A Dangerous Game

by John Wilson

  I bite back my anger and try to appeal to Florien’s humanity. “Every one of those ships is filled with sailors, and they are given no warning when a submarine attacks.”

  A U-BOAT ABOVE WATER

  “That’s not true,” Florien says. He’s strangely happy and keen to explain things to me. “British propaganda paints the submariners as devils, but really they are heroes. When a U-boat finds a merchant ship, it surfaces and orders the crew to take to the lifeboats before the vessel is sunk.”

  “I’ve heard that’s not always the case,” I say calmly.

  “Perhaps not,” Florien says, “but that is the fault of the British. They use decoy ships. When a U-boat surfaces, panels in the side of a harmless-looking merchantman drop, revealing hidden guns. Can you blame a U-boat captain for not risking his vessel and his crew?”

  I try a different approach. “Do the Germans have enough U-boats to keep this up long enough to starve Britain?”

  “No problem,” Florien says. “There are twenty-five U-boats based in Bruges alone, and more at Zeebrugge and Ostend. Only five have been lost, and they’ve been replaced.” He leans closer to me and says confidentially, “There is talk of converting the large transport U-boats into ocean-going hunters. They could carry many more torpedoes and even sink ships in New York harbor if the Americans are stupid enough to join this war.”

  “New York!” I exclaim, horrified at the thought of U-boats being able to range so far.

  Florien mistakes my reaction for admiration. “Incredible, isn’t it?” he says. “Of course, the really big U-boats won’t fit in Bruges. They’ll have to sail from Ostend or Kiel.”

  U-BOATS LINE THE HARBOR IN KIEL

  I can’t believe Florien is giving away so much information. I make mental notes of everything he tells me and try to keep him talking.

  “I worry about you working at the docks with all the bombing going on. I don’t want to see you carried into the hospital one day.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he says with a smile. He can’t stop himself from boasting about how clever the invaders are. “The Germans have raised a thick reinforced concrete roof over much of the area where I work. Only a direct hit from a very large bomb would damage it. And if the bombing gets too heavy, we can take refuge in the pens we are building for the U-boats—they have roofs several feet thick. Nothing can destroy them.” He bends and rolls up his paper. “I must go and pin this on my wall. One day it will be an accurate chart of Britain’s defeat.”

  I stand and watch my brother’s retreating back. He’s happier than I have seen him since my return. It was like talking to the old Florien—except for the subject of our conversation. I feel glad that we seem to have reconnected but guilty that I will have to pass on everything we talked about. Betraying one’s own family—just another aspect of the life of a spy. Frowning, I head for my room to write down all that Florien said.

  As winter turns to spring, I continue to place scraps of paper with the information I have collected behind the cistern in the washroom at the hospital. I rarely get any feedback or instructions in return. It’s odd that work so monotonous can be so dangerous, and I have to keep reminding myself that I’m running a serious risk whenever I place a message.

  Ever since my conversation with Florien, my brother has withdrawn back into himself, despite my trying to reengage him several times. He’s working longer hours, and instead of coming home to rest when he’s done, he disappears almost every night to drink with his gang of friends. I’ll just have to be patient. At least I have received no more requests to recruit him. Perhaps Major Macleod assumes that I’ve already persuaded him to work for us.

  One Thursday, I find a slip of paper behind the cistern. I pull it out and read, “Pieter de Coninck.” It’s the code telling me to be at the statue in the market square first thing the next morning. My heart thumps with excited anticipation. Am I to be given an important task? What will it be? Will it be dangerous?

  The next morning, I’m up early and cycling along the canal as the sun hauls itself above the horizon. I splash through puddles left by the overnight rain, staining my boots and skirt with mud, but I don’t mind. I feel like a small child on Christmas morning.

  I have to force myself to slow down so as not to arrive at the market square too early. I stroll across the empty space as casually as possible, worried that the German soldiers posted there can see my excitement and hear my heartbeat. I am oddly eager to see Pieter again, and as I take my place below the statue, I look around the square trying to spot him. But the only familiar face I see is Amelie pushing her bicycle toward the hospital. I look away, but she spots me and waves. She swings her bicycle round and joins me on the steps.

  “Hello, Manon,” she says cheerfully as she sits down. “You stopped to take the air on the way to work?”

  “I’m feeling a bit tired,” I say, “so I stopped for a rest. Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll follow along shortly.”

  “I’m in no hurry. We’re so busy, it’s important to remember to take these small moments to rest.”

  Now I’m worried. When Pieter sees me with Amelie, he won’t come and give me my assignment. What will I do then? Come back tomorrow?

  I’m trying to think of a way to get rid of Amelie when she leans closer and murmurs, “I missed not having a white Christmas last year. As you said, it will be a long time until we have another one.”

  I turn and stare at my friend.

  She smiles and goes on, “I think I’ve had enough of a rest. Let’s walk to work. We can go down by the canal.”

  “Okay,” I stammer, stunned to discover that Amelie is part of La Dame Blanche. Pushing our bicycles, we set off out of the square. “I was expecting Pieter.”

  “It will be more natural for you and me to be seen together,” Amelie says. She’s smiling as we talk and anyone watching would think we’re gossiping or discussing boyfriends.

  “Are you the one who picks up my information?”

  “Yes. I’m the first link in the chain. There were many times that I wanted to tell you, but we must be careful.”

  I laugh out loud. “All winter, I’ve agonized that I might let something slip when I’m talking to you, and you’re the one person I could have talked to! I’ve looked at everyone in the hospital, wondering who was taking my pieces of paper from behind the cistern, and all the while, you were sitting right beside me.”

  Amelie’s smile broadens. “You did well. You never gave anything away. And your information is good, by the way. Very thorough.”

  “And useful?” I ask.

  “Of course. I know it’s sometimes difficult to see how what we do fits into the larger picture, but trust me it does. London was particularly pleased with the information about the U-boat pens at the dockyard here in Bruges.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “So are you revealing your identity to me now because you have a job for me?”

  “Do you think you’re ready?”

  “More than ready. Do you want me to find out more about the U-boats?” I ask, wondering how I can possibly do that.

  “Eventually, yes, but something else has come up. You’re no doubt aware of the zeppelin raids on England?”

  “All too aware,” I say.

  “Many of the zeppelins fly from airfields in Belgium.”

  “I know that too,” I say. “And I was told the Germans are developing a new one that can fly above the defenses.”

  “That is true,” Amelie says, “but they’re not important. Zeppelins are a good propaganda weapon, but winds can blow them off course too easily and most raiders never reach their target, dropping their bombs in the sea or on open fields. The new zeppelins can fly higher but they carry fewer bombs, and navigation will be even more difficult from such a height. They will scare the civilians, but the real danger comes from the new German bombers.”

  “I was told something in London about large bombers.”

  “Yes, the Germans have these planes called Gothas. Th
ey have an enormous wingspan and can carry bombs that are ten times the size of the ones the British drop on the docks here.”

  As I struggle to imagine the devastation these Gothas could do, Amelie goes on. “The Germans have used Gotha bombers in the east and over France for some time, but—” She breaks off as a pair of workmen walk past us in the opposite direction. They tip their caps in greeting and we nod in response. “We’ve heard that they are planning to use them to bomb Britain. They’re faster and more maneuverable than zeppelins and much easier to navigate. Twenty of them dropping bombs on London at once would cause horrific damage.”

  The night I stood and watched the zeppelin raid over London, the streets were filled with people transfixed by the display. What would it be like if bombs were raining from the sky like hailstones?

  “Is that possible?” I ask, horrified.

  “Keep your voice down,” Amelie warns. “Anything is possible. Certainly the Germans are building new airfields around Ghent and modifying old ones. At Gontrode, they’re building new hangars that aren’t large enough for zeppelins, so they must be for something else. What they are for is the secret we must discover.”

  “How can I help with that?”

  We’re almost at the hospital now, and Amelie slows down and pretends to be interested in some ducks swimming on the canal. “The work at Gontrode could be to prepare it as a base for Gotha raids on England. Our contact there—she works in the cafeteria and picks up a lot of gossip—has said that the Germans seem to be preparing for something to arrive. As soon as that happens, we will need someone to go down there and take a look, and maybe some photographs.”

  “Inside the airfield?” I ask nervously.

  “No, just observing from outside to watch the new aircraft arrive.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say, without hesitation. “But I don’t have a camera.”

  Amelie reaches into the pannier on her bicycle, picks out a small package wrapped like a sandwich and hands it to me. “Pretend this is part of your lunch,” she says as we enter the hospital grounds, “but don’t open it until you get home. Practice with it, and in a day or two you will receive instructions about when to use it.”

  I quickly stuff the package in my bag beside my real lunch, then we park our bikes and go to our respective wards. The day drags by and I can’t stop thinking about the camera. It’s like carrying a bomb that might explode at any second.

  As soon as I get home, I go to my room and carefully unwrap the package to reveal an aluminum camera only slightly larger than a pack of playing cards. The front pulls out and there’s a small viewfinder to see what you’re photographing. It’s called a Vest Pocket Kodak, and it’s loaded with film and comes with a slim instruction manual in English. I read the manual and practice with the camera without actually taking a picture. Then I hide it under the clothes in my dresser drawer and go to bed.

  VEST POCKET KODAK CAMERA

  I lie awake wondering when I will receive my instructions—half of me hoping I won’t have to wait long, the other half hoping I never hear anything more. For the first time, I feel like a real spy.

  It’s a scary feeling.

  I drag myself out of bed and haul on my clothes hours before dawn. I was so terrified I wouldn’t wake up in time that I didn’t sleep a wink. Yesterday, the scrap of paper with my instructions was tucked behind the cistern. It told me that the first Gotha bombers are to arrive at dawn this morning, and it’s my job to photograph them. This means that I have to cycle to Gontrode, a journey of more than two hours, in the dark.

  Last evening, I told Mama that I had an early shift at the hospital so she wouldn’t wonder where I was when she woke up. I’ll be breaking curfew on a route that my permit doesn’t allow, but if I’m stopped I’ll say I’m just taking a pannier of vegetables to my old grandmother in Ghent and need to get back to the hospital in time to nurse the wounded German sailors there. That’ll probably work—unless whoever stops me becomes suspicious and looks beneath the potatoes and onions, where the camera is hidden.

  I slip downstairs as quietly as possible and open the front door. A huge full moon is hanging just above the western horizon, casting its eerie silver light over everything. I’m so entranced by it that I almost fall over Florien, who is smoking on the step. I had heard him stumble in late last night but had no idea he was up already.

  “Where’re you off to?” he asks, standing up. “Don’t you know there’s a curfew on?”

  “I have an early shift at the hospital. A load of wounded came in yesterday. What are you doing up at this time?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he says with a shrug. “I have to go to work soon too.” His cigarette glows a deep red as he takes a long drag on it. He looks tired and sad. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, looking up at the moon. “Do you remember how Papa used to wrap us up in blankets and take us out at night to show us the stars—the Great Bear, Cassiopeia?”

  “I do.” I’m torn between my need to get to Gontrode before dawn and a desire to stay and talk with Florien. “Orion, the Hunter, was my favorite. He never came up very high in the sky, as if he was hiding over the horizon, stalking his prey.” I look at the sky, anxiously aware that I have to leave. “I have to hurry or I’ll be late.”

  I move to step past Florien, but he puts a hand out and rests it on my shoulder. “Do you miss Papa?” he asks softly.

  His gesture is gentle and his voice wistful. This is the first time he’s spoken about Papa since I returned home, and the only glimpse he’s given of the sensitive boy I knew before the war. Why must he start opening up when I have to go?

  “Of course I miss Papa,” I say, more abruptly than I intend. “And I will always hate the Germans for killing him.”

  I feel Florien’s hand tense on my shoulder. “You blame everything on them,” he says, the softness in his voice fading. “You haven’t been here for two years. You ran away to live comfortably and safely. You don’t understand the Germans. They’re strong, and when they split this weak country into its two rightful parts, we will be strong as well. If the French and British would only recognize that they cannot win, then all the killing would stop.”

  “I’m sorry, Florien,” I say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  My brother stares hard at me for a moment. He removes his hand, drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. As he turns away, he says under his breath, “In any case, it wasn’t the Germans who killed Papa.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t the Germans?” I ask. “They lined him up in the square with the others and shot him.”

  “Never mind,” Florien snarls over his shoulder as he stomps off into the darkness. “You don’t understand. You never will.”

  Totally confused by the encounter, I pull my bicycle out from beside the house and set off. I’m both upset by Florien and annoyed that I missed an opportunity to reestablish some kind of relationship with him. He’s so touchy. Half the time he’s my sensitive younger brother, and half the time he’s an unpleasant devotee of all things German. I try to establish a connection with him, but I realize it is partly so that I can find out information about the U-boat docks, and that makes me feel guilty. I’m using my own brother. I want him to open up to me, but only so I can get information from him. And there’s no way I can ever open up to him.

  Feeling miserable, I head out onto the tree-lined country roads as the moon sets and the predawn darkness thickens. It makes cycling difficult, but I’m glad that it will also make it harder for any German patrols to spot me. As it turns out, the roads I travel are completely deserted and I make good time.

  As I cycle through the darkness, I find myself thinking of Alec. This must be a bit like his world in the tunnels below the war, except that I can breathe fresh air and feel the breeze on my face.

  “I hope you’re all right,” I say softly, “although I don’t know where you are or if you’re even still alive.” It feels oddly comforting to speak to him. “I’m a real spy now, f
urtively cycling through the dark with a hidden camera and a mission to photograph a secret plane. I wish you were here so I could tell you all about it—but that’s not possible. You have your war and I have mine.”

  I have memorized a map that shows me the route around the edge of Ghent and down to Gontrode. The two-and-a-half-hour journey goes quickly, and I soon find myself in the small wood from which I should be able to see the airfield and photograph the Gothas when they come in to land. I hide my bicycle deep among the trees, retrieve my camera from the pannier and work my way forward just as the sky behind me turns red with the rising sun.

  As the light grows, the airfield materializes out of the darkness. Beyond the trees, a swath of open ground stretches away to a high chainlink fence. At first, I can see nothing beyond the fence but a farmer’s field, but then I notice that the grass is carefully groomed—it’s a runway.

  The only airfield I’ve ever seen is the one I took off from in December, and it was little more than a cow paddock with a row of tents and a couple of barn-like buildings where the planes were stored and repaired. Gontrode is very different. Over to my left, at least half a mile away, is the building where I assume the airfield workers and zeppelin crews live. It’s a three-story brick structure as long as one side of the market square in Damme. There are lights in several of the windows.

  Big as that building is, it’s dwarfed by the two vast structures beside it. Even at this distance they are impressive. Each one is too large to fit in the main square in Bruges and would tower over the surrounding buildings. Huge sliding doors cap the ends nearest to me. These structures must house the monstrous zeppelins that I saw over London. Once I can drag my eyes from them, I see that there are two smaller buildings farther away. I wonder if these are for the airplanes I’m here to photograph.