The closer of the two Germans, a sergeant, had dismounted and was poking Archie in the belly with his gun. Archie had both hands raised and was proclaiming in English that he did not understand the questions being barked at him in German.
‘Sorry, old man, no savvy the lingo,’ he declared as though addressing a difficult foreign waiter.
They had noticed he was headed towards the barn and the other rider drove his bike there while keeping one eye over his shoulder. It was at this point that they spotted Jaikie and me coming out of the cottage.
I had Jaikie’s right arm pinned behind his back in a hammerlock while my left arm was wrapped tightly around his throat. I addressed the Germans in the voice of an indignant Frenchman trying his best to express himself in their tongue.
‘These men are spies,’ I told them angrily. ‘They parachuted in, invaded my house, demanded food, threatened my wife.’
As I spoke Jaikie made a show of trying to break free. In the course of our mock struggle we spun around completely, so that the Germans could see neither of us carried a weapon. The sergeant yelled at me to halt then ordered his companion to investigate the barn.
Archie seized the opportunity to distract the enemy. ‘Don’t listen to that fellow,’ he said, gesturing at me. ‘He’s talking absolute tosh. I just dropped by to borrow some sugar.’
The sergeant commanded him in obscene terms to keep his mouth shut.
Jaikie was continuing to struggle. His naturally pale features had turned pure white. I knew that meant he was keyed up for action, but to the sergeant it gave him the appearance of a terrified prisoner. The other German got off his bike and with both hands pulled open the barn door.
At the sight of the Blessed Antonia he exclaimed, ‘Ein Flugzeug!’
The sergeant instinctively glanced over at the plane, taking his attention from me just long enough.
I released my grip on Jaikie and pulled my pistol from the back of his belt, where it had been hidden between our bodies. As the sergeant’s eyes swung back to us, Jaikie threw himself flat on the ground. I straightened my arm and fired off three shots into the German’s chest. He crumpled in his tracks, the gun dropping from his lifeless fingers. Archie made a grab for it, but his knee gave way beneath him and he sprawled out with a grunt of pain.
The other German made to raise his weapon, but the shoulder strap hooked onto the handlebar of his motorcycle. Abandoning the effort to open fire, he flung himself onto the saddle and kick-started the engine. Even as I took aim, the bike lurched forward and my shot went wide. Seeing he was now outnumbered, the soldier tried to make good his escape.
The farmer, however, had exited the house from the other side and taken cover behind one of the rickety sheds. Now he stepped into view and fired both barrels of his shotgun into the oncoming rider. The German jerked in the saddle and the bike skewed out of control. It smashed into a tree and spilled the rider onto the ground.
I ran over to assure myself that he was no longer a threat. He was plainly dead and the bike was wrecked. The Frenchman joined me and stood over the body.
‘They killed my brother at Ypres and now they have come to kill me and my family.’ He spat vehemently. ‘To the devil with all of them.’
I handed him back his hat and rejoined my two companions. Now that the action was over, the colour was returning to Jaikie’s cheeks, but he appeared shaken and poked around in his pockets for a non-existent cigarette.
‘Are you all right, Jaikie?’ I asked.
‘I hope you won’t think less of me, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ve been through a few scrapes but I’m still not used to seeing a man shot down right in front of me.’
‘That’s not something we should ever take for granted,’ I said. ‘They are the enemy, but they’re just men after all, and probably not so different from you and me.’
We helped Archie to his feet. He was grinning as he dusted himself off. ‘Dick, I’ve never known such a fellow as you for taking the craziest of chances. He might have shot you both as soon as you walked out.’
‘He hadn’t shot you, so obviously he wanted information,’ I said. ‘I reckoned he’d hesitate just long enough for us to get the drop on him. It was Jaikie who was really in harm’s way.’
‘All I had to do was hit the deck without spoiling your shot,’ Jaikie said modestly.
‘How much of a start do you suppose these chaps have on the rest of their gang?’ Archie wondered.
‘These bikes move pretty fast, so probably at least an hour,’ I guessed. ‘It doesn’t look as if they’re meeting much resistance.’
‘Well, I’d best get on with tending the blessed old girl,’ said Archie, limping off to the barn.
While he made his inspection of the Blessed Antonia, Jaikie and I helped the farmer dump the bodies in a disused well behind the chicken coop. Before stashing the broken bike under some bales of hay we siphoned the petrol out of its tank and used it to top up the other motorcycle.
We returned to the kitchen long enough to wolf down some soup and crusty bread while the lady of the house took a snack out for Archie to nibble on while he worked. Once we were outside again the farmer told us he was going to load up his wagon and get the family out of here before the Germans overran the whole country.
Jaikie cast an anxious look at the sky. ‘We’d best get moving too. There’s only a couple of hours of daylight left.’
According to the farmer, the nearest town of any size was Gisors. Armed with this information, we joined Archie for a council of war, spreading our map across the plane’s nose. With the tip of his finger Jaikie traced out our proposed route to the Chateau du Cygne where we were to join the rest of the team Blenkiron had assembled for this mission.
‘I reckon with that bike we could make it there before nightfall,’ he said.
‘Only two of us could ride on it,’ I pointed out.
Archie clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Never mind about me,’ he said in his bluffest voice. ‘Even if I could come along, I would only slow you down with this leg of mine. No, you go on ahead and I’ll stay here with Antonia.’
‘But supposing you can’t get her up again?’
‘I told you,’ said Archie with spirited confidence, ‘that she’ll never let me down. She got us this far, didn’t she? In spite of the best efforts of the Luftwaffe. Look, the chances are no Jerries will come poking around until morning. By that time I can have her back in tip-top condition and be in the air by sunrise.’
‘Do you think you can make it back to England?’ Jaikie asked.
‘I’ll give it a darned good try,’ Archie replied. ‘With any luck I’ll catch up with you chaps further down the road, some place where there aren’t quite so many Huns trying to kill us.’
We made our farewells and I climbed onto the German motorcycle behind Jaikie.
‘A BMW R35 with four-stroke single-cylinder engine,’ he said admiringly. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry to get my hands on one of these.’
‘I seem to be spending an awful lot of time as a passenger,’ I sighed ruefully.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Jaikie. ‘Just relax and enjoy the ride.’
Leaning against his beloved plane, Archie gave a jaunty wave as Jaikie started the bike and we roared off. I hailed our French friend as we passed him loading a last suitcase onto his horse-drawn wagon. He turned and cried out, ‘Bonne chance!’ in return, waving his fist in the air.
We followed an earthen track that took us through the nearest village. Here also, the remaining inhabitants were packing up their belongings to flee. Many cottages already stood deserted and in their abandoned gardens the roses and lilies drooped as if in mourning.
Beyond the village we crossed a train track pitted with craters, the rail lines broken and twisted by a well-aimed bomb. In a nearby field lay the mangled corpse of a bull, an innocent victim of the bombardment.
When we reached the main road we were forced to join a slow-moving stream of displaced civilians. Ev
erything into which a few precious belongings could be loaded formed part of the unhappy procession: wagons, carts, prams and wheelbarrows, all accompanied by women, children and old men.
Only the women held their heads high, strong in the midst of hardship. This was their great virtue, to comfort their children when they were afraid and give courage to their men when they were downcast. I was reminded that it was from such stock as this that Joan of Arc arose to lead France back from defeat.
There were bicycles weaving among the crowd as well as trucks and cars grinding their gears in frustration at the pace. Many vehicles had run out of fuel and been abandoned, creating further obstacles to the already stuttering progress.
‘We’re getting nowhere at this rate,’ I heard Jaikie murmur over the rumble of the motorcycle engine.
I was about to agree with him when I was interrupted by a series of shrill cries behind me. I twisted around and saw the cause - a single plane streaking down from the sky. As it plunged, the siren fixed to its undercarriage screeched like a demented banshee.
‘Stuka!’ came the horrified cry down the line as people crouched behind their vehicles or flung themselves onto the ground.
Jaikie whipped us over onto the roadside and we threw ourselves flat as the aircraft came screaming overhead. From the brief glimpse I caught, it had already unloaded its bomb and was saving its bullets for a worthwhile target. It disappeared into the haze then came the harsh clatter of machine guns. I wondered whether the pilot had spotted a military vehicle or merely decided there was some strategic purpose to be served by terrorising civilians.
Jaikie hauled the bike back up and we climbed aboard.
‘Are you ready for a ride across some rough country?’ he asked.
‘We certainly can’t go on shuffling along like this,’ I said. ‘Do your worst.’
We pulled away from the road and into a stretch of woodland, bumping over roots and flying across mossy hillocks. Emerging from the trees, we cut a path across a cornfield then startled some sheep from their grazing. Presently we came to a bridge clogged with opposing herds of cattle, their herders clearly in disagreement about which was the direction that led away from the invaders. Without hesitation Jaikie took us directly across the stream, throwing up high sheets of water on either side of us.
‘Are you quite sure we’re still on the right route?’ I asked.
Jaikie nodded. ‘I have a sort of instinct about that sort of thing. I couldn’t get lost if I tried.’
‘In that case, I’ll do my best just to enjoy the scenery.’
We finally crested a hill to see a lush vineyard spread out before us and beyond it the white walls and russet rooftops of an elegant château. Jaikie paused to enjoy the sight as the sun set on the distant western hills.
‘Let’s hope the rest of the lads made it safely,’ he said, starting down the slope. Skirting the vineyard, we joined a path that took us onto a broad driveway. As we approached the open gateway the road was immediately blocked by three armed French soldiers who did not look pleased to see us.
10
THE SPECIAL RESERVE
The guards called on us to halt and Jaikie swerved to a stop right in front of them. We dismounted under their sceptical gaze, their rifles following our every move. Not that I could blame them: the fact that we were dressed as civilians and were riding a German military motorcycle made us decidedly suspect.
Jaikie’s instructions had specified this as the meeting point between us and the rest of the team, but neither he nor Blenkiron had anticipated that it would be occupied by French soldiers. Given the fluid nature of war, we were lucky, I supposed, not to find it occupied by the Germans.
I explained to the guards that, although I was in civilian garb, I was a British officer and wished to meet with their commander. The trio conferred briefly and it was clear that their orders covered the arrival of reinforcements or an encounter with the enemy, but not this particular situation.
One of them waved us forward and escorted us up the drive with Jaikie pushing the bike along beside him. The well-tended lawn spreading away on both sides had been invaded by cattle who were grazing peacefully, as though all were right with the world.
In stark contrast, even though it was almost dark, there were still men digging trenches and setting up mortar positions around the château. The building itself had the sturdy walls of a medieval fortress with two high turrets from which lookouts were keeping watch over the surrounding country.
Jaikie parked the bike and we climbed the stone steps to a double doorway. The entrance hall was vast, with swords, shields and animal heads arrayed along the walls. Soldiers were dragging sandbags and mattresses over the tiled floor to where they could be used to bolster the windows against a possible bombardment. The guard ushered us up a broad carpeted stairway to an upper gallery decorated with old tapestries of hunting scenes and knights in armour.
We were shown into a spacious study where a young captain stood over a wide desk. He was pointing to a hastily sketched map of the house and grounds while discussing with two subordinates the disposition of their heavy machine guns. Our escort saluted and presented us before being dismissed.
‘I am Captain Fabrice Leconte of the Seventh Chasseurs,’ the commander told us. ‘I did not think there were any English left in France.’
I introduced myself as General Richard Hannay, formerly of the Lennox Highlanders.
‘I am John Galt, sir,’ said Jaikie, ‘a civilian assigned to General Hannay’s command.’
‘A general?’ drawled Leconte. ‘You have mislaid your army? Ah yes, they have escaped across la Manche, leaving you behind.’ There was amusement in his eyes but an edge of bitterness in his tone.
‘We flew from London today,’ I informed him with all the politeness I could muster, ‘on a mission of the highest importance. We were forced down by the Germans and barely escaped being captured. It has not been an easy journey.’
‘No,’ said Leconte dispassionately, ‘I do not imagine it has. And there are only the two of you?’
‘It was planned that the rest of our unit would meet us here.’
Leconte cast an appraising eye over us, as though assessing a pair of new recruits. Though he was no older than Jaikie, he had the air of one whose military lineage stretched all the way back to the days of Napoleon.
‘They are already here,’ he declared at last. ‘They told some story about being separated from their regiment and seeking their commanding officer. It sounded unlikely, no less so even now.’
‘I assure you that our mission will in no way interfere with your operations here,’ I told him.
‘My operation is to hold this château against the Germans to the last bullet,’ he informed me. ‘What is your business?’
‘It is a matter vital to both our nations,’ I replied.
The captain raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘And you cannot tell me more than that?’
‘I would need to meet my men first,’ I said.
‘Very well,’ said Leconte. ‘Bonnet here will take you to them. I will speak with you again when you will perhaps be more . . . conversational?’
His eyes returned to the map and he began making small notations on it in pencil. Corporal Bonnet led us out of the room and down a long carpeted corridor lined with paintings and ornate mirrors. At the far end we were shown into a high-ceilinged, grandly furnished room occupied by three men in the uniform of the Highland Regiment. Their rifles and packs were stacked in the corner while they sat on cushioned chairs playing cards on an ornate Louis XV table.
At the sight of Jaikie they jumped to their feet and rushed to meet him. I judged them all to be slightly older than he, but their obvious delight spoke volumes about the childhood friendship that had forged a lifelong bond between them.
The first to clasp Jaikie’s outstretched hand was a burly, red-headed fellow wearing the gold bar of a second lieutenant. He had the rugged face of a man who would have been perfectly at home l
eaping from a Viking longship, sword in hand, hell-bent on plundering a coastal village or looting a monastery.
When Jaikie presented me, all three saluted distractedly, their attention still fixed on their friend. The lieutenant was introduced to me as Dougal Crombie, a name that struck me as familiar from the world of journalism.
Next was a thick-set, bearded chap wearing the badge of the medical corps. His name was Peter Paterson, though the others addressed him as ‘Doc’. Last came the tallest of the three, a slender figure in the uniform and collar of an army chaplain. He was Thomas Yowney, and though his exuberance at the reunion was overlaid by his quiet manner, it was clearly no less than that of his companions.
‘Thomas Yowney turned a parson,’ laughed Peter. ‘Would you credit that, Jaikie? I mind when we were laddies he was dead set on being a pirate.’
‘I’ve found a better treasure than pirate gold,’ Yowney responded mildly.
There was a decanter of brandy on a cabinet by the window, which the Die-Hards, from the evidence of the glasses, had already sampled. I poured myself a drink and took a sip, but I was unaware of its quality, so intent was I on the conversation going on between Jaikie and his friends.
‘Oh, Jaikie, man, it’s a treat to see that wee face of yours again,’ Peter enthused.
‘Aye, who’d have thought the Die-Hards would be gathered under a roof like this,’ said Dougal. ‘The rest of the regiment was marching for the coast when these special orders arrived for the three of us to head south.’
‘Orders signed by some very impressive people,’ Peter added.
‘All we had was this location where somebody would bring us further instructions,’ said Dougal, ‘and who should it turn out to be but the chief scout himself - Jaikie!’
‘You might almost think there was somebody behind the scenes pulling the strings,’ Thomas suggested meaningfully.
The Thirty-One Kings Page 7