The Kingdom of the Air

by C. T. Wells

  Giselle lifted the ladel and poured herself a bowl of soup. The others followed suit. Josef picked up a spoon and tasted the vegetable soup Martin had passed to him. It was so much better than the mass–produced rations at the airfield, but it was difficult to savour the food when surrounded by these people. For all he knew, his bowl was laced with poison. But it was good. If you have to die of something, home–cooking was not the worst option.

  A long minute followed in which only the sounds of spoons on ceramic bowls filled the space. He watched Giselle as she pouted to blow air to cool the soup in her spoon.

  Giselle looked up and caught his stare. ‘You can talk.’ She turned to the other men. ‘He might not speak good French, but you can talk to him in English or German.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Edouard chose English.

  Josef swallowed. ‘Originally … a farm near Johannesburg. My mother was German and I ended up in Germany.’ He stopped there.

  ‘Wine?’ offered Martin.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not much of a drinker. But I’m pleased you can still keep a cellar.’

  ‘Of course! We are French. We have our priorities.’

  Everything seemed to be civil, so Josef spoke again. ‘I just thought that with the occupation, things might be difficult. Are you getting by?’

  Martin nodded, accepting the question as genuine. ‘It’s not bad here on a farm. We’re almost self–sufficient, so we don’t need ration cards. But the cities are not so good. As you would know, under Petain’s armistice, the French people have to pay for the costs of occupation. And there are said to be hundreds of thousands of Germans in France so our people must pay millions of reichsmarks every day to keep you—them—all fed. The exchange rate is fixed so that one reichsmark is worth twenty francs. It is organised plunder. And so, life is hard. Without ration cards, you can’t live in the city unless you use the black market—which is expensive. And if you sign up for a ration card, there is a record of you and you will probably end up in a labour camp.’

  Josef nodded. He wasn’t feeling any better about this line of conversation but he was starting to get the measure of Martin. He was self–assured. He had spoken his mind without fear or prejudice. This brother and sister were formidable.

  ‘It is like the colour drained from our world when we were invaded,’ Edouard said.

  Giselle rolled her eyes. ‘How poetic of you, Edouard.’ She turned back to Josef. ‘Do you have a girlfriend in Germany? Or South Africa?’

  Josef hesitated. He had come here to intimidate a résistance agent. Scare her into cooperation. Now it was a dinner party. How had it come to this?

  She was looking straight at him, waiting for an answer. ‘I think you do. When men stop in their tracks like that, it’s because they have someone.’

  ‘No, no girlfriend,’ Josef said. ‘I’ve moved around a lot with flight training. It’s not good for getting to know people. What about yourselves? Where are you from?’

  ‘We were studying together in Paris before the war. There! I’ve said it again. It’s so difficult not to mention it.’

  ‘We’ve had the Great War, but what’s this one? Not so great?’ Edouard was trying to look at ease, but it wasn’t working. He tried a different tack. ‘But really, what do you Germans call this war?’

  ‘For a while, after Poland, we called it the Sitzkrieg. Sitting around doing nothing. Now we call this the Kanalkampf. The Channel War.’

  Martin leaned in closer. ‘Do you think Germany can really invade Britain?’

  ‘It all depends on who rules the air. Germany could do it, I think. But you know, it’s not something I really think about …’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Giselle, ‘You must be flying nearly every day?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s exactly why I haven’t really thought about it. I’m too busy staying alive for the next minute and maybe not so focussed on next month or next year …’

  ‘So you could die any day?’ Edouard asked.

  ‘Of course. You must understand, my people are suffering too. Just today, my staffelkapitan crash–landed. He is badly burnt … I will visit him tomorrow in hospital.’

  Martin’s brow furrowed. He was calculating something. Giselle was watching him and Josef saw disapproval in her smouldering eyes. She made herself busy lighting some candles in the gathering gloom of the farmhouse.

  ‘The Hospital Pasteur?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘Will you be travelling alone?’

  Josef was wary. He thought about lying, but what was the good of it? He had to cooperate with these people for Melitta’s sake. They were in it together … and another idea was starting to surface—a way to get Melitta out of harm’s way. ‘I will be alone, yes.’

  Martin leant in. ‘Josef. You know we are trying to trace the reconnaissance films to their destination.’

  Josef swallowed hard. ‘Listen, I have not been able to find out about that. I could not speak to the dispatch rider today. I was flying at the time. Besides, they might not even tell me anything. All I can offer you is this. The Command Centre for Luftflotte 3 is in Deauville. Maybe they go there.’ He was uncomfortable about this. He knew he had to help these people, but there was only so much he could do.

  Martin nodded slowly, chewing something over. ‘I don’t like this situation any more than you, Josef. But it is real. And we cannot deny what is real. We are serving France in our own small way, and you are saving your sister’s life. I know she has had her medical treatment, but she is still at the mercy of the English, and so are we all. And yet I think we can all retain some, what is the English word? Dignity. We are each doing what is right in our own circumstances. And so, I need to ask you something. Can you get a Luftwaffe officer’s uniform? To fit me?’

  Josef tensed. It amounted to treason. Aiding and abetting an enemy force. He could be hung for it. And yet, he knew at once how to do it. And he knew, for Melitta’s sake, that he must. ‘Yes, I can do it. A squadron leader’s rank?’

  ‘I think that will be sufficient. Come here tomorrow in your car. Alone. After you go to Cherbourg, come here. Can you be here by midday?’

  ‘Yes,’ Josef said, but he made his face go hard. ‘But on one condition. I want you to arrange for Melitta to be sent to Switzerland immediately. I think it is possible for the English to transport her via safe air routes into Geneva. Can you do this in return? You are asking me to commit treason. So I want my sister in Switzerland. That’s the deal.’

  Giselle and Martin looked at each other across the room and some kind of understanding passed between them. But Martin nodded. ‘This is fair, Josef. We will do what we can. I think you are right. The English could get her into Switzerland. And they owe it to you. But it will take days from South Africa. Will you help me tomorrow? As we have discussed?’

  ‘You give me your word? Melitta will be brought to Switzerland on the first available flight.’

  ‘I can only promise that we will try,’ Martin said. ‘I think you have met one of our English contacts. You would understand … they can be difficult.’

  ‘But you will get her to Switzerland?’

  ‘Yes, Josef. I give my word.’

  Suddenly the sound of tyres on gravel could be heard along with the splutter of an old truck engine.

  Giselle peered out the window. ‘It is Anton. I’m sorry, Josef. This is the farmer. I don’t think he will take kindly to a German at his dinner table.’

  Josef smiled at her. ‘I understand. Good evening, all.’ He stood and slipped out into the darkness.

  ***

  When the three of them walked to the barn to retire for the night, Giselle spoke softly to Martin. ‘It is an impossible situation.’

  They stopped walking and even in the moonlight she could see that Mar
tin’s face was hard, impassive. Was it only she who felt sympathy these days?

  Edouard was the first to speak. ‘Don’t allow yourself to generate too much feeling for this pilot. He is an asset to our mission objectives and our mission objectives serve the liberation of France. That is all.’

  Giselle could see that Edouard didn’t like the handsome young pilot. She could see that it was not about tactics or ideologies. It was simple rivalry between young men.

  ‘He is expendable.’ Edouard slashed a hand across his throat to make the point.

  ‘He is being forced to serve two masters … it cannot last. Pull a person between such forces and something will snap. I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘You feel sympathy for this invader.’

  Martin stepped between them. ‘Listen. We are closer than you might think to destroying the reconnaissance film. It is not in Deauville. I know where it is. It is much closer. I don’t think Josef was trying to divert us; he really doesn’t know. Why would he? But today I followed the rider from the airfield down the Route Nationale. I was expecting that he would go all the way to Caen or Le Havre or who knows where? I didn’t think I would be able to follow very far before I had to turn away or risk being discovered. But, no—the Germans have commandeered a château only twenty kilometres from here. Of course I had to keep riding past so I would not arouse suspicion. But I doubled back and hid the motorcycle and approached through the trees on foot. I watched for an hour and in that time I saw two more dispatch riders make their deliveries to the château. It is covered with radio masts and I am sure it is an intelligence headquarters. There were officers going in and out. It is heavily guarded, but I think I can get in there and cause some chaos.’

  ‘But can you get out again?’ asked Edouard.

  ‘If I have an officer’s uniform and a staff car, I should be out the door and back on the Route Nationale when the detonators go off …’

  ‘You will involve Josef in all this?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘And what of his request to bring Melitta to Switzerland? How will you make that happen?’

  ‘After tomorrow, it won’t matter.’

  Later that evening Giselle sat under the stars. Today she had been seized by an enemy, dragged into a smokehouse and threatened with a meathook. It ought to be a terrifying memory, but it wasn’t. She could not hate Josef. He was fighting for someone he loved. She almost envied this girl called Melitta. To have a man like that doing whatever it took, for your sake ...

  No, it was not terrifying to remember his hard, fierce face centimetres from her own. Surely most women would find the memory traumatic. So she was disturbed by her own desire to relive that moment.

  XIX

  Edouard followed Martin across the field. Martin’s boots left imprints on the dewy grass, and Edouard wondered if he would always be following in his footsteps. Would Giselle ever think that he was the main man? Or would he always be Martin’s shadow? He sighed. It was going to be a warm day and they had much to do. Already the dew was vaporising in the sunshine and Edouard’s private thoughts went with it.

  Martin was carrying the attaché case provided by the English. In it were detonators, a pair of pliers and wads of plastic explosive. During training, Edouard had excelled at bomb making and sabotage. His architect’s mind adapted easily from construction to destruction, and he had insisted that Martin test a detonator before the mission. They had to be absolutely certain the equipment would work if he was going to take such a great risk.

  They took it in turns climbing over a boundary fence, carefully passing the case between them. Edouard knew the contents were inert, but it was hard to completely relax with a case full of hellfire in your hand. They entered a tract of forest and followed a stream, listening to the water spilling over rocks and watching sunlight pierce the leafy canopy and dapple the path.

  At a bend in the stream, Martin called them to a halt. He placed the case carefully on the path and he sent Edouard to clamber up the riverbank on the south side while he picked his way across the stream on stepping stones and checked the north bank. They each scouted the area. They confirmed that only trees and fields were in the vicinity and returned to the case. Edouard withdrew a British No.10 Delay Switch. This thin metal tube—a detonator pencil—was designed to make a small bang that set off an almighty one.

  Martin’s plan involved placing bombs in the château, activating a timing device and getting as far away as possible in the ten minutes it took until the detonators caused the plastic explosive to blow. The detonator pencil was a slender tube, mostly brass. One end had a copper section which could be crushed with pliers. This shattered a phial of cupric chloride that ate through a restraining wire and released a spring–loaded striker to hit a percussion cap and set off the explosive. It was a green, plasticine material that smelt of almonds. According to the British, Nobel 808 explosive could literally sink a battleship if enough was applied in the right place.

  ‘I’ll hold it, you use the pliers,’ Edouard said.

  Martin reached into the case for the pliers. He looked at Edouard. ‘Now?’

  ‘Wait. We’ll set the detonator on one of those river rocks and then retreat here. Get ready with your watch. We want to know the exact timing on this batch of detonators.’

  They walked to some flat rocks rising out of the lapping water. Edouard held the detonator carefully in two hands. ‘Right, when you’re ready, crimp the tube, then we walk back to where the case is and see how good their timers are.’

  Martin watched the second hand on his watch jerk towards the twelve. ‘Now.’ He squeezed the pliers, crushing the copper section of the tube. There was no fizzing or ticking. Just a silent tube with a bent end. ‘Is it activated?’

  All that remained was to pull a small safety strip from the pencil allowing contact between the striker and the percussion cap. Edouard did this and set the detonator on a rock.

  They walked back twenty paces upstream to the case, keeping the plastic explosive at a good distance from the detonator.

  ‘How do we know if it’s working?’ asked Martin.

  ‘We’ll know in ten minutes, give or take. So we might as well be comfortable.’ Edouard found a fallen tree trunk and sat down. He fossicked in his coat pocket for one of his few remaining cigarettes. He started smoking while Martin’s eyes flicked between his watch and the little device sitting on its rock. Two long minutes went by and the cigarette shortened. Edouard flicked away the butt. ‘So you’re going to just walk in there and blow up all their intelligence.’

  ‘Something like that. I have to find their repository of film—some kind of archive, I suppose—and then set charges to destroy all their records.’

  ‘Do you think it will make a difference? I mean, aren’t there more significant targets than blowing up Goering’s photo album?’

  ‘The English seem to think this matters. It makes sense. The Luftwaffe plan their bombing using aerial reconnaissance photography. Remove the intelligence and their bombing becomes ineffective.’

  Edouard rubbed his forehead. ‘But won’t they already have looked at all their photos?’

  ‘Some, yes, but they must have enormous quantities of film to analyse. Evidently the aerial photography is done methodically—very German, of course—sector by sector. So they fly mission after mission, mostly filming paddocks or country lanes. Only sometimes they pick up a radar installation or a munitions factory. It takes time to develop the film and for analysts to go over it. And, of course, if they want to work out the rate of production of aircraft and other defences, they have to re–fly the same routes to see if the Brits have strengthened their defences over time. They are going to need before and after images to work out the rate of production.’

  ‘And they put all this valuable film in a farmhouse near here?’

  ‘A château. But I suspect it is the destination fo
r all Luftflotte 3 reconnaissance film. If we burn it, it’s got to be a thorn in their side. Anyway, The Cardinal has ordered this mission, so there might be even more to it than we understand.’

  When Edouard spoke, cynicism curled his lip. ‘Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.’

  Martin laughed. ‘Ah, Edouard, you are an enigma. How many bomb–makers quote Shakespeare?’

  ‘Tennyson, actually. I just mean you sound like an unthinking soldier. An automaton. Just follow orders. Surely the English know best.’

  ‘Giselle seems to think that if we show our loyalty now, they will show theirs in helping liberate us. She might be right. If England broadcasts the Covenant signal, it will unite the résistance.’

  ‘You know what they say, Martin. England will fight on until the last Frenchman.’

  ‘We need the weapons.’

  ‘What about Mers–El–Kebir? Where was the loyalty then?’

  Martin sighed. Clearly Edouard wasn’t completely convinced the English would keep their word either. ‘I don’t know. But the Covenant broadcast will restore some confidence. We do need them to supply arms if we want to build a résistance army out of cells like ours.’ He checked his watch. ‘Five minutes gone.’

  ‘Did you say you wanted to burn the film?’

  ‘Destroy it. Yes, of course’

  ‘Is fire the best way to do it?’

  Martin frowned. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Edouard paused for effect, enjoying his moment in the sun. ‘The best demolition plans have failsafes. Multiple approaches to getting the desired result. Burning is one way.’

  ‘Tell me, Edouard, what is the best way to destroy the film repository?’

  Edouard blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘What exactly is the target?’

  ‘Well, I can’t know for certain until I’m in there. Assume it is a room with racks or shelves containing the film canisters.’

  ‘Aluminium film canisters? Like for movie reels?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Perfect. Aluminium melts at less than seven hundred degrees. And if the film inside is nitrate, it is highly flammable. A good heat blast from the explosive will melt the canisters and burn the film inside. I would set one block of plastic amongst the films. Use two detonator pencils in each block, to increase the chances of it going off.’