Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Well, it’s good, anyway. Affirmative. There is a way to get Marie-Claude out. They’d planned something like it before, apparently – and it can be done. Great news – huh?’

  ‘It’s—’ gazing round, shaking his head – ‘terrifying…’

  ‘What – that we’ll get her out?’

  ‘The whole thing.’ He muttered it again: ‘The whole thing…’ Sucking hard on his cigarette: ‘Anyway – what do I do?’

  ‘Just carry on. Then when you have the date and pass it to me – the way I told you, yesterday—’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking – what’ll I have to do then?’

  ‘The most likely thing is you’ll drop your note in at that address in the evening, isn’t it. After work. But even if you do it at lunchtime – whichever – on the following day, meet me here at one o’clock. All right?’

  ‘The day after I leave the note.’

  ‘I’ll get it that night at the latest, and – the following lunchtime, meet you here, tell you where to be and when. OK?’

  ‘It may be.’ Twitch of the head. ‘It’s still—’ flicking ash away – ‘you know—’

  ‘Worrying, because it’s outside your experience. Yes, I do know.’ As this was outside hers, she thought: glancing calm-faced at passers-by. To be meeting him for the second day running – in public, broad daylight, when the SD were already breathing down his neck… She put a hand on his coat-sleeve: ‘Listen – I don’t want to prolong this longer than I have to – one or two other points, just quickly. If I had to use the phone to you from now on I’ll call myself Beatrice. Hope I won’t have to – obviously… Second, when we meet here the day after you’ve dropped the message, let’s please make it only about one minute – or less. Maybe not even sit down, just walk and talk then separate. I’ll just be telling you where to come at what time – that’s all, save anything else for when you get there. And – last point, François – you realize, between now and then we won’t be in touch at all. The next contact you’ll initiate, with your note. Right?’

  ‘Then – it’ll be night-time.’

  ‘Evening, rather than night. Still daylight, well ahead of curfew. Again, make certain you’re not followed. You’ll have about five kilometres to cover – to some place in the Kerongués area, obviously. We’ll be waiting for you, and from there on—’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, I and—’

  ‘You’ll be there?’

  * * *

  It seemed to have encouraged him no end; it surprised her that he hadn’t assumed she would be anyway. She’d never doubted that she’d be needed – essentially by Marie-Claude, who’d no doubt be extremely frightened, would need to have things explained to her, might even have to be escorted to Scrignac – or elsewhere. Quite apart from Papa needing to have his hand held.

  When he’d left her, she rummaged in her valise for the cheese sandwich she’d brought and had been rather yearning for. She wolfed it down while preparing for departure – putting her coat on unbuttoned, as the easiest way to carry it – fastening the valise and tying it back into the bike’s pannier, then wheeling the bike into the road and getting going. Getting, thank God, away – into the comparative obscurity of streets crowded with other cyclists, and with the job not only done – this far, touch wood – but feeling that on two counts it looked less shaky than before. One was that although he’d declined to take any money here and now, he’d decided he would take it with him when he and his daughter went walkabout, and the other, that relief of his at hearing she’d be there on the night. The two things together seemed more or less to clinch it.

  As long as he didn’t have his mind changed for him by Messrs Fischer and Braun. Or forget this was his only hope.

  Next stop, anyway – Lannuzel, for a positive decision on Kerongués – and to pick up the transceiver. And tomorrow, maybe – depending on that Kerongués outcome – to Scrignac, to let Count Jules know what was going on. Ring first – ask Peucat to – to check whether it would be convenient; ostensibly visiting his wife, of course, but he’d started all this, was entitled to be kept informed.

  Might even do it by gazo: either with Peucat, or solo.

  She wondered how le Guen would get on with Prigent this evening, how successfully he’d explain his new readiness to work with him. Then with the SD leutnant: he’d said, ‘He’s coming to the office again tomorrow…’ One wouldn’t know or hear a thing, until the message came from Berthomet. Not having unlimited faith in old François, the waiting wasn’t going to be too easy.

  Chapter 11

  Ben stubbed out a Senior Service and reached down for his stick. ‘About the lot, then.’

  Hallowell nodded, shuffling the paperwork together. He was a major, and this was his office in ‘F’ Section SOE’s building at 62–64 Baker Street; Ben had come by appointment to ‘make his number’ with him. DDOD(I) in St James’ – where Ben was working now – controlled the clandestine operations of the 15th Motor Gunboat Flotilla, based at Dartmouth, and SOE relied on that flotilla for shipping agents and material into Brittany, and for bringing agents and secret mail out. Close liaison was obviously essential, and the SOE link was now to be largely Ben’s responsibility.

  Hallowell checked the time. ‘Kept you longer than I should have. Asking too many questions, I’m afraid.’

  Questions unrelated to SOE business too, some of them. About the circumstances of the action in which he’d been wounded, for instance. Ben had mentioned that if it hadn’t been for the body-armour with which Coastal Forces were being issued nowadays he’d very likely have been dead. It was a fact – his armoured smock had stopped a lot of flying debris. Some disliked the armour on account of its weight – and you certainly wouldn’t want to go overboard in it – but it was undoubtedly saving lives.

  The soldier shook his hand: ‘Looking forward to working with you, Ben. One other question, though – aren’t you hiding your light under a bushel, rather?’

  For a moment he didn’t get it. Leaning on the stick, glancing down to where the man was looking – at his sleeve, the twin wavy gold stripes… He caught on: ‘Hell. News travels fast around here, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That memo from your chief—’ a nod towards the desk – ‘has you down as a lieutenant-commander, that’s all. Recent promotion, is it?’

  ‘Could hardly be more so.’ Ben explained, ‘I’ve one reefer at Gieves now, having the half-stripe sewn on, and when I pick it up I’ll leave ’em this one. Do it now, in fact. Thanks for the reminder.’

  ‘My dear fellow.’ He looked unwell, Ben thought. Haggard, hollow-eyed. Hence the desk-job maybe. Shaking his head: ‘I’d think few of us would need reminding… May I be permitted one more personal observation?’

  A grin… ‘Many as you like.’

  ‘Only that Marilyn Stuart tells me you’re a close friend of one of our best people – who’s just gone back into the field?’

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Perhaps not in the immediate present – but in the long run—’

  ‘Yeah.’ Blinking at him, but not really: telling himself it was the long run that counted… Then he changed the subject: ‘Speaking of Marilyn – might she be around?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ Hallowell turned to the desk, picked up one of several telephones… ‘Janet. Is Second Officer Stuart with us this morning?’

  A pause… Then he brightened, glancing round at Ben… ‘Good. Ask her if she’d spare a minute to see Lieutenant-Commander Quarry. He’s here in my office – she knows him…’

  Lieutenant-Commander, Ben thought, waiting. Not actually disliking the sound of it, but not used to it yet either. His new boss had told him on Monday when he’d reported for his first day’s duty in that very hush-hush establishment that the job he’d be doing called for lieutenant-commander’s rank, and the Admiralty had confirmed that he was about due for it in any case, by virtue of the fact he’d be cele
brating his thirtieth birthday quite soon. Wherefore it had been decreed that as of that date – Monday May 1 – he was promoted to Acting Lieutenant-Commander, and should dress as such. Congratulations – et cetera.

  It meant about an extra ten bob a day, he reckoned. Would also impress the old folks back home no end. Only damn shame was Rosie not being here to be impressed. Except she might not have been: might have just laughed…

  Come to think of it, to have had her here with him now – or even just not in France – he’d have willingly dropped a rank.

  Hallowell said, ‘Thank you, Janet’, and put the phone down. He told Ben, ‘She’s tickled pink. Show you where we have her kennelled, shall I?’

  * * *

  He’d been down to Dartmouth yesterday, to see the flotilla, renew acquaintances among the gunboats’ COs and others, and to call on DDOD(I)’s immediate subordinate, a commander RNR who planned the flotilla’s secret missions from an office in the RN College – which had no cadets in it now, only Yanks. That was one change; another, he was told, was that further up-river were moored literally hundreds of landing-craft of all types. Preparation for the invasion, was the obvious conclusion. Anyway, he’d met a lot of old friends, and made some new ones. There were five motor gunboats in the flotilla at this time, including MGB 600 in which he’d been navigating officer for the best part of two years. He’d loved the job – the challenge of intricate navigation close in to that enemy-held coast, working only in the four-day moonless period of each month – and he’d only wangled himself a transfer to the Newhaven flotilla – with Bob Stack’s help – in order to be closer to Rosie, who of course had been in London then.

  And whom he’d first met in this very building in Baker Street, for God’s sake: down there in the hall. She’d been rushing out, more or less in tears – she’d come to be interviewed as a candidate for the agents’ training course, and some idiot had turned her down – and he’d been busting in, damn near knocked her down…

  Hallowell had tapped on a door, then pushed it open. ‘Here you are. We’ll have a drink some time, eh?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Ben!’

  Marilyn: coming swiftly from her desk to meet him: taking his hand in both of hers. Tall, blonde, immaculate as ever… ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Ben… Although you don’t seem to have done anything about it yet?’

  ‘Haven’t had time. Didn’t expect anyone here’d know about it anyway.’ He pushed the door shut behind him. ‘Only got told on Monday – and Tuesday was busy, then yesterday I was in Dartmouth – where some while ago I first set eyes on you, remember?’

  He’d only seen her that time, not met her. She and Rosie had been standing at the rail of the 15th Flotilla’s depot-ship, the ancient paddle-steamer Westward Ho!; she’d come down from London with Rosie, who’d been taking passage in MGB 600 from Dartmouth to the l’Abervwrac’h pinpoint on the Brittany coast. Then he’d met her – Marilyn – properly here in London a few months ago, when he’d had leave from Newhaven and Rosie had introduced them one day when they’d met for lunch.

  ‘As I remember it—’ she’d pointed him towards a chair – ‘I’d say most of the “setting of eyes” that afternoon was on Rosie.’ She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  He remembered – she didn’t smoke.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you, though… Ben, I was so sorry to hear from Rosie you’d come to grief. Even though it doesn’t seem to have laid you out for long!’

  ‘I was lucky. Seems there are knee injuries and knee injuries. Also just run-of-the-mill surgeons and brilliant ones.’

  ‘It’ll be lovely to see something of you, anyway. An ill wind, in its way?’

  He snapped his lighter off… ‘Would be if she was around.’

  ‘Well – she will be. Not for a while, obviously.’

  ‘No. And I’m not griping.’ He smiled. ‘Just bloody miserable… But I knew it was coming, after all.’

  ‘She hated having to leave without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Lysander trip, was it?’

  ‘Well…’

  He shrugged. ‘Silly question. Here’s another, though, if—’

  ‘All I can tell you, Ben, is she’s working hard.’

  ‘So you’ve heard from her already.’

  ‘As I say, she’s – working hard.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded: having to accept that. His eyes on Marilyn’s still, though. ‘She’s – quite something, isn’t she?’

  ‘Rosie? Something?’ Slow headshake… ‘Dickens of a lot more than something, Ben!’

  ‘Might you ever have a chance – fill in a space in some message with “Ben sends his love”?’

  She’d pushed the ashtray closer to him. Glancing at the same time – surreptitiously, but he saw it – at a clock. ‘Names aren’t a good idea. For various reasons.’

  ‘Say “you know who sends his love”?’

  ‘Well – might try…’

  ‘But more important – when there’s news of any kind – any at all that you’re allowed to give me – seeing we’re more or less colleagues now?’

  ‘Any we can give you – if there ever were any—’

  ‘Good or bad news – please?’

  She’d frowned slightly. ‘Let’s not dwell on the possibility of there being bad news. I couldn’t bear it – let alone inflict it on you. I’m very fond of her – believe me… Do you ever say prayers?’

  A nod. ‘On occasion.’

  ‘That’s the best answer, I think.’ She looked directly at the clock, this time. ‘Ben – nice as this is…’

  ‘Nice for me, anyway.’ He brought the stick into action: one hand on that, the other on her desk, pushing himself up. ‘Happened to be here, thought while I had the chance.’

  ‘I was hoping you might.’

  ‘Oh, you knew—’

  ‘She will be back, Ben – bright-eyed and—’

  ‘—as ever. Yep. Course she will. Meanwhile you know where to get me – if ever there’s anything…’ He put his hand out: ‘Marilyn—’

  ‘Found anywhere to live, yet?’

  ‘So happens I may have. In South Kensington, two rooms and the use of a tub. I’m due to inspect it this evening. I was going to say – how about a meal, some time?’

  ‘Why – lovely idea. Not in the very near future, but—’

  ‘If I promise I won’t ask things you can’t answer?’

  Chapter 12

  Saturday, May 6…

  Lannuzel muttered, ‘Here we go…’

  She’d only been here ten minutes: parachutage night, and her first visit here since Wednesday. He had an old wireless on the table, was fiddling with the knobs as the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth broke through the jamming effort. The V-for-Victory beat faded with the announcer telling them in French, ‘And now here are some personal messages…’

  Twenty-five kilometres north of here, in the Montagnes d’Arrées Jean-Paul Jaillon – whom she’d seen at Scrignac on Thursday – would have his ear to this broadcast, too.

  She’d left St Michel-du-Faou in mid-afternoon, having spent the morning in and around Peucat’s busy surgery, wearing a threadbare white coat he’d found for her and chatting to patients in the waiting-room, up-dating their cards and generally making herself known. Had worked there yesterday too, mostly on paperwork; and now she was supposed to be visiting former patients in outlying areas with whom he’d lost touch; the last would be in the village of Landeleau, and so late – she’d have got herself lost at some stage – that she’d have accepted the old woman’s invitation to spend the night.

  The messages had started. First, a claim that certain varieties of rose did not have thorns. He’d asserted this twice. Now – ‘From La Grande-Motte to Montpelier is a distance of nineteen kilometres. From La Grande-Motte to Montpelier is a distance of nineteen kilometres. The Little Owl hunts by moonlight, often in packs.’ Lannuzel glancing round at her, rolling his eyes: he wasn’t a patient man. Rosi
e thinking there’d be about half a moon tonight. Repetition in the background: ‘– often in packs.’ It had been a few days short of full moon when she’d flown in. She lit a cigarette: had offered one to Lannuzel but he’d declined it with a brusque gesture: she’d thought, OK, stuff you. The messages had suddenly become garbled, though: interference of some kind…

  ‘Something something – puis?’

  He muttered a curse: fiddling the knob, his teeth bared. Then the repetition came up loud and clear: ‘A darkening sky presages rain.’

  ‘Jaillon’s!’

  A thumb raised, then…

  ‘The first signs of spring are always welcome. The first signs of spring—’

  ‘Right!’ Turning to her: ‘That’s welcome! Your own immortal words, Suzanne! I’ll have that cigarette now, if you’re still feeling generous.’ Raising his voice: ‘Brigitte! Have to go out now!’ Re-tuning: with the cigarette unlit in his mouth: settling on Jean Trenet’s rendering of ‘Que Rest-il de nos Amours?’. He nodded towards the fretwork-fronted wireless as Brigitte came in: ‘Your heart-throb.’

  ‘Going out?’

  ‘I’ll be half an hour. Shutting sheds and pens, anyone wants to know. I will, on my way back – so say about an hour.’

  She asked Rosie when he’d gone, ‘You went to Scrignac yesterday, you said?’

  ‘Thursday. Henri Peucat lent me his gazo, I drove myself over there. Better than cycling, believe me. Well, especially in those hills!’

  Friday, when she’d worked chez Peucat, his sister Marthe had arrived on the doorstep with dreadful news of the Achards, Timo and Adèle. Both were in Gestapo hands, it was thought either in Morlaix or St Brieuc. Marthe had been to their house and heard it from a neighbour who’d taken the children to their grandmother in Rennes and only just returned, had been tidying and shutting up the house – including the bar, presumably. The shock to Rosie, who’d never met Adèle but had actually witnessed Timo’s arrest, had been compounded – and still was, although he’d pooh-pooh’d it – by concern for Henri Peucat: he and the Achards had after all been close friends for a long time, and there was the black-market Cognac connection too.