The little girl was senseless, but otherwise unharmed. Yeoman picked her up from the dusty, bloodstained surface of the road. He walked back slowly to the spot where Chantal’s pram lay overturned, its contents strewn around it. Tears poured down his face, and he was not ashamed of them.
He stopped and looked down with infinite sadness. Chantal lay face down, her face resting on the grass verge. Her head scarf had come loose, and the light breeze played with her hair. There were three crimson holes in her back, and she was dead.
You bastards, Yeoman cursed silently. You rotten, filthy bastards. He turned and walked away, stepping carefully round the tumbled bodies in the road, holding the still-unconscious child close to him. He wanted to put the scene of carnage behind him as quickly as possible. There would be others to bury the dead. He had a score to settle with the living.
He strode on, losing count of the time. The child came round and clung to him. She made no murmur, and seemed unaware of her surroundings. Yeoman was grateful. She was such a tiny thing. She would know grief, when the shock wore off, but it would soon pass. The girl who had borne her and cared for her would be wraith-like in her mind, almost, but never quite, forgotten.
He walked on for an hour, leaving the survivors of the refugee column far behind. His feet were hurting badly, and his spirits rose when he heard the sound of an engine, approaching from behind.
He planted himself in the middle of the road and faced the oncoming vehicle. It was a Renault staff car, and the driver blew his horn furiously as it drew nearer. Yeoman held up his hand and the car screeched to a stop with only a couple of feet to spare.
Yeoman moved round to the driver’s window and peered in. The driver was a very young French soldier who appeared to be suffering from a bad attack of nerves. Next to him sat an elderly colonel with a florid complexion and a waxed moustache, who barked at Yeoman through the open window. It was clear that the French officer was highly displeased by this unexpected interruption of his journey.
Yeoman ignored him. He was looking at the occupant of the back seat. She was, he judged, in her mid-twenties, and she was one of the most elegant women he had ever seen. Her red hair fell in a cascade around her shoulders, framing a long, fine face from which a pair of translucent green eyes appraised Yeoman boldly. She wore a blue silk dress and sat back at her ease, slender legs crossed, smoking casually. A leather suitcase lay beside her on the seat.
Yeoman tore his gaze away from her and addressed the colonel, groping for the right words in his halting French.
‘Je suis aviateur anglais,’ he said. ‘Je suis — je suis — shot down.’ He made a descending motion with his free hand. ‘Je vais à Châlons avec la petite fille. Sa mère est morte. Nous voulons aller avec vous.’
It was not the most polite of requests, but it was the best he could manage. It wasn’t good enough for the colonel. He waved Yeoman away with an imperious gesture and ordered the driver to continue.
When he had taken off that morning, Yeoman had pushed his Smith and Weston .38 revolver into the top of his right flying boot. Often, during the march westwards, he had been going to throw it away because it chafed his leg, but he had resisted the temptation — not because he thought be might need it, but because he knew that he would have to account for it if he lost it. It certainly came in handy now. He dragged it out and pushed the muzzle into the colonel’s ear.
‘All right, you fat bastard,’ he ground out, ‘I don’t know if you can understand me or not, but this whole bloody set-up looks fishy to me. You ought to be going towards the fighting, not away from it. I’m going with you as far as Châlons, and if I have any trouble from you I’ll blow your bloody head off!’
The colonel turned white and his mouth dropped open. Yeoman gave him no time to argue. Setting down the child briefly, he opened the rear passenger door of the car, bundling the little girl inside and following her quickly. He prodded the driver in the back of the neck with the gun. Trembling, the man put the car into gear and moved off.
‘That was well done, but not really necessary. The old slob thinks he’s going to sleep with me tonight; I wouldn’t have let him leave you behind.’
The voice was cultured, and American. Yeoman turned in astonishment and looked at the redhead. She smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘Julia Connors,’ she said. ‘Correspondent, New York Globe.’ The pilot gathered his wits. ‘George Yeoman,’ he told her. ‘Sergeant Pilot, Royal Air Force.’
She laughed. ‘Lost your aeroplane, I see.’ She reached down and stroked the child’s hair. ‘How come you’ve got the kid in tow?’
Briefly, Yeoman told his story. When he had finished Julia sat in silence for a few moments, her face grim. She lit another cigarette, then stubbed it out savagely. ‘Christ, what shits those people are!’
Yeoman nodded. ‘It’s funny, though,’ he said, ‘I can’t bring myself to hate them. Most of them are just ordinary blokes like me, doing a pretty rotten job. If I have any hatred at all, it’s for the politicians and that includes our lot — the ones who let all this happen.’ ‘What are you going to do now?’ Julia wanted to know.
‘I need to get to Châlons as quickly as possible,’ he told her. ‘I can leave the little girl with Mémère — that’s the friendly soul who runs the inn where we are billeted. I just hope the squadron hasn’t moved. They probably think I’ve had it.’
She offered him a cigarette, which he refused. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘How do you come to be mixed up in all this?’
‘Oh, I’ve been in France since last December. You might think it a bit strange to find a female as a war correspondent, but believe me it pays dividends. I’ve managed to get hold of stories a guy wouldn’t have got near, just because old fools like that —’ she waved a hand contemptuously towards the colonel — ‘can’t keep their mouths shut when they see a pair of legs. No wonder the Germans knew everything there was to know about their defences.’
Yeoman looked at her questioningly. ‘So it was pretty bad up front?’ he asked. She made a face.
‘Worse. I toured the whole of the Maginot Line from end to end, and saw things you wouldn’t believe. Bungling and incompetence and graft — officers and senior NCOs getting fat on the proceeds from government stores — soldiers planting cabbages instead of doing weapon training — my God, it was appalling. Morale was non-existent, and the few officers who did try to instil some pride into their men soon gave it up as a bad job and took to socializing with the local high society instead. If France could win the war on champagne and cognac, she’d have no problem.’
‘The Germans certainly seemed to be making headway when last I saw them,’ Yeoman observed.
‘You’re not kidding. They’re breaking through all over the place. I got orders to move out fast when the attack started, but I hung on as long as I could. Old fatty here jumped at the chance to drive me back to the rear under his personal escort; he’d probably have crawled away from the front on his hands and knees if he’d had to.’
They passed straight through Vouziers and took the road to Suippes, finding progress slower as they encountered transport columns moving up towards the front Once they were stopped by French field security police. At Yeoman’s request, Julia willingly told the French colonel not to make any trouble; the pressure of the pilot’s gun muzzle through the back of his seat was all the persuasion he needed. The checkpoint was passed without incident.
It was well after dark when they arrived at Châlons. They drove straight through the town to Ecury. On the outskirts of the village, Yeoman ordered the driver to stop. He lifted the child, who was asleep once more, and climbed out of the car, still brandishing the revolver. Julia got out too, pulling her suitcase behind her. ‘Hold on,’ she said, ‘this is where I say farewell to Marshal Foch here. The RAF has hereby got itself an unofficially accredited correspondent.’ Yeoman looked at her in the gloom, knowing determination when he saw it. It was useless to protest. He waved his revolver and the staff car moved o
ff up the street, gathering speed rapidly.
They watched it until it was out of sight. ‘I hope he doesn’t make trouble,’ the pilot grunted.
Julia laughed. ‘I shouldn’t worry about him. He’s too interested in saving his own skin. I’d like to bet he doesn’t stop until he reaches Paris. No doubt he’ll find another plausible story to account for his absence from the front.’
The village seemed deserted. They walked slowly towards the Pelican, picking their way carefully among piles of rubble. Even in the darkness, Yeoman could see that several houses had been demolished. It looked as though Ecury had received a stick of bombs.
The Pelican, thankfully, seemed intact. Yeoman hammered on the door. After what seemed an age, he heard sounds of movement inside. The door opened a few inches and Mémère stood on the threshold, shielding a candle. Her mouth fell open in astonishment.
Yeoman suddenly felt desperately weary. His head swam and he swayed, seeing Mémère’s face blurring in front of him. He thrust the sleeping child into the startled woman’s arms and pushed past her, leaning against the wall for support. His last impression, in the flickering light of the candle, was of the threadbare carpet on the hall floor coming up to meet him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He opened his eyes reluctantly. Julia was shaking him, looking concerned. He felt awful. ‘What time is it?’ he grunted, wriggling his toes. Someone had removed his boots.
‘It’s four o’clock,’ she replied. ‘In the morning, I mean. Come on, we’ve got to get moving. Here, drink this.’ She thrust a mug of coffee into his hands. There was more than a dash of cognac in it. He felt the warmth creep down to his stomach.
He surveyed her groggily. She had discarded her silk dress in favour of slacks, blouse and a short jacket. Her hair was tied back. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Ten out of ten for observation. I’ve been trying to wake you for ages; you must have been really worn out. Listen, there’s no time to lose. The Germans are in Rethel already. Some French troops passed through a while ago with the news. The enemy armour is pushing west and south, which probably means it’ll be here sometime today. We’ve got to get out.’
‘I have to report to the squadron,’ Yeoman said. ‘Should have done it last night.’
‘Your squadron’s not here anymore,’ Julia told him. ‘I’ve been talking to Mémère. They left a few guys at the airfield for demolition, though; with a bit of luck we can catch them and find out where the rest have gone. Come on, you’ve got five minutes to freshen up. I’ve organized some transport.’
Yeoman got up stiffly. ‘You astonish me,’ he said. ‘Born to command, you are. It makes me feel quite inferior.’
She grinned at him. ‘Don’t let it worry you. Haven’t you heard about the all-American woman? An incredible species. We started wearing trousers when it got chilly on the Mayflower, and we haven’t taken ’em off since.’
Her cheerful humour had a tonic effect on the pilot. He went upstairs and washed quickly, then opened the door of his wardrobe and looked in. His kit had gone, presumably collected by one of his colleagues, but his roll-neck sweater was still there, bundled into a corner. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm. The nights could be pretty cold, and it would come in useful if he had to rough it.
He paused at the door and took a last look round, recalling with something of a shock that it was only five days since he had first entered the little room. Since then, the cockpit of his Hurricane had been more of a home to him. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of loss at leaving. He could not help wondering whether he would ever see the Pelican again.
Julia and Mémère were waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. Julia was holding a bulging shoulder bag and a napkin full of food, which Mémère had pressed upon her. The plump Frenchwoman burst into tears and hugged Yeoman tightly, trying hard to get words out between her sobs. ‘She says you are not to worry about little Celine,’ Julia told him. ‘She’ll look after her and treat her just like her own child.’ It was the first time Yeoman had heard the little girl’s name. Thankfully, he knew that he couldn’t have wished to leave her with a better foster-mother.
Mémère kissed them both warmly. Yeoman realized suddenly that she must be going through a great deal of personal agony. She had lived through one German occupation; now the terror of another was about to descend upon her.
Julia tugged urgently at him. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said urgently. ‘The sun’s up.’
He squeezed the Frenchwoman’s arm and turned away, following Julia outside. She paused on the threshold. ‘Well,’ she said, pointing, ‘there it is.’
A motor-cycle stood by the door. It was by no means new, but a quick inspection showed him that it was in reasonable order. ‘Good God,’ he exclaimed, ‘where did you dig that up from?’
‘Apparently it belonged to Mémère’s cousin. He got called up a few months ago. I didn’t want to take it, but she insisted. She says she’ll make it all right with him when he gets back. Like it?’
‘Do I like it? It’s bloody fantastic! Tell Mémère I love her.’ He swung a leg over the saddle and kicked the engine into life. He yelled at Julia above the noise, and she mounted the pillion. They waved at Mémère, who was standing in the doorway dabbing her eyes. Then they were away in a blare of sound that made the Pelican’s tiles rattle.
Mémère leaned wearily against the doorpost and watched as they rounded the corner at the end of the street, the noise of their engine lingering for a long time after they had vanished from sight. She stood there for long minutes, feeling a sense of desolation. Then she roused herself and went inside. The little girl was whimpering in her sleep. Mémère went upstairs to where the child lay snugly in the landlady’s bed. She reached down, tenderly stroking the little girl’s hair. Life still had a purpose.
Yeoman opened the throttle and sent the bike leaping along the narrow road, revelling in the sensation of power and the cool rush of the morning air against his face. Julia’s arms were tight around his waist and he heard her laugh out loud with sheer pleasure as they sped on, the hedgerows blurring on either side.
The breeze brought the smell of burning to them as they approached the airfield. Yeoman slowed down, turning off the road and up the narrow track that led to where the canvas hangars had been. They were no longer there. Everything had been taken apart, piled into a great bonfire and burned. Alongside, the skeletons of two Hurricanes still smouldered.
The field was not completely deserted. On the far side, in the shadow of a clump of trees, Yeoman picked out the outline of a camouflaged truck. He bumped towards it across the grass; it was an old Fordson tender, with what looked like a couple of radio aerials sticking out of the roof.
He swung across the grass towards it, skirting the profusion of bomb craters. He was fifty yards from the truck when he heard the report of a rifle and the simultaneous crack of a bullet, cleaving the air a few feet above his head. He swerved violently, almost throwing Julia from her seat, and stopped. He switched off the engine and slowly raised his hand. He knew that whoever was in the tender could have killed him easily, had he wanted to.
A man emerged from behind the tender. To his relief, Yeoman saw that he wore RAF uniform. He also carried a Lee-Enfield rifle, which was pointing unwaveringly in the pilot’s direction.
‘All right,’ he shouted, ‘that’s far enough. Get off that thing and come over here. The woman as well.’
Yeoman and Julia did as they were told. As they got closer, they saw that the man was a corporal, the flash on his sleeve denoting that he was also a signaller. He looked tired and drawn, and in no mood for any funny business.
‘The name’s Yeoman,’ the pilot told him. ‘Sergeant, 505 Squadron. Got shot down over the Meuse yesterday and I’m looking for my unit. No identification, I’m afraid, apart from my disc. This is Miss Connors, American war correspondent. She’s been giving me a bit of a hand.’
The corporal looked unimpressed, but he
lowered the rifle muzzle slightly, as though uncertain what to do. ‘It all sounds funny to me,’ he muttered.
The trio stood in an uneasy silence, with Yeoman racking his brains for some way of convincing the NCO that he and his companion were genuine. The man was clearly in a state of nerves. Any false move might result in tragedy.
‘Hang on, he’s all right. I know him.’
Startled, Yeoman looked round. Wandering towards them, hands in pockets, as scruffy and morose as ever, was Henry. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you were dead,’ he said.
Yeoman almost laughed aloud in sheer relief. ‘Am I glad to see you! I thought this bloke was going to give us ten yards start and then start shooting.’ The corporal had lowered his rifle now and was grinning, obviously every bit as relieved as Yeoman.
Yeoman wanted to know what was happening. Henry shrugged. ‘I’m dog’s-body as usual,’ he complained. ‘They left me behind to give this bloke here a hand, packing up his radio gear. We’re supposed to catch up with the squadron. They’ve pulled back to Creil.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’ Yeoman asked.
‘About twenty miles north of Paris. Hold on, I’ll show you.’ Henry went inside the tender and produced a map. Yeoman studied it, memorizing the route. It seemed straightforward enough.
‘Listen, Henry,’ he said, ‘if I were you I’d get going as soon as you can. The Huns are on their way here. We’ll stick with the motor-bike, because it’s faster. I want to drop Miss Connors off in Paris and get back to the unit as soon as I can. One pilot might not make that much difference, but every little helps, as the old woman said who peed in the sea. Look after yourselves, and don’t get caught. Come on, Julia.’
They ran back to the motor-cycle. As they moved away, Yeoman glanced back. The two men were climbing into their truck. With any luck, they would be well on their way before the Germans arrived. He grinned to himself. If anyone was going to come out of this business with a whole skin, he thought, it would be Henry. The little corporal was made for survival, despite his offhand appearance.
Hurricane Squadron Page 10