by C. T. Wells
Brandt’s simultaneous attack destroyed a second bomber. Off to port, Josef glimpsed an engine explode from cannon fire, and the bomber went nose–first into the cloud layer.
Brandt’s voice jabbered through the headset, claiming the kill and calling in the staffel for support.
Josef’s hand on on the stick was steady and he scanned for the next target as he swung away from falling wreckage.
The remaining Bristols overshot them while the top layer of Hurricanes in the British formation dropped towards them. Good. They were breaking up voluntarily.
Decision time. There was no point chasing the bombers; it would expose his tail to the fighter’s machine guns. Josef knew his best option was to take on the fighters at their own game. He pulled back on the stick, using the phenomenal climb rate to surge up and meet the Hurricanes. He hauled the 109 into a nearly vertical attitude and arched his neck to keep his eyes on the fighters. He selected one and rolled out of the climb, head–to–head with the enemy.
The British altitude advantage was neutralised and the two fighters closed at breath–taking speed. There were only seconds before they would either collide or shoot each other into splinters. Josef switched to machine guns and saw tracer pour out of the Messerschmitt’s wings as they closed on each other. It was a thousand kilometre per hour game of chicken.
The Hurricane pilot lost his nerve first. He tried to roll away from Josef’s suicidal head–on charge.
Josef chased the Hurricane’s turn and raked tracer across the sky, drawing closer to the fuselage of the British plane. At last he hit the fighter at point–blank range. Black smoke poured from the Hurricane as it vanished from view behind him.
The sky was full of aircraft. Josef knew most of them were hunting him.
He banked steeply to scan the sky. Brandt’s 109 was jinking left and right, five hundred metres below him, aiming to get back in the cloud layer. There were three Hurricanes closing in behind White Leader, their leading edges blazing with muzzle flash. They had succeeded in breaking up the formation, but now Brandt was horribly exposed.
Josef snap–turned and gave chase. Below, Brandt swung to the west, trying to spoil the British aim by flying straight into the setting sun. But from his vantage point, Josef could still see the dark forms of the Hurricanes. He lined up on the lead Hurricane and opened fire with the canon from extreme range to chase them off.
There were flashes of movement in his mirrors and he sensed more enemy fighters were coming in behind him, forming a cat–and–mouse chain above the channel.
If he could just buy Brandt some time …
He kept pouring rounds at the Hurricane below. He only had another few seconds of ammunition before he’d have to disengage.
The Hurricane in Josef’s sights suddenly peeled away from Brandt’s 109. Maybe he had hit it. He saw the British pilot trying to throw open the canopy.
Brandt’s 109 finally dropped into the blanket of cloud and had somewhere to hide.
Josef was still higher, without any cover or support, relentlessly pursued by the remnants of the British formation. Phosphorescent streaks of tracer were cutting up the sky around him.
Below, he glimpsed the pilot of the Hurricane roll the aircraft and bail out. It was the third plane he had hit this mission, but he was in more trouble than ever. His mirrors were full of British fighters and he was still several seconds away from reaching the clouds.
Suddenly the advantage shifted. Ten more 109s pounced down on the dogfight from above, coming out of the west with speed, altitude and full ammunition belts.
There was mayhem above. Josef knew there was little he could contribute with hardly any ammo left. He rolled and dived for the cloud.
Josef punched down into the sea of white, losing visibility for a moment before arriving in a gloomier world between the channel and the stratocumulus. Somewhere above, the dogfight raged on. Josef spoke into the radio. ‘White Leader? Are you there?’
‘I’m here, Shaka. Damaged, but you saved my tail.’
Josef spotted Brandt’s 109 well ahead and off to starboard.
But there was something in between the two planes. A puff of cloud? No, a parachute canopy. Josef called to Brandt: ‘Hey, there’s a canopy. There’s an Englishman going down!’
‘Shoot him! He’s the one who tried to kill me.’
Josef changed course, and lined up on the parachute. He could see the pilot dangling there. He knew what it felt like. It was only several days ago he had bailed out over Dartmoor, yearning to escape the British gunners.
Brandt’s voice crackled through the headset. ‘Shoot him down, White Five. That’s an order.’
Josef levelled his wings and looked through the sights. The British airman was a distant form beneath the curve of the canopy, falling right into the crosshairs of his reflector sight.
Josef fingered the trigger. He had already killed men this night. He had made much harder shots than this one.
White Five streaked in towards the British airman, the dark cloud roiling above their heads.
He was dangerously close now, closing fast, and he didn’t want the canopy to foul his propeller. There was only a couple of seconds before they would hit.
‘Shoot him, Josef.’
‘Viktor, White Leader.’ Josef fired.
The British pilot’s body shuddered and jerked as 7.9mm rounds shredded his torso. He saw the wide eyes and gaping mouth of the dying man. He stopped firing and banked hard to avoid the limp carcass that hovered in his vision.
‘Nice work, White Five. Let’s get back to the field.’
Josef formatted on White Leader in the wingman’s position, flying automatically. He checked the gauges. White Five was flying gloriously. Perfectly straight and level. Perfectly trimmed. It was a wonderful machine. It had performed every task he had demanded of it. It had been victorious.
Josef had a moment to replay the combat in his mind. He had just destroyed three planes in a single mission: A twin–engined bomber and two Hurricanes. In the Luftwaffe, three kills made you an experte, an ace. A God of War.
Brandt would vouch for him. He would have a place of honour in the staffel. White Five would have a kill tally on the tail.
He had also shot a pilot under canopy. There was no score for that in the Luftwaffe. Only the plane counted. But he had followed orders, performed every task demanded. Not a God of War, in fact. Not anything with a will of its own. A machine. An unthinking, automatic, powerful, perfectly functioning machine.
In his mind he could hear his own words. ‘Viktor, White Leader.’ The acknowledgment of the order. He could hear the machine guns. The execution of the order.
But Josef decided not to listen to his memory. He disconnected it, like it was a faulty component. It would only get in the way. White Five didn’t have to listen to a memory, why should he? Machines were beyond memory. Didn’t need it. No need for feelings or responsibility either; just systems and functionality. There was a purity about a machine. He concentrated on flying. One machine controlling another.
He checked the instruments, scanned the darkening sky; then checked the instruments again and held his position behind White Leader. Routine functions.
Josef flew on, wanting to be a machine, wanting to merge with White Five, but even in the wanting he defied his own wish. A conundrum of wanting not to want. Yet the memories played on, like a band with a limited repertoire that kept playing the same old standards over and over.
He heard his own voice again. ‘Viktor, White Leader.’ Heard machine guns. He had been unsuccessful in disconnecting his memory. Didn’t have the right tool. And the faulty component was draining his reserves. Causing interference. Or a short circuit. Some kind of system problem.
He checked his instruments. Flew on, wanting to be a machine, but his mind and body were exhausted in a way that only a human can be.
He was spent. As empty as the ammo belts. In that alone did he resemble White Five.
XXVII
Giselle’s feet were blistered from the long walk back to the farm. As she trudged along the lane, the dry fields whispered in the evening breeze. The land was mocking her. Things had gone terribly wrong. She had meant to save Josef with the truth. Transforming him like Mnemosyne had made Apollo become the sun god. Instead she had ruined everything. Maybe that was why Keats never ended the poem. Maybe he knew the secret: that knowledge was power and power led to ruin. She could not have deceived him though. Could not have withheld the truth about Melitta. She owed him the truth.
Her feet ached, and she wasn’t even completely sure she was on the correct lane to the farm. Hopefully she would see the windmill soon. She needed Martin to make sense of it all.
Giselle heard the growl of an approaching vehicle. She was alone on an empty road. Turning, she saw it was the farm truck. The familiar old Renault juddered over the corrugations in the track. It was a relief. Edouard was driving, staring at her.
She was suddenly conscious of the breeze flattening the fabric of her dress against her body.
Edouard pulled up and leaned out the window of the idling truck with a grin. ‘Need a ride?’
Giselle smiled. ‘I could have used one ten kilometres ago.’
‘What happened?’
Giselle crossed the road and climbed into the cab. ‘Martin and Josef succeeded. The photo–recon film is destroyed.’
Edouard nodded. ‘Good news. And the German? Have you, ah, dealt with him?’
Giselle looked out over the fields. ‘No. That’s why I’m walking home.’
Edouard fixed his eyes on her. ‘He ought to be dead, Giselle. He is an enemy. What happened to him?’
Giselle shook her head.
‘Giselle, you know he’s a threat to us.’
Giselle shrugged. ‘We have to leave the farm anyway, so he is no threat. He won’t know where we’ve gone. What happened at the hospital?’
‘The German squadron leader is dead.’
Giselle nodded. It was one less link to their cell. She was not surprised it had been done. ‘Where’s Anton?’
‘He died too.’
Giselle felt the blood drain out of her face. ‘What?’
‘Anton died trying to escape the hospital. But don’t worry. He died before they could get any information out of him.’
‘Don’t worry? What do you mean, Edouard? He was one of us. What will become of Terese?’
Edouard blinked. It seemed he hadn’t even thought of her. ‘I don’t know, but you, Martin and I have to leave Normandy. The Gestapo are looking for us.’
Giselle’s eyes were moist. Their mission was supposedly a success, but everything felt wrong.
‘You should have killed the German pilot, Giselle. Le Spectre would have.’
‘Just drive, Edouard. We need to get packing. We need to move on.’
The old Renault truck lurched as Edouard found a gear and resumed the drive along the rutted lane. ‘Don’t say anything to Terese yet. I saw what happened, so I’ll take care of her.’
Giselle heard the tension in her own voice. ‘How did you get away?’
‘I was outside with the truck. Anton didn’t make it back. I heard shots, and I went to help, but he was already dead.’
‘How do you know the squadron leader is dead, if you were with the truck?’
‘I later telephoned the hospital and requested to speak with Hauptmann Langer. They confirmed his death for me.’
‘Was it necessary, do you think? To kill that man? For Anton to die?’
‘Yes, of course it was necessary. He was suspicious. It was only one more step to find us. Besides, I didn’t think you would feel much grief for that sleazy old drunk.’
Giselle folded her arms and said nothing. They would soon be at the farm and Martin would know what to do.
***
The three résistance agents assembled in the barn. Archangel. Seraphim. Cherub. Giselle felt far from angelic. This was dirty work, but, on reflection, angels got tough jobs as well. Like slaying the firstborn.
Martin had already gathered their few possessions and was packing the suitcases when the others arrived. They quickly shared their stories. The mission was completed, but there was no exuberance.
Giselle told them most of the truth about Josef. She left out the fact they had kissed, but she confessed she had explained the British deception to him. She had even hoped he might join them. She felt foolish now. Of course the truth had enraged him.
‘I can understand why you didn’t kill Josef. I wouldn’t have either,’ Martin said. ‘He’s a good man who got caught up in the wrong thing.’
‘I suppose so,’ muttered Edouard, ‘but why did you throw away a good pistol?’
Giselle rolled her eyes. Why did he care about that? ‘Call it symbolic. A farewell to arms. I shouldn’t need it anyway. I am being extracted to England tomorrow night.’
‘What?’
‘This was Cardinal’s final instruction to me.’ Giselle pulled a strip of paper from her handbag. On it was the plaintext of the encoded transmission she had received that afternoon. ‘Cardinal to Seraphim. When objective is met, execute German pilot. No longer an asset. Archangel and Cherub to travel south independently and make contact with cells in Auvergne region within one week. Seraphim to ascend. Meet Lysander at 0400 tomorrow night … and then there’s a grid reference for a field.’
‘Why are they splitting us up?’ Edouard was clearly unimpressed with the orders.
Martin shrugged. ‘Cardinal must think it’s less of a risk to go separately.’
Edouard turned to Giselle. ‘Why do they want you in England? I want you with me … With Martin and me.’
‘Debriefing. Training maybe. England wants me out. But don’t worry. I’ll be back.’
Martin looked over their belongings. ‘We can have the radio, weapons and everything packed up in ten minutes. But it’s going to be curfew in a couple of hours. We don’t want to be caught out on the road, especially with all this gear.’
Giselle looked out through the twilight towards the farmhouse. There was a glow from a lamp in the kitchen. ‘And what about Terese? She doesn’t even know her husband is dead yet.’
‘She’s a risk,’ Edouard said.
Giselle scowled at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s a risk to us. And she can’t stay here. The Gestapo have Anton’s body. Eventually they will work out who he is and come here. They would torture Terese until …’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ pressed Martin.
Edouard spoke with quiet conviction. ‘I will take her with me. She will have to flee anyway. So I will take her south. You two will have the motorcycle and sidecar. I’ll take Terese in the Renault with spare fuel and as many of her possessions as we can carry. There are many seasonal labourers on the road, so we won’t look out of place. Maybe she can return when the Germans are gone. Martin, we’ll meet in the Free Zone within a week. The rendezvous point near Montluçon. Giselle … I hope we will meet again soon.’
Giselle beamed at him. ‘You will really take Terese to safety?’
Edouard shrugged nonchalantly, though it was clear he was glowing because of her admiration. ‘It’s a long drive. I’ll need someone to talk to.’
Giselle hugged him. ‘Thank you, Edouard. You have a kind heart.’
‘Just make sure you don’t get too attached to England. I want you back.’
‘Right, then.’ Martin interrupted the embrace. ‘Let’s get ourselves sorted out. I’ll start on the radio.’
‘Martin, the Gestapo could come to the farm at any time.’ Giselle still felt concern. ‘Where will we stay tonight?’
‘I have thought about it. We can hide the motorcycle
and truck in the woods, and sleep in the windmill. It might be cold up there but, if anybody comes to the farm, we’ll see them first. If necessary, we can slip away into the woods. Tomorrow, Edouard and Terese can head south in the truck. I will see you to the Lysander pickup tomorrow night and then turn south myself. I will have the motorcycle.’
At that moment a flight of German fighter planes came thundering over the farm, heading for the airfield nearby in the last of the daylight. It had happened several times during their stint at the farm, but Giselle never got used to it. The enemy were just there. She always wondered whether Josef was amongst them—so close, but so terribly far out of reach.
***
An hour later they were huddled in blankets in the windmill. The sun had set and the night air was bone–chilling. The truck and the motorcycle were concealed in the woods nearby. All their belongings were packed, except for the remaining weapons. These they kept close at hand.
Martin and Edouard had loaded the truck with all the possessions Terese had deemed of value. There wasn’t much. They also loaded enough tins of gasoline to make the journey.
Edouard had broken the news of Anton’s death to her with gentle words. Giselle had held the grieving woman, but Terese was stoic and uttered just a few sobs. Perhaps she had anticipated her impulsive husband would not survive a German occupation. And she seemed to accept the inevitability of leaving the farm.
Edouard had assured her she would be regarded as a hero of the résistance. In the south people would care for her. He reminded her to take the title deed for the farm property. Her greatest asset was the farmland and, if ever they were free of the Germans, she could reclaim the land if she had evidence of ownership. She had fossicked around the hearth and removed a loose brick. Taking out a carefully wrapped document, she offered it to Edouard for safe–keeping.
Giselle felt immeasurable relief that the Gestapo hadn’t come during their hasty preparations. Josef hadn’t betrayed them. Nor, obviously, had Anton, it seemed, carried any identification that would lead the enemy here.
Still they couldn’t risk lighting a fire. Their meal was simple cheese and bread. Martin suggested they each try to get as much sleep as possible. He offered to take the first watch. Taking the MP–18 sub–machine gun, he sat in the doorway of the mill, looking down over the farm.
