Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  Jean Racine

  The driver of the first lorry took the bend slowly because he had been warned of the steep gradient. Jean had good reason to be cautious. His cargo was precious and its masters unforgiving. He drove the vehicle, which contained the wine, brandy and champagne for the SS Colonel’s grand dinner. He knew his life would be as good as forfeit if he went off the road with such a rare and expensive shipment.

  Jean had stood nervously by the side of the truck as it was loaded and counted the cases himself, for he had to sign and account for their safe arrival. He was not going to be held responsible if some light-fingered opportunist walked away with a case or two of fine cognac.

  As well as their drinks for the evening, Jean’s truck was packed to the roof with items that did not require chilled conditions during the short journey from the wholesaler to Rouen; jars of pickles that would accompany the pâté, cherries soaked in kirsch, fresh fruit the like of which had not been seen in the city’s shops for many a month. Loaves of bread and baskets of rolls baked that morning completed the load and the smell of freshly baked produce filled his cab with their warm aroma and made his stomach growl. If it had been anyone else’s consignment but the German’s, Jean would have helped himself to a loaf or two but even that thought terrified him.

  The feast was a prodigious one and Jean was responsible for just half of its fare. Behind him, a second lorry was filled with huge blocks of ice slowly sweating away in the daytime heat. Stacked between them were the cheeses and packets of foie gras, boxes of chickens and cuts of lamb; enough to feed the whole city. At least the route was a short one. Before long they would reach Rouen and he could supervise the offloading of his wares. Then he would obtain the necessary signatures and could melt away from the event. He wouldn’t want to be one of the poor French waiters forced to serve the hated Germans that evening.

  Jean pressed on the brake as he took a second corner, hoping the other driver, whom he did not know from Saint Peter, was awake and would not plough into the back of him. As he rounded the corner, however, all fears of a rear-end shunt went from his mind. There were men in the road and they were armed, aiming their rifles his way. Jean slammed the brake down hard and the other truck driver must have done the same thing for their tiny convoy halted at once. Now the rifles were pointing straight at him and two men advanced on his cab shouting for him to get out. Panicked, he looked beyond them for a possible escape but they had dragged a large length of felled tree out with a chain to block his route. Jean could not go forward, nor could he reverse back up the hill with the other lorry blocking his way. He applied the brake and raised his hands.

  Jean was hauled from his cab and instantly replaced there by a gleeful youth who took control of the wheel. An identical fate befell the other driver and Walsh climbed into his cab. Moments later the tree was dragged out of the way and the armed men climbed into the trucks. One of them, a large balding man with huge calloused hands, looked down on them from the second cab.

  ‘Elbeuf is only two miles back the way you came, so get walking but do it slowly because we will know when you get there. Just like we knew when you would reach this spot. Give our regards to Colonel Tauber. Tell him we will enjoy his food and wine.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ exclaimed Jean in a panic, ‘what if he has me killed?’

  Montueil laughed, ‘Then we will send our condolences to your wife and family; now get moving.’

  Those involved in the raid busied themselves offloading the lorry; box after box was passed from man to man then squirrelled away into a recess of the camp. Other men lit fires and made pots ready for cooking. Montueil was exuberant, his eyes twinkling, arms sawing the air in front of him as he regaled the other men; a fisherman once more, describing the size and quality of the catch.

  ‘The best cheeses! Camembert, Pont l’Évêque and Livarot. Enough for a month!’ There were appreciative murmurs at the bounty. ‘We found the orders of the chef alongside a copy of his menu, so we know what the pigs were meant to be having for their dinner.’ He picked up the waxy paper and read grandly from it, ‘Poulet Vallée d’Auge and Pré Salé.’ The first was a local chicken dish cooked in a cream sauce; the second, finest lamb specially reared on salt plains around Mont Saint Michel. ‘The apples were to be flamed in Calvados and baked in tarts… but not in the colonel’s ovens!’

  The men all cheered. Then Montueil held up his hands to ensure he had everyone’s attention. ‘Tonight our beloved Simone will cook for us as always but this time it will be like never before!’ The men were in good humour, laughing while Simone blushed ferociously in the background.

  Montueil calmed himself, lowering his voice almost deferentially, ‘And of course… there is the wine.’ There were low chuckles of expectation from men who had lived on the rougher forms of alcohol for a long time, a new cheer followed each wine as Montueil named the cases: ‘Pouilly Fumé from the Loire valley, Chassagne Montrachet and Crozes Hermitage, bottles of Armagnac and Calvados and, finally, Dom Pérignon… so they could toast Hitler’s survival. Instead we’ll drink to the day he is hanged from the Eiffel Tower!’

  There were shouts of acclaim from his audience. ‘Any man who does not finish three bottles tonight is a traitor!’ Unconfined cheering from the men now. ‘But the first bottle is Harry’s.’ Simone handed Montueil a Montrachet and he held it out to Walsh, ‘To Captain Harry Walsh, the man who stole the Nazis’ dinner!’

  Walsh took the bottle from his friend’s hand and held it up to his lips. The men started up an excited low murmur and he began to drink. The braying from the maquisards grew louder with each swig and Walsh recognised it as another test of manhood, albeit a good-natured one. Only when he had made respectable inroads towards the middle of the bottle, spilt wine flowing down his chin, did he cease, to cheers and applause from the men.

  Montueil was still smiling. ‘I would love to see the look on the Colonel’s face when he realises none of this feast will reach him! How ever will he explain that to his guests?’

  The General stopped to address Tauber on his way out of the town hall. ‘So this was the fine dinner you promised me?’ He looked at Tauber as if he were a turd. ‘I could have eaten better in the sergeants’ mess,’ and with that he was gone, along with all Tauber’s hopes of advancement.

  The humiliation burned through the Colonel but he was forced to endure more as a procession of officers left the gathering, damning him with faint praise. ‘Interesting choice, mutton,’ smirked one, before shaking his head and departing. Their derision was harder to swallow than the tough meat, which was all he’d managed to secure at short notice. Steal would have been a more appropriate word, as his men were sent to every hotel and restaurant in Rouen to commandeer replacements for the treasures taken by the maquisards.

  Despite Tauber’s best efforts to save the evening from disaster, the hastily improvised meal had not gone well. Though his face had turned to stone, inwardly Tauber was apoplectic. As usual Kornatzki bore the brunt of his fury, after a misguided attempt to calm his superior’s panic.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better to postpone,’ he’d offered hopefully, ‘they will surely understand.’

  ‘Understand!’ screamed Tauber, ‘what will they understand? That I have no control over the area I am meant to be in charge of! Have you gone mad?’

  Hours later, as the procession of senior military men and dignitaries made its way out of the building to discuss his public humiliation with their giggling women folk, Tauber made a vow. He would hunt down those responsible for this outrage and they would pay for it, many times over.

  Initially in a good mood, the onset of drunkenness had begun to sour Emma Stirling’s view of the world. There was something galling about sitting with the men while they lauded Harry Walsh at every turn, cheering his daring, patting him on the back and raising glass after glass to his health, while he and Emma pretended to be little more than comrades, wi
th no acknowledgement of a shared history, or admission that they had once meant more to each other. Emma felt excluded and more hurt than she would care to admit.

  Montueil staggered drunkenly by, clutching another bottle of Montrachet. He slapped Walsh exuberantly on the back with his free hand. ‘Why have they not made you a general yet, Harry?’

  Walsh laughed, ‘We’ll all be cold in the grave before that day.’

  Cooper, who had drunk as much as anybody but was still very much in control, said, ‘Few living men have more experience. At OSS we’d have made you a major, maybe even a colonel.’

  ‘The British Army doesn’t work like that, Sam,’ said Walsh.

  Emma sighed.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Walsh asked her.

  ‘Now you are going to tell Sam that only the sons of the landed gentry get promoted above captain.’

  ‘I was not going to say that.’ Walsh was becoming irritated by Emma. She had taken on a sneering tone that was starting to grate on him. ‘But can you argue that it isn’t at least partially true?’

  ‘You should try being a woman in this man’s army, Harry, then you would know the meaning of limitations. You know the real reason you don’t get anywhere with the brass at Baker Street? You must do.’

  ‘Do I?’

  Emma turned to Sam, ‘Captain Walsh has a problem with authority. He can’t abide anyone telling him what to do; not a man, not a woman, not Winston bloody Churchill.’

  Walsh took a deep breath before replying, ‘If I ever receive an order directly from Churchill I’ll be sure to obey it. I don’t remember you being too annoyed the last time I disobeyed one from Price, since it involved getting you out of a big, deep hole full of Germans.’

  She ignored that. ‘It’s not just Price though is it, Harry? They say that since you got back from Dunkirk you don’t trust anyone. They say that’s why you were sent from your regiment to SOE and why you nearly always work alone.’

  ‘They obviously have a lot to say about me.’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? But you’re not the only one to come back from Dunkirk. Thousands of other men did and they are not all like you, so what’s the big secret?’

  ‘It’s no secret, Emma. Dunkirk completed my education. That’s all.’

  ‘What happened to you out there Harry?’ she pressed him.

  ‘I doubt you’d understand.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m a woman?’

  ‘No, because unless you were there it is almost impossible to explain, and to tell you the truth I don’t want to talk about it. It’s none of your bloody business.’

  ‘I don’t particularly want to talk about it either but I suspect Dunkirk is the reason you never trust anybody you work with, including Sam and including me, so that makes it our business.’

  ‘You can trust Sam if you wish Emma, then see where it gets you.’ The American laughed and took another swig from the bottle he was holding. He continued to watch the argument with undisguised amusement. Walsh continued, ‘As for me, you’re right, I’ve learned not to trust anybody; at Dunkirk and a dozen other places since. Particularly anyone giving the orders.’

  ‘You mean Price?’

  ‘I mean anybody.’

  ‘But why? I heard they gave you a medal after Dunkirk and promoted you while the battle was still going on.’

  ‘They promoted me for a reason, Emma.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Walsh was about to snap now. He opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it and forced himself to calm down before answering, ‘Never mind.’

  ‘There you are, you see,’ she spoke to Sam, ‘he won’t tell anybody anything. He comes with a big bag full of secrets nobody ever gets to know.’

  Cooper laughed again.

  ‘What’s so bloody funny, Sam?’ snapped Emma.

  ‘You two. You are like an old married couple.’

  ‘No, we are not!’ Emma protested.

  ‘Yep, an old married couple sitting on your porch, quarrelling over the price of beans. You should hear yourselves.’

  Emma got shakily to her feet, her half-drunk bottle of wine swinging loosely in her hand. ‘I was sweet on Captain Walsh once, Sam, I admit it, I was,’ her words were noticeably slurred, ‘though I’ve no idea what possessed me. The sun must have been in my eyes but a woman can change her mind.’

  ‘Her prerogative,’ agreed Cooper, clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘And I’ve changed mine.’

  Emma swayed alarmingly then and immediately stopped talking. She pulled a face as if fighting a sudden feeling of nausea before announcing, with the finality of the resolutely drunk, ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ smirked Sam and he watched Emma’s unsteady path back towards her tent. Emma did not even notice as the half-full bottle of wine slipped from her grasp and landed in the grass.

  When Emma was gone, Cooper said, ‘I’m going to find the lovely Simone, as you’ve put the only other pretty girl for twenty miles in a foul mood,’ he chuckled, ‘and you are in big trouble, Harry.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Because that girl is clearly still in love with you.’ He grinned at Walsh, ‘Goodnight, my friend,’ and he walked off smiling, taking a swig from his wine bottle as he went.

  ‘Who said we were friends?’ Walsh called after him.

  29

  ‘I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.’

  Charles Baudelaire

  It was crisp and cold, the grass soaked in dew that shone in the silver light of early morning. Emma was not in her tent but she wasn’t hard to find. Walsh followed the retching noises to a clump of nearby bushes. She finally finished throwing up as he reached her. Her face was ghostly pale, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh God, Harry,’ she spluttered, ‘I’m so sorry. How did I get in that bloody state? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Might have had something to do with the three bottles of red wine.’

  ‘Lord, I’m so, so sorry, Harry, I really am.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, though her words still rankled with him. Walsh had expected and been ready for defiance that morning. He’d even prepared a few choice words of his own in advance but Emma’s obvious contrition, along with her pitiful state rendered them obsolete.

  ‘No, I mean it. I shouldn’t have gone on at you about Dunkirk. You’re right. I don’t know anything about it and all that stuff about your reputation, that’s not true, I don’t know why I said it.’

  Walsh smiled, ‘Actually it is true, well, most of it.’

  ‘No, no, everybody looks up to you. They all think you’re fearless.’

  ‘Then they are all wrong,’

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m sorry. I was really very drunk and what I said was unforgivable. I think I was just angry with you,’ she looked away then, unable to meet his eye, ‘you know, because of us. It was so unprofessional. Sam must think I am a complete flake.’

  ‘No, Sam was highly amused. Look, Emma, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does.’ She turned back to face him now, looking bereft. Emma Stirling was an easy girl to forgive. She had a quick temper but a kind heart and he could never think badly of her for long. ‘Oh God,’ she said then and he thought Emma must be cursing her loss of control the night before. Instead her face went paler still and she turned away from him just in time before vomiting hard into the bushes.

  ‘You’ll feel better in a moment,’ said Walsh trying to stifle his amusement, ‘and when you’ve stopped throwing away a perfectly good dinner, we’ll go for a walk. It’s time we talked.’

  They were sitting at the top of the hill, side by side and silent, the entire valley stretched out beneath them, while he tried to find the words. He finally admitted, ‘I don’t know where to begin.’


  Emma shrugged, ‘Begin, as they say, at the beginning.’

  Begin at the beginning, thought Walsh, and where would that be? Just after he led the bayonet charge?

  Falteringly he began, ‘I heard it all later, from a fellow lieutenant who was in on the discussion, but I could have guessed most of it,’ he paused for a moment before continuing, ‘the battalion was preparing to fall back. The whole bloody army was in disarray at that point. The German advance seemed unstoppable. The general and the colonels were trying to choose a company to fight a rearguard action in our sector, to allow the rest of the men to be evacuated out of Dunkirk.

  ‘It wasn’t just a question of choosing a hundred or so men to fight to the last man. That could be done with barely a moment’s thought. No, the tricky bit was selecting the officers who’d stay behind and lead those men, to fight and die with them. I know a man; a fellow junior officer who was in that room with the top brass and there was braying indignation at some of the names offered up. Lots of “can’t order him to stay behind. I’ve known his father for years” that sort of thing.’

  Emma recognised his all too realistic impression of an outraged senior army officer.

  ‘And so they continued, discounting those with social connections or an inability to do the job. They needed a captain at least and it seemed there was no suitable candidate.’

  ‘Except you.’

  ‘I was a humble lieutenant.’

  ‘But I thought… oh,’ and the penny finally dropped.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘They promoted you so they could leave you behind?’

  ‘Yes, all of a sudden it seemed I was the right man for the rank after all. All I was required to do was salute them, hold the line and die quietly with the minimum of fuss once they were all aboard the ships and away, making the supreme sacrifice for the honour of the regiment. It was bad timing on my part. The day before, I led a bayonet charge to retake a gap in the line. A battlefield promotion was my reward they said, but I knew differently.’