Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘You’ve joined Dr Peucat. I know. That’s to say, we knew you were expected – this brother of mine’s been counting the hours… Please, sit down?’

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Thought she was my wife, eh? But that’s something I don’t have. Brigitte has a husband though – still locked up, prisoner of war, in Germany.’

  ‘So we believe. Not a word for months, however.’ She added, ‘My married name is Millau. My husband is – or was—’ she crossed herself, swiftly and economically – ‘a bomber pilot… Suzanne, would you like coffee?’

  ‘I’d love some – if it’s no trouble…’

  ‘But listen.’ Her brother cut in: ‘If we should be interrupted, you might have called in to ask whether it’s possible to buy eggs – which of course it is not—’

  ‘And which I’d know. So the truth is I’m interested in acquiring a few laying hens. I came only to enquire about it – I’d need to build a pen for them, and heaven knows what else – so I’ve come to ask for advice, that’s all.’

  ‘Feeding them would be a problem, unless you grew your own corn as I do. And I doubt old Peucat’s got room for that, has he? But OK, that’s what we’re discussing – now or any other time, should we need to explain ourselves.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Oh, they sniff around. Neighbours, mostly. Never tell anyone anything, around here. Fine people, salt of the earth, but – you know…’

  ‘I’ll get coffee.’

  ‘Bless you. And now, Suzanne.’ He sat down, facing her across the table, having discarded a donkey-jacket. Tough-faced, muscular, the collar of a checked shirt visible above a sweater that had seen much better days. It was a rectangular table with four straight-backed chairs at it; two matching carvers flanked a fireplace heaped with ash. One picture only – the Virgin Mary with her infant in her arms. Lannuzel asked Rosie, ‘How soon can we arrange for a parachutage?’

  ‘Arrange for it – immediately. It should happen then within a few days. Or say a week. Depending on the weather, of course. But in London they’re waiting for my signal, and they’ve promised immediate action. All I need is your shopping-list and map coordinates for the drop.’

  ‘It’s all ready for you. But – easy and quick as that, is it? Truly, no more than a week?’

  ‘Is it a dropping zone that’s been used before?’

  ‘Yes. Not recently, but—’

  ‘If it has been, and it’s in the RAF’s records, that’ll save some time.’

  ‘It must be, surely.’

  ‘And have you done it before, you personally?’

  ‘Parachutages? Sure. Several. But there again, not recently. Things have been bad for us – you know? Two of the three caches that we had were discovered – and hostages taken and shot—’

  ‘Any idea how they were discovered? Infiltration?’

  ‘One boy, they got hold of. He’d helped with an earlier drop. They beat him to death – he died in the gaol in Morlaix afterwards. They got both locations out of him, the other one he didn’t know about. Poor kid… Christ, but they’ve a bill to settle when the time comes, uh?’

  She nodded. ‘On ropes from lamp-posts, and not too quickly.’

  ‘We’re of the same mind, then. But I was saying – those caches discovered, while at the same time Maquis numbers have trebled. From various causes – maybe you know—’

  ‘Primarily because it’s getting into people’s skulls that the Boches aren’t going to win.’

  ‘Yes. That’s about it. And that there’s likely to be an invasion soon. That’s my next question – when?’

  Blue eyes blazing as if they had lights behind them…

  ‘Invasion?’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t tell. Don’t know. But I think it has to be this summer. Could be next week, next month—’

  ‘If it’s next week we aren’t going to be much damn use here!’

  ‘So let’s hope it won’t be. All we can do is work as fast as we can. You’ll have your drop, whatever you’re asking for – within reason—’

  ‘Brens, mortars, grenades, Stens, arbalettes – and listen, a dozen of the Stens with silencieux?’

  Arbalette was the Maquis term for a bazooka. She’d nodded: aware that they might not get every single item – Brens were in shorter supply than the far cheaper Stens, for instance – but if they didn’t it wouldn’t be her fault. She added, ‘And rifles, presumably, and hand-guns. Explosive and detonators too. There’ll be a lot of rail tracks to be blown up, when the time comes. I’d like to get together with you on that, sometime soon, make some outline plans for it. And what about training – would you accept weapons instructors if they were dropped to you?’

  ‘We’d accept them, but we don’t need them. There’s a team of guys – well, my own sort, up there, and they can train the rest – when we have the weapons. You know I was a soldier – so were these. Good men, all of them. Only thing is, if there’s anything new we don’t know about—’

  ‘I could help. I finished a refresher course only a few weeks ago.’

  ‘You?’

  Staring back at his stare… ‘It surprises you?’

  ‘You’d come into the mountains, teach us?’

  ‘Well – how else?’

  ‘I think I love you!’

  On his feet, reaching to her across the table: Brigitte was in the doorway, edging in sideways with mugs on a tin tray. Her brother glancing round at her, holding both Rosie’s hands in his: ‘I’ve just fallen in love with this woman!’

  ‘Well, don’t overdo it.’ Setting the tray down, she smiled at Rosie. Her face was weathered: you could see she spent a lot of time outdoors. Nodding in her brother’s direction: ‘Goes a bit haywire, sometimes. Sometimes I think he might have been hit in the head as well as that foot. One day a piece of shrapnel may pop out of one ear and he’ll come back to normal… Guy – sit down!’

  * * *

  ‘What I wanted to ask—’ Rosie had lit a cigarette – ‘was about to ask, just now – you said you’ve received paradrops before, but did you organize any of them yourself?’

  ‘One, I did. Others I only helped with. Why, d’you think I might not be up to it?’

  Getting up, shutting the door properly… Brigitte had left them again, having drunk her coffee scalding-hot. Lannuzel didn’t want her to hear more than she had to. He’d told Rosie as the door was drifting more or less shut behind her, ‘Safer that she shouldn’t. I want to have her safe and fit for when her husband gets back to her. One of these days, please God.’ Crossing himself, as she had. Rosie wondering whether they had parents alive; or what news had reached them of the husband. But there wasn’t time for chitchat. From here to Quimper would be the best part of forty kilometres, she wanted to have a look at Trevarez en route, and to be back in St Michel before curfew. Didn’t have much idea how long her business in Quimper was going to take, either.

  Ring the dentist from here, maybe.

  Lannuzel was back at the table; she answered his last question… ‘No – of course I’m not doubting your competence. But very large resources go into every drop, and I’m expected to know how it’ll be handled. The location, for a start – it’s been used before, you said, but not lately: has the area around it been checked out recently?’

  ‘For signs of Boche interest in it, you mean. Yes – the boys would know of anything like that. It’s high ground, not overlooked from anywhere higher, accessible by way of a forest track so we can have transport right there. The transport’s available and ready, too. The clearing’s about a kilometre long and half as wide, thick forest all round. I have the coordinates written down, but I’ll show you on the map as well. As to how it’ll be handled – there’ll be a reception team of sixty men – four groups of fifteen.’

  ‘In the Montagnes Noires, all this?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Will you have new caches ready – pits dug, or whatever – have it all out of sight before daylight?’

  He nodde
d. ‘Locations already picked. Better security, too, only a handful of us will be in on that part of it. We’re very conscious of the urgency, Suzanne – that’s why I’ve been pressing for it. And we could turn out four times as many men if we needed to.’

  ‘That’s something else. You’re alert to the threat of infiltration, are you? Because – I’m sure you’re aware of this, but the more numerous your Maquis become—’

  ‘The more careful we have to be. Yes. Vetting new arrivals is – rigorous. If there’s doubt – well, they don’t get by. A committee sees to it, I only advise when they ask me.’

  ‘What happens?’

  ‘Depends. When it comes to the worst – a hole in the ground. But you needn’t concern yourself, Suzanne.’

  ‘I’m sure not. It’s your business. But it is a very real danger, isn’t it. I know – a Boche infiltrated a réseau I was in, not long ago. And with the numbers you’re dealing with – don’t have to be Boches either, do they…’ She took a pull at the stub of her cigarette, then squashed it out. ‘Let’s see what you’re asking for. If I can get it coded in time, London will have it tonight. Or tomorrow – I’ve a full day ahead of me… Incidentally, there seems to be a lot of troop movements going on?’

  ‘You’ve noticed, have you. Invasion fever, we’re calling it.’ He was on his feet: ‘In other words, they’ve got the wind up… Sit tight, I’ll get my notes.’

  * * *

  She’d glanced over his list, and checked the coordinates against his map. This lot wouldn’t take long to encode: there was a set form for paradrop proposals and a code-letter combination for each type of weapon. He’d also listed supplies other than weaponry and ammunition, items ranging from bandages to corned beef – which he’d put down in Maquis terminology as singe, or monkey.

  She poised a pencil over a blank space at the foot of the ruled sheet of foolscap. ‘We’ll need a message for the BBC to send. How about “The first signs of spring are always welcome”?’

  ‘I’ve often wondered who thought up that gibberish.’

  ‘It takes a rare talent, let me tell you. You’ll remember it though, will you, and listen for it – in case I break my neck, or something?’

  ‘In case – yes. And in case I do I’ll tell it to a few of them up there.’

  ‘One other thing. No, two. The first is we don’t have a code-name for you, and we may need one.’

  ‘Well… Friends in the Army used to call me Guido. A long time ago, no one does now.’

  ‘Guido. Fine.’

  ‘Brigitte calls me that, sometimes. But between ourselves only.’ A jerk of the head, towards the kitchen. ‘What I was alluding to a few minutes ago, by the way – keeping her out of it, as far as possible – if you’d assist in that, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This place is actually her husband’s. Was his father’s – a small-holding, it was my idea to go in for chickens. But it’s theirs – I’m only caretaker, you might say, until he gets back, I want to hand it over in good working order – and his wife with it. If you get the point?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Staring at him for a moment. Then a shake of the head. ‘Guy, listen. There’s one matter you haven’t raised. OK, so I haven’t either, yet.’

  His turn to look blank. She prompted, ‘Château Trevarez?’

  ‘Trevarez. That…’ A shrug. ‘Does it need to be raised? It was a suggestion from certain quarters, not from me – and in any case—’

  ‘Are you against it?’

  ‘Well – in a way, yes. I’d say the parachutage is what’s most vital – and Trevarez, after all—’

  ‘The parachutage you could say is in hand, now. There’ll be others too – in the Montagnes d’Arrées for sure and perhaps elsewhere, and you can come back for more too – when you can handle it. The Trevarez project, though – obviously you haven’t been told – we’re going to hit the place, and we’d like help from some of your Maquis.’

  ‘Count Jules know about this?’

  ‘It was his idea. We’ve elaborated on it a little, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m amazed.’ His eyes seemed to go duller, when the subject under discussion was of less interest or appeal to him. He shrugged, rubbing his unshaven jaw: the thumb pointing southward then: ‘A few of them will be delighted, of course.’

  ‘The groups you and the count have been restraining.’

  ‘Yes. Our communist brethren. I’ve got more than he has, it’s my problem more than his, but we see eye to eye on the subject. In a nutshell, those fellows want to be at it all the time – assassinate a Boche officer here or de-rail a locomotive there – with the result hostages get dragged out and shot, and the Boches are stirred up and make life more difficult for us, while what we need is time to get ourselves into shape for the time that’s coming.’ He opened his hands, palms upward: ‘What does Trevarez have to do with anything? Upset a few U-boat sailors, spoil their holidays a little, and in return get a whole gang of innocent people shot?’

  She nodded. ‘I can answer that.’

  Checking the time. Although this was as important as anything she’d be doing today. ‘D’you have a telephone here?’

  ‘Oh, yes. When it’s working.’

  ‘I’d like to make a call before I leave, if I may. Then how long’ll it take me to get to Quimper?’

  ‘On your bike?’ He gave it a moment’s thought… ‘Two and a half hours, maybe.’

  ‘I’ll aim to do it in two, then. I’m a flyer. A Boche called me that yesterday. But – Trevarez, now. Actually there’s a code-name for the operation – “Mincemeat”… I agree about cutting out pinprick actions, but this won’t be anything of the sort – not simply to kill or inconvenience a few sailors. Although there are likely to be some in the château at pretty well any time, isn’t that so? Submariners from Brest, Lorient, St Nazaire?’

  ‘Brest and Lorient anyway. Yes, they come and go. We’ve thought of ambushing their transport, but it’s always heavily escorted – armoured cars, so forth. But the fact is, Suzanne, their presence here does us no harm, they’re no part of the garrison. The boys who want that place hit don’t give a damn – they’re communists, that’s all, for their own political ambitions they want to be seen as taking the lead – and the hell with hostages. You know?’

  ‘So we give them this Trevarez action, in return for their agreement to toe the line elsewhere – including joining the FFI.’

  ‘You working for de Gaulle now?’

  ‘Cooperating – we have a common aim, after all.’

  ‘And have that lot agreed to this – line-toeing?’

  ‘Count Jules believes they will. I’m surprised he hasn’t discussed it with you. Anyway he must have known I would.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken in the past few weeks. He goes to Paris a lot, you know. But – Suzanne – it seems to me – well, it’s still the same project, isn’t it? One old château, a few Boche sailors shaken up – and afterwards, hostages murdered – to please the hotheads?’

  She shook out two cigarettes and pushed one over to him. Leaning towards the match he struck then. ‘May I fill in some strategic background for you?’

  Gallic shrug: lighting his own Caporal, eyes blue slits above the flame… ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Don’t assume this isn’t relevant – because it damn well is… The U-boat war – it’s far from over. The Royal Navy fought them to a standstill last spring, and they pulled out of the North Atlantic altogether – to the Azores, West Africa, Mediterranean, leaving the northern convoy routes alone for a while. But they’re back at it now – with a new type of U-boat, new guided torpedoes – et cetera. And one thing vital to invasion prospects is to keep the convoys coming. Before, and after. Right?’

  He nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘So – obviously the U-boats themselves, but also their command, communications, the whole administrative structure behind them, are now targets of great importance. Anything we can do to disrupt their operations i
s something we’ve got to do.’

  ‘But not with pinpricks.’

  ‘No. And unfortunately the bases themselves are too heavily protected for ground action to be a realistic option. As you were saying about their road transport.’

  ‘Better targets for your air forces.’

  ‘The bomb-proof submarine shelters make that largely ineffective too. Trevarez, on the other hand – well, you know it only as a leave-centre, rest and recreation for U-boat crews. On the face of it, a pinprick target. Although if one could knock off enough of them—’

  ‘Break open the detention camp where hostages are held at the same time, maybe?’

  ‘Well, that’s a thought. Except they’d just take other hostages, wouldn’t they…? Anyway – did you know that once in a while the château is used as a weekend conference centre for the Kriegsmarine’s top brass?’

  She saw momentary surprise: then recollection… ‘I’d forgotten. We did hear there’d been some such occasion. About a year ago.’

  ‘It’s a regular thing, now. Well – periodic. And our information is there’ll be another one soon. Think of it – the naval staff all under one roof – and on your doorstep. The admiral commanding in the west here – name of Bachmann, he’s the one who ordered the so-called “execution” of two Royal Marine canoeists about fifteen months ago – he invariably attends. Also—’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘We do know – that’s all. Take my word for it?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I was saying – if we’re lucky, Grand-Admiral Doenitz may favour us with his presence. He has only to nip up the road from Kernével: and those are his U-boat bases, all in spitting-distance – eh? But when he can’t make it – off hobnobbing with Hitler, or whatever – he’s represented by his chief of staff, Rear-Admiral Godt. Godt’s his deputy, runs the U-boat force from day to day – another prime candidate for having his weekend spoilt… You with me, Guido?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed…’

  Fingers drumming softly: eyes bright again. Forehead creasing, then: ‘One also sees snags, however. First, would your source alert us long enough in advance?’