In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  * * *

  The water Luc brought was much too hot, almost boiling, would have to be left to cool a little. Thérèse shaking her head: ‘Being silly, trying to do everything at once. And Lotte’ll say I should have seen to your wounds before anything else… It has done you good, though – hasn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely. I feel much stronger. Fell asleep, I think… Who’s Lotte?’

  ‘Our sage-femme. I told you about her.’

  Sage-femme meaning midwife. But they often tended to act like district nurses, especially in remote communities. In ancient times, witchcraft and black magic had been attributed to them: doctors who’d seen them as competition had conspired to have them denounced as witches, burnt or drowned. Thérèse was saying, ‘If you can bear it, Rosalie, I’m going to leave you for a few minutes – show them where things are, then they can look after themselves. After all – grown men, soldiers at that…’

  ‘The older one – Michel – only one arm, and he’s a parachutist?’

  ‘Believe it or not, he is.’

  The man himself, coming up the ladder. ‘Am I intruding here?’

  ‘At the moment, no, but—’

  ‘I’ve brought the Sulphanilamide. Just sprinkle it on. Also morphine, and a syringe. But yes, Rosalie – a one-armed para, you see before you. I’m not the only one. I may say – we have a very senior commander – a general, no less—’

  ‘Generals surely don’t jump out of aeroplanes?’

  ‘Ah, this one does!’

  Thérèse cut in: ‘I’m going down to show Luc where things are, so you and he can feed yourselves while I’m attending to this one’s wounds. You can keep her company now, but after that—’

  ‘Keeping Rosalie company will be a pleasure.’

  He stood aside, Thérèse squeezed herself down through the hatch, and he turned back to Rosie.

  ‘Well… In your SOE career, did you ever have to parachute?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Part of our training. And I went in by parachute on my first deployment – dropped near Cahors, to join a network in Toulouse. Didn’t last long, I may say, that réseau had been infiltrated even before I arrived. I got out over the Pyrenees. You know, I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming this?’

  ‘Dreaming what?’

  ‘Being here – alive – looked after!’

  ‘Well, it’s how it is. Obviously you have a strong constitution. Over the Pyrenees, God’s sake… But other deployments since then too?’

  ‘Second one was Rouen – went in by sea. And then this one. In by Lysander, to do a job in Brittany. Had to run for it yet again, and there was a car smash -’ she touched her forehead and her left cheekbone – ‘which is what caused these scars – and I woke up in hospital at Morlaix, under Gestapo supervision. From there – Fresnes, the prison. And a visit – a week ago exactly – to Gestapo headquarters in Rue des Saussaies.’

  ‘They hurt you?’

  ‘Whipped me. Luckily I fainted – but my back’s all cut up. In fact, if there’s enough of that magic powder of yours—’

  ‘There will be. What better use…’ He ran a large hand over his jaw: wide jaw, and a grim, straight mouth. Grim at this moment, anyway. Shaking his head: ‘They’ve plenty to answer for. And please God they will – damn soon, at that!’

  ‘Please God…’

  She remembered a similar comment just a few weeks ago – a man by name of Lannuzel, a Resistance leader in Châteauneuf-du-Faou in Brittany. He’d said, ‘Christ, they’ve a bill to settle, when the time comes!’, and she’d agreed: ‘On ropes from lamp-posts – and not too quickly…’

  In the immediate sense it might be a far-fetched hope, but it was deeply satisfying as a daydream – to those who were terrorized, imprisoned, humiliated, tortured. And in the long run – please God – might be attainable… Visualizing one individual in particular: swollen-faced, kicking on a rope. Young – about her own age – dark-haired, swarthy. A Frenchman, not a German: in fact half French, half British.

  Michel had sat down – carefully, at the bed’s other end. A big man, shabbily clothed. The musty odour of old working clothes, she realized, that she’d noticed in the van. Cigarette odour too. It was a long time since she’d smoked. Michel cleared his throat: ‘Listen now, Rosalie. We’ll be off soon, but I’ll be back – I expect – in two or three days’ time. After that – well, no matter, here and now let’s agree a plan of action – namely to get you (a) fit, (b) on your way back to London. OK, so this could be overtaken by events; but assuming Thérèse can get you on your feet in reasonably short order – well, we have our own base – I don’t mean militarily a base, it’s the home of one individual, ostensibly a business associate. We’re supposed to be mechanics, d’you see, we repair and maintain farm machinery, especially tractors – and this fellow’s in that line of business, we do the field work for him. Well – through him, we’d have no problem contacting your people, to arrange a pick-up. Or for that matter you could set it up yourself – once you’re fit and mobile, he’d put you in direct touch with his own SOE contact. That’s for sure – at the moment it’s our own communications link, you see – courtesy of this SOE person’s radio-operator. “Pianists” d’you call them?’

  ‘I’m one myself.’

  ‘Are you indeed. What a shame you didn’t think of bringing a transceiver with you!’

  ‘Wasn’t it thoughtless.’

  Smile fading. Shake of the head then; looking into her eyes. ‘We’ll make them pay for the things they’ve done, Rosalie.’

  ‘Yes. I hope—’

  ‘We will. But listen – do you agree that should be the programme?’

  ‘Certainly – and gratefully. Owe you so much already—’

  ‘Owe me nothing. Another question, though – you’re French, how come you landed in SOE?’

  ‘My mother’s English. Father died – in 1930 – and she dragged me back – to England.’

  ‘Dragged – against your will?’

  ‘France was my home since birth, England a place I’d been taken to only once or twice for visits. Fact is I don’t get on with Mama too well. Although I have an English uncle – her brother – whom I adore. Cousins too – one Army, one RAF. Have you and Luc been on the Maquis-liaison job long?’

  ‘About six weeks, here in the field.’

  ‘How did you come to know Thérèse – Madame Michon – as well as you do?’

  ‘Through the person I just mentioned. He’s a king pin in the Resistance, with links to Maquis groups and so forth. He arranged for our reception, when we parachuted in, and then of course put us in touch with – well, such people as Thérèse. You can have complete faith in her, incidentally. Seems a little scatty sometimes, but – heart of a lioness. Now – on the subject of getting you back to England – obviously it must depend on the speed of your recovery. So I’d advise you should lie low, recover your strength, and – as I say – when the time comes we’ll put you in touch with local SOE. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘At least, someone will. It’s unlikely I’ll be remaining in this area much longer, so probably someone else – Luc, maybe – but don’t worry, it will be set up for you… And meanwhile, you aren’t desperate to put your London people’s minds at rest on your own account—’

  ‘Not – desperate, no. But—’

  ‘We could get a message sent to London for you – if you wanted. Snag is that until you can handle things yourself – well, my man wouldn’t be too pleased if it resulted in a stream of stuff to and fro. Which it might – uh? Communications between him and ourselves already present us with certain problems. SOE’s help has made a lot of difference, but frankly it would suit us best to wait until you can handle it.’

  ‘What we’d better do, then.’ She paused for a couple of long, slow breaths. Dizzy again: letting it pass over. Then: ‘I think I did tell you – unless I was dreaming – that when I ran from the train it was so that another girl—’

  ‘You did tell me.’


  ‘Ah. Well… The guards had taken off my leg-irons – put them on someone else who’d tried to escape, earlier. So it was up to me – do the running, the diversion. This other girl and I had – have – information London must get. A traitor – SOE – and certain réseaux in which the pianists aren’t to be trusted – because of him. Ones he used – he never had his own pianist, used these others. Am I making sense?’

  ‘Enough. Go on.’

  ‘He’s now working with the Gestapo, so odds are those radios are being operated by Boches.’

  ‘Perhaps even the link we have access to?’

  ‘Doubt it. He was based in Paris, he’d have used networks around that area. But you see – if my friend made it – gets clear away—’

  ‘London will get to know about the traitor without your further help… Is it hard for you, this talking?’

  ‘It’s all right. Is now, anyway. But – talking about this other person – her name’s Lise – I’d hardly dare hope—’

  ‘Is she – resourceful?’

  ‘Very. But that’s another thing – if she’s survived, she’ll have to hide out somewhere – find some kind of a Thérèse of her own, then make contacts like you’re offering me just on a plate… She’d look for résistants for a start, I suppose.’

  ‘She could be lucky. On the other hand—’

  ‘What I’m asking is that if you hear any rumours of such a person—’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. I told her – before I started running – find a farm or something, offer money from London. Now people can see the Boches aren’t going to win, there might be some chance she’d get help?’

  ‘You’re right, that’s how they’re thinking. Why they’re flocking to join the Maquis too. But another question, Rosalie – about this traitor – have your people in London had no suspicions at all of him?’

  ‘They have had. He was being brought back to answer charges made against him. Then – on the face of it – got himself arrested – which of course was phoney, and which they’ll be aware might have been phoney.’

  ‘So won’t they be taking adequate precautions now?’

  ‘Yes. You’re right…’

  ‘Which might reduce your own anxiety a little?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose—’

  ‘Another aspect of it, Rosalie, is that with any luck we’re looking at a very short-term situation here. Although the Allied armies’ break-out from Normandy is regrettably overdue – by the way, are you aware of the war situation generally? How the invasion’s been stalled in recent weeks?’

  ‘No. In Fresnes – only rumours and propaganda. The landings began June 6th, didn’t they – that was the day before they took me out of the Morlaix hospital. And today is—’

  ‘July 1st. Saturday. But in a nutshell – a couple of weeks ago the weather broke. Very bad for a while – nothing could be landed, and the two artificial harbours were pretty near wrecked. The Boches meanwhile – their 7th Army, mostly – have stood firm, and in the process sustained huge losses. In contrast to which the Allies have consolidated on the ground and achieved almost total mastery of the air. So – any minute now, the breakthrough. Break-outs – the most crucial being to drive through at Caen, where the fighting’s been especially hard, by the sound of it. Then we’ll have them on the run – any day now, we’ll hear of it.’

  ‘What about flying bombs on England?’

  ‘Oh. Well – as much or little as I know – they’re firing them off mostly from the Pas-de-Calais and thereabouts – a long way out of reach of the present battle-lines. Air forces will have been doing their utmost, obviously—’

  ‘England’s not devastated, on the point of surrender?’

  ‘Surrender?’

  ‘The traitor I was telling you about – SOE code-name “Hector” – he told me so, in Rue des Saussaies, before the whipping started. He wanted to persuade me – no hope – tell them whatever they wanted. He said the invasion was bogged down and we were about to be driven back into the sea!’

  ‘He was actually present, in the Gestapo headquarters? When they had you—’

  ‘Came into the room where I was awaiting interrogation. The whip they were going to use on me was lying on the table. We – discussed it… Imagine. SOE agent – me – about to be whipped, and this SOE – supposedly SOE, he was our Air Movements Officer – imagine, he’s there, free, working for them!’

  ‘Almost – unbelievable.’

  ‘But a traitor’s a traitor: steps over that line, he’s over it, he’s—’

  ‘Garbage.’

  ‘He’d turned up before too – at the Morlaix hospital. Gestapo expected him to identify me – but he couldn’t, we’d never met. I only guessed who he was. They did identify me, though – from my earlier deployment, when I’d had to kill an SS officer—’

  ‘You had to kill—’

  ‘– result of which I was already under sentence of death. Soon as they realized that’s who I was – well…’

  Dark eyes on hers. The silence extending until she wondered if he was only waiting for more from her: but he’d grimaced slightly, gesturing with his one and only hand… ‘Should be a death sentence on this “Hector”, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes. There should. My own thought, a minute ago. Been in my head in any case. Speaking of hangings from lamp-posts—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We weren’t, were we.’ Off-beam again… ‘That was – another time.’ Another time, another place, another man. ‘But – Michel, you’re right.’

  ‘But how you’d get to him…’

  He’d put his hand up again, to his stubbled jaw. Right hand, the nearer one. Rosie watching him in some degree of surprise at that last conjectural mutter, how you’d get to him – seemingly instant acceptance of that concept, ‘getting to him’ as a practical proposition, course of action – by her… Another gesture with that raised hand: ‘You can bet that when our lads march into Paris he won’t be there. Or many others of that stamp, I dare say. Your people would issue a warrant for him, I suppose, but –’ an eyebrow cocked – ‘Does one know anything of his background?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was scratchy, mostly whispering. Barely her own voice at all: but the memory behind it unimpaired – surprising even to herself. ‘Name’s André Marchéval. He was a pilot, damaged his back in a plane crash – before he joined SOE. It meant he could never parachute, but he was – bilingual. University in England – father French, mother British – Scottish I think, living in Scotland now, and the father – engineering business, south of Paris.’

  ‘You know a lot about him.’

  She’d nodded slightly.

  ‘How come? He tell you?’

  ‘No. He was – I said, coming back to London. Being picked up, so it happened, by the Lysander taking me in. This last deployment. And – at my departure briefing, the – presiding officer, might call him – a man who’s known “Hector” a long time, expressed certainty that he could not be a traitor. He said they were bringing him back only to scotch rumours – allegations by other agents in the field. Oh, and he had a story to account for all that – malice arising from “Hector” having pinched someone else’s girl. Then – big surprise, the bastard wasn’t there, at the Lysander rendezvous, and a day or two later I heard he’d been arrested – very publicly, wool over London’s eyes, it’s obvious…’

  ‘This presiding officer as you call him – any doubts of him?’

  Of Bob Hallowell: who’d been so certain of Marchéval’s probity… Rosie picturing him in her mind. She remembered having thought he looked ill. In his forties, grey-haired, grey-faced… Staring at Michel: her own one good hand up, fingertips on the scarred cheekbone: thinking, Christ…

  Feet scraped on the ladder. Thérèse. A lot of blondish hair, Rosie saw, as she came up through the hatchway – having to twist around to squeeze her wide hips through. The blanket or whatever it was she’d hung over the window at the end must have slip
ped off, daylight of sorts was seeping in. Thérèse had thrown down a towel and some other things; telling Michel in her Alsatian-accented French, ‘You’re making her talk too much. We want her rested, not drained. And I’m going to see to her injuries now. If this water’s still warm enough. Yes, it is. So she’s going to undress. And you, Michel – incidentally, Luc’s making a very large omelet with cheese. That ought to tempt you down. And my nephew Charles was here, Rosalie, I’ve sent him off to ask Lotte Frager to come when she can. It’s me that’s supposed to be unwell, of course. Anyway – Michel—’

  ‘The omelet calls.’

  On his feet, stooped under the low roof, reaching as if to take Rosie’s hand but then thinking better of it. For fear of hurting her, she guessed. But he’d ducked his head, kissed Thérèse; telling her, ‘We’ll leave without bothering you again. I’ll just call up, let you know… Many thanks. As always, you come up trumps. But take care, eh? There’ll be a search, conceivably it could extend this far.’

  ‘Even though they must have believed they’d killed her?’

  ‘So where’s her body? Who’d have made off with a corpse? But there was another, too – at least, another attempted escape. Rosalie’ll tell you. When she’s stronger. And if that one did get away—’

  ‘You’ll be back in a few days, you think?’

  ‘Think – yes. After that – no idea… Rosalie—’

  ‘Goodbye, Michel, good luck. And thank you.’

  ‘For nothing. A thing happens, one reacts to it, that’s all… But listen. If you’ve no objection, I’ll have enquiries made. Marchéval – engineering business, south of Paris. Wouldn’t be more than one with that name, I’d guess. Might not go under the family name either, of course. But even then, proprietor by that name – and our man’s in the engineering business, he can put his ear to the ground. Worth a shot, eh?’

  ‘Could be – I suppose—’

  ‘You don’t see it?’