The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  Denise clung to the old man, reminded of her grandfather and the nights she would sit in his lap, listening to the gilded stories of his youth.

  “Please forgive me, Mr. Churchill... I—”

  “Nonsense, child. It is we who should forgive you. Were it not for your valiant impertinence, we should all be smoke and ash. And no doubt Herr Hitler would be having a jolly laugh over our charred remains.”

  Just then one of Eisenhower’s aides approached, a look of concern etched on his young face. “Excuse me, Mr. Prime Minister, but General Eisenhower wishes to continue the briefing. We have another room ready.”

  Churchill nodded and the aide trotted back to the group of commanders. All business again, he turned to Simmons.

  “Bring her to Downing Street this evening,” he said. “I should like to speak with her further.”

  Simmons looked positively relieved at having escaped a further reprimand.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  The guard around the prime minister’s residence at Number 10 Downing Street had been doubled. Both London Police and British troops stood at attention, eyes scanning everyone who walked by. The Willys jeep pulled up and both Denise and Simmons got out.

  “Wait here, Private,” Simmons told the driver.

  The young man nodded and switched off the motor.

  In spite of the extra security, Denise and Simmons passed through with only a cursory glance at his papers. They were expected. The London bobby nodded and opened the black-painted door. A liveried butler took Simmons’s cap and led the way up the narrow stairs and into the prime minister’s living quarters. Unlike Chartwell Manor, his famous estate in Westerham, Kent, Number 10 Downing appeared almost threadbare and common. Besides the bookshelves lining the walls, the furnishings were sparse: a small couch, a couple of freestanding lamps, a coffee table, and two overstuffed chairs with the most hideous slipcovers Denise had ever seen. Yet, somehow, it all seemed to fit the aura of the place and the man who occupied it: no-nonsense and practical.

  Churchill stood gazing out one of the windows, the blackout shade lifted. The streetlights outside shone against his face, throwing a theatrical slash of light across his formidable features. The rest of the room lay in shadow, lit only by a fire crackling in the hearth.

  “So glad you could come,” he said, turning to face them. “Please sit down.”

  Simmons and Denise each took one of the repulsive chairs, leaving the couch for Churchill.

  “May I offer you some sherry?” he said, sitting down. “Or perhaps a Courvoisier?”

  “Make it a double, sir,” Simmons said.

  Denise hesitated, her body crying out for its daily deluge of alcohol. Her breath grew short, and her mouth suddenly tasted of old socks. God, how she wanted that drink. She shook her head. “Nothing for me. Last time got me into a bit of trouble.”

  Churchill smiled. “Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

  The old man turned to the butler who hovered just inside the room. “Bring in the Courvoisier, Jeffries.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The butler vanished, appearing scant moments later with an ornate silver tray. On it lay a crystal decanter of brandy, a seltzer dispenser, and two snifters. Bowing from the waist, Jeffries deposited the tray on the coffee table. Churchill picked up the decanter, lifted off the stopper, and sniffed the rising vapors.

  “My father gave me a case of this special brandy shortly before he died. This is the last of it. When the war began, I vowed not to drink any until that bloody paperhanger had gotten his comeuppance. After today, I think perhaps we can make an exception. Soda?”

  “Straight up,” Simmons said.

  Churchill nodded and poured a generous three fingers into a snifter and handed it to him. He took the proffered glass and gulped it all in one swallow, his eyes watering as it burned its way down his esophagus.

  Denise watched the prime minister pour the brandy into his snifter and give it a dash of soda. He took a sip and sighed softly.

  “So, my dear, please tell me how you know so much about our affairs of state.”

  Simmons closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Denise smiled, remembering something Jack had said. “Well, Mr. Churchill, let me tell you a story. It’ll curl your toes and put hair on your chest.”

  The old warrior chuckled. “Well, that might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Incredible,” Churchill said, lighting one of his cigars. The decanter lay on its side, empty. Simmons had sprawled out in his chair and now snored softly. Denise was galvanized, her mind racing in anticipation of the prime minister’s questions. A small clock chimed 0100 hours, and the fire had long since dwindled to softly glowing embers.

  “So, in your time, the bloody Hun got his way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please, we’ve come too far for all this formality. You must call me Winston.”

  “How about Uncle Winston?” she said, a warm smile on her lips.

  Churchill smiled as well. “You know, you remind me of my daughter, Sarah. She has the same fire. Always putting me in my place.”

  He chuckled and reached for his snifter of brandy, finding it empty. “I should be far drunker than I feel,” he said, suddenly melancholic.

  Denise was sad for the old man. He had come back from political oblivion time and time again and now stood on the brink of immortality, yet here he looked like someone’s lonely grandfather. She knew from her history that he could be the lion everyone thought him to be. In spite of his conciliatory attitude and all that had happened, Denise sensed that Churchill still doubted the whole story. Perhaps he’d gone along and listened as a child would to a fairy tale: not judgmental, but not truly believing either.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Quite, my dear.”

  She took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  “I want to thank you for being so kind to me, but I know you’re just humoring me. Everything I’ve said to you is true.”

  “But how can I be sure?” he asked, leaning forward and fixing her with that famous glare. “You may be a part of this Kruger’s plot, the bomb only a diversion.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Then listen to me. In Bletchley Park, there are a group of cryptographers who, with a captured German Enigma coding device, have succeeded in breaking the German code. They have been intercepting messages for the last couple of years. It is the most closely guarded secret of the war, even more so than Overlord. You call it ULTRA.”

  Churchill’s eyes widened. Denise could not tell whether he was angry or shocked.

  “My God,” he said finally. “How could you know? How could you?”

  Denise smiled sadly. “History, Uncle Winston, history.”

  The old man stood and began pacing, his energy level in top gear.

  “Then if everything you said is true, we must stop this man, Kruger, or—”

  “Everything turns to shit.”

  He stopped and looked at her.

  “Sorry.”

  He laughed. “For what? You called it for what it is. Come, I want to show you something.”

  The old warrior pushed himself out of his chair and Denise followed suit. He led them out into the hall where they found Jeffries slumped in a straight-backed chair, snoring contentedly. Churchill smiled and raised a finger to his lips.

  “Take care on the second step,” Churchill whispered. “The noise it makes will wake the dead, and Jeffries needs his sleep.”

  Denise looked at him strangely, then smiled when she saw him wink. Shaking her head at his eccentric humor, she followed him down the stairs to the front door. The bobbie jumped to attention when he saw his charge exiting the house.

  “Sir!” he said, snapping a salute.

  “Carry on, Hargreaves, it’s much too late for all that bunk. Have Putnam bring round the car.”

  “Where are we going?” Denise w
hispered.

  “Won’t you allow an old man some secrets?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  A few moments later, a large Daimler appeared on the street, its engine purring so quietly, Denise had to look at the exhaust pipe to tell it was running. Churchill held out his arm and Denise slipped her arm through it. Together, they walked to the waiting car and climbed in. The driver, a woman, held the door for them.

  “Take the ‘Grand Tour,’ Putnam,” Churchill said.

  The driver smiled, climbed back in the front, and put the car in gear. Like a metallic ghost, it glided away from the curb.

  The car turned left out of Downing Street, heading down Whitehall, past Parliament and Big Ben. Churchill, ever the voluble host, pointed out the sights. Denise watched his eyes sparkling as they moved through Trafalgar Square. She could plainly see he dearly loved this sprawling city by the Thames.

  From the square, they turned left into The Mall and passed under the Admiralty Arch. In the distance, she could see Buckingham Palace, the king’s standard snapping in the breeze. A moment later they turned again, and Denise saw a squat, red brick building, a few spidery tendrils of ivy beginning to creep along its walls.

  “Here we are,” Churchill said expansively. “My home away from home.”

  The Daimler eased to a stop and the driver held the door for them. Denise got out and waited while the driver helped Churchill. She noted the steel door and the guard standing at attention. She also noted they’d made a complete circle, for the rear of 10 Downing sat not more than fifty feet away.

  “Kind of a long drive for such a short distance,” she said.

  Churchill smiled enigmatically and walked toward the heavy door. The guard, a British MP, snapped to attention and brought his rifle to port arms in salute, then reached for the door. It swung open, revealing a hallway that ended at a set of sliding doors. A lift.

  The lift, though superior for its time, nevertheless made Denise nervous as it slowly descended into the concrete shaft. It was no bigger than a small closet and rattled and creaked and shimmied from side to side, forcing her struggle to keep from bumping into the walls or into Churchill. She was uncomfortably close to “Uncle Winnie” as he stood staring past the lift’s female operator, a far-off look in his eye. This close, Denise could smell the brandy on his breath and the cigar smell emanating from his clothes, something that would normally have made her ill, but somehow now felt reassuring.

  The lift operator stole a glance at them, but the woman’s skinny, horse-like features betrayed nothing. Denise wondered whether the woman thought her Commander-in-Chief was off on a romantic tryst and had chosen his underground bunker for the occasion. The very idea evoked a smile.

  The lift came to a groaning halt and the operator pulled open the doors, allowing her and the Prime Minister to exit.

  “This way, my dear,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her along the concrete hallway that resembled a sewer conduit with incandescent bulbs jutting from junction boxes every ten feet overhead. Despite the almost antiseptic look of the place, it held a trace of dampness.

  Churchill began to describe the bunker, a note of pride sneaking into his voice. “We spent the better part of a year working round the clock, throughout the Blitz, building this bunker. It lies seventy feet below the surface and can accommodate one hundred people at any one time for a period of thirty days before needing resupply. Herr Hitler has one of these in Berlin, I am told,” he said, chuckling softly. “If all goes well, he’ll be spending a lot more time down there. By then it will be a great deal quieter than above ground.”

  They turned several corners and Denise lost her bearings as they passed room after room. Suddenly, they stopped in front of another steel door guarded by yet another lone sentry. Like his counterpart above ground, he came to full attention.

  “At ease, Collins, it’s only me.”

  The man appeared to relax yet stayed rigidly still. Churchill removed a key and opened the door. It swung out with the hiss of oiled hinges. He beckoned her inside and closed the door.

  “Welcome to the War Room,” he said, motioning expansively.

  Denise had read of the place in history books but was not prepared for the sight that met her eyes. The room was at least thirty by forty feet, the walls covered by maps of every theatre of the war: Europe, Burma, the Pacific Rim. She and Churchill were not alone. The place was jammed with desks staffed by men and women huddled over wireless radios and typewriters, busily going about the business of running a war.

  “What are they doing?” Denise asked.

  “Decryption. With the invasion so close, we are frightfully busy collecting the latest intelligence from our agents in Europe. As precise as our plans are, there will need to be minute adjustments. Our biggest concern is the Channel weather. It’s so unpredictable this time of year. Come.”

  He led her through the maze of desks, winding their way toward another door. Denise marveled that no one paid them the slightest attention, so focused were they on the tasks at hand. She could feel their excitement, their vitality, their commitment, and envied them their place in history. She knew that unless she could succeed where Jack had failed—she refused to think that he was dead—their gallant efforts would be for naught, a curious footnote lost in the dusty archives of a cold-blooded Nazi future.

  Churchill unlocked the door and snapped on the lights. From its homey, well-worn disarray, Denise instantly knew the place to be the man’s inner sanctum. And like every place he lived and worked, the room reeked of his trademark cigars. The brick walls and support poles were painted a cheery white, as were the stout wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. The wall shared with the War Room held maps covered with Churchill’s studied notations.

  At one end of the room lay an austere mahogany desk covered with a blotter, two ink wells, a banker’s lamp, and a decanter—presumably filled with brandy. A tired-looking leather swivel chair sat behind the desk, and two wooden chairs sat facing it. At the opposite end of the room, perpendicular to the door, laid a sagging military cot made up with a thin wool blanket and a rumpled pillow. A water cooler stood nearby, its compressor humming quietly.

  “Please, sit,” he said, indicating one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Denise sat down and waited. She felt a giddy sense of excitement, palms sweaty, chest tight, eyes alert. Churchill stood for a moment staring at her, as if he were reassessing her, as if all she’d said, and the bond they’d forged, meant nothing.

  “I want you to know that I do not believe you to be a deceitful person, but you must understand that I need further proof of your story. That you know of ULTRA is both mind-boggling and frightening, but could easily have resulted from the loose tongue of some lovesick soldier too drunk to know any better...”

  Denise smiled and nodded knowingly. “I think I can help you there.”

  Churchill inhaled sharply while Denise closed her eyes and began mumbling softly. In a flash of bright blue light, she snapped out of the room. Before he could react or move, she returned as dramatically as she’d left. In her hands she held a simple yellow rose. Churchill’s eyes widened as he stepped forward to grasp it, faltering. Denise grabbed his arm and helped him to one of the wooden chairs.

  “There is more brandy on the desk,” he said, gasping.

  She returned with a snifter of the fiery liquid and watched as he gulped it down.

  “This rose... is it—”

  “From Chartwell? Yes,” Denise said, not able to hide her triumph.

  “If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it,” Churchill said, shaking his head. “Tell me. Can you succeed? Can you stop this man?”

  It was Denise’s turn to doubt. “I don’t know. Every time Jack and I try, the bastard slips away. He’s done it again, and God only knows what he’s done to Jack.”

  The long day and her fears combined to push her over the edge. She began to weep. But instead of comforting her as before, Churchill went over t
o his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Yes, tell Barrows and Finley to report here at once... Never mind. Their leaves are canceled as of now. I have a rush job for them... Yes, goodnight.”

  He walked back and pulled up the other chair, his face stern and forbidding.

  “My dear, this is no time to cry. I’ve had a feeling about you from the moment you barged in on our little soirée with your blazing carbine. You are not a shirker. You have what few men have and what fewer know what to do with...”

  Denise had stopped crying, her eyes drawn to the Prime Minister’s intense stare, his words burning into her brain.

  “...What you Americans call ‘guts.’ If I know you at all, I suspect the man you’ve chosen is equal to the task as well. He is alive. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be sure?” Denise said, wanting to grasp at any straw available.

  “My people have been all through the wreckage. There were no bodies found.”

  Tears of joy stung Denise’s eyes. Jack was alive!

  Churchill stood and paced. “It is my estimation that your man, Jack, is now in the hands of the Gestapo.”

  Denise gasped. “Oh God, no.”

  Churchill waved away her outburst. “You have to continue with or without him. All of us... all of the future depends on you now. You cannot falter.”

  “Wait a minute. If Kruger put him there, I can get him out!”

  Churchill smiled. “Quite so.”

  Denise’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew—that phone call—”

  “—Was to two men in our Forgery Bureau. By tomorrow you will have new documents and clothing that will get you into any place in the Reich, including Gestapo headquarters. After that, you will be on your own.”

  Denise wanted to scream with joy but held herself in check. Instead she said, “You know, Uncle Winston, I could kiss you.”

  The old man’s face flushed with color and he smiled slyly. “If I were thirty years younger, I might take you up on that.”