Operation Kingfisher

by Hilary Green

  ‘And you.’

  She rode away with a tightness in her throat, but at the same time a sense that something good had happened, something important, and the news about the gunboats was only part of it.

  The next time Franz appeared in the hotel grounds she accused him.

  ‘Did you tell your officers about this place?’

  He gaped at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Four of them turned up the other night, out of the blue. Was that because you told them about it?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! Why would I want officers showing up here? I’m not supposed to be fraternising any more than you are. Anyway, you don’t think I have that sort of conversation with the officers, do you?’

  She was contrite. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think. It was just the coincidence, that’s all.’

  It took him a few minutes to get over his annoyance, but before long they fell back into the comfortable mood of their previous encounter.

  When it was time for him to go he said, ‘May I kiss you?’

  She had been dreading this. She wondered if he would not come back again if she refused, and if it would matter if he did not. It was not as if she had got any useful information out of him. But she found she was reluctant to hurt his feelings.

  ‘All right.’

  His lips were dry, slightly rough, and when she felt the tip of his tongue between them she drew back quickly.

  ‘Good night, Franz.’

  He did not seem unduly put out. ‘Can I come again, next time I’m off duty?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to.’

  He clicked his heels and saluted. ‘Goodnight, Christine.’

  Several days passed and then she saw him waiting for her by the lake. He greeted her as usual but she sensed at once that something was wrong.

  ‘What is it, Franz? You seem a bit fed up.’

  ‘Oh,’ he skimmed a stone into the smooth water. ‘Don’t take any notice of me. I’m in a bad mood, that’s all.’

  ‘Why? Has something happened?’

  ‘Happened? Nothing happens here. I don’t know what we’re here for. Do you know what I have spent my day doing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Counting pigs! That’s what. It’s not what I imagined myself doing when I joined up.’

  ‘Counting pigs! Why?’

  ‘Orders. The captain’s had us all going round to every farm in the commune, making a record of what livestock they have.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Because the beasts are being requisitioned. They have got to bring them all into Montsauche so they can be shipped off to Germany.’

  ‘All of them? You mean, you are taking away all their animals?’

  ‘Every last one. That’s why we were ordered to count them. “Don’t rely on what the farmers tell you,” the captain said. “You can bet if they say they have four pigs there will be half a dozen more hidden away somewhere. So you check, and count them yourselves.”’

  ‘When is this going to happen?’

  ‘On Saturday. The farmers are being told they must bring them to market. But it won’t be a market, as they think of it.’

  ‘But what are these poor people going to do if you take their animals?’ Christine asked. ‘What are they going to eat?’

  He threw another stone, his expression mulish. ‘The same rations as everyone else, I suppose. The captain reckons the farmers are feeding the Maquis. He says it serves them right to lose their animals and he’s hoping it’ll turn them against the rebels and make them more keen to cooperate when we ask for information.’

  ‘It won’t!’ Christine said sharply, and then moderating her tone, ‘I mean, I should think it will have the opposite effect. They will hate you all even more.’

  He looked at her. ‘Do they hate us?’

  ‘You are occupying their country. Of course they do.’

  He sighed and turned away. ‘We’re told we are fighting for the Fatherland, and all the animals are going to feed our mothers and sisters back home. But I don’t know.… It isn’t the way I thought it would be.’

  ‘It’s wrong, all of it,’ she said more gently. ‘Look at us. We’re friends – or we could be, if circumstances were different. Why should we fight each other?’

  He took hold of her hands. ‘Why indeed?’

  This time, his kiss was more forceful and she could not prevent him from pushing his tongue into her mouth. It was the first time she had been kissed like that and the idea revolted her; but at the same time it woke some deep-seated response that suggested if only it had been someone else, she would feel differently.

  She gave little thought to this aspect of the encounter, however. What mattered now was to pass on this information. As soon as Franz left, she gave her mind to the problem. It was Wednesday. Cyrano would not be at organ practice until Friday and that would not give enough time for any plans to be made. She did not know what the Maquis could do to prevent what was intended, but she was certain they would wish to do something. Then she remembered something else Cyrano had told her; the priest at Duns-les-Places was a supporter and he held confession every Thursday afternoon.

  Christine arrived at the church in Duns out of breath from the long ride uphill and glad this time of the coolness of the interior. It was a very long time since she had been to confession. She and Luke had been baptised into the Catholic Church at the behest of her mother’s family, though Isabelle herself was not a regular attender. An English upbringing and a strictly C of E girls’ independent school had given Christine a different perspective, and when the family returned to France she had found the Catholic emphasis on hell and repentance inimical. As a result she was now more or less agnostic. Nevertheless, she was familiar enough with the rituals of the church not to look out of place.

  Three or four women were waiting in the pews, and Christine found a place a short distance away, drew her scarf over her head and knelt. For once, she found herself praying in earnest. She prayed for her mother, waiting for news at the Cave des Volcans, and for Luke, taking she knew-not-what risks with the Maquis, and for the farmers and their families who were about to lose their livelihoods.

  When all the others had gone, she slipped into the confessional and knelt. The ritual question came from the other side of the screen.

  ‘When was your last confession?’

  Christine drew a deep breath. However little she believed in the rite, it seemed wrong to circumvent it like this.

  ‘Father, I haven’t come to confess. I have an urgent message for Xavier.’

  ‘For Xavier?’ The tone of voice from beyond the screen was different. ‘What message, child?’

  ‘You must tell him that the Germans are going to take all the animals from the farms round about and send them to Germany. The farmers have been told to bring them to market in Montsauche on Saturday.’

  ‘All the animals?’

  ‘Yes, every one. Soldiers have been sent to count them, so they know how many there should be.’

  ‘Merciful God! How are these people supposed to live?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father. That is why the Germans must be stopped. The Maquis must do something.’

  ‘It’s hard to know what they can do. But I shall get a message to Xavier. Have no fear of that. You have done well to tell me. Now, God bless you. Go in peace.’

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, a young lad, one of the altar boys from the church at Duns, arrived on his bicycle at the guard post on the track leading up to the Maquis Xavier. Thanks to equipment dropped in a recent parachutage, the camp was now provided with field telephones and within minutes, Xavier and one of his lieutenants arrived to hear what the boy had to say. An urgent message was sent to summon Gregoire from his base at the Maquis Vincent and he arrived, bringing Vincent with him. Half an hour later, a council of war was assembled around the table in the hut which had now become Xavier’s HQ.

  ‘We can’t do anything in Montsauche,’ Gregoire said. ‘
It would inevitably result in a firefight and innocent civilians would be caught up in it. I think we can safely assume that the beasts will be transported in cattle trucks to the railway at Château-Chinon, for onward transfer. So the only chance would be to ambush the convoy on its way there. Let’s have a look at the map.’

  ‘They will be bound to take the main road,’ Xavier said. ‘But it’s not ideal for an ambush.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Gregoire nodded. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘We need to divert the convoy onto a minor road,’ said Vincent. ‘Here, for example, on the road up to Chevigny.’

  ‘We could block the main road, I suppose,’ Xavier said dubiously. ‘But there are Boche patrols going up and down it all the time. The blockage would soon be reported and cleared.’

  ‘Suppose we could convince the officer in charge of the convoy that the road was blocked, or unsafe in some way,’ Gregoire suggested.

  ‘How?’ Xavier asked.

  ‘Your German despatch rider!’ Vincent exclaimed. ‘Could he be trusted to deliver a despatch telling the officer in charge that the main road was unsafe and he must take a diversion?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Gregoire said thoughtfully. ‘It would be asking a lot, but he has said he would be willing to do anything.’

  ‘There’s one snag to that,’ Xavier put in. ‘You’ve all forgotten that he has a broken arm. He can’t ride his motorbike like that.’

  ‘Then we need a substitute,’ Vincent said. ‘We have his uniform and his bike. We need a volunteer who is roughly the same size and can pass as a German.’

  ‘And can speak the language, presumably,’ Xavier said scathingly. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of men here who fill that description.’

  ‘Need he actually speak?’ Gregoire asked. ‘I’m just thinking aloud. If a man in the correct uniform was to ride up to the officer in charge, salute in the proper way, hand over the despatch and then turn his bike around and roar off down the road, do you think the officer would smell a rat? Even if he did, our man would be well away, and then the officer would have to decide whether the message was genuine or not. And if he chose to disregard it, he could be heading straight into danger. There was spare paper in Hans’s bag with the right insignia and he could compose the message and write it out. It would look genuine.’

  ‘Then all we need,’ Vincent said, ‘is a man to deliver it. Someone who looks like a German.’

  ‘Well, you can count my lads out,’ Xavier said. ‘There’s not one of them who looks right. How about your men, Vincent?’

  ‘No one comes to mind.’

  ‘There is one person I can think of,’ Gregoire said slowly. ‘Tall, fair, blue-eyed …’

  Cyrano had listened in silence to the discussion. Now he broke in.

  ‘Gregoire, you’re not thinking of Luke, are you? You can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’ Xavier asked. ‘He volunteered to join us and said he would do anything he was asked to do. He’s the ideal man for the job.’

  ‘But he’s just a kid!’ Cyrano protested.

  ‘He’s eighteen,’ Gregoire said. ‘If he was back in the UK, he would have been called up. He would probably have been flying Spitfires by now. Xavier’s right; he volunteered to do whatever was required.’

  ‘You can’t order him to do something like this,’ Cyrano said.

  ‘Of course not. We have been talking about a volunteer, haven’t we? But we can at least put the idea to him.’

  ‘And that’s your idea of “volunteering” is it?’

  ‘I’ll make it clear that he is at liberty to refuse. Alphonse, see if you can find Luke and bring him here.’

  Alphonse did not have far to seek. Luke was lurking nearby, tormented with anxiety at the thought that the sudden crisis conference might have something to do with Christine. When he was summoned, his worst fears were confirmed. He entered the hut nerving himself for bad news.

  ‘You wanted me, Gregoire?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a job to be done and I think you are better suited to it than anyone else. But I want you to be clear, you are not obliged to agree. This is a job for a volunteer.’

  Luke’s gasp of relief was audible. ‘A job? Oh, that’s all right. I thought.…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought something might have happened to my sister.’

  ‘You need not worry about Christine,’ Cyrano said. ‘We know she was at the church in Duns yesterday, because she sent us a message through the curé there. I think we can assume she is all right.’

  ‘Thank God! Sorry, Gregoire. You were saying…?’

  When Gregoire had explained what they had in mind, Luke’s first reaction was, ‘But I don’t speak German.’

  ‘We’ve thought of that. Hans can coach you with the few words you will need. The idea is for you to ride up to the head of the convoy, salute and hand over the letter, which Hans will write, and then scarper at full speed. You can ride a motorbike, can you?’

  ‘No. Well, I’ve never tried.’

  ‘Fernand can teach you. It isn’t difficult. Will you give it a try?’

  Luke took a deep breath. ‘When is all this supposed to happen?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  The next twenty-four hours were the most crowded of Luke’s life. Hans was summoned and was happy to agree to compose the necessary directive. While he set to work, Luke had his first lesson on the motorbike the German had been riding when he was captured. Then, Hans drilled him into the correct behaviour and made him repeat over and over the necessary words, until his accent was as near perfect as he could make it. Then, it was back to the motorbike again and then to what Cyrano facetiously called a ‘costume fitting’ in the German’s uniform. They were much the same height, but Hans was bigger in the waist. A belt fixed that problem but the boots were more difficult; Hans’s feet were smaller than Luke’s and the boots pinched his toes, but there was no way around that. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he would not have to walk far in them.

  Meanwhile, Gregoire was busy with Xavier and Vincent planning the ambush. A spot was chosen on the way up to Chevigny where the trees grew close to the narrow road. A barricade would be built just beyond it, with a one of the Bren guns mounted on it, and two other Brens would be positioned to cover the rear of the convoy.

  ‘I don’t want anyone getting back to Montsauche to alert the rest of the garrison,’ Gregoire said.

  In between, the members of the two Maquis would line the road on either side, armed with rifles, grenades, and captured Schmeisser automatics.

  ‘There’s one thing we’ve all forgotten about,’ Cyrano pointed out. ‘If this all goes to plan we are going to find ourselves left with several truckloads of assorted farm animals. How are we going to return them to their rightful owners?’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ Gregoire exclaimed. ‘You’re right. It hadn’t occurred to me. We can’t take them back to Montsauche and anyway, there’s no way we can turn big vehicles around in that narrow lane.’

  ‘We could take them on to Chevigny and tell the farmers to collect them from there,’ Xavier suggested. ‘How they get them back to their farms will be up to them.’

  ‘That seems to be the only answer,’ Gregoire agreed. ‘That’s a job for Christine. She must meet with the farmers as they bring their beasts to town and explain the idea. Can you get a message to her, Cyrano?’

  Cyrano looked at his watch. ‘She’ll have checked her dead drop by now. I’ll have to call in at the hotel. After all, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t drop in for a beer on my way to my next piano lesson.’

  When Cyrano walked into the bar at the Beau Rivage, Christine’s first reaction was a mixture of delight and anxiety. Something must have gone wrong for him to set aside the normal protocols. His smile as he came over and ordered a beer reassured her, though she found herself glancing uneasily round the bar to see who was watching. Three of the usual residents were playing cards on the far side of the room but they merely glanced up and then
returned to their game. Cyrano leaned across the bar seductively.

  ‘I think I’ll take my drink outside. Could you bring me out a sandwich of some sort? Anything will do.’

  When she came into the garden with a hastily constructed baguette with a morsel of cheese, he was sitting with his face raised to the sun, giving every impression of relaxation.

  ‘Sit down a minute. I need to talk to you.’

  Anyone watching would have thought he was just chatting up a pretty girl, as he explained the plan for the following day, omitting any reference to the part Luke was to play.

  ‘So what you need to do,’ he concluded, ‘is mingle with the crowd and get the message round to all the farmers to go to Chevigny. But tell them to wait for about an hour and for God’s sake impress on them not to all set off together, or the Boche may smell a rat. Can you manage that?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she replied. ‘But I want to know how it all goes, afterwards. Can you meet me? I’ll be dying to hear the news.’

  He smiled. ‘OK. I’ll come to the church, about six. Meet me there.’

  The streets of Montsauche were clogged with animals. Flocks of sheep and goats, with dogs at their heels, trotted bleating along narrow lanes; slow-moving herds of cattle plodded down the main road, udders swinging; horse-drawn trailers full of pigs followed. All converged on a field at the edge of the town, where cattle trucks were drawn up in readiness.

  As each farmer arrived with his beasts, they were counted and checked off against a list and then directed into one of the trucks. Very soon angry voices were raised above the background of lowing and bleating.

  ‘We were told to bring them to market. What payment are you offering?’

  ‘You can’t just take our animals! What are we supposed to live on?’

  The answers were always the same.

  ‘Your beasts are needed to feed the Fatherland. They are being requisitioned by the authority of the government in Vichy.’

  Men swore and shouted, women wept.

  ‘Please! Leave me at least one milk cow. I have small children. They need the milk.’