by Lee Jackson
Lance stared into nowhere for a time. Finally, he said, “That’s a big request.”
Guy nodded. “I know it is, and I appreciate that you haven’t yet said no.”
Lance stared at the floor for a time, unmoving. “It’s not a job I’d look for, that’s for certain. And I have to say that the prominente concern is on my mind. As I recall, you told me that prominentes could be held as bargaining chips, and failing that, they’re likely to be executed.” He laughed quietly. “So, if I commit to that, I could be signing my own death warrant.”
“I understand, and that’s not a light consideration. I’ll tell you that we’ve implemented one of your early suggestions. We’ve had a few prisoners fake escape attempts in which they remain here, hiding out in the attic and other places. They never wanted to try, but they were willing to help that way. As far as the guards were concerned, their escapes were successful, and since roll call is taken by the numbers present, they’re not noticed when they substitute in for someone else. We call them floaters, and they attend roll call until the escape is discovered.
“So, if you’ll take the job, I’ll commit to this: if it looks like you’ll be moved to a prominente cell, we’ll pull you out immediately and have one of our floaters stand in for you. We’ll plan and reserve an escape route for you not allowed to anyone else. And finally, if the occasion arises, we’ll put you at the front of the list. Would that help?”
Lance looked askance at him. “It would certainly help in those circumstances, but it does nothing to change my current ones. I’m a prisoner of war, and every instinct in me screams for escape. I crave liberty more than I desire life. I want to breathe free air, and I want to go home.”
Guy cleared his throat and scraped the chair on the floor as he rose and took a step toward the door. “I understand, Lance. I really do. No hard feelings. I had to ask.”
Lance jumped up as well. “Wait, sir. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
Startled, Guy turned back. “You will?”
Lance took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily. “Yes, sir. I will.”
Still reacting with surprise, Guy said, “Do you mind if I ask why? You made your decision so quickly after such a profound defense of liberty.”
“Because you asked.”
Guy reached forward and gripped Lance’s hand. “You have my deep thanks, and I’m sure I speak for our whole British contingent.”
Lance bobbed his head in response while staring vacantly as the full realization of what he had committed to descended on him. Then he gazed at Guy. “Just please see if you can get those Red Cross rations to me, would you, sir?”
58
September 6, 1941
London, England
“You’re in demand, Captain,” Major Crockatt told Jeremy. “The RAF would like to have you back, MI-6 tried pulling strings to bring you over there, and SOE wants another cooperative mission.”
“It’s nice to be popular,” Jeremy joked. “We’ll see if that’s still the case when peace returns. What does SOE want?”
“As you would imagine, things are getting dicier in France. With the Germans bogging down in their advance on the Soviet Union while now being fully engaged in Yugoslavia and Greece, Hitler’s grand plan for conquest is in disarray. That’s good, but it means he’ll lash out in unpredictable ways.
“In Vichy-France, General Pétain is under increasing pressure to crack down and put in place the same curbs as exist in occupied France—not that he objects. And he has an enthusiastic lieutenant in meeting those demands in the form of Vice President of the Council and Minister of Foreign Affairs, Admiral François Darlan.
“Darlan sees the future of France as the chief vassal state in a Germany that includes the European countries it’s already conquered, so he sold the Germans a hundred and fifty trucks and tons of fuel for the war in North Africa. He even signed a tentative agreement for the Luftwaffe to use French airfields in Syria, resupply ports in Tunisia, and submarine barns in Dakar. Fortunately, some among the Vichy government wish to maintain an appearance of independence from Germany and managed to quash that second arrangement.
“But Darlan allows Germany’s intelligence agencies, including the Abwehr, the SD, and the Gestapo to operate in Vichy France. That violates their armistice, but there it is. American diplomats report seeing German agents everywhere in Vichy—bars, restaurants, and even the opera.
“Darlan was furious to learn that the French Army’s counterintelligence arm just broke up an Abwehr network operating in Marseille—”
Jeremy’s attention was suddenly riveted on what the major said. “Marseille? Has Madame Fourcade been informed?”
“She has, and they’re taking precautions. I know your personal concern. Amélie and Chantal are fine, at least according to our most recent information.” He smiled. “For your benefit, Sergeant Horton included a snippet regarding their health and welfare in the last document drop that came to us via submarine.”
“That’s some small relief. So, Horton’s doing well?”
“He is, I’m happy to say. He was a good choice for liaison. Fourcade likes him. Things are not as bad yet as in Northern France, but they will get that way soon if Pétain continues to allow German agents to operate so openly and in such numbers. Resistance members need to be careful in extending trust. Fortunately, the gendarmes there are not fond of Pétain, Darlan, or the Nazis, so they basically ignore crackdown orders. I’m guessing they won’t be allowed to do that forever.”
Jeremy let out a deep breath and stared vacantly. “You can get so wrapped up in your own corner of the war that it’s easy to forget what’s going on elsewhere. It’s funny, in a strange way. When I was flying, bringing down German fighters and bombers seemed like that was all there was to it. When the Luftwaffe stopped their blitz three months ago, the relief from not having to go up night after night was so great that—how do I say this without sounding totally naïve—a new day seemed to have dawned.
“Then while I was training, of course the war was always there, but in a faraway place. We didn’t have much time to catch up or stay abreast of news. In my mind, the Nazis were in Northern France, and although they influenced Vichy, Amélie was far south in Marseille, safe and far removed from them. Now I find out that they’re right on her doorstep.”
Crockatt rose from the chair behind his desk and came around to lean against the front of it with his arms crossed, a grave expression on his face. “I should tell you that Amélie is active in the Resistance, but maybe you knew that.”
“I did, but I didn’t worry much because she was in Marseille.”
“Her younger sister is as well.”
Jeremy gasped and stared in disbelief. “She’s too young. She should be staying safe and secure in some protected place.”
“We’re seeing quite a few young people in the Resistance, and there’s no stopping them. They’ve been personally touched in one way or another. In Chantal’s case, she’s threatened to run away and join another organization if she’s not allowed to participate. I hear that she’s quite good at reconnaissance and as a courier.”
Impatience overcame Jeremy, and he stood. “What do you want me to do?”
“I told you about the Boulier sisters because you should know to use all available resources, obviously within reason. Old people want to be in the fight too. As I recall, Ferrand’s sister-in-law, Anna, was quite helpful in rescuing him, and she provided information that helped bring down Major Bergmann. He’s dead.”
Jeremy frowned in disgust but nodded. “That’s a good thing.”
“As I was about to say,” Crockatt went on, “the SOE wants Fourcade to set up a new network in the northwest of France, closer to the coast, inside the occupied area. She’s asked for you to be made available to be part of that.”
“Of course. I’m surprised she hasn’t sent Henri or Phillippe up to do that.”
Crockatt grimaced. “Well, I have a bit of bad news in that regard
. Henri was captured and we don’t know where he’s being held. And Phillippe is now doing duty ostensibly as a Vichy attaché in Madrid while funneling intelligence back and forth between British intelligence and Fourcade’s group.”
Jeremy folded his arms and dropped his jaw in astonishment.
“Fourcade’s hands are tied if she wants SOE funding,” Crockatt went on. If we’re to provide money, we insist on having our teams there and being in charge. We’ve largely moved past doing only what is expedient, and SOE also insists on having a trained person to lead. You’re trained, you’re known to Fourcade and her network, and you’re experienced. She wants you among anyone else we send, and we can send you on loan, but we won’t agree to a permanent SOE reassignment. You won’t be the only team leader going over this time. We’re sending teams out as fast as we can.”
Jeremy inhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s tough. You’re going to send me to France, but maybe somewhere that I can’t see Amélie, knowing that she’s doing dangerous things for the Resistance. When do I go?”
“Tonight. But there are some things to emphasize. Horton still does liaison for SOE and usually stays with Kenyon and the rest of the SOE group to blow things up. I have no complaints. He does a good job, and he belongs to SOE anyway.” He peered into Jeremy’s eyes. “But you belong to MI-9. I don’t mind supporting their missions as long as ours get done.”
“No worries about that. I’m intent on helping Lance if we can find a way.”
“We’re making headway on assisting POWs in general. We’ve developed escape maps that are printed on silk paper. They’re thin, strong, and they don’t make crinkling noises. We’re in talks now with the makers of the Monopoly boardgame to put them inside the gameboards and ship them into POW camps via Red Cross parcels and family packages.”
Jeremy gawked. “That’s sensational. I’m awestruck.”
“We’re doing other things too. Our main task is to help prisoners escape, and then evade detection to come back to us.”
“I’m fully on board with that.”
Crockatt frowned. “I should comment on what you just said about Amélie and the dangers she faces, and your being elsewhere. I’d say, welcome to life in France.
“I might be speaking out of turn to mention this while I sit comfortably in this office, but that’s the reality you’re going into. For that matter, it’s not that far removed from what our people experience in Great Britain, except that so far, we’ve been able to keep the Nazis off our doorsteps. But families are separated, loved ones killed, romances interrupted—”
Jeremy found himself speechless and staring into Crockatt’s steady eyes. “You’re right,” he interjected. “I was thoughtless. Am I parachuting in?”
Crockatt shook his head. “The Lysander squadron is operational. They fly within seven nights on either side of a full moon. The rest of any month is too dark.”
Jeremy sucked in his breath. “And that’s better than jumping?”
“It is. We still drop equipment via parachutes, and I suppose we’ll still do parachute drops when needed—we have the Halifax aircraft for that. But the Lysander pilots are dedicated to landing behind enemy lines. They’ve worked out their systems, and the ground crews in France are trained—the method works. We bring people back that way too.” The major straightened up and went back to his seat. “You’ll meet your courier and radio operator tonight before you take off. Do you have any more questions?”
“No. I should go get ready.”
“Our procedures are a little different than when you went out last time. I won’t be coming with you to the airfield. You’ll be flying out of an unnamed location, but ahead of that you’ll be driven to the house of Major Antony and Barbara Bertram in its vicinity. I won’t tell you the name of the village, and we take measures, so you won’t know it. That way if you’re captured—”
Crockatt left the rest of the sentence unspoken. “Mrs. Bertram is quite instrumental in our operations as well as her husband, checking out everyone for anything that could incriminate you in enemy territory. They’re a wonderful couple who see their mission as providing aid and comfort to our operatives as they leave and return to us. They give that personal touch that says to you on behalf of Britain, ‘We care about you. Please come back to us safely.’”
For a split second, Crockatt’s voice broke and his jaw tightened. He straightened and took a sharp breath. “Once we have mission go-ahead, a special station wagon will take your party to a secured area at the airfield. If the mission is scrubbed, you’ll stay with the Bertrams until it’s back on.” He held out his palm. “That being the case, I’ll say my goodbyes now.”
Jeremy shook his hand. “Wish me luck.”
The Bertrams occupied a charming stone cottage, and as Crockatt had said, the driver of the vehicle that transported the team took a circuitous route. Driving after dark in blackout conditions, Jeremy could not read the signs anyway.
Although his teammates, a man and a woman, were introduced to him prior to departure from a garage near Whitehall, no one spoke during the drive. For Jeremy, the tension was familiar and not as heightened as he had experienced flying into darkness night after night in the Beaufighters. However, he surmised that this was a first mission for the other two, and he imagined that they must be on edge, although both remained remarkably collected. They had greeted him professionally and he muttered that he would get to know them better when they reached their destination.
The truth was that Jeremy exercised the reserve he had built up against becoming too friendly with colleagues for having lost so many mates during the Battle of Britain and the blitz. His mind flitted to the last time he had parachuted into France at night. That had been a little over a year ago when he had been eager and met his teammates with enthusiasm. What were their codenames? Brigitte and Théo, I think. I wonder if they’re still alive.
On arrival, he found the Bertrams to be as solicitous as Crockatt had said. The major was a lean, rugged-looking, pipe-smoking man of medium height. Barbara was a bit shorter than he, slender, with light-colored, wavy hair.
They had already laid out a warm meal on the dining room table. Barbara fussed about seating them and ensuring everyone was comfortable.
A solemn quiet descended on the group as they began to eat. The major broke it by saying, “Conversation is difficult because you know where you’re going, and we can’t converse about details of each other’s real private lives. So, I’ll tell jokes, and if you would do me the favor, please pretend to laugh at them.”
That brought about quiet chuckling, so he continued. “When we’re done here, Barbara and I will check everything you’re wearing and carrying with you for any labels or other hints that could show you came from England. We don’t want to make things easy for the Hun.”
Setting his reserve aside, Jeremy turned to the woman. “I’ve been rude while you’re being brave.” He extended his hand. “Call me Jeremy and we’ll leave it at that. And your codename is?”
“Rowena,” she replied, giving a nervous laugh. “I guess we’re all tense. I’m the radio operator.” She was dressed in a dark blue skirt with matching jacket. “My cover story is that I’m a schoolteacher. That’s what I had intended for a career.”
“And I go by Atlas,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m the courier.” He was a burly man with a heavy beard and curly hair.
When neither was looking his way, Jeremy scrutinized them with a pang of misgivings. They’re so young. She can’t be more than twenty, and he’s not much older.
“Do you mind?” Rowena interrupted his thoughts with a question for Barbara. “I’d like to get unpleasantries behind us, so I’ll ask now.” She hesitated as all eyes locked on her. “I have lethal pills—poison—in case I’m captured—"
“You’d like for me to sew them into a sleeve or something?” Barbara asked. When Rowena nodded, Barbara struggled to mask sadness. “Say no more. I’ve done it before. Of course I’ll
do yours.” She looked at the others. “Anyone else?”
“I’ve got mine put away and easily accessible,” Jeremy said.
“I do as well,” Atlas echoed.
“Well then,” the major broke in, “shall we get on and enjoy the meal.”
Partway through the dinner, a telephone rang in the living room. Bertram went to answer it, and when he came back, he announced, “The mission’s been scrubbed for tonight. Bad weather over the Channel extending beyond the French coast, and the prediction’s not looking good for tomorrow.”
An air of relief immediately lifted the atmosphere. Natural smiles appeared.
“What happens now?” Jeremy asked.
“You’ll be our guests for as long as it takes to get good weather,” Bertram said. “Your pilot, Captain Rymills, will be over soon. The pilots like to get to know their passengers whenever possible. The teams like that too; it sets them at ease. Rymills is very good for that. He flew night fighters before coming to the Lysanders.”
“Captain Frank Rymills?” Jeremy inquired.
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I do,” Jeremy said with pronounced enthusiasm, and laughed. “We called him ‘Bunny.’ We flew together. He’s an excellent pilot.”
59
September 7, 1941
RAF Martlesham Heath, Suffolk, England
Red sat at the back of the dispersal hut. “Disconsolate” was not the word he would use to describe his current mood, but he was unsettled. He would soon be the last of the original members in the 71 Eagle Squadron. His greatest friend in life, Andy Mamedoff, whom he had flown with all across California before defying US law to fly and fight with the RAF and picking up Shorty along the way, had just been slotted for a coveted flight commander’s billet with the third unit composed of American-only pilots. It had just been formed, the 133 Eagle Squadron, at RAF Duxford near Cambridge.
