by C. T. Wells
‘Something like that, Major.’
‘Good show. Rather heroic, I say.’
‘Yes, Major. He’s a very impressive man.’
‘And you drove everyone away from the raid?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Had you finished him with him, then? The German?’
Hood looked around for Moreling for some kind of guidance, but there was none to be found. He glanced at Josef. ‘We’ve finished with him, sir. He’s all yours.’
‘Jolly good. We’ll arrange to have him sent on to one of the camps since your lot is rather short of facilities at present.’ He nodded at the burning house.
Josef closed his eyes as the medic finished dabbing antiseptic on his cuts. So, a prisoner. Better a prisoner than a corpse. But where was Giselle? He struggled up on one elbow, looking around for her. She was nowhere to be seen. ‘Giselle!’ She had been right by his side only moments ago. Then she had gone with a medic ...
Four orderlies were summoned. They raised the stretcher and carted Josef towards a field ambulance.
‘Giselle!’ He twisted around, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of her. Where was she? ‘Giselle!’
The orderlies slid his stretcher into the ambulance. The doors swung shut.
XL
TWO WEEKS LATER
Giselle had been transferred to London for debriefing. She had been given a cold, bland room in a building in Baker Street; a building occupied by the anonymous personnel of the Special Operations Executive. Three debriefing sessions had followed, all of them rather like interrogations. Once by a man in English, once by a woman in English and then again by another man in French. It was a cross–examination to check for consistency. Most of all they wanted confirmation of the destruction of the reconnaissance film at the château.
Giselle cooperated fully, providing all the details she knew, but she was left feeling utterly exhausted. Following the days of questions, she found herself sleeping uneasily and eating little. She toyed with her clarinet. She had bent some keys on the Nazi’s head, but it still worked. The trouble was, she just didn’t really feel like playing.
The staff at the SOE headquarters were kind enough. She was brought new clothes and offers of restaurant meals, but she simply did not have the energy. Finally, when frustration overcame her fatigue, she went walking. She found herself ambling through the gardens in Regent’s Park or treading out a slow lap of The Serpentine in Hyde Park—places she’d once dreamt of visiting—but now she seemed to drift through them like a ghost.
Giselle noticed the sandbags, bomb shelters and barrage balloons more than the trees flaunting their autumn colours. She talked to no–one, only sometimes wondering how the people of London maintained any sense of normality when fire fell from the sky every night. She tried to walk away the emptiness inside her.
It felt as though she barely even thought, but she was consumed by worry about Martin and Edouard and Josef. It was difficult to allow any other thoughts to take root, until she knew more about each of them. She had persistently asked about Josef. The SOE staff finally divulged that he had been taken captive as a Prisoner of War, but was being well–treated. His injuries had been superficial. As a flying officer, he could volunteer for manual labour in a work camp, but it wouldn’t be demanded. That was all she knew.
She walked back along Baker Street one evening. She would find the door to her building, climb the stairs, try to eat something and, hopefully, sleep away the time until she got some news. Only then could she feel alive.
A receptionist in the lobby looked up when she entered. ‘Mademoiselle! There is a gentleman to see you in the lounge.’
Giselle paused. It was probably another interrogation. She didn’t know if she could relive the events all over again. ‘Thank you.’ She headed for the lounge.
A man was standing at the drinks cabinet.
Lucas.
He turned and looked her up and down. ‘Good God, Miss Alegre, you’re fading away to a shadow. How about a drink and something to eat?’
The room seemed more chilly than usual with Lucas in it. But she nodded numbly. Maybe a drink would do her good.
He poured a double shot of scotch to match the one he had just poured for himself. ‘I expect you would be interested in some news of your comrades.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lucas handed her the glass. She could not hide the tremble in her fingers as she took it from him. It was impossible to read whether the news was going to be good or bad. She sat down on a sofa.
Lucas seemed to be drawing it out, enjoying the way he commanded her attention. At length he reached into his linen jacket and withdrew a piece of paper with several lines typed on it. ‘Our radio operators received a signal last night from the operative known as Archangel. The sender used the Hyperion code.’
‘Martin?’
‘So it would seem. I’ll paraphrase. He gave the SS the slip in the forest and made it south to The Free Zone. He rendezvoused with Cherub in The Auvergne and together they are recruiting a small army of miscreants. Deserters, dissidents, Jews, Gypsys, Algerian mercenaries. A proper little gang of outlaws.’
Giselle felt relief wash over her. Alive! Both of them.
‘They are waiting for news of a supply drop. They, and every other mob of half–wits and misfits who think they can liberate France.’
‘The Covenant.’
‘It is enacted. Whitehall have retrospectively authorised the transmission. Took some persuading on my part, I might add. I think I deserve the Legion of Honour for my efforts.’
Giselle laughed. She didn’t care about Lucas’ conceit. She was overjoyed about Martin and Edouard. They had made it.
‘You didn’t need to threaten me with the nonsense about Le Spectre.’
Giselle stood. She looked at him sternly. ‘There will be vengeance for those who stand in the way of French liberty.’
‘So it seems. Le Spectre is making a name for himself. The stories are, what shall we say? Sinister.’
‘Well, don’t become a character in one of those stories. You had better keep your promise.’
Lucas shrugged. ‘But of course. I already have something in mind for you.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be heading to Arisaig in Scotland. It’s SOE’s new base for training our agents in commando tactics. When Churchill started SOE his instructions were: “Set Europe Ablaze!” So we’re going to show you how to play with matches, dear.’
‘When will I return to France?’
‘When you’re ready. First, you’ll have to learn about parachuting, weapons, unarmed combat, sabotage …’ Lucas trailed off as an air–raid siren started up nearby.
Giselle had become used to the wailing sound. ‘Come on. I’ll show you where the bomb shelter is.’
‘No, follow me. I insist.’ Instead of leading her into the yard at the rear of the building where the shelter was, Lucas strode up the stairs. ‘Come on, then.’
Giselle tentatively followed the intelligence officer up to the topmost landing where Lucas used a key to access the rooftop. He stepped out into the evening air, high above Baker Street. He motioned for her to follow.
‘I thought you would have seen enough bombing lately.’
‘Look at this,’ pressed Lucas.
Giselle stepped through the doorway and saw the searchlights cutting through palls of smoke. She heard the drone of aircraft and the whump of distant explosions. Over to the east, somewhere near the Thames, there was the red glow above London’s dark rooflines.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Like fireworks.’ A manic gleam lurked in Lucas’ eye.
‘What do you mean? This is your country. London’s burning, Lucas. It’s awful.’
‘London’s burnt before. London’s had plagues and fires for centuries and it hasn’t stopped
us yet.’
‘You are madder than I thought. I am going down to the shelter.’
‘No.’ Lucas gripped her arm. His expression was deadly serious. ‘You need to see this. You need to know that every night the Germans bomb London, we grow stronger. More Spitfires roll off the production line. More pilots get trained. The airfields are preserved because London is soaking up the wrath of Hitler and Goering. If they concentrated on our air defences, we would be annihilated within weeks. But now, we grow stronger, because Germany wastes its bombs on London. The change of strategy will be our salvation.’
Giselle tried to comprehend the strange man who had led her into this macabre show like some monstrous impresario. Slowly she came to realise that Hitler or Goering or someone had made a gross error and, because of it, London would suffer but England would prevail. ‘Did the bombing at the château have anything to do with this? The reconnaissance film?’ Her voice trembled as she asked, not wanting to have any connection to the scene that was playing out across London’s skyline.
Lucas smiled. ‘We’ll never know. We pulled a string, and the puppet danced. Maybe it was our string, maybe it was another. Either way, Hugo Sperrle lost his argument.’
The sound of the bombers grew louder. So far, the bombs had been falling on the industrial areas, but no–one in London ever felt truly safe when German planes were overhead.
‘Perhaps it is time to go down to the shelter,’ Lucas said.
Giselle blocked the entrance to the stairwell. ‘First I want you to promise me something.’
Lucas looked uncomfortable. ‘What is it?’
‘Josef.’
‘He’s a Prisoner of War. It’s out of my hands.’
‘You wanted him dead.’
Lucas rolled his eyes. ‘Of course I did. I make no bones about it. He was an enemy who knew too much about our operations.’
‘But with your influence, you could still see that he lives.’
‘Let’s go to the shelter.’
‘See that he is safe, Lucas. And prove it to me. You know why.’
***
Josef swung the pick and barely chipped the cold, hard earth. He had to get the pit deep enough for people to huddle away from the bombs. Ten feet deep, the English said, deeper than a grave. It would be lined with concrete blocks and roofed with tin and soil. Above him was a swathe of white sky. Cloud base at three thousand metres, he noted. Good flying weather.
But he was grounded. Worse than grounded, he was alone in the pit, filthy and exhausted. Somewhere nearby were other men; armed English guards wrapped in trenchcoats against the chill Autumn air. The German Prisoners of War laboured in their shirtsleeves, warmed by their exertions. In this pit, Josef’s only companions were a pick and shovel. His horizon was a rim of grey earth, and beyond that, the barest glimpse of the rooftops of distant factories and the columns of smoke that rose from a burning city.
Josef hefted the pick and swung it at the solid ground. He needed to burrow much deeper if the shelter would ever spare people from the torrent of bombs that came with every sunset. And yet, the ground resisted him as though he were the bearer of an ancient curse. He would possibly never fly again, and he was resigned to this bleak and harsh existence. If this was to be the remainder of his days, it was none other than he deserved. For God had honoured his dreadful choices.
In the morning a guard shouted his name. Josef got up off his cot and adjusted his uniform as he shuffled across the cold floor of the Nissen hut. His hands were calloused, his back stiff from days of hard labour. He threaded past the other POWs. Some were still sleeping, others were stirring, holding blankets up around their chins to hoard warmth for a few last moments.
The sullen gaze of captured servicemen followed his exit. He did not meet their eyes. Every one of them was a threat. What if they discovered he had deserted? He would get a shiv in the back if they knew. He made it to the door and mutely presented himself to a pair of prison guards in khaki uniforms. What could they want with a walking corpse like him?
‘Follow.’
Josef trudged after them across the bare yard of the camp, looking habitually to the sky. It was overcast, and heavy with rain.
They led him into an unfamiliar administration block. He was cautious. A change in the routine was not necessarily a good thing.
The guards bundled him into an empty room. Whitewashed walls made drab by grey dust and neglect. They sat him on a stool against the wall, and for a moment the prospect of torture entered his mind.
An older man in civilian clothing entered the room carrying some bulky apparatus. What now? But the man unpacked his equipment and Josef saw it was merely a camera and tripod.
The photographer set up his equipment opposite Josef and one of the guards briefly exited the room and returned with a copy of The Times. He thrust it into Josef’s hand. It was today’s paper, with headlines about fires in London. The guard arranged the paper in Josef’s hands so the masthead was facing the camera.
No–one was saying anything, and Josef looked from one to the next. What was going on?
The photographer fitted a flash bulb to his equipment and realisation came to Josef.
‘Look up,’ the photographer said.
The magnesium in the bulb flared and the shutter clicked, and Josef couldn’t help but smile as the camera recorded his image. It was proof–of–life. Someone out there wanted him alive.
Josef Schafer will return
About the Author: C T Wells
Peter C.T. Wells grew up in coastal Victoria, Australia. He comes from a creative family. Playing in the bush and on the beach was a fertile place for an imagination to develop. He has always been drawn to stories that explore character in the extremes of human experience.
He attended The Geelong College and The University of Melbourne. He has an Arts degree and a Masters Degree in Educational Leadership. He taught English and Outdoor Education for many years before becoming a school leader in Australia and then Head of School in an international school in Indonesia.
He was seriously injured in a taxi accident in Jakarta whilst en route to America to receive an award for The Kingdom of the Air. Now almost fully recovered he sees the experience as his own opportunity to explore character in the extremes of human experience!
Authors who have influenced Wells include: William Shakespeare, Ernest Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Raymond Chandler, Ian Fleming, Jack Higgins, Alistair McLean, Conn Iggulden, and Lee Child.
Wells now lives in country Victoria with his wife and three sons.
