the amiable ex-police officer frowned.
‘Just a failed attempt at humour… officer,’ said Mitchell.
‘Ah. Understandable, sir,’ he said and continued with his careful examination of Mitchell’s clothing.
‘What do I do when the plane lands?’ he asked Knight.
‘Local resistance members will meet the aircraft. There’ll be a chef de terrain. He’ll get you clear. Then they’ll unload the weapons and explosives,’ Knight told him. He smiled. ‘You’ll be in good hands.’
Mitchell nodded. For all he knew Knight might have ignored his failures during training and put aside any doubts about sending him by ensuring he was chaperoned on the ground.
An RAF co-ordinating officer standing near the Lysander beckoned Knig
ht to him.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ the major said and stepped away from the table area.
‘They named the Lysander after a Spartan general, you know,’ said Mitchell as the painstaking search continued. The man’s stubby fingers had reached his collars.
‘I didn’t know that, sir.’
‘Nor me,’ said Mitchell. ‘Think I read it on a cigarette card somewhere. Either that or some clever sod I worked with told me.’ He forced a nervous grin. His stomach was in knots.
‘And who was that Spartan gentleman? What did he do?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mitchell.
The SOE man stood back as if to admire his work. ‘We had problems in the beginning. French stitching was different, the cloth they used and all that. We lost a couple of people because of it. Now we get just about everything from refugees.’
‘One careful owner then.’
‘Oh yes. At least one.’ He handed Mitchell a small pill container. ‘One’s Benzedrine, it’ll keep you going for an extra forty-eight hours. The other is cyanide.’
‘I’ll try not to mix them up,’ said Mitchell.
‘Very wise,’ said the officer seriously. ‘Now, a final look at your wallet and then I think we’re done.’
Mitchell handed over his wallet.
‘Anything at all you shouldn’t have on you? Matches, small change, anything you’ve picked up without thinking? Underground or bus tickets?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Married in England, were you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your wedding ring. It’ll be hallmarked or stamped. I’m sorry.’
Mitchell nodded and managed to get the ring from his finger. The Special Operations man placed it in a small brown envelope, tied the red holding string to secure the flap and put it into his briefcase.
‘It will be here when you get back,’ he said. He laid out a jeweller’s black cloth which had half a dozen rings tucked in small pockets. ‘One of these should fit. Got them off French soldiers after Dunkirk. I mean, blokes who didn’t make it.’
Mitchell chose one, tried it, and found another that fitted. The SOE officer finished checking the wallet but pulled out a picture of Danielle.
‘My daughter.’
‘Pretty girl. Taken here?’
‘No. Lyon in ‘39.’
The man hesitated and then seemed to relent and handed it back to Mitchell. ‘There we are then. All done. Nothing left now but to wish you the very best of luck, sir.’ He shook Mitchell’s hand and turned away to report to the major.
‘Wait a minute,’ Mitchell said and extended the photograph towards him when he stopped. ‘If I’m caught and they find this it could put her in danger. Best keep it for me.’
The man nodded his understanding and took the photograph.
As he walked away Mitchell could not suppress the overwhelming sense of loss that swept over him.
8
Exhaust fumes billowed from the Halifax as two of its engines roared into life. The other two propellers fired and began to turn as Knight walked briskly back to Mitchell.
‘We’ve only got the moon for tonight. Our people in France will be leaving for the landing zone any time now.’ He paused and turned his face away from the Halifax. ‘I’m sorry, Harry, but the Lysander has a magneto problem. It’d be suicide to even try and fly in tonight.
‘It’s scrubbed?’ said Mitchell, uncertain whether the relief was more from disappointment now that he had mentally prepared to go.
The powerful engines of the Halifax roared, the vibration almost getting beneath Mitchell’s skin, shaking his insides.
Major Knight looked from the bomber to Mitchell. ‘They’re doing an arms drop to help establish a group further south. We’re sending in a wireless operator for them. The aircraft will make its run, then… it could return to your landing zone. It would give us time to alert the Maquis on the ground who’ll set up the signal beacons.
Mitchell was already shaking his head. ‘I’m too old for parachuting. You told me that yourself. Get me across in a boat.’
‘The RAF needs moonlight for a run, the Navy insists on complete darkness – and we’ve got to get you in. I know you didn’t sign up for this…’ Knight left the sentence hanging.
‘I didn’t want to sign up for any of it, for Christ’s sake!’
‘If you don’t think the death of your wife and the lives of countless others are worth the risk then I misjudged you. Your daughter might still be alive.’
Mitchell threw the suitcase down at his feet. His anger spilt over into venom he had long suppressed. ‘You bastard!’
Major Knight was unconcerned by the outburst. ‘When you get blood on your hands you’ll know what’s needed to get the job done. It’s by parachute or not at all.’ He waited a moment longer but Mitchell was shaking his head again. ‘All right. We’ll scrub it,’ he said, and turned away towards the flight co-ordinating officer. Knight gestured with a cutting motion at waist height, indicating that Mitchell had said ‘no go’.
Fear clawed its way up from Mitchell’s groin into the pit of his stomach. He felt as though he was going to vomit. Bile stung his throat. He leant for support on the table as Major Knight shouted in the RAF man’s ear. He was listening and nodding and then looked past Knight and pointed. Mitchell clutched his small case and hat to his chest as he took a deep breath, and strode into the back blast from the Halifax propellers and the waiting crewman. He turned for one last look at Major Knight, who gave Mitchell a brief nod of acknowledgement. Then, turning to the officer, Knight gave instructions for a message to be sent to the Maquis.
‘Tell them the Lysander is cancelled, that we’re sending in our man by parachute, but it’ll be just before dawn.’
*
Within the steel ribs of the Halifax, the bare metal vibrated with the roar of the engines. Mitchell was surprised at how cramped the interior of the aircraft was; from outside the bulk of the bomber was deceptive. It was like a narrow alley; crew members bent and twisted their bodies to squeeze into their cramped positions. In the chill, dull glow of the aircraft Mitchell was helped to strap on a parachute on top of his overcoat. The crewman who would act as dispatcher pulled the final bit of webbing tight. Mitchell folded his fedora and stuffed it down the front of his coat as the crewman gave him the protective headgear. He shouted above the engines. ‘Put it on before you jump.’
Mitchell nodded. The other man who shared the narrow ribbed fuselage wore overalls and parachute. He held his head protector as he squatted on the floor. The parachutist made a small gesture with the headgear and smiled. A shared journey into danger. Any friendly gesture was welcome. The man gave Mitchell the thumbs-up and then went back to reading a book.
The crewman gestured to where a hole in the floor would open at the rear of the aircraft. ‘When the time comes, sit with your legs in the hole.’ With his free hand, the crewman held the parachute’s long static line. ‘We hook this clip on the end, this clip,’ he said emphasizing the sliding hook, ‘on that wire. It opens the parachute for you. All right? Pulls the chute from the bag when you get to the end. Yeah?’ Another thumbs-up.
‘I might need a helping hand to jump.’
The dispatcher smiled. ‘You wouldn’t be the first. I’ll put my boot in your back. Night jumps are easy, you can’t see how far you are from the ground.’ He grinned again.
Mitchell was uncertain whether the man was taking pleasure in his discomfort or was simply being blasé, as if jumping out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft was a natural thing to do. He gave another thumbs-up.
The dispatcher bent close to his ear. ‘And when you’re coming in to land keep your knees together and legs bent. That way you don’t break a leg. Piece of cake,’ he added cheerfully.
A sudden burst of machine-gun fire made Mitchell flinch. The crewman placed an assuring hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s all right. Testing the guns. Get some sleep. It’ll be a while before we get to his
drop zone,’ he said, pointing to the wireless operator, destined to be dropped to the Resistance. He turned away and busied himself checking strapping on a number of large packages.
Mitchell tried to shout above the roar that the furthest thing from his mind was sleep, but the man did not hear him. There was nothing else Mitchell could do but to try and make himself as comfortable as possible on the cold floor. His body shook with the vibration and he fought not to let it get on his nerves. The aircraft droned on. Despite himself, Mitchell succumbed to the tiredness that anxiety can create and dozed off. He snapped awake when a roar of air whistled into the aircraft. Panic seized him, but he regained his senses and realized he was no longer in his dream when he saw that the crewman had opened the hatch covering the jump hole. He steadied himself and smiled at Mitchell as the other man pulled on his protective headgear. Mitchell realized he must have been asleep for hours. His mouth tasted stale.
‘Ten minutes to the first drop zone. Still a long way for you though,’ the dispatcher shouted.
The man’s words offered little comfort to Mitchell but he nodded and gave the requisite thumbs-up. And in that moment all hell broke loose.
Mitchell was thrown face down by a terrifying lurch of the aircraft, a lurch which saved his life. An ear-shattering pounding echoed through the metal as cannon fire punched holes along the fuselage. Mushrooming steel, showering splinters inside, added to the explosive power of the bullets and cannon fire. He saw the dispatcher blown apart, foam and blood where once a man had been standing. It splattered Mitchell. He cried out, terror-struck. The man who had been readying to jump was torn apart too. Smoke started to fill the aircraft; engines screamed, changed pitch, roared and died and were tortured into life again. The pilot was fighting the controls, throwing the heavy bomber around the sky, trying to evade their attacker. The aircraft’s rear and upper gunners were returning fire despite the crazy lurching death throes of the aircraft. Somewhere, someone shouted. ‘Night fighter! Bail out! BAIL –’ The voice was cut short as another strafing run from the unseen night fighter finished off the plane and anyone left alive, except for Mitchell. The aircraft lurched upwards, everything slid downwards and Mitchell was pulled towards the gaping hole.