Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  ‘Don’t think all Milice join for political reasons,’ said Valvert, ‘it’s not always about fighting communists. Most of the ones I’ve seen sign up for pay and extra rations.’

  Valvert’s temper was up now and Walsh thought it time to change the subject. Cooper did it for him.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the American as he opened a small box.

  ‘Cufflinks,’ answered Walsh.

  ‘I can see that, Captain Walsh,’ he said dryly, ‘but why have I been given them?’

  ‘A little SOE tradition. You risk your life in a foreign field for them and they give you a gift to show it’s appreciated.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly, it comforts people, apparently.’

  ‘Really?’ Cooper regarded the cufflinks closely, ‘how very…’

  ‘Quaint?’ asked Walsh.

  ‘I was going to say “English”. This happen every time?’

  Vera Atkins nodded, ‘It could be a pen, a hip flask, a lighter; the girls might get a compact. No markings obviously. This time it’s cufflinks.’

  Cooper placed the box carefully in his kit bag.

  ‘It’s meant to be a reminder of home. It can be lonely in the field for weeks or months on end,’ Vera explained, ‘besides, they do have a practical purpose.’

  ‘Keeping my shirt cuffs together? Unless you are going to tell me they contain cyanide capsules?’

  ‘They’re gold, Captain Cooper, which means you can sell them if you have to.’

  They did not know when they would get their next meal so they ate the US air force’s food heartily. At the quiet table in the servicemen’s mess, and on Harry’s insistence, they went over it all once more.

  ‘I am a teacher,’ announced Valvert with conviction, between mouthfuls of stew, ‘of English,’ and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, ‘such a backward language, don’t you think, so lacking in poetry, especially the way Americans strangle it.’

  ‘I strangle it?’ asked Cooper. ‘You should learn the correct way to pronounce our simpler words before you judge me, Christophe.’

  ‘Yes, but that is not important. It is my second language. You, on the other hand…’

  ‘Don’t forget who your allies are, friend. We turn our backs on you and your grandkids will be speaking Kraut.’

  ‘Go on,’ prompted Harry, ‘the cover story.’

  ‘Of course,’ Valvert acquiesced. ‘Like I say, I am a teacher. I have recently completed my time in Paris. I am on my way to take up a position in a better school, Catholic of course, with a chance of advancement to, as you English would call it, housemaster.’

  ‘The name and location of this school?’

  ‘Sainte-Marguerite on the Rue Richer in Rouen.’

  ‘And the one in Paris?’

  ‘The Holy Cross & Mary Immaculate.’

  ‘And why are you not on a work detail heading for Germany?’

  Valvert frowned and patted his stomach in pretended discomfort, ‘Ulcers.’

  ‘Good.’ Wash was relieved to see Valvert had at least taken this part of his training seriously, learning his cover story well enough for cursory questioning.

  ‘And what would the Germans discover if they were to look into my fictitious life?’ asked Valvert.

  ‘A sympathetic headmaster,’ answered Harry, ‘who will tell them “yes, there is a Monsieur Limol. He is expected at my school any day now”.’

  ‘So you think of it all.’

  ‘We try to.’ He turned to the American, ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? I’m from Boston. Okay, maybe not. My name is Jean Dachet. I am a young, promising but rather dull banker from Arras, an arranger of loans. I work for the banking house of “Guerney Felise”, who would doubtless verify this?’

  Walsh nodded. ‘They would.’

  ‘That’s reassuring.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I specialise in the granting of loans to factory owners and farmers that support our glorious Franco-German fight against the evils of communism. I am twenty-six years old but yet to find a wife, though I am looking. She must be a good woman of unquestionable moral character with a devout religious upbringing. As long as she’s built like Betty Grable.’

  ‘I don’t remember that last bit in your cover story,’ said Walsh, ‘not sure there are too many devout women over there with Grable’s legs.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said Valvert softly, as the merest trace of a smile crossed his lips.

  ‘Good, your legends sound vaguely plausible. At the very least they should buy some time if you are caught and questioned.’

  ‘By which you mean they will buy others time,’ said Valvert amiably, ‘so they may escape before we are killed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walsh, looking him in the eye, ‘that’s exactly what I mean.’

  There was a moment between them then, as if the magnitude of their undertaking had begun to sink in. Here were three men from three very different nations united against a common evil, about to undertake a mission of enormous importance. All were resolute, yet each carried with him a dark dread that this time he could be the one to lose his life. They had been briefed and re-briefed, trained in every aspect of operational procedure SOE could contemplate; they were proficient in the use of explosives, radio codes and small arms of every type. They had been chosen because they were demonstrably brave, resourceful and patriotic but not gung-ho. A dead hero was no use to anyone. Each of them realised that training and briefings could amount to little once they were actually in France. Walsh and Cooper knew more than most the initial plan rarely survived the opening hours of a mission.

  ‘So, we are finally ready,’ pronounced Valvert.

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘And is that everything?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh it’s just,’ Cooper stretched back in his chair, linking his fingers together and cradling the back of his head in them, ‘I have a funny feeling you are not telling us everything, Harry. You disappear for days without an explanation…’

  ‘I had to shake off some unwanted attention. You know how it is, Sam; your FBI aren’t always sympathetic to OSS.’

  ‘And you shook off this unwanted attention, obviously. Is there anything else we should know?’

  Walsh knew it was pure instinct on Cooper’s part but he was impressed by the sixth sense that sent the American’s suspicions his way. ‘Are you going to give me a speech about trust, Sam, you of all people?’

  Cooper held up his hands in concession, a wordless reply that meant ‘whatever you say, Harry’, though he seemed far from satisfied. After Yugoslavia, Walsh owed the OSS man nothing and his first thought was to ignore Cooper’s concerns but, try as he might, the idea bothered him. Gubbins did not have to tell Walsh about Stendhal’s message but he had done so. The CD had wrestled with the information and come to the conclusion Walsh had a right to know, even if it hampered the mission. Did Valvert and Cooper not have the same right to be told about the mysterious Maquis leader who had asked for Harry by name? It seemed they did.

  22

  ‘Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark.’

  Francis Bacon

  ‘Jesus H Christ,’ offered Cooper when Walsh had completed his explanation of the enigmatic radio message.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Valvert, sounding like an innocent abroad in his incomprehension, ‘what is it?’

  Walsh spoke calmly and levelly as he outlined the not outlandish theory they could all be parachuting straight into a German trap.

  ‘Oh,’ was all Valvert could offer for a while, until he finally added, ‘well nothing can be done about it now and it is not as if we have a choice.’

  Sam Cooper fully understood the implications from the outset.

  �
�Thank you for telling me, Harry,’ he said angrily as he rose from his seat, ‘at least I know to keep my happy pill handy, just in case.’ Walsh was struck by their similarity in thinking. Walsh belatedly realised that he and the man from the OSS had far more in common with each other than with most of their fellow countrymen. They were two halves of the same coin, even if neither would want to admit it.

  There was an interminable wait for the plane. Walsh was used to the delays but Valvert paced up and down as if he was in a doctor’s waiting room instead of a draughty Nissen hut on the edge of the runway.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Walsh, the constant movement beginning to irritate him.

  ‘Sure,’ said Valvert, ‘why shouldn’t I be? I’m going home.’

  Just then there was a low rumble from outside the Nissen hut. The plane had arrived.

  Walsh never lost the sense of being dwarfed by a Halifax, no matter how many times he’d flown in one. He could see Valvert felt the same from the open-mouthed look on his face, as thirty-eight thousand pounds of metal rumbled straight towards them. They waited outside the hut as the twenty-foot-high, seventy-foot-long bomber, with its hundred feet of wingspan, taxied itself into a turn. The Halifax slowed to a complete halt with the engines still running and the hatch opened from the inside to admit them.

  Walsh immediately knew there was something wrong. At first he could not quite put his finger on it but the plane was different somehow. The navigator waved them forward and they ignored the noise of the engines and its whirring propellers, walking briskly up to the aircraft to board it one at a time. Walsh was the last to be hauled aboard by the navigator’s outstretched hand.

  ‘It doesn’t sound right,’ Walsh said, feeling a little absurd to be telling this to one of the RAF’s finest but he could not ignore his instincts.

  The navigator grinned. ‘You’re a veteran!’ he called above the noise, ‘this is the new Mark III. We’re one of the first with the new engines. Bristol Hercules air-cooled radials!’

  Walsh cared little that the Bristol Hercules XVI engine had replaced the Rolls Royce Merlins, nor was he interested in the new Perspex nose and adapted tail of the Mark III Handley Page Hercules bomber. All he knew was that something was different, which meant it was untried and unproven. In his book, this did not bode well.

  They sat down in the tiny compartment around the hatch. It was cramped but they were not expecting comfort. Valvert shouted into Walsh’s ear, ‘I’ve been thinking about this Maquis leader, Stendhal.’ Walsh nodded to indicate he had heard above the din of the engines, ‘You suspect he is not a German impostor or you would hardly be on this plane but how do you know you can trust him?’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ snapped Walsh and Valvert spoke no more.

  There was good reason for his poor mood. Soon Walsh would land in France, with none of his dilemmas resolved. If he were jumping into a trap, Walsh would know soon enough, there would be little they could do except go down fighting. Alternately, if Stendhal was who he claimed to be, Walsh would have to gain the Maquis leader’s trust, train then effectively lead his men. Between them they had to recruit more volunteers, avoiding capture or infiltration from SS spies, impostors and traitors along the way. Finally, they would have to devise an assault against crack German troops using an untried citizen’s army, which would lead to the death of a top Nazi scientist – a man whose whereabouts and likely daily routine Walsh could, at this point, only guess at. Walsh would have to carry out this task not, in his preferred manner, working alone, but with Sam Cooper, a man he knew and did not trust, and Christophe Valvert, a man he did not know and therefore could not trust. These thoughts and more weighed heavily on his mind as the plane suddenly lurched forward, gradually gathered speed then shot upwards into a clear night sky.

  They became used to the altitude at seventeen thousand feet and the chill that went with it. They each had enough layers of clothing under their flying suits to resist the worst of the cold and were as accustomed as they could be to the cramped conditions. Then the plane lurched violently from side to side and dropped suddenly without warning.

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Valvert.

  ‘Probably shaking off a night fighter,’ answered Walsh in a voice that was calmer than he felt, for he knew only too well that the Halifax’s top speed was 265mph, leaving it seriously disadvantaged if it was chased by an Me 109.

  ‘Oh my God,’ muttered Valvert and he turned away to contemplate their fate.

  Walsh knew what must be going through Valvert’s mind, for he hated the feeling of helplessness when he was a passenger. You could be the most experienced, best trained, naturally gifted soldier on earth and it would count for nothing if the plane you were flying in was shot out of the sky.

  Walsh felt his stomach lurch as the pilot took the bomber into a steep dive in what could only be an attempt to elude an enemy. Against a smaller, faster, more manoeuvrable plane the odds were firmly stacked against them. As the Halifax took evasive action, turning this way and that, diving steeply, turning sharply, with engines straining so that they were thrown back against the hard metal of the fuselage, Walsh began to wish he had a god to pray to. Valvert, being more devout, crossed himself repeatedly during the manoeuvres. Minutes passed that seemed like hours and still the evasions continued. Surely it was only a matter of time before white-hot cannon fire ripped the fuselage apart and sent them plummeting into a freezing sea. Then abruptly, miraculously, the frantic manoeuvring ceased. Moments later the smiling face of the co-pilot appeared before them.

  ‘Sorry about the bumpy ride. We had some company back there. It got a bit sticky for a while.’ There was sweat on Flying Officer Taylor’s forehead, which betrayed the masterful understatement of his words, ‘We think the skipper’s lost him.’

  Walsh exhaled, ‘Then my compliments to the skipper.’

  ‘We’ll be a few minutes late at the RV point. Will your contacts wait for you?’

  ‘They will or they won’t, we’re going anyway,’ Walsh assured him.

  ‘Righty-ho, I’ll be back when we reach the drop zone.’

  They did not have to wait long. The command soon came to attach the static lines and the hatch that covered the modified bomb bay doors swung open. Beneath them they could make out the dark blur of the French countryside, as trees and hills whizzed by below. There was a short delay until Flying Officer Taylor reported the Maquis’ signal had been spotted, there were lights up ahead, and a confirming letter of Morse had been flashed with a torch. This was it. It was time to go.

  Cooper went first, sitting on the shelf at the forward edge of the hole. He waited and waited for the red light to turn to green and when it finally did he was out of the plane almost before the word ‘Go!’ from the navigator. Valvert immediately followed, dropping quickly on to the ledge and flinging himself out of the hatch with the navigator’s palm on his back to help him on his way. Walsh wasted no time, knowing each squandered second would mean a greater distance between their landing positions. He went through the hatch with the practised ease of one who has made jumps many times before. Then he was out of the plane, body tumbling, waiting and praying for the static line to engage. As always, it was a great relief when it immediately did its job; the chute flared open and his sharp fall was abruptly halted.

  Walsh floated slowly down into an inky blackness. To his left he could still see the yellow flame of the beacon but a crosswind was dragging him further and further away from it. The parachute billowed once more, forcing him violently upwards then down again and off to the right, putting more distance between himself and the RV point. The last thing he needed was to be lost in the woods at night, searching for trigger-happy maquisards, who suspected every cracked twig was an enemy. Got to get to ground as quickly as possible and double back to the reception point.

  The ground raced up to meet Walsh and he landed heavily with a grunt, tur
ning an ankle in the process. He lay still for a second, letting his eyes adjust to the dark and listening intently for enemy activity. There were no guttural shouts from German soldiers, and no dogs barking. There was no sound at all in fact and no need for cyanide, for the time being.

  Walsh sat up and tugged at his parachute strings, dragging the chute towards him and bunching it together. Then he got to his feet gingerly, testing his sore ankle. No lasting damage; there would be some pain but Walsh was no stranger to that. He set off in the direction of the beacon.

  Cooper and Valvert both landed close to the rendezvous point, within yards of the beacon. Valvert landed heavily and immediately lost sight of the American in the blackness. He lay still for a moment allowing the pain of the impact to dissipate. Aside from a mild jarring sensation that ran along his spine he was uninjured. Valvert sat up, unclipped the parachute harnesses and dragged it from his back. He turned around to pull the parachute to him then looked up to find he was staring straight down the barrel of a German rifle.

  23

  ‘I believe I am in hell, therefore I am there.’

  Arthur Rimbaud

  Valvert froze as the cold metal from the Mauser was pressed under his chin and drawn up, forcing him to his feet. Walsh had been right to expect a trap. Why else would he have been greeted at gunpoint? There was movement around him and Valvert squinted, trying to see more through eyes that were not yet accustomed to the gloom. Cooper was being brought towards him, hands high in surrender, by a handful of armed men in an agitated state.

  Valvert realised the men were muttering to each other in his native language. He looked closely at the man who was holding him captive. The dark clothing he wore was civilian peasant dress not the grey uniform of the German soldier. The half-dozen fighters making up the reception committee surrounded the newcomers, weapons pointed and ready to fire. They carried an odd assortment of weaponry between them; an obsolete military rifle, an old gun meant for hunting, a captured German machine pistol and the Mauser that had been thrust into Valvert’s face. This had to be the maquisards but why were they so agitated and threatening their allies with guns? Were they genuine Maquis or traitors capturing parachutists for German bounty? The armed men encircled them, suspicion in their voices as they spoke to the new arrivals,