by Lee Jackson
“I did a small thing that my country needed,” Fourcade said, quoting Jeannie from their earlier conversation.
Jeannie laughed lightly, enjoying the reference. “You flatter me.”
“No. The value of the intelligence you provided is incalculable. I can guess without exaggeration that you must have played a significant part in causing the invasion of Great Britain to be cancelled.”
Jeannie blushed and turned to let the sea breeze blow over her face. “I did nothing more than the people who came to rescue me. And don’t forget those others who are in the fight every day. I only did my duty.”
“You are a remarkable young lady, the best of France. What are your plans?”
“I’ve hardly had time to think of them, but I was surprised on the way here that as we went through checkpoints, my papers were never questioned. I was very scared because I thought that surely notices would have gone out to arrest me. But there were none, I’ve never used an alias, and I didn’t have time to get false papers.”
“That was an oversight on our part. We should have taken care of that in advance. We’ll add that detail to our checklist for future operations.”
“Yes, that should be done, but my point is that the Gestapo in Dinard seems to have forgotten about me.”
Fourcade looked at Jeannie quizzically. “What are you thinking?”
Jeannie turned all the way around and leaned against the railing. “I’m thinking that I could do this again—that is, infiltrate the German military headquarters—in Paris.”
Fourcade sucked in her breath. Nothing she could say that was appropriate to the moment came to mind, so she reached over and squeezed Jeannie’s arm.
Fourcade tossed and turned in bed that night. For a time, she thought of the brave young sisters who had just lost their father and the courageous young lady who proposed to spy on the German high command in Paris, and what that might entail.
Then, an image intruded on her mind of Léon Faye, the tall, handsome French air force pilot with whom she had argued over critical issues on their first meeting. Again, she felt the stirring in her chest. Try as she might, she could not dismiss him from her thoughts. Pulling the blankets over her head, she murmured, “I hate this war.”
34
January 17, 1941
Oflag IV-C, Colditz, Germany
“At last, we speak,” Pat Reid said. “I heard how you were re-captured. I’m sorry.”
“It happens,” Lance replied with as much spirit as he could muster. “I’m just glad to escape from that damnable cooler. Maybe that’s the object of it. You’re so happy to get out that life seems instantly better.” He grinned. “The one at Oberursel was far worse. In the one here, I could stand up, move around, stretch out on the cot, and sit at a table. I only met Padre Platt once before I escaped. He told me that if this is a punishment camp, he wished he had been disciplined here before being sent to Spangenburg. I quite agree with him, although the meals were sparse in the cooler. SBO should really speak with the kommandant about that.”
“And how are you?”
“Me?” Lance patted his chest with both hands. “Never better, and ready to get back at it. With any luck, I should be on my way in another week. Did Miloš make it?”
Pat shook his head. “He was picked up a week before you were. He’s back here now.” He chuckled. “And he said essentially the same thing—he’s ready for his next try.”
“He’s a good man. He did exactly as we rehearsed and saved me from having to take a crash course in locksmithing.”
“I’m glad to see your spirits are good, but we’ll take things slow for a bit. We need to debrief you thoroughly and let you know about a few changes in our procedures. The SBO wants to speak with you too.” He smiled. “I believe he has a letter from home for you.”
Lance grinned. “I could use one. I had all but given up on receiving another one.”
Pat chuckled. “What did you expect? You hardly stayed in one place long enough for anyone to know where to send them, much less allow time for the letters to reach you. But yes, he has one. And, if you’re up to it, he’d like to start your debriefing as soon as possible, with me and Chip.”
“I’m up for it. Can I read my letter first?”
“Of course.”
“A good letter, I hope?” Guy said after the four of them had gathered in a room cleared of other people to debrief Lance.
“It’s from my mum and dad,” Lance replied. He had not expected the rush of emotion that overcame him when he had read it, and the reaction threatened again. “I think they’re having a rough go of it on Sark Island, but they can’t say so. They sort of beat around the bush about conditions there under German occupation. They’re both fighters. I can promise they haven’t given in to the Jerries, but this letter is so humdrum and full of nothing. Look.” He held it up. “No holes. Even the censors couldn’t find anything wrong with it. If they were speaking their minds, it would be nothing but holes. They know what they’re doing. This letter is to let me know they’re alive and getting on.”
Guy looked at him somberly. “I wanted to speak with you personally because I have two more letters for you, from your brother and sister, Jeremy and Claire.”
Lance’s eyes widened in surprise. “Can I have them? Where are they?”
“I’ll give them to you, but I wanted to explain something first. While you were gone, we sent notes to them as if from you. They would immediately know you had not sent them because they would make no sense—referring to family members we made up and places you’ve probably never been. Our hope was that they would think them weird and take them to British intelligence for help. That’s worked for others, and we’re hoping it’s worked in this case. So, I haven’t read them. When you do, if they sound strange, they might contain coded messages, in which case I’d like you to turn them over to Chip for analysis.”
Lance studied Guy’s face for only a moment. “Of course, of course. May I see them?”
Guy removed them from his top pocket and handed them over. Lance took them eagerly, started to peruse one, then stopped and started on the other. Then he handed them back to Guy. “Anything to help the cause.”
“I’m sorry, Lance. I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous.”
“I said anything to help the cause, sir,” Lance replied evenly. “I don’t give lip service.”
“No, you don’t,” Guy said with an amused smile. “You certainly don’t.” He pursed his lips in thought. “I have another question. Do the names Horton, Kenyon, and Lancas mean anything to you?”
Lance’s eyes bulged, and he leaped to his feet. “Yes, they do,” he said with alacrity. “Those two names, Horton and Kenyon, they were the chaps who went down on the Lancastria with me. Together, the three of us, after we were rescued, did some sabotage with the French Resistance. How do you know about them?”
Guy straightened suddenly and looked about as he smiled. “My word, Sergeant Littlefield, you are a handful, aren’t you? I sent my own coded letters to British intelligence and received back a reply with those words. You’ll be happy to know that your friends are fine, but I wasn’t informed about their activities.” He turned his attention to Pat and Chip. “Listen to me. What Sergeant Littlefield just told us stays in this room.” He turned back to Lance. “Unless you want to be interrogated by the Gestapo, don’t mention your activities with the Resistance again to anyone.” His face softened. “But I will tell you that it was the French organization that got word through to London about your chums.”
“Thank you, sir. Wing Commander Day warned me about the same thing at Oberursel. I had a mental lapse.”
“Understandable under the circumstances. Just realize that some POWs would trade information about what you’ve done to the Germans for better treatment, and you had direct access into the French Resistance. The next slip could cost you your life, and others too. We trust only those we’ve vetted.”
“Got it, sir.”
“Let’s
not belabor the point. As I understand, you made it all the way to the Swiss border on this last escape attempt. What happened?”
Lance grimaced. “I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. There I was, standing with my papers in front of a wet-behind-the ears German border guard. I was being polite and all, and even confident because I’d been through so many checkpoints with no trouble in the least. He examines my papers, looks up at me, and nods. I thought he was letting me know that everything was in order, but when I reached to take my papers back, the chap kept them, and suddenly two other guards held my arms while two more pointed their rifles at me, and I was led away.” He shook his head. “So close.”
“What tipped them off?”
Lance inhaled. “The color of the travel documents had changed the day before.”
Guy leaned back and stretched. “That’s a disappointment to all of us. Any fixes you can think of?”
Lance shook his head. “I’ve thought about almost nothing else since then, but I don’t have a solution. They seem to change paper colors and dates at the drop of a hat. I have no clue how they can distribute new ones so fast.”
Guy looked at Chip. “Intelligence officer?”
Chip smirked and exhaled. “I’ll run it through our brain trust, but I don’t have any immediate solutions. It’s like playing roulette.”
“Russian roulette,” Pat broke in, “but it’s information we need.”
They spent several hours going over the details of Lance’s route. “I was lucky to be on a late train. Most people went to sleep. I nabbed a suitcase just before switching trains in Leipzig. Miloš went his separate way there. I’m glad he’s safe.
“Anyway, I was on another train within fifteen minutes. The Huns are good at running the railroad on time. I was miles away by the time the suitcase went missing.
“The money you issued to me was plenty. It got me into a gasthaus in Gotha and kept me fed.” He laughed. “We got to the train station here in Colditz much sooner than expected, so I went into one of the guard stations to warm up. They let me stay there most of the night until a train came through. I regaled them with stories of how I met my fiancée and where we intended to honeymoon, and so on.” He looked at the three officers facing him as a question came to mind. “Pat said we were changing our procedures. In what way?”
Guy cleared his throat. “In several. We had an incident while you were out. An escape by some of our Brits was blown because their plan crossed with one going at the same time by the Poles. Neither knew about the other. That was an avoidable error.
“So that we don’t slip up again, we agreed at the senior level that no escape plans would go forward without coordination among the nationalities. Also, that we’d establish a list. Those wishing to escape must wait their turn. All plans must be approved and coordinated at the senior level.”
Lance stared at him. “Does that mean that I won’t be able to—”
“Three months, at least,” Guy replied, nodding. He stood cross-armed with one hand holding his chin. “That’s the next available slot.”
Lance stared at the floor. When he looked up again, he grinned. “I’d better start preparing, then. Three months goes fast. It’s been seven weeks since I first arrived here.”
Guy laughed and clapped Lance on the back. “Ah, Littlefield, despite the circumstances, seeing you again, healthy, safe, and in one piece, is a delight. Welcome back.”
“Is that it, then, sir? Are we done?”
Guy leaned back with a frown. “Not quite.”
Lance had started to rise. He sat back down with a quizzical look. “What else is there.”
“Do you recall that when you first arrived, I showed you a section of the castle reserved for the prominentes.”
Lance nodded, bewildered. “I do. A wretched place even by the standards we live under, but that has nothing to do with me.”
Still cross-armed, Guy moved his hand from his chin to the back of his neck and rubbed it. “I’m afraid it might. Have any of our captors ever asked you about your hometown?”
Not comprehending where this line of questioning was going, Lance pursed his lips. “No, sir. I’m a junior sergeant. I’m not supposed to know a lot, so no one bothered.”
“Your mother is the Dame of Sark, is she not? And your stepfather is the senior co-ruler?”
Lance laughed. “Yes, that’s true. But Sark is a tiny island. My parents rule—if you want to call it that—over about four hundred and fifty people, and we call them friends. Mum and Dad consult with them before governance decisions are made, usually by a show of hands.”
“I understand. However, your mother’s pedigree extends back into noble families in English history. She’s a recognized member of the aristocracy, and Sark right now is of much interest to Adolf Hitler. Along with the other English Channel Isles, they are his only conquests of British territory, and as such, they have high propaganda value.”
Lance inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. When he re-opened them, he exhaled with a rush of air. “How does that affect me here?”
“Right now, it doesn’t,” Guy said, “but it’s another thing to keep under your hat. If you become identified as a prominente—they’re classifying family members of prominentes in the same category—then you could be moved out of here and into that section of Colditz Castle.”
“Meaning my chances of escape are greatly reduced.”
Guy began laughing, joined by Pat and Chip. “Lance Littlefield,” he gasped between breaths, “God broke the mold after he baked you. He just couldn’t handle another person with such a singular purpose.”
His face changed to a sober expression. “Unfortunately, it could mean more than that. There’s no good reason to keep prominentes isolated from the rest of us. I think they’re being held separately with the expectation that at some point they might be used as bargaining chips.”
35
February 10, 1941
RAF Croydon, England
Dressed in US Army combat fatigues, Paul waited for Wild Bill Donovan at the main headquarters building, a nondescript two-story affair with a view of the runways and some of the aircraft. Most of them were parked out of sight, a tactic that had contributed to saving Fighter Command aircraft and frustrating the Luftwaffe. From where Paul stood in front of a large window with many panes, he could see inside hangars where mechanics worked busily on planes needing repair. Not so long ago, that had been an impossibility during the day because of the Luftwaffe raids on RAF aircraft and facilities. Those days had faded as Hitler concentrated his raids against the population at night to foment terror.
Donovan appeared down the hall, rousting Paul from daydreams of Ryan. “You made it,” he said. “When did you get in?”
“Last night. I slept on a cot in a room down the hall.”
Donovan scrutinized Paul’s face and chuckled. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long trip ahead, and it’ll be rough. We’re flying into a small airstrip near Ioannina in the Epirus region in northwestern Greece. Our escorts will pick us up there. The Italians penetrated forty miles into Greece in early November, but they were driven back to a line well inside Albania. That’s where we’re going.” He added wryly, “Keep those lethal pills handy.”
If Donovan’s intent was to shock Paul out of his daydreams, he succeeded. On impulse, Paul reached up and fingered the pocket containing them. “They’re here,” he said. “I’m all set. Just let me grab my kit.”
“Our plane’s waiting, courtesy of the United States Air Corps,” Donovan called. “Make sure you’ve got your cold weather gear.”
Paul rejoined him carrying his combat pack. “We’ll be traveling partway through arctic conditions: waist-high snow in the Pindus Mountains. We’re headed to a coastal town in Albania called Vlorë, but we’re taking an overland route so we can see the battlefield. All the Italians have left for re-supply is one harbor in Albania, at Durrës.”
Donovan warmed to his pronouncements as he continued. “Paul, the G
reeks stunned the world.” He spoke with controlled but intense enthusiasm. “When they took Vlorë, they secured a front extending sixty miles east across Albania to Pogradec. By rights, the Italians should have already finished off Greece. They’ve got the tanks, fighter planes, a blooded army with combat success—but the Greeks are defending their homes and their families, and they’re doing it with archaic rifles left over from the Great War, as well as sticks, stones, knives, and even their bare hands. No one expected them to defeat the Italians. They just didn’t have the equipment.”
“Just those archaic rifles and their sticks and stones,” Paul remarked. “That goes back to what Mr. Churchill said about when things become obsolete.”
Donovan nodded. “Good point. Glad you listened. Italy attacked the Kalpaki Pass at the end of October, but they got bogged down in the snow. Their tanks couldn’t make it to the border, their supply lines broke down, and they hadn’t counted on how fiercely the partisans would fight alongside the regular Greek army.” He looked incredulous. “The Italians penetrated thirty miles into Greece, but the Greeks mounted a counter-offensive and drove them back seventy miles. That’s forty miles inside Albania.”
Donovan’s eyes shone with excitement, and in that moment, Paul gained an inkling into how the general had gained his nickname, Wild Bill. He was obviously eager about the prospect of heading into combat.
“How’s our deception plan working out?” Paul asked.
“So far so good. I gave an interview to The New York Times just before leaving London, and they quoted me verbatim. I said that back in August, I had found the British to be ‘resolute and courageous’ and that now I’d have to add the word ‘confident.’ The New York Post led with a story that I would be heading to North Africa seeking a ‘new understanding’ with Vichy France.”
“Are we really going to North Africa?”
