‘What?’
‘Rum in England, Calvados in France. In case I should have the misfortune to be stopped by the authorities. Calvados is more authentic and just as effective at keeping out the cold.’
Emma took a large swig to steady her nerves. ‘Is there anything you don’t bloody think of, Harry?’ and she handed back the flask. He took a sip of the apple brandy. ‘Cheers,’ she said, ‘and it’s good to see you again, Captain Harry Walsh, whatever the circumstances.’
The Channel crossing was happily incident-free. It had been a long night and they were all relieved by the lack of enemy contact. Perhaps God really was an Englishman, mused Emma, who’d had more than enough excitement.
‘How did you know that wasn’t Etienne Dufoy, Harry?’
‘Because I met him once,’ he said, ‘I heard you were bringing him out. They told me he’d been arrested by the Gestapo but escaped. I thought it unlikely. Don’t misunderstand me, he was an impressive and brave man in his own way, but I doubted he was capable of making a break from the Secret State Police.’
‘Then why not get a message to me?’
‘There was no time and I wasn’t certain. You might have killed an innocent man. I had to see for myself.’
‘Who was he then?’
‘No idea. Some creature who’d gain from helping the Gestapo; a man who’d bait a trap for his own countrymen and their allies. No great loss in other words. The Germans would have followed you all to the landing zone then waited for the plane to arrive. That way they get the plane and pilot, the boy from the resistance and you. A few hours’ persuasion and you’d have betrayed the whole network. Don’t look at me like that, Emma, everybody cooperates eventually. It’s just a question of time, until you run out of cover stories. You know that.’
‘Yes, you told me at Arisaig, remember?’
‘I remember.’
Walsh decided now was the time to bring her into his confidence.
‘There is just one thing, Emma.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I wasn’t here tonight. London can’t know.’
‘What? Why? I thought Baker Street knew all about this.’
‘No,’ Walsh paused, as if measuring how much of the truth he could afford to tell her, ‘I asked for approval to come but it was denied.’
‘By whom?’
He shrugged, as if to say, who else? ‘Price.’
‘Bastard,’ she said with some feeling.
‘Yes, I’m beginning to think that he is.’
‘But you came anyway?’
‘Evidently.’
‘You disobeyed a direct order.’
‘SOE is not like the regular army,’ said Walsh, ‘I should know. We’re meant to think for ourselves. Besides, Price did not actually say “I order you not to go”.’
‘What did he say?’
Walsh adopted a high, pompous nasal tone as he mimicked his immediate superior, the Deputy Head of ‘F’ Section. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Walsh. The gel will be fine. It would be a damn fool errand and only a complete and utter fool would attempt it.’
Emma laughed. ‘What does that make you then?’
Walsh’s face broke into a smile for the first time. ‘At least three types of fool by all accounts.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Only that flying out to meet you would be “the thin end of the wedge”.’
‘My God, he sounds just like my father.’ Her tone made it clear to Walsh this was not a good thing. She turned away from him then and looked out of the window, ‘Thank you, Harry, you saved my life tonight.’
‘You’d have done the same.’
‘Yes, I would,’ she said it firmly, still not looking at him.
Emma fell silent for a long time. Walsh took another swig from the flask then closed his eyes. The only sound now was the dull purr of the Lysander’s nine-cylinder, air-cooled engine. That, combined with the tots of Calvados, threatened to lull him into a sleep.
‘But, Harry?’ Emma turned back to him.
‘What?’ His eyes still closed.
‘How am I going to tell London I returned without Etienne Dufoy, that we… that I, sorry… killed an impostor and left his body in the woods for the Gestapo to find? Oh yes, and that we have a traitor in the networks.’
Though Walsh kept his eyes firmly closed, Emma could clearly discern the outline of a smile.
‘You’ll think of something.’
‘Thanks, Harry. Thanks a bunch.’
The English coast finally came into view, its chalky cliffs a dull silver hue in the moonlight but Emma could not enjoy the spectacle. She was too preoccupied with her plight. However was she going to explain this one?
Emma knew Walsh was never going to respect the 20mph speed limit imposed by the blackout and they made short work of the journey from RAF Tangmere. At least he had taken the trouble to fit an adapted lamp, which dimmed the motorcycle’s beam, projecting it downwards, as they sped through the darkness of the capital’s empty roads. The Norton growled one last time as Walsh steered towards the kerb then it fell silent. Emma let her arms slide from his waist and she climbed from the motorcycle.
‘How do you get the petrol to keep this old thing running? No, actually, don’t answer that, I probably don’t want to know.’
‘This old thing happens to be a 1933 Norton. A Model 30, 499cc, racing-adapted “International”. In other words, it’s a classic and a bloody quick one.’
‘I shall have to take your word for that,’ she said dismissively, ‘but thanks for the lift.’
‘All part of the service, miss.’ Walsh stayed astride the bike. He seemed reluctant to ride away.
Emma sighed. ‘At least come in for a drink, Harry. It’s so late, one drink won’t make any difference,’ she said before adding, ‘I’m grateful for the ride but bloody freezing again now. Come on, I’ve some real rum in the house.’
Walsh climbed from the bike and followed Emma up the steps of number 34 Devonshire Place, a dwelling she’d chosen primarily for its proximity to SOE headquarters in Baker Street. The building had changed since Walsh last visited Emma Stirling there. Its iron railings had been taken away and melted down for scrap to help the war effort.
‘That friend of yours not in?’ asked Walsh trying to sound unconcerned.
‘Knowing Lucy, she’ll be gadding about somewhere. If she is in bed we’ll just have to be quiet, won’t we? I’d hate to damage your reputation, though why I’m more concerned about yours than mine I’ll never know.’
They dragged two armchairs up to the dying embers of a coal fire and Walsh prodded it back into life with an iron poker. They drank Emma’s rum from enamel cups. It tasted sweet and warmed the backs of their throats.
Suddenly Emma shuddered.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I mean I will be.’
‘You had a bit of a shock tonight,’ he conceded, as if the notion had only just entered his head.
‘I feel better than I thought I would to be honest. Nothing like the realisation you are close to death to make you appreciate life, eh?’
‘True.’
‘How many times have you been over there now, Harry?’
Walsh looked down at his boots as if checking them for mud. ‘I don’t keep count.’
‘Why? Superstitious? When did you first go over – back end of 1940? How have you coped with this life for three years?’
Walsh wished Emma wouldn’t remind him of his diminishing chances of survival. ‘I try not to think about it. I just do the job and come home.’
Walsh gave the coals an absent-minded prod with the poker. They both watched as sparks danced from them. There was a silence while each waited for the other to speak.
‘Do you keep an eye on all of your
little protégés these days?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Nothing, I just wondered how often you fly over to help them complete missions.’
He knew where she was going and doubted he could prevent her. ‘Like I said, I knew Dufoy and this one just didn’t ring true.’
‘So tonight had nothing to do with “us”?’
‘Us?’
‘There was an “us”, once. I can carry on pretending there wasn’t if you’d prefer.’
‘Emma, I am married, you know that. You knew that…’
‘And how is Mrs Walsh?’
‘You say that as if you know her?’
‘No, but I know you, and I know what we had, even if it was just a few weeks on a miserable, rain-lashed Scottish estate. It was still something worth remembering. A girl is allowed her memories, isn’t she? Even in the SOE.’
Walsh remained silent.
‘I didn’t imagine it, did I? You had feelings for me then.’
‘Yes, I had feelings for you but what use are feelings when one of us is married.’
‘For just over a year as I remember.’
‘I made a mistake.’
‘Seeing me or marrying her?’
‘Seeing you.’
‘You said that very quickly, Harry.’
Walsh sighed, ‘Would you rather I’d not come out to get you, Emma; is that what you’re telling me?’
‘God no, I hate to think where I’d be right now if you hadn’t. It was a big risk you took tonight; I just want to know if you would have done it for every agent you trained?’
‘I would, yes,’ and he said it emphatically, looking directly into her eyes.
‘Well then, I suppose I’m lucky to know you, Harry Walsh.’ She took a sip of rum before adding, ‘And so is the rest of my intake.’
They drained more of the rum as the room warmed up around them until Emma felt able to go barefoot. She pulled the coarse, woollen men’s socks she was wearing from her feet, slumped low in the old armchair, stretching her legs out in front of her and flexed her toes at the flames. Her hair was unruly now; a combination of the relaxing properties of alcohol and the reclined position she’d adopted. The effect was a positive one. It made her look more attainable somehow, like a woman and less a young girl. ‘Just-fucked hair’ thought Walsh, that’s what Tom Danby would have called it and he instantly told himself to banish such thoughts before they became too appealing.
He drained the last of his rum, ‘I should go.’
Walsh rose and quickly put on his coat. Emma followed.
‘You can stay if you want. Of course you know that,’ she was trying hard to sound casual, ‘and I’m not drunk, well maybe just a little, but that’s not the reason.’
They were at the door now and before he could open it she reached out and took his hand, ‘Harry, you saved my life tonight and I want to wake up next to you in the morning and… I’m not doing a very good job of this am I? Out of practice you see.’
‘No, you’re doing far too good a job, which is why I have to go. If it was just bed it might be different but it’s not and I can’t give you anything more than that.’
She leaned in closer and Harry picked up the familiar sweet smell of her hair, something sharp like lemon juice and fresh like the rain. ‘And what if I settled for just bed?’
5
‘If you are arrested by the Gestapo, do not assume all is lost; the Gestapo’s reputation has been built upon ruthlessness and terrorism, not intelligence. They will always pretend to know more than they do and may even make a good guess, but remember that it is a guess; otherwise they would not be interrogating you.’
SOE training pamphlet
At that exact moment in the local headquarters of the Geheime Staatspolizie in Rouen, Olivier was screaming in agony.
‘That was just one,’ assured his interrogator, ‘imagine how it will feel if I order him to remove them all.’ And Captain Kornatzki nodded at the Gestapo corporal who had just torn Olivier’s fingernail out of its roots as calmly as if he were removing the top from a beer bottle.
‘Please no,’ and the young man’s voice cracked into sobs. ‘I’m trying to help, I’m trying to remember but I don’t know anything.’ His voice carried a slight echo in the damp stonewalled cell.
‘Tell me again about the English girl,’ asked Kornatzki, ‘her name, Olivier, what was her real name?’ The interrogator was annoyed he had not been granted the opportunity of a personal appointment with Emma; the women were always more satisfying to work on than the men. He was beginning to view the whole of that night’s operation as something of a failure.
It had seemed promising enough at the planning stage. A single impostor would trap an entire network. By now Kornatzki should have been on the telephone to the Colonel, happily informing him that a British pilot and his plane had been captured, a female agent was under interrogation and soon he would be in possession of the names and whereabouts of Normandy’s key resistance fighters. But it had all gone very badly wrong. An interfering Englishman had murdered the impostor, a petty career criminal persuaded to replace the late Etienne Dufoy, who had been so scandalously allowed to die in custody before revealing all of his secrets. The promise of an amnesty and a little money had led that insignificant crook to an early unmarked grave and the Wehrmacht’s finest soldiers had failed to follow their targets closely enough. Now all the Gestapo had to show for their efforts was this snivelling boy.
‘I don’t know,’ the boy was sobbing hard now and staring at the bloodied stump that used to be his finger. Kornatzki had experimented with countless forms of torture but you could rarely surpass the visual impact of a torn-out fingernail. ‘We knew her only as Madeleine. Please, I’d tell you if I knew.’
‘I’m starting to believe you, Olivier, I am. You’ve been most cooperative so far but I need names,’ and Kornatzki clasped his hand against the back of the boy’s neck then pulled his face forward so it was less than an inch from his own. He spoke in a low whisper, coaxing the boy to talk, ‘If I get the names you keep your finger nails, it’s very simple. So tell me now about the Englishman.’
‘He came out of the trees.’
‘He came out of the trees,’ sighed Kornatzki, ‘yes, you said that. Like Tarzan perhaps, swinging on a vine?’ and he let go of the boy and retreated. The Gestapo corporal rolled up his shirt sleeves and advanced once more to take his place.
‘No,’ Olivier protested weakly.
‘But I must have his name, Olivier, otherwise I cannot keep you alive, you understand that don’t you, it will be out of my hands. You have to help me if you want me to help you.’
‘I don’t…’ and Olivier began to shake his head in wordless protest at the injustice of it all. All he wanted to do was leave this place, go back to his mother and father in the village, walk across the fields with his girlfriend and never think about war or the resistance again. This was all so unreal somehow; all of it apart from the searing, burning pain in his finger, which was very real indeed.
‘Take another finger nail, Corporal.’
‘Please! His name, yes, I think I can remember. It was Harry!’
‘Harry?’ Kornatzki snorted, ‘is that all you give me? What use is that to me? There must be a hundred thousand Harrys in England. Do it, Corporal.’
‘No! It was Walsh. The girl called him Walsh! Harry Walsh!’
‘Did you say Harry Walsh?’ asked the astonished Major.
‘Yes. The girl… she said it, she called him Harry Walsh.’
Kornatzki waved his henchman away and left the boy to his sobbing. He walked briskly out into the corridor and went straight to the nearest telephone. The Colonel must hear of this immediately. Had a drunken Colonel Tauber not once told him bitterly how he would now be a general were it not for an Englishman named Harry Walsh? Poor Olivier, though
t Kornatzki, the Colonel was about to take a very personal interest in his questioning.
Mary was sleeping soundly when Walsh looked in on her. There was no need to wake his wife, for she was used to the long and irregular hours of his ‘hush-hush’ work. Her endless worrying for him finally receded once he assured her his latest posting meant he was desk-bound and would never have to leave the country again.
The light from the landing bathed Mary’s face but she did not stir. Instead she slept silently on, her breathing soft and regular. She was classically beautiful, Walsh had to admit. On the dressing table nearby lay the silver brush and comb set he had bought her on their honeymoon. Every night without fail she would count out fifty brush strokes on either side until she was satisfied with the condition of the long, dark hair. Next to the brush lay her Bible and a silver-framed picture of her older brother, Harry’s friend Tom, the man who had brought them together and now, in a bitter irony, seemed destined to keep them apart.
Walsh closed the door and trod gently down the stairs. Not even close to tired he thought; too full of adrenalin, fear and rum to sleep tonight. So much so he had almost stayed with Emma, a particularly tempting notion now he was in the cold and lonely living room, with its long-dead fire, but he told himself he had done the right thing.
In any case Emma Stirling was not his biggest problem. A new day was almost upon him and there would be a reckoning to pay; an account must be given for the night’s actions. He knew Emma would play her part well but really, the more Walsh thought on it, the more convinced he became that there could be only one outcome. They’d been waiting for an excuse and this time he would likely be kicked out of SOE for good.
Walsh poured himself a generous measure of whisky, sat down in the easy chair and waited for morning to come.
6
‘The Baker Street Irregulars.’
Name given by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to the band of youngsters who helped Sherlock Holmes solve his mysteries – adopted as a nickname by SOE for its own operation.
Walsh turned the collar of his coat up against the downpour as he joined the line of pedestrians shuffling along Baker Street. The pavement shone beneath them, coated by an incessant rainfall, turned slippery under the footfall of soldiers home on leave or housewives looking for a queue to join.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 3