Deed of Glory (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Grünwald said, “He looks the part, yes?”

  Engel had to admit he did. “Has he been briefed? Does he know his story and what he has to do?”

  “Yes,” and Grünwald added, “His French is poor but his German good.”

  Engel looked at Turner. “Let’s hear it from the beginning.” He flicked a finger at Pianka, “While he’s talking you check to see if he’s clean.”

  Pianka grabbed Turner and slammed his face forward against the car. Turner struggled, snarled an obscenity and Pianka stepped back, fist clenching.

  Engel’s hand lifted and the rasp of his voice froze both of them: “That’s enough! Right reaction because our airman would not like being manhandled by a foreigner, but in the wrong language!” Turner’s curse had been in German. “Get on with it!”

  Pianka stepped forward and started his search. Turner said, in German accented but fluent, “We’d been on a raid, dropped our load and we were on our way home—”

  Engel interjected, “Where is that?”

  Turner glanced at him, “Let’s say Southern England. That’s all I’m telling you.”

  Engel nodded curt approval and Turner went on, “We ran into flak when we were near the coast, the kite caught fire and the skipper ordered us to jump. I came down in a field and looked around for the others but couldn’t find them. The sea wasn’t far away and I think maybe they dropped into the drink…”

  While he talked Pianka checked him—thoroughly. He stripped Turner to the skin, even removing the flying-boots and the socks so that Turner stood against the car stark naked and shuddering in the damp cold. All of his few possessions, each item of his clothing was examined by Engel as Pianka threw them on to the roof of the car. He was looking for anything that might betray Turner as a fake but they were all genuine RAF issue.

  At the end Engel nodded, “Good. Get dressed. Where is your flying-suit? Parachute?”

  Turner grabbed at his clothes and said through chattering teeth, “I hid them under some bushes, close by a church, about a mile north of here.”

  Engel turned on his heel and limped back and forth across the clearing, thinking it over. Turner knew his part and if he played it well enough then the scheme had a chance of success. If he botched it—Engel limped back to the others, his stiff leg hurting him. He said, “You know that if they see through you, then they will kill you. They’ll have to, because they daren’t let you go.”

  Turner, dressed again and confident, said, “Don’t worry, I’ll pull it off.”

  “Hide in the woods for the rest of the day. Move at night and look out for our patrols. As far as they are concerned you’re a British airman on the run and we don’t want you caught or shot. You find out a name or a face of someone who counts in the network, not just some errand-boy, then you get that information to me. No one else. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Understood. To you alone.”

  Engel was silent a moment. He did not like Turner but the man was risking death so he said, “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Engel nodded to Grünwald, limped back to the Citroën, climbed in and Pianka drove out of the clearing. Horstmann lifted a hand to them as they passed but Engel did not acknowledge it.

  Pianka asked, “Where to?”

  Engel did not answer, but asked, “What about Turner?”

  Pianka shrugged, “I think he might do it.”

  “I didn’t ask about his chances. What did you think about him.”

  Pianka grimaced. “Another shit, like Grünwald.”

  Engel grunted agreement, “But we’ve got to use him. He’s our back-up if this other thing fails. There’s a Resistance network and we have to smash it.” He was silent a moment, then: “Take me back to the office and we’ll have a drink to wash the taste away.” And to ease this bloody leg. “Tonight we’ll talk to Horstmann. You get hold of him and bring him to the office. It’s time he started paying.”

  *

  Turner hid in the wood through the afternoon. He found another, smaller clearing away from the lane but close to the edge of the wood so he could see if anyone came near. He kept on the move, shifting about the clearing because it was very cold and because he had nagging doubts. Not because France was a strange land to him and he had barely a few words of the language; that was in character for a British airman and all to the good. But suppose the French had checks no one knew of, and found out the truth? He tried to suppress the thought. Anyway, the stakes were high: if he discovered the name of the man Engel and Grünwald wanted that would bring him promotion in the S.D., he had Grünwald’s word on that, and when the war was over there would be a job in England for him, a job like Grünwald’s, with power, money and women.

  When dusk fell he moved out of the trees and walked in the shadow of the hedges. In that way he had tramped around several fields before he saw a farmhouse in its yard, dark behind closed shutters. As he approached the bark of a dog and the rattle of its chain set his nerves on edge. He froze, peering, until he made out the dog straining towards him, claws scrabbling on the cobbles of the yard, the chain pulled bar-straight.

  The door of the house opened and light from within silhouetted the figure of a man. Turner circled around the dog, walked up to the door and called, “I am an English airman! Anglais!”

  They took him in. There were the farmer and his wife, both in their sixties, and one young man that Turner thought must be a grandson. The others called him Jacques. None of them spoke English but they fed him on thick soup and a hunk of bread with a bottle of red wine. He wolfed down the food but drank sparingly, remembering his orders. All the time the French talked among themselves but in low, rapid tones and Turner caught none of it. Although the old man and his wife seemed nervous, the young one, Jacques, was clearly filled with suppressed excitement. He seemed to be arguing some course of action but the other two shook their heads and repeated over and over, “Demain! Demain!”

  Turner knew that much French; whatever Jacques wanted to do, his elders were insisting that he put it off until tomorrow. Turner could see their point; there would be German patrols and if one of them caught this excited young man there would be awkward questions asked.

  The elders persisted and won. Jacques, disgruntled but still eager to please, took a torch, showed Turner to a barn with its loft piled with hay and gave him to understand he was to sleep there. Before he left, taking the torch with him, he produced a knife from somewhere inside his clothing and showed it to Turner. It looked to be a butcher’s knife with a sharp-honed blade some six inches long, narrowing to a needle-point. Jacques put away the knife as quickly as he had produced it then laid his hand dramatically on his chest and intoned, “Ami!”

  Turner, not to be outdone, seized the hand in both of his and shook it. “Oui! Ami!”

  Left in the darkness of the loft he listened to Jacques’s boots clumping across the yard and then the slam of a closing door. He laughed quietly. These French! Full of dramatics! Children!

  He made himself a bed in the hay and settled down. He had made a good start and tomorrow he would build on it.

  He woke with the first light to the sound of boots on the cobbles below. He crawled out of the hay to a little cob-webbed window and saw Jacques push a bicycle across the sunlit yard to the farm track, then mount it and pedal away towards the road. Clearly the boy had gone to get help. There was nothing to do but wait, so Turner crept back into the hay and slept again.

  The old man brought food to him later; then, at mid-morning, Jacques returned and visited the loft briefly. He said, “Ami,” pointed out of the window at the sun then moved his finger across the sky. Turner nodded understanding: someone was coming to see him later.

  It was late afternoon when Jacques hurried across the yard and called Turner down from the loft with urgent gestures. He led Turner cautiously to the house. The fine morning had clouded over and the kitchen was gloomy. As Turner entered it from the back of the house a young woman on a bicycle ro
de past the windows at the front. The old man and his wife, sitting by the kitchen range, looked up anxiously. The dog’s chain rattled, then its challenging bark turned to a welcoming whimper.

  The young woman came into the kitchen. She stood across the scrubbed pine table from Turner, watching him as Jacques spoke to her rapidly. The old couple murmured greetings and disappeared into the next room. The girl eyed him critically.

  Turner was disappointed. He had hoped for someone higher in the chain of command, not a messenger-girl on a bicycle. He remembered Engel’s demand: ‘someone who counts in the network, not an errand-boy.’

  The girl said, “Please sit down.”

  Turner asked, “You speak English?”

  “A little.”

  He laughed with feigned relief. “Thank God for that!” He pulled a chair up to the table. “I left school when I was fourteen and never learned any French.”

  Catherine Guillard put her handbag on the table, peeled off her gloves and laid them beside it. “I am sorry I could not come sooner.” Admiral Dönitz had arrived that morning and she had been obliged to wait in her office in case she was required to interpret, but at lunchtime her chief had sent word that she would not be needed. He remembered that she wanted to go to Paris and she had his permission to leave work early. As she left the yard Henri was waiting for her, leaning casually by the gate. He slouched along beside her like any other workman but muttered uneasily, “Jacques telephoned. He’s jumping for joy. He thinks he has a British airman out at the farm, but the man doesn’t speak French.”

  Now she smiled warily at Turner and began her questions. “Where were you brought down?”

  “I landed about five or six miles north of here…” He told his tale.

  She interrupted once to ask, “What did you do with the parachute?”

  “I wrapped my flying-suit in it and stuffed the lot under some bushes.” He described the place and she recognised it.

  Turner finished his story and she asked him about his home. He rambled on for some time about the house in a London suburb, the local cinema and the pub, the shops. He was lucky then, though he could not know it; Catherine had stayed in the area with her father for a while before the war and recognised many of the little details.

  She was satisfied. This Englishman was genuine—but still a problem. She said, “We can get you back to England.”

  “Great!” Turner grinned at her, delighted to discover that this girl obviously had more authority than he’d thought.

  She held up a hand. “It will not be easy and it may take a long time. You must be patient. You will have to stay here for some days until we can make arrangements.”

  Turner shrugged. “You’ll do your best, I know. And I’m very grateful.”

  “Jacques will look after you and I will send someone to help you as soon as I can. But we must be careful, you understand.”

  “Of course. I see that.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “Jerry must be on the look-out all the time for blokes like me.”

  “He is.” Catherine glanced at Jacques and said in French, “You must be watchful.”

  “I will. Depend on me.” He was clearly proud of the trust she placed in him.

  “I will speak with the old people now and ask them to keep this man for some days.”

  Turner understood little of this, but saw the young woman leave the room and Jacques go to the window and peer out, keeping watch on the track that led to the road. The girl’s handbag still lay, with her gloves, on the table. Jacques’ back was to Turner, who hesitated only a second, then stretched his hand out to the bag and eased open the catch. Inside was a purse, a jumble of oddments such as a lipstick, a notebook and pencil—papers. With one eye on Jacques’ back he slid the identity card part-way clear of the others, enough for him to see the photograph, the name Catherine Guillard and the address in the Rue de Saille. He pushed the card back and carefully closed the bag.

  He realised he was holding his breath and quietly let it out. Only now did he realise the risk he had taken, and it appalled him. In fact, however, it seemed that he’d had all the time in the world because he sat for another full minute before the girl came into the room and only then did Jacques turn around.

  Catherine said, “I’ve asked them to let you stay in the house as much as possible—that way the time will not drag as it would in the loft.” It was important that this young man did not become bored and restless. He would have plenty of waiting before he saw England again and they must try to make it bearable when they could.

  Turner answered, “Thank you.” He meant it. The loft was all right for sleeping but not for waiting through long hours, buried in hay to keep warm and listening to the rats.

  Catherine explained all this in French to Jacques who listened attentively. Even so, she wished she did not have to depend on him. She would move the airman to another safe house as soon as she could, and meanwhile she had no alternative but to trust the boy. “You have the telephone number where you can contact Henri. He will be there every night while the airman is here. During the day he will call there often. If you need help or advice you must ask him. That is understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Catherine decided she had done all she could. She rode away on her bicycle and Turner watched her go, content. He had only to wait for the night and then walk out of here. He was home and dry.

  *

  In the port of St. Nazaire, Engel was standing close by when Admiral Dönitz turned to Kapitän-Leutnant Herbert Sohler who commanded the Seventh Submarine Flotilla and asked, “What will you do if the British attack St. Nazaire?”

  “There are standing orders that cover the possibility,” Sohler answered. Then he added, “But it is considered highly improbable.”

  Dönitz did not like that answer. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that!”

  *

  In the late afternoon Henri cycled down from the town and crossed the Southern Entrance of the St. Nazaire basin by the swing bridge over the lock. He was no sooner over than the bridge was swung aside and the destroyer Jaguar slid out into the lock. The ships of Schmidt’s Fifth Flotilla were on their way to sea. Henri watched for a minute then turned left away from the Old Town and the square. He rode along the side of the basin to a point about a hundred metres from the Old Entrance. The bridge over the lock there was also swung open and the Schnellboot was in the lock, going out to join the destroyers. Even had the bridge been closed he could not have crossed it this evening because there were sentries posted on the far side and the length of the quay beyond was protected for some 200 metres by more sentries at the end of it. That was the section where Hauptmann Engel’s office stood.

  Henri turned and rode back the way he had come. No one took any notice of him because the yards were at work and men were everywhere. A café stood close by the Southern Entrance and Henri propped his bicycle against the wall, took a beer to a table by the window. From there he could see the bridge across the Southern Entrance, and the road beyond leading around to the mile-long Boulevard and the Kommandatur. He waited until it was almost dusk and time for the blackout. Only then did the cars come.

  There were two of them and they came into sight as they turned inland from the Boulevard. They drove steadily and Henri walked out of the café, climbed on his bicycle and set off along the side of the basin as the cars turned on to the bridge. He was halfway to the Old Entrance when they passed him, moving more slowly now because of the men working on the quay, the leading car with its klaxon blaring to clear the way. As it passed he saw men of the Feldgendarmerie, Engel’s military police, inside with machine-pistols. The second car slid by, twenty metres behind the first and he glimpsed a small figure sitting erect in the rear, a navy greatcoat and a great blaze of gold lace.

  The cars swept on across the swing bridge over the Old Entrance, the sentries there saluting. Henri braked and dismounted. The cars stopped two hundred metres further on outside the Abwehr office. The tall figure of
Hauptmann Engel stood at the front, saluting, and the sentries at the door presented arms. His guest in the long naval greatcoat stepped out of the second car and crossed quickly to the entrance, hand at the peak of his cap in acknowledgment of the salutes, and disappeared inside.

  Henri turned the bicycle around and pedalled back along the side of the basin, crossed the bridge at the Southern Entrance and rode up the hill. At the Place Carnot he turned right into the Rue Henri Gautier where he had an apartment. He carried the bicycle upstairs and left it outside the door of his room. Once inside he locked the door, set up the wireless and sent a signal to London. They were keeping a listening watch and answered his second transmission.

  He breathed a little easier after that. When they did not hear you, you had to keep sending, wondering all the time if the German radio-detection vans were receiving you and getting a cross-bearing on where you were—and that was bad for the nerves.

  He packed the wireless back into its suitcase and went down to the café where Catherine spent an hour or so each evening. He waited until she was alone then he left the café but paused briefly at her table to say softly, “Dönitz is there and the destroyers have sailed. London knows.”

  Catherine nodded. “I asked for leave to go to Paris so I must, for appearance’s sake, but not until tomorrow and I will return the next day. While I’m there I’ll contact the escape route to Spain for the English airman. You will keep an eye on Jacques meanwhile.”

  Henri frowned. “He’s too young, too excitable and always acting, but I’ll look after him. You take care.”

  He walked out. So he could call on Catherine tonight if he needed her, but tomorrow he’d be on his own. And this evening he had to sit at the end of a telephone line in case young Jacques had any problems. Also there was the British interest in Admiral Dönitz and the movements of the destroyers to be considered. He had no idea of the British plans, and did not wish to know them. But something was brewing—he could feel it…