by David Hough
“Get ready to leave soon,” he told DeBoise and Donohoe. “Marie and I shall follow on later.” He noted a look of concern in DeBoise’s face, but the Lieutenant made no objection. A senior officer’s word was the law.
Wendel was again alone with Madame Beaumier when one of her contacts came to the apartment later in the morning. A small, suspicious-looking man, he handed her an envelope and she sent him away with only a few words.
“That is Henri,” she explained. “He has a secret contact at the telegraph office. They are loyal Belgians, both of them. They bring me coded messages.”
She sat down at her dining table and Wendel waited patiently while she took her time to decode the communication.
When she had finished, she stared at Wendel with a deep frown. “But this is most unexpected. This is from Commander Cumming, Captain.”
“C has at last been able to send a message? That’s a hopeful sign. He must be recovering from his accident.”
“It seems so. He says I must find you and pass on vital information to you.”
“Yes?”
“Look,” She stabbed a finger at the message. “He says: Being sent to hospital in England. Tell Wendel to get the Countess of Birkensaft out of German hands. Must use his own initiative.”
“Initiative?” Wendel snorted with amusement. “Really? Nice of him to recognise my skills.”
“And he says…” She frowned. “But this is very odd… he says: My agent in Gheluvelt will help.”
“Does he say who this agent is?”
“No. He wouldn’t reveal that in a message that came through a public telegraph office, would he? Even a coded message. Too risky.” She looked thoughtful, as if puzzling over this news.
“Any ideas, Madame?” Wendel prompted.
“No. Although… my contacts have been picking up some strange snippets of information in the past few days, but nothing that could tell me about the identity of C’s agent.”
“What information?”
“They think Rupprecht has a new spy in his camp called Wood Wine. It’s a name we haven’t heard before.”
“Wood Wine?” Wendel pondered for a few seconds. “I’ve come across that name before.” He pulled from his pocket the message he had taken from the German despatch rider at Termonde. He put it down on the table in front of him, read it again, and then pushed it towards Madame Beaumier. “I found this a few days ago. Took it from a dead German. It suggests Wood Wine may indeed be a German spy. And he’s at Gheluvelt.”
“Why does he have an English code name?”
Wendel frowned. “Why indeed? The Germans are very silly about choosing obvious names. C has penetrated more than one spy ring because the names were so obvious. Maybe this tells us the spy is English.”
“It may be a bluff, Captain. Whatever the reason behind it, we cannot be sure whether he is English, German, French or Belgian.”
“He or she. If this spy is English, could he also be a double agent?” Wendel pondered for a few seconds. “Could he be the agent C mentions. Could he be spying for our side as well as theirs?”
Madame looked thoughtful. “That seems to make sense. But it’s also possible he is actually working for Rupprecht and feeding C false information. If you are right, which side is Wood Wine really working for?”
“He’s working for us, if he really is C’s agent. C isn’t so easily fooled.” Wendel looked away. He struggled to curtail his annoyance. “But then again… it’s always possible that C is mistaken about him.”
Damn you, Cumming! If we are right, if Wood Wine is a double agent, this is the second time you’ve left me in the dark. You had a double agent on General Hahndorf’s staff, and you didn’t warn me, didn’t tell me who he was. Now it looks like you may have one in the vicinity of Ypres and, once again, I don’t know who he is. Damn you!
Something about the name Wood Wine troubled him. English words used to hide a German spy? Wood wine… Wine made from birch sap? Something… He flinched. Dear God! Could it be? Surely not!
The idea took hold in his brain and immediately became likely. If he was right, the Countess might have a double agent living right alongside her. He could be wrong, of course. Better, he thought, not to reveal his suspicions just yet.
He went away to Madame’s dining room where DeBoise was in discussion with Marie. Donohoe and Danielle were again seated at the dining table playing draughts. There was something about the scene that struck Wendel as worrying. DeBoise and Marie were smiling at each other: adult smiles, filled with deep adult meaning. Only a few feet away, Donohoe and Danielle were also smiling at each other: youthful smiles that reflected nothing more than a casual liking for each other. A note of concern wormed into his brain. They were caught in a brutal war and his two male companions were smiling at pretty girls.
“DeBoise, you and Donohoe will have to leave soon,” he announced as a way of breaking the hold between each pair. He crossed the room and stood at the centre of the gathering. In a few words, he explained the content of the message Madame Beaumier had received. “We cannot get to the Countess of Birkensaft from here, so we are going to withdraw from Ghent. Danielle, your mother has asked that you come with me, for your own safety.”
“And what of Mama?” the girl asked.
“She wants to wait here for news of your father.”
Danielle looked away. Wendel had no need to ask if she understood the risk her mother was taking.
“What plans do you have to get to the Countess now?” DeBoise asked. “Apart from that one message to Madame Beaumier, we’re still working in the dark. It’s unlikely we’ll get any further instructions from Commander Cumming for some time to come.”
“I shall have to find another way to get to Gheluvelt,” Wendel said, but he was unwilling to admit he had no concrete plan.
Marie clasped her hands together in front of her mouth and blew between her fingers. Her voice sounded gloomy. “If only we had something certain to work upon.”
“C has added to our knowledge and confused us all in the same message,” Wendel agreed.
“At least we know he’s survived his surgery.”
“He’s a tough old goat,” Wendel snapped. “He’ll recover if anyone will. But we have to make our own plans now. I want you and Donohoe to leave within the hour and wait for me at Dunkerque. We’ll syphon all the petrol out of the Adex and fill the Mors car you and Marie arrived in. There should be enough to get you back to Dunkerque.”
“We could take Danielle with us.”
“No. I shall take responsibility for Danielle. I promised her mother she would stay with me.”
“And how will you get away, sir? The Adex will have no petrol.” Was that a spark of disappointment in his voice? Was he already worrying about Marie?
“I don’t want to be seen carrying cans of petrol through the streets, so I’ll commandeer another car with enough fuel in it.”
“And then?”
Wendel thought for a few seconds. He was rewarded with a sudden inspiration, a valid reason to delay his return to Dunkerque. “I shall drive to Ostend. Information is vital now that the Germans are almost upon us. I’ll assess the situation in Ostend, find out exactly what’s happening there before beating a retreat to Dunkerque.”
“I hope you get there safely, sir. You and Marie.”
“And Danielle.”
“Of course.”
An hour later, DeBoise drove away with Donohoe seated beside him. Both wore their British army uniforms, their weapons in clear view. Wendel watched them go from the pavement beneath Madame’s apartment. He was dividing his forces, he realised, and he felt more vulnerable because of it. The German army was now too close for comfort. And yet this wasn’t like Antwerp, where the enemy loudly proclaimed its advance with thundering guns; this was a more subtle invasion. Something about it sent a tremble through him. Did more subtle mean more dangerous, perhaps?
Madame Beaumier and Marie stood close beside him, their own thoughts si
lently curbed.
“Marie and I will take one last look around the town before we leave,” Wendel announced. He gestured up to the apartment’s sitting room window where Danielle was just visible, a lone and very vulnerable figure. “We must take accurate information back to Dunkerque. I suggest, Madame, that you make time to ensure your daughter has all she needs to take with her.” He didn’t feel the need to add that she might not see Danielle again for a long while. “I doubt we’ll be able to buy more petrol anywhere around here, so we’ll have to find another car. One with a full tank.”
“Do not wait too long, Captain.” Madame’s eyes were liquid with fear. “The Boche will come today. They may, even now, be at the city boundary.”
“I am aware of the danger, Madame.”
An air of quiet anticipation had settled over Ghent as Wendel and Marie hurried towards the town centre. Wendel still wore his civilian clothes, judging it prudent to keep his uniform hidden until he reached Ostend… as long as the Hun invader didn’t beat him to Ostend.
The Belgian army had left. Or maybe they had changed their uniforms for civilian clothes. There was no way of telling. Ghent was no longer the scene of a noisy and hurried military withdrawal. There was no one left here to resist the coming enemy. How would the Germans react? There had been no military resistance in Leuven, but that did not prevent the wholesale destruction of the town by a drunken invader.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Wendel said when they reached the town centre. “There’s nothing left here to be reported on. It’s time for us to find ourselves some transport and be on our way.”
“No!” Marie grabbed suddenly at his arm. “It’s too late, Victor. Look! The Boche are here already.” Marie pointed towards the first heralds of the approaching army.
“Dear God! It’s them. So soon!” Wendel looked first at a unit of advancing German foot soldiers, taking in the blatant air of confidence they displayed as they marched into the town. Then he looked round at the response from the remaining populace. He was surprised at the apparent air of calm that seemed to settle over the remainder of Ghent’s population. They stood and watched with not a single sign of resistance. This was the moment when they finally lost their freedom and yet they seemed almost resigned to Teutonic domination.
Wendel stood watching the take-over. He tried to memorise all he saw, determined on reporting on it later, but his thoughts were confused by an overlay of anger.
A detachment of cyclists in drab grey uniforms rode into the town centre. Mostly, they seemed to be older men with a strangely casual air. Some puffed contentedly at china bowl pipes. Others smoked long black cigars as they rode through the streets with no obvious intention of picking a fire-fight. They had no need to.
They stopped in front of the Hôtel de Ville and immediately tore down the British and French flags. They left the Belgian flags flying, as if to announce some sort of peaceful occupation. They then put up posters in various languages calling upon the remaining citizens to obey their new German masters. Or else. Ghent was so easily overrun, but the enemy showed no signs of benevolence. Already, it was clear that no quarter would be given to anyone who chose to oppose them.
“We’ve seen enough. Time for us to beat a hasty retreat,” Wendel said, dragging at Marie’s arm. “We must get away before the Huns close the roads out of the town.”
She strode close beside him as they left the town centre. As if privy to his thoughts, she hissed at him, “I saw some cars in a quiet street near Madame’s apartment. It won’t be difficult to steal one.”
“Steal? In the circumstances, I’d prefer to call it commandeering,” Wendel snapped back. It was only a small sop to his conscience, but enough.
The narrow street near the apartment was empty of people. A lone dog scuttled along the cobbles at their approach. The soldiers had gone, the civilians had gone, but a few vehicles remained. Were the owners nearby, packing their luggage before leaving? Or had they abandoned their vehicles? There was no way of telling. No one came forward to stop him when Wendel inspected a smartly-painted Bugatti. Strange that such a valuable car should be left behind, he thought. Nevertheless, it looked promising for his plans. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching before he cranked the engine. It started straightaway. Still no one came forward to claim the vehicle, so he checked the fuel tank. It had enough petrol to get them to Ostend and Dunkerque.
“The owner is probably long gone,” he said, although he doubted it. No one would leave behind a valuable car like this. “If he isn’t, that’s his bad luck. We’ll collect Danielle and get away as quickly as we can.”
With Marie seated beside him, he drove off along the cobbles. He glanced back just before he swung the car round a sharp corner into a wider street. Someone ran out from a house and waved a fist as at him. The owner? Probably, but he wasn’t going to turn back now. It was every man for himself.
He was surprised, when they arrived back at Madame Beaumier’s apartment, to find German foot soldiers milling around in the street in some disorder. In the midst of the confusion a small group of men was lined up in the middle of the road with their rifles raised, ready for use.
“Something is wrong here.” Wendel felt a pulse of anxiety run through him as he brought the car to a halt at the end of the street and climbed down to the pavement. He pointed to where, on the side of the street opposite the Beaumier apartment, a group of local people stood in silence.
Marie grabbed at his arm. “I don’t like this. Something is very wrong here.”
With Marie still clutching his arm, Wendel edged up to the group. “What’s going on?” He spoke to an elderly Belgian, a small man with hunched shoulders smoking a cigarette.
“German retribution,” the old man replied. He drew a deep breath and spat onto the street. “This is what happens when the Boche overrun our country and take control of our people. This is what they sink to!” He pointed to where a soldier was leading two women out from the apartment building.
“Oh, my God!” Wendel was unable to suppress his horror.
“It’s them!” Marie released her hold on Wendel and threw a hand to her mouth.
Madame Beaumier and Danielle had their hands tied behind their backs as they were taken to a blank section of the building’s front wall.
“The Boche say they are spies,” the old Belgian muttered. “They shoot anyone they believe to be spies.”
“The girl, she’s so young.” Wendel gasped, but he knew well enough that her age would not protect Danielle.
Madame Beaumier stood upright against the wall of the apartment block, shoulders back, bravely facing the soldiers who would execute her. Danielle had her head slumped forward, her body heaving in tune with the distant sound of her weeping.
“Even schoolgirls can be patriots.” The old man looked at Wendel with a querying expression. “You know them, M’sieur? Did I not see you here earlier?”
Wendel ignored the question. “This is barbaric. These women are civilians living in their own country.” He clenched his hands tightly into fists, but there was nothing he could do: nothing to help the two women and nothing to assuage his intense anger.
Beside him he heard Marie draw a deep breath. Her voice was hushed as she pressed herself against him and forced an object into his hand. “Take this, Victor. Do something.”
Wendel looked down. He was holding a Webley service revolver. The handle was still warm from where Marie had been holding it, but the trigger was cold to his touch. “Where did you get this?” he hissed.
“Never mind where I got it. This is war and I have a right to carry it with me. Now, use it!”
“Against all those troops?” Wendel slid the gun into his pocket while his thoughts raced. He gritted his teeth. The sound of German soldiers cocking their rifles came to him across the heads of the gathered civilians. The two women faced death, and he was armed with a pistol. Could he do anything to stop this killing? Six armed soldiers were lined up for the execution, an
d at least twenty more stood nearby, watching with barely a show of emotion. The odds were impossible. They would all be killed and nothing would be gained. He rammed the pistol deeper into his pocket.
“No,” he said. “We can do nothing more here.”
“You could shoot them.” She stared at him, her eyes moist with anguish.
“And die in the process. What good would that do?”
She turned away and her shoulders slumped. “Oh God. You’re right, of course. Do we have to watch this?”
“No.” Wendel grabbed at the young French woman’s arm and drew her aside. “We don’t have to stay and watch.”
Inside, he was seething with anger. He should have left the town earlier, taken Danielle away from danger. He cursed himself for his foolishness and silently vowed revenge upon the army that had killed a schoolgirl in her own home town. He had no doubt Private Donohoe would be even more determined to exact revenge upon such a brutal enemy.
“Come. Let’s get away from here now,” he said.
He had taken only a few steps away from the scene before the echo of a ragged volley of rifle fire ran along the street. He drew to a sudden halt, jammed one hand deep into a pocket and clenched the fingers about the pistol handle.
His anger became overpowering
You’ll pay for this, you bastards! You’ll pay for this!
“Keep going, Victor.” Marie grabbed at his arm and jerked him forward. “There’s nothing we can do now.”
The anger grew as he walked on.
Chapter Sixteen
His anguish lasted as they drove away from the town. Maybe, Wendel thought, it would last forever. Or maybe he would be able to bury his anger and shame in time. There had, after all, been too many needless deaths already.
At first, the road between Ghent and Ostend was patrolled by the Garde Civique, but that did not last long. Wendel was not surprised. From the start, the Germans had announced that they would not recognise the Garde Civique as combatants. Any of them who were captured would meet with the same fate as armed civilians. Or spies.
When it became clear that the enemy were close to entering Ghent, the local Garde Civique had thrown their rifles into the canal, stripped off their uniforms and ran about in their pink and light-blue underclothes, begging the townspeople to lend them civilian clothing.
