A Wartime Friend

by Lizzie Lane

  There was a great shrugging of shoulders and shaking of heads.

  ‘We can’t keep her here. We can’t take her back to the village. The risk is too great.’ Although Serge was the leader of the group, the speaker was Nicole. ‘And before anyone calls me hard-hearted, may I remind you that we have orders not to jeopardise our circumstances for anyone or anything. The girl has to be disposed of. The dog too.’

  An angry silence descended.

  Ray clenched his jaw. He had come to fly the agent to safety. He would obey the order. However, there was no way he was going to leave an innocent child behind to be slaughtered. She at least had to be taken to safety.

  Before anybody could stop him, he scooped the child up into his arms and strode off across the field to his waiting plane.

  Her eyes flickered open. ‘Rudy. Rudy.’

  ‘If Rudy’s the name of your dog, I can tell you he’s right behind us. See?’

  He held her so she could see that the dog was bounding along behind them. A smile of satisfaction came to her face before her eyes closed and she lost consciousness.

  Serge, the doctor and leader of the group, prepared to shoot the dog. The agent stopped him, his intention uttered in a low voice. ‘I have a knife. I will deal with it quietly. It will not be getting on that plane.’ Hand resting on his knife, he raced off across the bumpy ground. By the time he got to the plane both the child and the dog were already on board.

  ‘You’re taking the dog too?’ Disbelief frayed his voice. ‘I am sorry. I cannot allow that. Let me …’ He half pulled the knife from where it was concealed beneath his jacket.

  Ray was adamant and the fingers that gripped the man’s wrist were strong. ‘Can’t allow it, old chap. Haven’t you ever heard that the British are a nation of dog lovers?’

  The man codenamed Blue Dove winced but gritted his teeth. He would have his own way. ‘I am giving you an order. It is bad enough that you took that child on board …’

  ‘Sorry, mate. You’re not my superior officer. I’m in charge of this plane. The little girl looks as though she needs urgent hospital treatment and somebody to care for her, and the dog seems to be the only friend she’s got. So get in or stay put. The choice is yours, but I warn you: touch that dog and I’ll throw you out without the benefit of a parachute. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I must protest! Taking passengers is strictly against orders …’

  ‘Damn orders. The kid’s sick.’

  ‘I’ll concede that, but the dog …’

  ‘Is a military decision. It suits me to take him. Now settle down and we can all be away from here.’

  The agent’s eyes flashed with anger in the dim light. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. His mission, his presence and his decisions were what counted.

  The navigator, Chris, turned round and grinned as Ray settled himself in front of the controls. ‘Extra passengers, sir? How do we list them on our manifesto?’

  ‘Children of the storm. Well, one child and one dog. Handsome fellah, don’t you think? By the looks of it I think dog and kid are devoted to each other.’ He frowned. Would the kid survive? She was in a pretty bad way. There’d been mention of a train going east. Had she been on that train?

  His face crumpled with sympathy. ‘Poor kid. I can only guess what she’s been through.’

  There was something about the look on the agent’s face that made him pause before starting the engines for the flight home. If there was one thing he was good at, it was reading peoples’ minds.

  ‘Hey, buddy. Let’s get this straight. I like dogs a lot and I’m in charge of this plane. Anything happens to him and I’ll keep my promise about throwing you out over the Channel.’

  Chris chortled into his charts. Not that he needed them yet. Head due west and they would swoop across the English Channel; the charts would come into their own when flying low over the dark landscape that was wartime England.

  The propellers whirled into action. Ray set the aircraft up for take-off, choosing the portion of the field that would give him the longest run. The field was bumpy and far from ideal, but Ray was experienced enough to know to get the wheels up as quickly as possible. Tufts of dead grass and brown earth passed like waves before them, and the smell of lavender retained in the soil wafted upwards.

  This was the time during the mission when gut-wrenching nervousness erupted in full strength. The secret was to get in and out of this war blasted country as quickly as possible. He’d been a little slow tonight but considered it worthwhile. There would have been no help for the little girl, and as for the dog …

  He understood the agent’s concern and that of the Resistance. They lived on a knife’s edge. Emotion was a commodity they could not afford and it would have been expedient for them both to be killed. Ray couldn’t allow that. If it were his child he’d want someone to help. If only he had a child. Although he’d been married for four years there had been no patter of tiny feet. He only wished there had, then perhaps he might have persuaded his wife Meg to let him buy a puppy as a companion for the child. But there had been no child and likewise no dog.

  As they swept over the Channel he marvelled at the sight of it glowing like tinfoil beneath the light of the moon. His navigator asked him what plans he had for their extra passengers.

  ‘Well, hospital first. The girl needs medical treatment, then we can find out who she is and if she has any family in England. I’ll look after the dog while she’s in hospital. He’ll come in handy around the base. The chaps will love him.’

  Chris agreed. ‘He can be our mascot. That’s if the little girl doesn’t object. She might consider the dog belongs to her.’

  Ray had to admit he could be right, but seeing as he was in the habit of jumping in with both feet, he chose not to dwell on the prospect. Anyway, he’d noticed the dog wore a military tattoo in its ear. A German tattoo. He was, in effect, a prisoner of war, part of the booty that war always brought to those who grabbed their chance.

  ‘I think him becoming our mascot is a great idea; a great welcome coming back from an op, don’t you think?’

  The navigator nodded. ‘Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.’

  ‘Or I might take him home. If I can.’

  Keeping the dog with him at the base was the only option he had. His wife Meg wouldn’t have a dog in the house. But first he had to sort out the little girl.

  Leah could feel the train vibrating as it hurtled down the rails, the cattle wagons rattling and rolling from side to side. If she didn’t jump off soon she would be dead! Suddenly she was screaming. ‘Stop the train! It’s not going to Salzburg. It’s going to the butchers!’

  The man they’d been sent to pick up, who Ray disliked on sight, translated what she had said.The spy also pointed out that she spoke French with a German accent. ‘I would hazard the guess that she was born a German Jew but escaped to France.’

  ‘With her family, I suppose.’

  ‘Presumably.’

  Ray exchanged a quick look with his navigator. They’d both heard rumours of trains going east, to so-called labour camps, but certainly not to Salzburg!

  Blue Dove, the son of a French woman and a Scottish father, had sold sports cars in his former life, besides getting involved with the shadier side of London nightlife. Being an agent was far more exciting and set him apart from those who pursued ‘ordinary’ lives. He was that indoctrinated, all he cared about was the mission. He had every intention of reporting this incident. Given the chance he’d throw both the kid and the dog into the Channel.

  Not a chance! The dog lay between him and the child. The dog growled a warning.

  Ray settled into his seat; the girl’s words had rattled him. She was just a young kid who’d got caught up in the war and it wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right. He radioed ahead for an ambulance.

  Ray held the girl’s hand while she was being loaded on to the ambulance. Her eyes flickered open as they had on the plane, wide with fear,
darting all over the place.

  ‘My name’s Ray Malin,’ he said to her. ‘Just you remember that if you need a friend. Got it?’ He repeated his words in French, though it wasn’t too good. She looked terrified of her new surroundings and gave no sign that she’d understood what he’d said to her.

  ‘Can’t blame her for that,’ he said to Chris.

  Chris agreed.

  Whose child was she? Someone had once loved and cared for her. Where were they now? He could make a shrewd guess. Did she have anyone to care for her at all? Shaking his head, he voiced his thoughts out loud. ‘Wish I had a kid like that.’

  ‘It’ll happen one day when you least expect it. Mark my words.’ Chris was his usual pragmatic self, but then he could afford to be. He had four children and another on the way. Like shelling peas, thought Ray. And all he wanted was just one child for him and Meg to call their own, then perhaps she’d have something more to do than clean the house from top to bottom every day. Sometimes it seemed she lavished more attention on that house than she did on him. Perhaps … The thought came to him that here was a child needing a home, and he and Meg were in need of a child.

  Ray stood watching the ambulance drive away, the dog sitting beside him, Ray’s hand on his head, the pink scarf entwined around his fingers. He looked down at the dog. The dog’s gaze was fixed on the disappearing ambulance.

  ‘No need to worry, old chap. She’ll be well taken care of. In the meantime, we’d better get you fed. Better get you a collar and lead too,’ he added.

  It was when he was removing the pink scarf before placing the new collar around the dog’s neck that Ray saw the scribbled name in faded black charcoal. Rudy.

  ‘Rudy? Is that your name?’

  Recognising the sound, the dog’s ears pricked up, his tail slowly brushing the floor. He was beginning to trust this man, though he also missed the little girl with whom he’d gone through so much.

  ‘Rudy,’ said Ray, the name rolling off his tongue. ‘Your name’s Rudy. I take it that’s the name the little girl gave you.’

  Rudy whined, lifted his paw and raked it down Ray’s leg a few times.

  Somehow Ray understood what he was about. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, gently massaging the dog’s velvety ears. ‘I promise you she’ll be fine and if I can arrange for you to see her again, I will. So how do you fancy being a squadron mascot?’

  The dog gazed up at him, his eyes full of trust.

  ‘Yeah. Seems a good idea to me too. Come on. Let’s check in.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The dog settled in well, seemingly liking everybody except for Warrant Officer Dodgeson, who had a bright red face and the voice of a foghorn. An assistant in an ironmongers’ before joining up, Dodgeson in a uniform was an overbearing and arrogant bully. He couldn’t bully the officers of course, but he could bully those of lesser ranks – which he did quite often. A dog also fitted into the lower ranks.

  ‘Acquired yourself a dog, sir?’ He drew his chin in as he said it, as though he were swallowing his tongue.

  ‘Yes. This is Rudy. He’s a handsome fellow, don’t you think? Ideal to be the base mascot.’

  Dodgeson didn’t look convinced.

  The dog growled his dislike, which was instant.

  Rudy accompanied Ray wherever he went, though on occasion, usually when Ray was in a briefing, he wandered the base. The men took to him, fed him titbits and threw an old tennis ball for him to fetch time and time again until their arms were worn out.

  Only Dodgeson refused to warm to him, his top lip curling so high that his pencil-thin moustache looked in danger of disappearing up his nose. Man and dog glared whenever they came into close contact. Dodgeson decided to complain.

  ‘I don’t trust that dog,’ he said to Ray when the animal had bared his teeth at him. ‘I reckon he should be muzzled – just in case he takes a bite out of somebody.’

  That somebody being you, thought Ray. He’d had dogs all his life, knew them well and swiftly made his own judgement. He looked sidelong at Dodgeson. He’d disliked the man from the start and his opinion was unchanged. He said it as it was, even though Dodgeson might be offended.

  ‘I trust a dog’s instincts when he fails to trust a human. I have to ask myself why.’ Dodgeson’s puffed-up self-importance deflated instantly – like a flattened beach ball.

  ‘His ego deserves to be punctured now and again,’ Ray said to the dog once the sergeant was gone. ‘Just promise me you won’t do it literally,’ he added.

  Rudy’s presence was a continuous reminder of the little girl Ray had rescued from France. He thought about the pretty French Resistance fighter surmising she’d escaped from one of the trains going east. Funny how he sometimes thought he could smell her perfume, or it could have been the scattered heads of lavender in the landing field.

  Shaking his head, his thoughts went back to the little girl. An idea had taken seed in his mind. The thought of returning to that pristine house irked him. One greasy thumb print and Meg was there with a duster leaving him wondering where he could sit or what he could touch without her reacting with a duster or plumping up a cushion he’d dented. The plan he had in mind might be helpful for everyone. He certainly hoped so.

  He phoned Meg and asked how she was. She went on and on about the damp dirtiness of the Anderson shelter, the queuing for rations and the lack of any decent material for curtains. He let her go on until finally she asked him how he was.

  ‘Back safe and sound.’

  ‘Thank goodness. I’ve missed you.’

  She probably had. At least him being home added an extra dimension to her daily routine.

  ‘Meg, there’s something I have to tell you.’ He explained about the little girl he’d brought out of France. ‘She was unconscious the last time I saw her, not really with it at all. We asked her name but she doesn’t seem to remember.’

  ‘Poor thing. How old is she?’

  ‘About ten. A nice-looking kid but very thin. Definitely in need of one of your shepherd’s pies.’

  He enjoyed the sound of her sudden laughter. He heard it so rarely nowadays.

  ‘Does she have relatives here?’ Meg asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone will try to find out. But she needs a home. A proper home. I suppose if they can’t find a relative –and they won’t if she’s lost her memory – she’ll end up in a home.’

  ‘I hear children’s homes are pretty crowded nowadays, what with the evacuees and suchlike.’ There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘If they get stuck and she has nowhere to go, do you think we could …’

  Ray shut his eyes. He’d purposely angled the conversation in a sympathetic direction, hoping against hope that Meg would grab the chance to have a child, even if it wasn’t theirs.

  ‘Meg. Would you?’

  ‘Take her in? Of course I would.’ He sensed her sudden hesitation and hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts. ‘Would it be allowed?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I can make enquiries. It isn’t a foregone conclusion. She may recover immediately and remember who she is and then there might be a relative to claim her. I mean, there may be. But …’

  He didn’t mention the dog. The dog and the girl went together like bread and cheese. He didn’t think Meg could accept that. She’d refused to let him have a dog before. ‘In case we do get lucky,’ she’d said to him. She’d meant a child. But after four years they’d pretty much given up hoping. But if they could foster or adopt? They’d discussed it many times and would have done something positive if the war hadn’t disrupted their plans.

  Take it one step at a time, he told himself. In time he might be able to bring her round. For the moment the girl was the most important thing. Rudy had landed on all four paws and at least for the moment was happy enough at the airfield. The girl was still unclaimed.

  After telling Meg he would do his best and saying goodbye, Ray made arrangements to visit the girl. After a good night’s sleep he made the hour-long
journey to see her in the hospital in Lincoln.

  The hospital was a flurry of pristine whiteness, where white-hooded nurses flitted with soft footfall along narrow corridors. The girl was lying in a bed close to a window that looked out on the rustling leaves of a beech tree, through which could be glimpsed the city itself. Beyond the patchwork of rooftops rose the spire of Lincoln cathedral.

  The view was handsome enough, and although it drew his attention for a little while, it was the girl he had come to see. She was lying silently, eyes closed, her face almost as white as the pillow. Ray tried to work out whether she looked worse or better than when he’d found her in that frosty field.

  ‘Are you her father?’

  Assuming visitors were being kept to a minimum, he’d barged through the ward door without reporting to anyone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Only relatives are allowed to visit.’

  ‘Have you found any relatives?’

  ‘Well, no. Not yet.’

  ‘Then I’m about all she’s got. I found her in occupied territory and brought her out. I reckon that gives me priority.’

  The officious-looking nurse, her badge reading ‘Ward Sister’, was ready to throw the book at him – that is, until he smiled at her. She looked at him, taking in the craggy chin, the sapphire-blue eyes, the way one side of his mouth curled upwards as though he might laugh but also cry. Women were always taking a second look at Ray Malin, and this ward sister in her dark blue uniform was no exception. It didn’t matter that she was in her mid-thirties and dedicated to her chosen vocation, there were times when a charming smile might persuade her to choose a man above nursing.

  ‘So. How is she?’

  She smiled in a tight, patient manner, as ward sisters and matrons are inclined to do. ‘She’s been through hard times but she’s young. Physically she’ll recover. Her head wound was superficial. Mentally it may be a different matter. It would help if she was placed in a proper home environment.’