by Lee Jackson
“Listen to me carefully,” Maurice replied. “If you insist on going, the British mission is off. Hérisson’s London contact made that very clear. Neither you nor you sister can be involved. They’re pulling the resources together months ahead of schedule and before the team is fully trained. These people are putting their lives on the line just by parachuting in. We need to live by their conditions.”
“But why?” Tears ran down Chantal’s face.
“Like Amélie said, if they can rescue your father, they will, but personal emotions come second to making good decisions. Only three are coming, and they have specific jobs. Your friends and neighbors in Dunkirk will carry out most of the action.”
“Then what are the British bringing?”
“Resources and organization. They demonstrate clearly that London is in this war with us.”
Chantal’s face knotted into adolescent bitterness. “Like at Dunkirk?” She slumped into a chair, buried her face in her hands, and choked back sobs.
Amélie rose and hugged her.
Maurice stood against the opposite wall, at a loss for words. He made an attempt to console. “I understand how you feel—”
“No, you don’t!” Chantal screamed, leaping to her feet. “How could you? Our city was bombed, we were driven from our home. We saw all those soldiers getting massacred. I was nearly raped, and Amélie killed—”
Her sobs made further speech impossible. “And now,” she managed after a few moments while wiping her eyes, “our father, who did nothing but help people, is being hunted down. Maybe they’ve already arrested him.”
She continued trying to control her weeping, her lungs heaving with the effort. After several minutes, she calmed down and took her seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Maurice, regarding him through eyes still brimming with tears. “You’ve been kind to us.”
“No worries, my little friend,” he replied with a gentle smile. “I have broad shoulders.”
“And this,” Amélie said quietly while stroking Chantal’s hair, “is exactly why we can’t get in the way.” She turned to Maurice. “Give us something meaningful to do, something that lets us strike back.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Maurice said. “I’m sure there’s a way.”
41
Somewhere east of Saint-Nazaire, France
Tramp, tramp, tramp. The incessant shuffling of footwear by the thousands along the roadway bore down on Lance’s exhausted mind, otherwise occupied with only one conscious thought: food. Days had passed since his last full meal, and all his waking hours were now spent walking, pushed along by unsympathetic guards in a miles-long throng for twenty-three out of each twenty-four hours toward the east, always east.
His original captors had treated him decently. Being the only British soldier among the group taken prisoner on that fateful morning after blowing up the fuel-oil tanks, he had been separated from the French Resistance fighters captured with him. He had no idea what had happened to them, nor, for that matter, what had happened to Horton. I hope he got away. For an hour, he had been held at gunpoint, seated on the ground with his back against the wall of a barn while curious German soldiers filed by, staring at him as they would an animal in a zoo, as if trying to discern how such a creature had come into being.
Aside from being held captive, they treated him well, some bringing food, water, coffee, and even offering cigarettes, and some posing for pictures next to him. For his part, Lance attempted a look of neutrality, fighting down an overwhelming sense of dejection. He had not anticipated spending the war as a POW.
Regardless of his effort to appear stable, his captors seemed to sense his personal turmoil, for they treated him as though both respecting and feeling sorry for him, a step above pity.
After an hour, a lorry had pulled up to the barn that the Germans had used as a quick, makeshift headquarters. Using prods and gestures, the senior non-com had indicated for Lance to load onto the canvas-covered truck-bed. By then, the extremes of actions and events of the past few days wore into his body such that every motion weighed like lead on his muscles and further dampened the cognizant operation of his brain. Painfully, he did as instructed.
Aside from two armed soldiers perched at the back end of the truck, Lance was the only passenger. He sat on the wooden bench at the front by the cab. The truck jolted into motion, and he was alone, his only company the cruel memories of the past few days and a dismal sense that he had failed his comrades, whose whereabouts remained unknown.
Deliberately, he shoved his thoughts toward home, but doing so brought no solace. Even as he pictured his mother’s stoic face with her subtly smiling eyes, his stepdad climbing among the cliffs of Sark, his sister pounding out the strong chords of Chopin on the piano, and his two brothers wrestling in the grass, his sense of isolation and failure deepened.
The lorry made several stops, and each time, captured British soldiers loaded into the back. They barely acknowledged each other, only enough to claim a narrow portion of the bench, which became even smaller as more and more prisoners clambered aboard, sat, and stared into empty space.
After what seemed like interminable hours, the truck pulled to a stop. From outside the canvas, gruff voices yelling in German barked out orders, and at the back of the truck, the prisoners began to dismount. As Lance climbed down, a hand from below grabbed his shoulder and shoved him. He stumbled in the direction of his new comrades while managing a glance at this latest set of guards.
They were older than the soldiers who had captured him, most appearing advanced in years sufficient to have fought in the last war, and they bore a common expression of anger, as though resenting having been brought back to active service. Regardless, the curious admiration and respect of his original captors had disappeared, replaced by harsh commands, abrupt jostling, and outright hostility.
They disembarked in front of a vast, muddy field with strands of barbed wire reinforced intermittently by armed German soldiers keeping careful watch.
In the field, thousands upon thousands of men in British military uniforms languished, each a testament of dejection. Some sat cross-legged, some back-to-back with a buddy, others in various contortions seeking comfort on the wet ground. If they spoke at all, they did so in low murmurs, most of them with downcast eyes, looking up only to see the latest newcomers before returning to their own internal struggles.
Almost in a trance, Lance staggered into the field with the group from the truck until an unconscious consensus had been reached that a spot had been found, and he sank to the ground with the others. He had no idea how many hours had passed, only that a rain shower blew in, the sun came back out before sinking on the horizon, and he shivered in darkness. Then, immediately after dawn, the guards began shouting, barking orders, and moving among the mass of prisoners, prodding them with their rifles, and pushing them to the road. There, surrounded by German troops, they formed into a line, four to six abreast stretching back as far as required to absorb a procession of thousands. The first captives on the road were immediately led off toward the rising sun, and the rest followed as they trudged onto the road.
Mile after endless mile passed under their ragged feet, the tramp, tramp, tramp almost the only sound they heard on the open road. Occasionally, they had to pause to allow other such processions to cross their paths at intersections. As they passed through villages, the French citizenry lined up on either side of the streets, calling to them and trying to hand them food and water.
On seeing this, the guards shoved the offending French men and women aside, stomping on the gifts of sustenance and threatening the offenders with weapons pointed their way. Lance slogged along just inside the long phalanx. Witnessing the cruelty provided enough of a shock to revive his senses a tad, and he took more note of what transpired around him.
He moved to the outside of the procession, and as it entered and left more villages, he made a mental note of them: Savenay, Nantes, Ancenis, Angers… The trek seemed end
less, each mile, each step becoming more painful. On the third day, he found a small notebook in the jacket pocket of the uniform Pierre had scavenged for him, and as they passed from village to village, he scribbled the names down.
That same night, he scrawled a message to his parents. The next day and in succeeding days, he held the note tightly in his hand, marching stubbornly on the outside of the formation, searching for an opportunity.
They trudged through the days and into the night, stopping again in wide-open fields, allowed to sleep for an hour, and then put on the march again. On arrival at each successive resting area, their guards dispensed a few dry crackers, their only food for the day. The farther east they walked, the more their plight worsened. Gone were the well-maintained war machines of the front and the crisp combat soldiers sympathetic to their predicaments. Each new day brought a new crew of guards, each angrier and more brutal than the last and having older and older machinery, some of it horse-drawn.
On this morning, the seventh since his capture, Lance’s struggle to his feet was more pronounced as the guards shouted their commands to start the day’s trek. He shuffled to the roadway with the mass of prisoners, pushing in an almost catatonic trance to the edge of the formation. Hours passed before the eastern horizon began to lighten, signaling the approach of dawn. He had continued his record of towns and villages passed through, noting that their captors reveled in exhibiting their captives to the French populace in Orléans, Sens, Troyes… And still, he clutched the note.
The procession of pitiful soldiers continued through Saint-Dizier. The citizenry lined the road on both sides, pressing close to the prisoners, throwing bread, cheese, fruit, and other food into the passing throng. The German guards shoved them back.
Ahead of Lance, a prisoner stumbled. The hapless man fell to his knees outside the line of POWs. A woman reached in with a bottle of water to offer him a drink. A German soldier pushed her to the ground. Turning on the prisoner, he kicked the man and beat him with his rifle butt.
The procession continued on, but the prisoners had bunched as they attempted to step around the disturbance. A British officer-prisoner stepped between the guard and the victim. Then, a German officer appeared, angrily demanding an explanation for the commotion.
“I must protest the treatment of this prisoner,” the British officer said.
While he spoke, the German officer looked questioningly at his subordinate, and then glared at the offending prisoner.
“He is protected by the Geneva Convention,” the British officer continued.
Without uttering a word, the German officer pulled his pistol from its holster and pumped three bullets into the British officer’s chest. The man fell to the ground as women screamed and the crowd of onlookers scattered. The line of lurching prisoners staggered around him.
Shocked, Lance stumbled past. Nausea overcame him, but he had no food in his stomach to heave. Ahead of him, people who had not seen or heard what had transpired crowded more closely for a better view, sensing that something had occurred that they could not see. The German guards too had momentarily diverted their attention, and in that moment, the crowd had moved closer to the prisoners, some offering food or just gestures of encouragement.
Lance spotted an empty outstretched hand. He could not even see the person to whom it belonged. He grasped it with both hands, pressed his note into it, and pushed the fingers closed around it.
Then he moved on without missing a step. He raised his eyes to the heavens, let his head fall backward a bit, and breathed in deeply, a momentary sense of relief. Then he continued putting one foot in front of the other, enduring his sojourn toward Germany.
42
Bletchley Park, England
Claire Littlefield called Paul’s office at mid-morning. Failing to reach him there, she tried his apartment.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s Saturday. I was trying to get some domestic chores—”
“It’s urgent,” she said. “I need to speak with you at once.”
“Shall I come out to Bletchley?”
“Yes, but not the apartment. Knock on the door of Hut 6. Show them your credentials and wait for me. I’ll tell reception to expect you, and they’ll page me.”
Almost two hours later, Paul presented himself as Claire had instructed. When she appeared, she shot him a quick smile and set out walking without a word.
“What is it?” he asked, as she led him over the mansion’s broad lawn and through the gardens to a pond. He tried to ease her stress with levity. “You’re being rather cloak-and-dagger here, of all places.”
“I’m breaking protocol a bit,” she said at last, breathless from the brisk pace she had set, and slowed down. Finally, she stopped and faced him. “I can’t tell you all that I do in there,” she said. “I’d be canned, or worse. Maybe jailed.”
“What is it? Don’t tell me anything you’re not supposed to.”
“There are always gray lines. Does the name Boulier mean anything to you?”
“Boulier,” Paul repeated. “Is that the surname of the family who helped Jeremy?”
“I’m quite certain it is. Let’s just say that I came across that name. Ferrand Boulier. And the context was not benign. In fact, it was quite threatening. He and his daughters are the subject of a manhunt in northern France. An SD chap by the name of Bergmann is after them.”
“Are you sure? Maybe the names are similar.”
Claire shook her head. “I double-checked. I have the correct names, and I’m sure they are the ones who helped Jeremy. What can we do? We have to help them.”
Paul stared at her. “How? I’m not even supposed to know about whatever you learned or how you got it.”
Claire bristled. “So, turn me in. Jeremy would be furious if he thought that we knew of a danger to the people who saved his life and did nothing to help them. Besides, he’s in love with the older daughter, Amélie.”
“He what? How could you know that? He seldom talks about her.”
“Call it intuition. You should see his eyes light up when her name is mentioned.”
“But they barely know each other. He couldn’t have seen her more than a day or two.”
“It might be nothing if they get a chance to know each other, but he met her under extreme conditions. Regardless, he cares for her and her family. We owe them.”Paul took a hard look at his sister. She stood facing him, eyes burning, arms folded, and jaw set.
“I’m taking this to the top of my organization,” she said. “That man, Boulier, started a network in northern France that’s been effective across the country, even in its infancy. He’s the type of ally we need to help our soldiers who were left over there. From what I gathered from Crockatt, he’s doing exactly what that new MI-9 section was created to support.”
“But you’re not even supposed to be telling me as much as you have. How are we going to bring this up in any context that doesn’t get us arrested, maybe even hanged? Then what will we have accomplished? I’m not exaggerating.”
“What about that man Jeremy met with yesterday? Lord Hankey, I believe. Isn’t he supposed to be setting up a commando capability of some sort?”
“It’s not even operational yet, and I’m sure Hankey won’t be directing it. They’ll bring in someone else of lesser rank to do that.”
“Well Churchill must have thought Hankey could do something to put him in that position.” Claire’s eyes flashed as she spoke, and her fingers poked the air in exasperation. “This is war. Our classifications are meant to protect information, not keep us from acting when we know there’s something to do.”
Paul peered at his sister and laughed.
Taken aback, Claire asked, “What’s so funny?”
“You’re doing to me what I’ve been doing to Major Crockatt,” he said. “All right, how do you get along with your boss?”
“Fine. It’s a fairly small organization at the moment with a flat management structure, so I interact with him regularly. It’s
expected to bring on many more people, so it won’t stay small for long. We see a lot of activity, and Bletchley belongs to MI-6.”
“Then here’s the approach. Explain to your boss the situation, tell him that the information could be critical to Lord Hankey, and ask to run the situation up the staff.
“Meanwhile, I’ll go to Crockatt and tell him I’ve learned of a newly formed network in northern France that’s in danger of being broken up. His interests and Hankey’s coincide. I’ll even agree to transfer over to his unit if he’ll help follow up. Let’s see how far we get, and then we can figure out next steps.”
Suddenly exuberant, Claire swooped on her brother, throwing both arms around him. “I knew I could count on you to come up with something.”
Paul laughed. “By the way, security is not airtight around those secrets inside that mansion and those huts, even though they’re an enigma.”
Startled, Claire stared at him, her cheeks flushing. “What do you mean?”
Paul ducked his head and waved his hands in the air. “That’s all I’ll say. Now go.”
“What do we tell Jeremy?”
“Nothing, for the time being.”
Major Crockatt held a steady gaze while he listened to Paul relate his conversation with Claire. “You do realize,” he said sternly, “that you and your sister have probably already broken through thin ice.”
“Yes, sir. We both know that. If we had done it for a self-serving purpose, then I would expect disciplinary action. In this case, neither of us stands to gain anything other than, perhaps, satisfaction from helping good people who saved our brother. If that’s an offense worthy of incarceration, then put me away. Meanwhile, if we manage to save the Boulier network, then we’ve served the purposes of both MI-9 and SOE.”
Crockatt drew back. “Got it all figured out, have you? Why come to me? Why not your own boss?”
