After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  A puzzled look crossed Jeremy’s face. “What happened to Claire? She seemed upset when she left.”

  “She doesn’t want you going on this mission,” Paul cut in. “Menzies sent her back to Bletchley to care for Timmy. They’ll stay in the apartment while you’re gone.”

  “You won’t be going back there at least until after your return,” Crockatt added.

  “But why?” Jeremy asked, startled. “I should say goodbye to Timmy. He’ll be confused when he doesn’t see me, and he’s lost enough people that were important to him.”

  “There’s no time,” Crockatt said brusquely. “If we’re to get you into France tomorrow night, we need every minute to plan and prepare.”

  Something about his tone caused Jeremy to scrutinize the major’s face, which remained impassive. Jeremy swung around to search Paul’s expression. His brother only shook his head.

  Jeremy’s concern rose. “What happens to Timmy if something happens to me?”

  “The Foreign Office is still searching for his relations, and until they’re found, you are still his guardian. Claire and the nanny will take care of him on your behalf.”

  “Timmy will always have a home with the Littlefields for as long as he needs one,” Paul interjected. “Rest assured of that. I’ll be looking in on him regularly.”

  Not quite mollified, Jeremy asked, “Can’t I at least see him before I leave?”

  Crockatt shook his head. “You can’t go back to Bletchley, unless you want to cancel the mission.”

  Jeremy shot the major a piercing look but said nothing. An image formed in his mind of the first time he had seen the little boy crawling back into the smoke and flames on the Lancastria. The memories flooded in again.

  He turned on the major fiercely. “Promise me,” he rasped, his voice suddenly hoarse. Then he whirled on his brother. “Swear to me that you will let nothing bad happen to Timmy. I promised his mother.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Vivian opened it. “The operations and logistics people are ready for Jeremy,” she said.

  Jeremy glanced at her without seeing her. When his eyes focused, he was startled at her presence. He peered at Paul again with a probing expression.

  Paul nodded with a set jaw and furrowed brow. “I swear.”

  Jeremy shifted his gaze to Crockatt.

  “Count on it,” the major said. “Now,” he continued, changing the subject, “while you meet your team, draw your gear, and get up to snuff on procedures, Paul and I will put a mission concept together. We’ll be ready with it this evening.”

  After Jeremy had left with Vivian, Paul turned to Crockatt. “Do you think he knows why he can’t go back to Bletchley?”

  “He’s not dumb,” Crockatt replied. “He knows he’s going to France in civilian attire, and if he’s captured, he could be shot as a spy. Or he could be tortured, in which case he would want to know nothing about Bletchley. Thankfully, he knows nothing of Enigma.

  “From his view, all factors that precipitated this mission emanated from radio transmissions coming out of Marseille to Lord Hankey’s fledgling organization. For him, Bletchley Park was just a place to stay. We must keep it that way.”

  Paul agreed, but refrained from mentioning his other concern. If Claire is right, and Jeremy is smitten with Amélie, they could endanger each other and the entire Boulier network.

  47

  “You’ll have to jump, ol’ boy,” Major Crockatt said. They were in an old farmhouse north of London. Its pastures had been converted into an airfield, its barns into supply huts and training facilities. “You’ll fly across the Channel in a Lockheed B14L Hudson bomber.” He was almost apologetic. “We’re contemplating having Lysander aircraft land in France for future missions, but we don’t have time to make the necessary preparations for this round. We’d have to find fields, establish air and ground signals, train reception teams. All of that is infinitely more difficult for landing a plane than flying over and dropping people off.”

  While the major spoke, a senior sergeant held up assorted items, called them out, and put them in various pockets of Jeremy’s kit. Further down the room, other non-coms checked out Jeremy’s courier, Théo, and the radio operator, Brigitte, a very small woman. Jeremy had met them earlier in the day.

  Watching them while being briefed, Jeremy struggled to surmount misgivings over the woman. Then he remembered Amélie facing two German soldiers on a rain-soaked night on the road above the beaches at Dunkirk while he and Ferrand hid in the gully. Courage can show up anywhere.

  Now, as they ran through final inspection, her eyes met his. She gave a slight nod. She seemed poised, yet behind the dark eyes, he saw or imagined a hint of fear.

  “Here’s your map,” the sergeant said to Jeremy.

  “It’s a night jump,” Crockatt continued.

  “Sir, it’s really all right,” Jeremy said. “I practiced a few landings in the mockups in a dark barn. I know what to do. Keep my eyes on the horizon, roll as soon as my feet touch the ground.”

  “Here’s your compass,” the sergeant went on, despite the interruptions.

  “They’ve selected a fairly narrow field for the drop zone,” Crockatt interjected, “but it’s long and the prevailing winds blow along its length. You’ll come out of the plane on a static line, so your chute will open automatically. Get your bearings as quickly as possible, then steer to the center of the field. Did they teach you how to do that?”

  Jeremy nodded. He treated the attention with bemusement. “And they taught me how to use the toggles to crab back and forth so I don’t overshoot the field.”

  Watching from the side, Paul was both somber and amused. He found Crockatt’s mother-hen-like care for his brother and his teammates heartwarming and reassuring.

  “Your torch,” the sergeant said. “I’ll put it in this coat pocket. Don’t forget it. You’ll need it as soon as you’re on the ground. Now, would you please empty your pockets?”

  Jeremy complied, finding a one shilling coin as he did so.

  “I’ll take that,” the sergeant said. He handed Jeremy a wad of banknotes. “And here are your French francs. That’s carrying money. We’ll drop three equipment cylinders with your team. They contain rifles, ammunition, foodstuffs, and more money. Now we need to check the tags on your clothing. Mustn’t have any British ones.”

  Jeremy waited patiently while the sergeant checked. “You’re good, sir. All French tags.”

  “I say,” Paul remarked to Crockatt, “these chaps are very thorough.”

  “We want our people back in one piece,” the major said. To Jeremy’s relief, he went to check on the other team members.

  “Here are your French identity papers and your Webley M1907 6.35-mm pocket pistol,” the sergeant went on. “Mind you, it’s loaded. Let me have your British ID.”

  Jeremy looked at the man dumbly, and then smirked. “Mine was lost on the Lancastria,” he said. “I haven’t been in England long enough to get a new one.”

  The sergeant gave him a searching look but continued to go through the various items, including emergency rations, extra rations, and first aid bandages. As he did, he quizzed Jeremy on his cover story. At one point, he lifted his head in concern. “Sir, you seem to be unsure of crucial details.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “I am, Sergeant. I just learned them today. But no worries, if worse comes to worst, I’m versed at playing the fool.”

  The non-com shot him a look that was both perplexed and skeptical, but he let the matter ride. Next, he held up a worn wine cork, complete with a purplish-red end. “Inside this are your lethal pills.”

  He slid back a small cover on one side to reveal a hollowed-out interior. When he turned it over, two small tablets rolled into his hand. “You’ve been briefed on these?” He arched his eyebrows. Jeremy nodded.

  Aircraft engines spinning up to power sounded through the small farmhouse. Jeremy looked around anxiously for Paul.

  His brother had the e
xpression of a deer caught in a bright light, frozen. He broke his trance and hurried over to Jeremy, throwing his arms around him. “Come back to us, brother,” he muttered. “You’ve been gone far too long.”

  “I’ll be back,” Jeremy said. “Take care of Timmy and give my love to Claire. Keep trying to get to Mum and Dad and keep an eye out for Lance.”

  Paul hesitated, but then blurted in a whisper, “Claire thinks you’re head over heels for the French girl. Don’t let personal feelings get either of you killed.”

  Jeremy chuckled and squeezed his brother’s neck. “I must be more transparent than I thought. I’ll keep your advice in mind. I probably won’t even see her.”

  Paul stepped back and eyed him skeptically. “Don’t try to pretend that she’s not a big reason you’re so keen on going back.”

  Jeremy stood still, his eyes in a faraway place. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted, “but if I’m honest with myself, she’s in the mix. The last I heard, though, she’s safely away from Dunkirk. It’s her father that’s in the soup, and I owe him.”

  “But you’re keeping the preservation of the Boulier network uppermost in your mind, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Paul looked skeptical, but he made no further comment. The two of them joined the team heading toward the back door with the sending-off party.

  Behind the farmhouse, the pastures had been turned into aircraft parking areas and rutted runways. The group piled into a car with their parachutes and equipment packs and drove through the myriad aircraft parked in long lines.

  On a nearby taxiway, silhouetted against a twilight horizon, a big plane squatted, its rear turret prominent on its back, its gun barrels still visible against the sky, and its propellers spinning while its engines roared. Two additional gun barrels protruded from the glass nose that gleamed dully in the fading twilight.

  The car stopped parallel to the airplane. Behind the wing, a round hatch just large enough for a person to fit through opened within the tri-colored roundel of the Royal Air Force logo painted on the bomber’s side.

  The crew emerged through the opening and dropped to the ground. Crockatt introduced them. Then he drew Jeremy and his comrades around him while Paul stood close by. “Try to get some sleep on the way over,” he said. “You’ll need it.” He shook hands with each of them and helped them climb aboard.

  Five minutes later, Crockatt and Paul stood side by side as the big bomber taxied down the runway, turned into the wind, and revved its engines. The major cast Paul a sidelong look. “Fighter squadron, eh?”

  “Sorry, sir. It was a thought.” Paul sighed. “It’s not in the cards now.”

  “No worries. I’m sure your contributions in the war will be far more valuable on the ground.”

  As he spoke, the bomber began a slow roll down the runway, gained speed, thundered past them, and lumbered into the night sky. After it had disappeared, they rode back to headquarters. Paul sat silently, the lump in his throat making breathing difficult.

  Crockatt watched him closely. “Are you all right?”

  Paul murmured, “I hope I didn’t just take part in sending my brother to his death.”

  48

  Marseille, France

  “Do we know who they’re sending?” Maurice asked.

  Madame Fourcade, codenamed “Hérisson,” shook her head. “I only know that he is codenamed ‘The Fool.’ Not very inspiring.” She let out a small, sardonic laugh. “But it’s good to see that someone still has a sense of humor. I’m told he already has experience in France and speaks the language fluently.”

  Fourcade was a petite woman from the upper crust of French aristocracy who became disgusted with the Nazis long before they made known their broader intentions beyond the return of historically Aryan lands. The turning point for her had occurred before the war began, while on a touring visit to Vienna shortly after the Anschluss. There, she had witnessed Jewish shopkeepers and professionals, with their families, rousted from their homes and places of business, humiliated in the streets, and forced to wear big, yellow Star of David emblems on their outside clothing. From that single episode, she had concluded that nothing good could come from a regime that not only refused to protect the rights of individuals but also participated in their persecutions.

  Returning to Paris, she had sought out those people among her socialite friends who seemed less enamored with the uniquely mustachioed dictator to the northeast. At one particular cocktail party, she had listened intently as two guests argued heatedly about the danger to France coming from Germany, and what measures should be taken to stymie it.

  One of them was Charles de Gaulle, then an ambitious lieutenant-colonel on the staff of the French war hero, Marshal Philippe Pétain. The other was Major Georges Loustaunau-Lacau, an intelligence officer also on Pétain’s staff. They were fellow graduates of Saint-Cyr, France’s foremost military academy, and both were vocally and unabashedly critical of Hitler.

  Fourcade quickly ascertained that the two officers, in addition to being contemporaries, were fierce rivals. Entering into conversation with Loustaunau-Lacau, later codenamed “Navarre,” she found she shared opinions with him.

  A few days later, Navarre called Fourcade and asked if they could meet for dinner. She agreed, and they spoke for many hours. Together, they had sought out like-minded individuals and begun building an organization to resist in the event that the Nazis attacked.

  When Germany invaded France, Fourcade had driven south from Paris among the six million refugees clogging the roadways. Was that only one month ago? Fortunately, she had friends along the way who were happy to house her, but she had been shocked to find so many of them applauding when Marshal Pétain set about to save France by capitulating.

  After several stressful days on the road, she had arrived in Marseille to find that early preparations she and Navarre had made had paid off. She rendezvoused with him there, and they discussed plans.

  They differed in their approach. She wished to stay in Marseille and operate from there. He believed they could do better by his continuing in high position inside the intelligence apparatus where he had access to closely guarded secrets. Those of operational value, he could feed to Fourcade.

  They had set Maurice up in business several months earlier and his vegetable vending enterprise had flourished, as had his recruiting efforts. He had already built a sizeable group of patriots willing to carry the fight.

  Communications methods set up by Navarre with British intelligence were operational, despite that coding and decoding required further development; radio transmission then employed more euphemisms than codes or ciphers. Nevertheless, they had yielded effective results as word spread among Frenchmen who refused to accept their country as a vassal of Germany and were thrilled that an active resistance movement was building in Marseille. Among recruits were patriots from along the Atlantic coast who had blown up fuel-oil tanks.

  Within days of Pétain being named head of government in Tours, Navarre had traveled there. Since Pétain knew him personally as a competent and dedicated intelligence officer, he had appointed Navarre as his head of intelligence.

  As a result of Fourcade’s and Navarre’s combined efforts, within a week of Hitler entering Paris, their organization was up and running.

  “To give you a more complete answer to your question, Maurice, we don’t know anything about The Fool,” Fourcade said. “This is the first mission like this. We can’t even call it a proof-of-concept since it was thrown together so quickly. The larger idea is to send teams all across France to coordinate plans among resistance groups with British intelligence. The British teams include a leader, a courier, and a radio operator. They’ll also bring arms, ammunition, equipment, and money.

  “In this case, we have a patriot in the north who set up a network almost as quickly as we did, but he’s being threatened with exposure, capture, torture, and the destruction of his network. The imperative is saving his network. The
nice result would be to save him too.”

  Maurice sighed as he regarded Fourcade with doleful eyes. “You know you’re talking about the father of the two girls I brought here yesterday, Amélie and Chantal.”

  “I know,” Fourcade said. “I’m struggling with that.” She lit a cigarette and stared across the cityscape below her. The Mediterranean sparkled in the distance. “Whatever we do,” she said, her voice filling with passion, “we cannot become like those beasts who invaded our country. But we have to be careful not to mix personal considerations with mission requirements. From what I learned about Ferrand Boulier from his daughters, he understands and accepts that. Our aim has to be preserving the network. If we save him too, so much the better.”

  “What about the girls themselves? They want to be involved.”

  “And they could be effective, both of them, but not on this mission. They told me their stories. Such a tragedy, but they’re strong, intelligent, and resilient.”

  She took a puff on her cigarette. “Take Chantal with you on your rounds,” she mused aloud. “Let her collect and drop off a few messages, give her a sense of doing something important, but don’t expose her to real danger. The threat here is limited for the moment anyway, but if Pétain keeps acting like a Hitler copycat, the French police will be a force we’ll have to contend with. We have time to let her grow up a bit. Maybe her father will agree to move down here.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that,” Maurice responded. “She’s still a girl. She should not be fighting in a war. What about Amélie?”

  “Until we’re finished with the Boulier mission, we need to limit her involvement. She could be an excellent radio operator, but that will become such a dangerous position. The Germans will bring in signal detection technology and spread it south. Count on it. Operators will live in isolation, and their only direct contact with us will be through the couriers. Psychologically, it could be devastating, and I have to wonder about what their life expectancy will be. Probably not long. The radios are their lifelines, but they will also bring death to many of their operators.”