by John Wilson
“They’re planning to coordinate the bombing raid on Bruges with a major raid on Zeebrugge. They hope to destroy the lock with shelling from ships offshore, and the shelling is scheduled to begin at three o’clock tomorrow morning. The bombing of the Bruges docks will begin at three-thirty.”
I do a quick calculation in my head. “That’s less than twenty hours away. Couldn’t they have given us more warning?”
“I don’t think so. We’re just a piece of the puzzle and the shelling of Zeebrugge depends on cloud cover, wind direction, tides and many other factors we can’t even guess at. Everything has to be arranged to give the navy the best chance of success, and we have to fit in. There’s no choice.”
We cycle in silence for awhile. Now that the shock is wearing off, my mind begins to work. “I have to steal Manfred’s uniform and identification today. It will be difficult to do it in broad daylight, not to mention bring it back on my bicycle, but I’ll manage somehow. I can take the uniform to Albert after sunset, but he’ll have to come up to Bruges in the uniform, which increases the chance of being caught. I need a coat for him. I’ll borrow Florien’s—that should hide the uniform in the dark. And Albert’ll need to shave. I’ll take Florien’s razor down to him as well.”
My mind is racing, coming up with solutions almost before I’ve thought of the problem. “Albert and I won’t have time to organize a rendezvous inside. Maybe we can just go through the main gate together. But how do we explain that in the middle of the night?”
“If you wait until the bombing starts, you can say he was injured outside by a stray bomb and you’re bringing him in,” Amelie suggests. “With the raid going on, I doubt anyone will pay too much attention.”
“That might work. And as long as we go out a different gate after, I can say we’re going to the hospital. Are there any plans for getting Albert and the information out of the country?”
“Pieter’s been working on that. He’s found a suitable field north of town. A plane will land there before dawn to pick up Albert and you.”
“Me! Why me?”
“Two reasons. They want a more detailed report on the bombing at Gontrode, and you’ll have to describe the U-boat pens at Bruges.”
“Albert can do that, probably better than me. He’s got a military background.”
Amelie brakes to a stop and I pull up beside her. She hands me a small package. “This is new film for your camera.”
“Why? It will be night when I’m in the dockyard.” I have so many questions, and I feel like I’m not getting many answers.
“It will be getting close to dawn. If we’re lucky, the moon and the fires from the bombing raid will provide just enough light for a photograph. It’s an outside chance, and in any case, your description will still be more important and detailed than a fuzzy picture or two.”
“I still don’t see why Albert can’t give as good a description as I can.”
Amelie looks at me. “I asked them to fly you to London.”
“What? Why?” I feel betrayed by my friend.
“I think it would be good if you went,” Amelie explains. “You’ve done magnificent work in a short time, but it will be dangerous for you after tomorrow. They’ll find out that Manfred’s uniform was stolen, and that someone impersonating him went into the docks during the raid. When they find out that he was accompanied by a nurse, they’ll put two and two together and come looking for you. You’ll have to go into hiding, and then you’ll be no use as a spy. But right now, we can’t worry about any of that. We have to focus on our task if it’s to have any chance of success.”
I don’t like it, but I know Amelie’s right. It will be very dangerous for me after tomorrow. It makes sense to get me out, but I don’t want to go. I really feel that I have been doing something worthwhile, and despite the fear I’ve felt, there has been a thrill as well—a thrill I never got working in a hospital and tending patients. On the other hand, if I’m back in London, I might be able to find Alec. I find myself grinning stupidly at the thought of meeting him again, but I push my emotions down. I mustn’t let my feelings get in the way of my work, especially now. We have to concentrate all our energies on the next twenty hours if we are to complete our tasks—and survive.
“There’s one more thing,” Amelie says, interrupting my thoughts, “and it’s bad news, I’m afraid. Étienne has been arrested.”
“No!” I exclaim.
“The Germans arrested several farmers from around the airfield. They think the saboteur who was spotted the night of the raid must have had help, and they are determined to find out from whom.”
“Étienne won’t say anything.”
“I’m sure he won’t, but we have no idea what the other farmers might know. And there’s more. The drunk soldier can’t remember anything about who attacked him, but the Germans have taken hostages from the village he was drinking in. They suspect that he was attacked by the British flyer who crashed near the airfield, and that he might have been helped by the saboteur. So, you see, the Germans are beginning to piece things together. The search is moving north, and that places you in even more danger. One more reason why you need to get on that plane tomorrow.”
“Has Pieter worked out who betrayed him?” I ask. “Not for certain, but he’s fairly sure it’s someone in Maldegem that he’s been arguing with.”
“So it was a neighbor with a grudge. The network’s not been compromised.”
“It looks that way.”
“At least that’s good news.”
We cycle in silence the rest of the way into Bruges. I’m scared, but I’ve done enough to know that the hours before the real danger begins are the worst. It’s a time when the mind obsessively reviews every possible way things can go wrong and the dozens of decisions that might have to be made. Once the action begins, the decisions become simple and immediate and I become oddly calm. To calm myself now, I begin to plan how I will go about finding Alec as soon as I get to London.
—
“I’m going home.”
The first words Manfred says to me when I enter the ward send a chill down my spine. “When?” I manage to choke out.
“This afternoon,” he says happily. “I have my rail pass already.”
“But you’re still having nightmares.”
“Yes,” Manfred agrees, “but my physical injuries are healing well, and I am told there’s a doctor in Mannheim who is working with soldiers who have exactly what is troubling me. He will make me better. It’s wonderful news, is it not? Of course I shall miss you dreadfully.”
I nod and force a smile. The whole plan is falling apart before it’s even begun. I have to stop him leaving. So much depends on Albert being able to move around freely inside the dockyard.
“You look sad,” Manfred says. “Are you not happy for me?”
“I am,” I lie, “but I will miss you very much.”
“Perhaps”—he offers a sly grin—“we can go somewhere and say good-bye…properly.”
My first reaction is anger. I know what he’s suggesting. Nursing crude soldiers and sailors—British and German—has taught me to handle vulgar propositions, but I had thought Manfred was different, more like Alec.
“What do you say?” he asks, holding out a hand.
I look at his smiling face and see it very differently than before. It’s no longer the friendly expression of a wounded boy, but the leer of a man who just wants to get what he can—an enemy. An idea begins to form. I smile back at Manfred.
“There’s a storeroom downstairs,” I say in what I hope sounds like an eager voice.
Manfred’s smile broadens and he slips out of bed to stand beside me. He’s dressed in the coarse blue outfit that all the patients are given as soon as they’re able to move about a bit. He takes my hand. “Let’s go,” he says.
I pretend to be helping Manfred as we walk down the ward. He has his arm around my shoulder and he’s squeezing me too close to him. The corridor outside is empty and we he
ad for the flight of stairs at the end. At the top of the stairs, Manfred pulls me round and tries to kiss me. Anger surges and I push him away. He teeters for a moment on the top step, his arms waving, and then, with a shout, he’s gone, a ragged bundle of limbs tumbling down the concrete stairs to the landing below.
I’m still looking down in shock when Amelie appears behind me.
“What happened?” she asks. “I heard a shout.”
“He fell,” I say.
She pushes past me and down the stairs. I follow in a daze. Manfred is lying on the landing. I know he’s dead even before Amelie checks for a pulse. His head is bent at an impossible angle.
“His neck’s broken,” she announces, looking round nervously. “What happened?”
“He was to leave for home this afternoon,” I say. “I only intended to trip him when he was a couple of steps from the bottom—so that he would injure himself enough to be kept here for a few more days—but he tried to kiss me. I got angry and pushed him away, and he fell from the top.”
“Go and get the doctor,” Amelie orders. “Not that he’ll be able to do anything.” I turn to go up the stairs, but she holds me back. “This might work out in our favor, Manon. When someone dies, we pack up their belongings to take them to the German authorities. If you are the one to do that, you can walk out of the hospital with his uniform bundled under your arm.”
I nod. “I didn’t mean to kill him,” I say, staring at the crumpled body. “I just…he wanted to…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’ve just killed someone, yet it all seems so unreal.
“It was an accident,” Amelie says. “You had to try to stop him going away today. You didn’t mean to kill him, but now that he’s dead, we have to go on with the plan. Okay?”
I nod again and head up the stairs to find the doctor. Guilt is beginning to eat at me. Perhaps I’d killed other men when I set the zeppelin on fire, but I knew Manfred. He wasn’t the charming young innocent I’d thought him to be, but he didn’t deserve to die because of that. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I had intended to injure him badly enough to keep him in hospital.
What really makes me feel guilty, though, is that a part of me is glad Manfred’s dead. It makes the job I have to do easier. Does that make me a monster? I don’t know and I can’t dwell on it now. As Amelie said, we need to focus on the task at hand. Self-doubt will have to wait until later.
The bicycle ride home is a nightmare. Manfred’s uniform, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, lies like an accusation in my pannier. I cannot help remembering how excited he had been only that morning at the prospect of being sent away from the war. Had his family already been sent a letter announcing his imminent arrival? Instead of being on a train heading home, he’s lying in the cold morgue at the hospital—and it’s my fault.
I try to push the bleak thoughts from my mind, but I cannot. I had thought of spying as a way of stopping the war, of freeing my country, of reducing the number of mutilated soldiers sent to the hospitals where I worked. I had thought I would be the only one in danger, but it’s not like that. This war seems to have a life of its own. It turns everyone it touches into a killer or a corpse.
I’m in a miserable mood as I park my bicycle beside the front door, but I’m determined to go through with what I have to do tonight. I pick up the package and go into the kitchen—only to find Florien sitting at the table with Mama.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I say.
“Nice welcome,” he says sarcastically. “More U-boats are on the way, so we have to work harder. I’ve been put on the night shift.”
“Tonight?”
“That’s when the night shift is,” Florien answers harshly. In the last month, he’s been working too hard and drinking too much. He’s lost weight and looks pale. It has always been difficult to talk to him, but recently his only responses are curt and sarcastic. Even his crowing about the success of the U-boat campaign lacks the enthusiasm and conviction of before.
“I’ve been trying to persuade Florien to stop working at the docks,” Mama says. “With all the air raids, it’s getting very dangerous.”
“Trying to persuade me to run away, more like,” Florien sneers. “What do you want me to do—go and live in the forests like an animal? I’m not a coward.”
“No one’s calling you a coward,” I say. “Mama’s only worried about your safety.”
“I can look after myself,” he says scornfully, jumping up from the table. “I don’t need advice from either of you. I have to go to work now.”
He storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Mama looks on the verge of tears. “I don’t know what to do with him. I’m so worried.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. I want to put on a pot of tea and comfort her, but it’s already getting dark outside and I have a busy night ahead of me.
“I’m sure Florien will be all right, Mama. Besides, he does have a point. If he stops going to work, the Germans will come looking for him and he’ll have to go into hiding.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t help worrying about him, though.” She falls silent and stares at the tabletop.
“I have to go out tonight,” I say.
Mama looks up at me. “I worry about you as well.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say with a cheerfulness I don’t feel. “I’m always careful.”
She nods distractedly, and I go and get Florien’s coat and razor. I eat a bowl of soup and some bread, then prepare some for Albert. By the time I’m done, it’s dark. I hug Mama, tell her again not to worry and set off.
“It’s on for tonight.”
“Das ist gut. Ich bin bereit,” Albert replies, telling me he’s ready.
“Your accent is dreadful,” I say with a smile.
He exaggerates a look of misery. “I thought it was quite good for someone from a suburb of Munich.”
“Yes, if he had grown up in London.”
“Well, Champion likes my accent,” he counters, using his nickname for the wild boar, which has returned several times. “Anyway, in the middle of an air raid I don’t think anyone’s going to be asking where I come from. It was a good idea to bring that old school textbook for me to learn from. I’ve had precious little else to do over the past days.”
“You’ve learned a lot of useful phrases. That will help.”
“Danke, Fräulein.”
“After you’ve eaten, you need to shave and get into the uniform. I’ll bandage your head to hide some of your face, and then we can run over what you might have to say when we get to the dockyard gate. I’m hoping I can do all the talking, but it’s best to be prepared.”
“Yes, sir,” Albert says.
The uniform fits well enough and the tears and bloodstains along the right arm add to the effect. In the beam of Étienne’s flashlight, I explain Manfred’s identification card to Albert and we spend some time polishing German phrases that might be useful.
“You look the part,” I say, examining our handiwork. I get a lump in my throat as I think about Manfred, but I push the memory away. “I think you’ll be a great actor.”
“Charlie Chaplin’s a great actor, but it’s not my job to make the Germans laugh.” Albert examines the bloodstains around the tears in the uniform. “These stains look awfully old.”
“No one will notice in all the chaos,” I say.
“We’re relying on a lot not being noticed in this air raid,” he points out.
For a minute he stares at his arm, then he pulls out a small pocketknife and slashes the soft flesh over the ball of his left thumb. Blood, gleaming in the flashlight beam, wells up and forms a pool in his palm.
“Spread this around a bit,” he says, holding his hand out.
I’m shocked, but I do as he says, dipping my fingers and smearing the new blood over the old stains. Albert moves his thumb to keep the flow going. Eventually, we’ve made the wounds on his arm and the bandage on his head look much more conv
incing.
“Any bandage left over?” Albert asks. “I’d hate to bleed to death before I get to be a hero.”
“That was brave,” I say, attending to the cut on his hand.
“It was cowardly,” he says with a grin. “I’m more afraid of being found out as a bad actor than I am of a tiny cut.”
I finish up and we run over the plan one last time. “The shelling of Zeebrugge begins at three in the morning,” I say. “The air raid on the Bruges dockyard starts a half an hour after that. We’ll wait until four o’clock—enough time for it to be plausible that you have been wounded in the raid—and then we’ll go in. We have to leave by four-forty-five and head north on the road to the village of Koolkerke. The plane will land on a field beside the road just before dawn, around five. It won’t wait long.”
“Got it,” Albert says. He glances at his pocket watch. “It’s after midnight. Should we be going?”
I nod. “We’ll be all right on the open road, but we’ll need to be very careful going through Bruges and that will be slow. The raid won’t have started, so there will be nothing to distract the Germans.”
—
We take a long route into Bruges, skirting the eastern edge of the town and then heading in along the canal I travel every day from Damme. As usual, I go first, to give Albert the chance to hide if there’s trouble.
The moon, three-quarters full, rises in mostly clear sky shortly after we have left the woods, giving us enough light to navigate by, but exposing us to prying eyes. Despite this, we arrive at the outskirts of Bruges without incident. We dump the bicycles and work our way through the dark, empty streets. We keep to alleys and shadowy courtyards, stopping often to examine any open space. At one point, we have to hide in an archway, huddled in the darkest corner, while a half dozen singing, drunken sailors stagger back to their billets.
At last we’re in an alley across the road from the main gate into the dockyard. There is a high barbed-wire fence with broad double gates. Two guards are smoking outside a small hut.
“What time is it?” I whisper to Albert.
