Operation Kingfisher

by Hilary Green

  A brief smile flitted across her daughter’s face. ‘I know what you mean. I’ll do my best.’

  Outside, Duhamel gestured to them to get into the rear of the van.

  ‘Why can’t we ride up front with you?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Better not. If no one sees you they won’t ask questions, will they.’

  ‘But if they open the van and find us, it will look suspicious.…’

  ‘It’s that or nothing. Are you coming or not?’

  Luke gave his mother a final hug and climbed in and Christine followed. They had a last view of Isabelle waving and biting her lip and then the van doors were slammed and they were left in darkness.

  Chapter 3

  As the van bounced and swayed out onto the road, Luke grumbled, ‘It’s crazy making us hide in here. If we are stopped it’s going to give the game away at once.’

  ‘Duhamel’s a coward,’ his sister responded. ‘He’s in a flat panic and he’s not thinking straight. We’ll just have to hope we’re not stopped.’

  It was an uncomfortable ride, sharing the small space with crates of wine and the fumes from the gazogène burner. They sensed from the change in speed and the smoother ride that the van had turned onto the main highway heading south, but then they came to sudden halt.

  ‘This can’t be Vic-le-Comte,’ Christine said.

  Luke shook his head tensely, knowing that the same thought was in both their minds. The rear doors were flung open. Duhamel stood there.

  ‘Out!’

  ‘Why?’ Luke demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Out!’ the man repeated.

  Unwillingly, they both scrambled out of the van and looked around them. They were not, as they had feared, at a road block. The van was stopped at the side of the road on the hill going down to the River Allier, but their view ahead was blocked.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Luke made to move round the van to see.

  ‘Stay here!’ Duhamel hissed. ‘There’s a German patrol down by the bridge where the road goes off to Vic. They are checking everyone’s papers. I don’t want them to see you.’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter!’ Christine exclaimed. ‘Our papers are in order. All you have to do is let us ride up front like ordinary passengers and tell the Boche that you are giving us a lift. There’s no problem.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say that,’ the little man muttered, ‘but I’m not taking the risk. See here. If you walk back a hundred metres, there’s a small path that goes down to the river and a footbridge across. I know, because I lived here when I was a kid. You go that way and you will find you can get back up to the road that goes to Vic-le-Comte, well past the roadblock. I’ll wait for you there.’ He slammed the doors of the van. ‘Go on! Get moving. I can’t hang around all day.’

  Before either of them could argue further he scuttled away and climbed into the driving seat. A second later, the van was moving away downhill.

  Luke and Christine looked at each other helplessly.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to do as he says,’ Luke said. ‘Come on, we’d better not make him wait too long.’

  The path was as Duhamel had described it, and they made their way down through a vineyard to the river bank and across the footbridge. Rain, which had been threatening all day, came on in earnest as they climbed up the far side, making the heavy tweed coats which they both wore heavier still and clogging their feet with mud. They were out of breath when they finally scrambled up the bank onto the lane. For a moment they both stood still, looking to right and left; there was no sign of Duhamel’s van.

  ‘Perhaps he meant further on,’ Christine said.

  They trudged up the road until they could see round the next bend. There was still no sign of the van. Luke put into words what they were both fearing.

  ‘The bastard’s gone and left us.’

  ‘Cochon! Lâche!’ Christine shouted into the distance. ‘I knew we couldn’t trust him. I reckon he always meant to ditch us at the first opportunity.’ A new thought struck her. ‘Oh, Luke! Our cases were in the van. He’s gone off with them. Everything we needed for the journey.’

  ‘Merde!’ Luke exclaimed. He thought for a moment, frowning. ‘It could be worse. Once we get to Montbéliard, Uncle Marcel will be able to fix us up with what we need. I’m sure he’s got friends who would lend us some old clothes. And once we get home to England—’

  He was cut short by a cry from his sister.

  ‘Luke! Your satchel! You didn’t leave that in the van, did you?’

  Luke struck his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘Oh God! I did. What a fool!’

  ‘And your papers?’

  ‘They are all in the satchel.’

  ‘Oh no! Luke, what on earth possessed you? What are we going to do without them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he groaned. ‘But we’d better move. We can’t stand here in the middle of nowhere getting soaked.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Christine caught his arm. ‘He said he had wine to collect in Vic. It must be either Perrault’s place or the Cave de Veyres. If we hurry we might be able to catch him.’

  ‘Well done, Chris!’ Luke squeezed her arm. ‘Come on. It’s worth a try. We can’t be far from Vic.’

  It took them half an hour to reach the little town, but the first vineyard they tried had never heard of Duhamel and when they reached the second, it was to learn that he had left ten minutes earlier.

  They beat a hasty retreat, but once out of sight they stopped and looked at each other bleakly.

  ‘So he has just left us stranded, the bastard,’ Luke said.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  Then Christine said, ‘Well, it’s done now. The question is, what do we do next?’

  Luke ran his hand through his wet hair. ‘I don’t know. Try to get home? We might be able to thumb a lift if we go back to the main road.’

  ‘We can’t!’ his sister said. ‘You know what Maman said, the longer we are there the more danger she is in. And I honestly don’t think I could bear to go through saying goodbye all over again.’

  ‘You’re right. We’ll have to find our way to Montbéliard somehow. Do you still have your money and papers safe?’

  Christine felt in her pocket and produced a wallet containing the money and her new identity card.

  ‘I might have enough to pay for train tickets for both of us – and perhaps you won’t be asked to show your papers. The Boche can’t check everyone at every station. It’s a risk, but I don’t see what else we can do. Where’s the nearest station?’

  Luke screwed up his face. ‘Martres-de-Veyres, I’m afraid. It’s about eight kilometres from here. Come on. We’ll just have to walk.’

  They plodded on for a time in silence.

  Then Luke said, ‘God, I hate this!’

  ‘Trudging along in the rain? I’m not so keen on it myself, especially in these shoes.’

  He shook his head angrily. ‘That’s not what I mean! I hate this whole business. I hate running away.’

  His sister stopped and looked at him. ‘We’re not running away.’

  ‘Yes, we are. Well, I am. I should stay here and fight.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. If you stay here, you’ll end up working for the Germans. You won’t have any choice.’

  ‘Not if I go to the Maquis.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me. The Maquis are all very well, but they are not going to win the war. You are going home to enlist, remember? Don’t you think you’ll be more of a danger to the Nazis flying a Spitfire, or dropping bombs on their factories, than you could ever be in the Maquis?’

  He frowned at her, rain dripping down his face. Then he gave her a crooked grin. ‘OK, you win. You’re right, as usual. Let’s press on.’

  They had dressed for the train journey, not for a long tramp in the rain, and by the time they reached the little station, they were both soaked and footsore. It was a relief to disco
ver that there were no German guards or members of the milice checking papers, but the platform was empty and it was clear that they were in for a long wait. The ticket clerk sold them tickets without expressing any curiosity about the purpose of their journey and told them the next train was due in just over an hour.

  By the time it arrived, they were both shivering and there was little comfort to be had in the unheated carriages. At Clermont-Ferrand, they were able to change trains without encountering any checks. The train was packed with businessmen in suits and farmers in blue overalls, with an occasional smartly dressed woman, and they were lucky to find seats. As they settled down Christine felt that at last the worst was over. They still had to change trains again at Lyons, but with any luck by tomorrow morning they would be in Montbéliard.

  It was warmer here, largely due to the press of bodies; outside it was growing dark and, soothed by the regular rhythm of the wheels, she began to doze. They had been going for about an hour when Luke nudged her.

  ‘Going for a pee!’

  He left the compartment and she settled back in her corner. A few minutes later, the door slid open and Luke stood in the doorway. He made no attempt to enter and from the expression on his face, Christine knew at once that they were in trouble. He jerked his head, indicating that she should join him in the corridor, and she stumbled out over the feet of the other passengers.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There are milice on the train. They are going into every compartment demanding to see people’s papers. They’re in there now, three compartments up from ours.’

  Christine’s brain was racing.

  ‘I’ll be OK. Can’t you hide in the toilet until they’ve gone past?’

  ‘No, it won’t work. A man went in just as I came out and I heard one of them banging on the door and demanding his papers. He was obviously going to wait until the chap came out.’

  At that moment the train slowed and tilted as it negotiated a bend.

  ‘Where are we? What’s the next stop?’ Christine asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Roanne, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s move down the train. If we keep going back, we might get to the station before the milice reach us.’

  ‘It’s an idea, but I’ve got a feeling we’re quite near the back already. Still, let’s try it.’

  They made their way along the swaying corridor, squeezing past passengers who had been unable to find seats, until they came to the end of the carriage. Luke tried the door that should have given access to the next one, but it was locked.

  ‘Damn! This must be the last carriage. We can’t go back any further.’

  As he spoke, a door further up the train was slid open and the two milicien came out. They went straight to the next compartment and Christine heard them roughly demanding to see everyone’s identity documents. She felt the train slowing down more.

  ‘Perhaps we’re coming into the station now,’ she said. ‘Can you see?’

  Luke went to the door leading to the outside and lowered the window so that he could lean out.

  ‘We’re on some kind of embankment. I can’t see any sign of a station, but there’s a bridge up ahead. We’re definitely slowing up.’

  The two miliciens came out of the compartment and one began checking the papers of passengers standing in the corridor. The second one went into the compartment nearest to where Luke and Christine were standing.

  Luke said, ‘There’s only one thing for it: I’ll have to jump. It’s now or never. Once we’re on the bridge it will be impossible. You get off at the next stop and wait for me. It can’t be far ahead.’

  ‘Not on your life!’ Christine responded. ‘I’m not risking us being separated. I’ll jump with you.’

  ‘No!’ her brother exclaimed. ‘It’s too dangerous!’

  The man checking the standing passengers finished with one and moved to the next. For the moment, they were hidden from him in the recess beside the door but Christine saw that if he came any closer he must see them.

  She grabbed the door handle and forced it open. The wind whipped into her face and, beyond the rails, the ground dropped away into the darkness. She looked at her brother.

  ‘See you at the bottom!’

  The next second, she was falling through space. There was a bone-jarring impact and then she was rolling, over and over, the branches of low-growing bushes tearing her face and legs. She grasped at them; the first one or two ripped through her fingers, but at last she got a grip on one and it brought her headlong progress to a standstill.

  For a few minutes she lay panting, becoming aware of stinging pain in various parts of her body. Then she sat up cautiously and discovered that all her limbs seemed to be intact and under her command. She was clinging to the side of a steep embankment, and below her she could make out the gleam of water. Looking up, she realized that the train had gone. She could hear it rattling away in the distance. Apparently, she thought, the miliciens had not seen them jump, or they would have pulled the communication cord. Maybe one of the other passengers had noticed the open door and shut it?

  She peered round her in the gloom.

  ‘Luke? Are you all right?’

  There was no response. She called again, with the same result. She lowered herself cautiously to the bottom of the slope and found herself on a footpath running alongside either a river or a canal.

  She called Luke’s name again, but only silence answered her. For a terrible moment, she considered the possibility that he might not have jumped. Had he lost courage at the last minute? Or, worse still, had her movement alerted the miliciens, and had they caught him before he could follow? If that was the case, what should she do now? If he had stayed on the train and managed somehow to avoid capture, he would be waiting for her at the next station. Should she try to walk there and look for him? Or would it be more sensible to try to get to Montbéliard on her own? The thought of going on without knowing what had happened to her brother was unbearable.

  Then she saw a dark, crumpled figure lying on the path a few yards from where she stood. She felt her heart thump once and then it seemed to stop altogether. If he was dead….

  Luke was lying in a heap, his face half hidden, and he was not moving. Christine dropped on her knees beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Luke! Can you hear me? Luke, it’s me. Speak to me, please!’ She was weeping in spite of herself. With an effort, she pulled herself together and tried to remember what she knew about First Aid. She put her hand on his throat and gave a sob of relief as she felt a pulse.

  He gave a low moan and stirred slightly. She gripped his shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. His eyes were half closed and there was a gash above his left eye, around which the flesh was already swollen and discoloured.

  ‘Oh, thank God! Luke, wake up! You must wake up!’

  He mumbled something indistinct and she laid her hand on his cheek.

  ‘It’s all right. You’ll be all right. I’m here.’

  ‘What?’ he muttered. ‘What’s happened? Where am I?’

  ‘We had to jump out of the train, remember? You must have hit your head.’

  ‘Train?’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Fetch Maman, will you? I think I’m going to be sick.’

  He twisted away from her and vomited onto the ground.

  She choked back a moan of despair. She recognized the symptoms of concussion; she drew him towards her and cradled his head on her lap.

  ‘I can’t fetch Maman, chéri. We’re on our way to Montbéliard, to see Uncle Marcel. You lost your papers and we had to jump off the train. Try to remember.’

  He squinted up at her and she saw him struggling to clear his mind. After a moment, he nodded faintly and mumbled something that sounded like assent. It was still raining and she could feel that he was beginning to shiver. One thing was abundantly clear: somehow they must find shelter.

  She peered along the tow-path but with the blackout there was no way of telling if the
re was any kind of habitation ahead. She bent her head to Luke’s.

  ‘Are you hurt anywhere else, except your head? Do you think you can walk?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You have to try,’ she said. ‘We have to get out of this rain somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you.’

  With difficulty, she dragged him to his feet. He swayed, but it seemed he could stand, with her help. She pulled his arm across her shoulders and they began to stagger along the path.

  After a couple of hundred yards, Christine was exhausted and Luke was hanging ever more heavily on her shoulders. She began to despair of ever finding shelter; but then, a dark shape loomed up ahead. Some kind of boat was moored against the bank.

  She lowered Luke onto one of the bollards to which it was tied, and felt in her pocket for her torch. A brief examination showed her that it was a barge with a long cargo hold covered with a tarpaulin and a cabin aft. The cabin windows showed no crack of light and when she leaned her head close, she could hear no sound from inside, but a gang plank led up from the bank. She reasoned that the owners had probably gone into the nearest town, which must therefore be fairly close; but one look at Luke slumped on the bollard assured her that however near it was, there was no chance that he could walk that far.

  She climbed the gang plank and knocked on the door of the cabin. There was no response and, with her heart in her mouth, she tried the door. It was locked.

  Christine turned her attention to the hold. If they could find space under the tarpaulin, they would, at least, be out of the rain. It was lashed down securely and the knots had swollen with the rain and refused to give. She heard herself whimper with frustration and weariness and gritted her teeth. She had always thought of herself as brave and resourceful and now was the moment to prove it. She delved into her pocket again and found her most prized possession: a penknife with multiple attachments. She opened the screwdriver and used it to prize the knots loose, until she was able to lift an edge of the tarpaulin and peer underneath. A smell rose from the cargo that swamped her with a sudden wave of homesickness. The barge was loaded with casks of wine.