Jack and the other men hurried next-door to help, while Daphne held onto the back of my collar. We watched as a lady from the Home Guard rescued a cat.
Mrs. Hill escorted a sobbing family from their shelter to her kitchen. “Tea is in order,” she said. Everyone agreed.
Everyone but me. I sat in the corner of the kitchen, racking my brain again. Everyone else gathered around the unlucky family, offering their support and making mean comments about Adolf Hitler. I looked over at my brother. His arm was around Daphne. I was viewing him in profile. It was that view of my brother’s Clark Gable nose that triggered the memory. That and Daphne’s arm resting next to his.
“There was a WAAF in the car with the Nazi!” I shouted.
“What child?” said Lady Sop. “What car? What Nazi?”
I made them all listen as I described the two-tone maroon and black car that passed the Crossley as Fritz drove Mrs. Wigglesworth and me away from her house in Mayfair. Better late than never: I could swear on a stack of Bibles that the RAF airman driving the car was the same airman—navigator, to be exact—who offered us chewing gum in the subway, and the same navigator who was helping Fritz make an escape. I’d seen the sleeve of a woman in a blue uniform, together with the man in the car—headed to Mrs. Wigglesworth’s house. And I’d bet a million bucks she was the very person—a Nazi secret agent—who answered the phone at RAF Rochford when Mrs. Wigglesworth called trying to get in touch with Jack. The note she left behind gave them just enough information to catch our trail as we headed out of London for Dover. They must’ve been right behind us when Fritz crashed into the taxicab. And then the phony navigator followed us into the Tube station. While the woman, meanwhile—
“We have to find the car!” I shouted. Sometimes a kid has to yell to be taken seriously.
“The boy might be onto something,” said Lord Sopwith, knitting his eyebrows, one eye half closed. “Mrs. Hill, may I use your telephone to ring the DCI?”
“I hate to bring this up,” said Duncan, “but could that have been the lass we saw smoking a cigarette by the pier earlier? Did either of you notice what color her car was?”
“Good God!” yelled Lord Sopwith.
“The tugboat,” I said, hoping it wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I WAS THE LAST MAN to reach the Rolls. Lord Sopwith slammed the door in my face, lowered the window and said, “Not this time I’m afraid, Tommy.”
“Sorry, chief—hard luck,” said Jack, who was sitting in the back seat with Squadron Leader Kennard and Sel Edner. Daphne came alongside me, put her arm around my shoulder and patted my arm. The Rolls pulled out of the driveway, headed back to the pier.
“Let’s get some sleep while it’s still dark,” she said. “That’s been quite enough action for one night.”
I went upstairs to the bedroom I shared with Lord Sopwith, with no intention of staying put. The door adjoining my room to Daphne and Lady Sop’s was thin enough for me to hear the two of them talking. Daphne said, “I’d like to stay up a minute and read—that is, if you don’t mind the light on.”
“No problem at all,” said Lady Sop. “The proprietress has kindly supplied me with slices of cucumber—so good in preventing wrinkles and with the added benefit of blocking out light.”
The window in my room was still opened. It was easy enough to shimmy down a rain gutter. Before I could say Jiminy Cricket, my sneakers landed on gravel. The pier wasn’t far from the guest house. I began hoofing it in that direction. The streets were so dark I tripped over a sandbag, ripping my jeans at the knee and getting a scrape that burned like the dickens. I limped over to a parked car, putting my foot on the fender so I could get a better look at the damage. Already my foot was throbbing and I knew that two of the stitches had come undone. In the moonlight, I could make out a stream of blood, soaking my jeans. Flecks of dirt and brick chips stuck to the minced-meat flesh. If it weren’t for my foot on its fender, I would have passed by the two-tone maroon and black car without noticing it. I said a prayer of thanks to Saint Simon of Cyrene, who must’ve intervened on my behalf.
There was no one on the street, so I peeked into the car windows. Something furry was laying on the driver’s seat. A long-haired dog? When I knocked on the window there was no movement or sign of life. The doors were locked, every one of them. But one of the back windows was down a crack. If only I’d had a coat hanger.
I tried the trunk and got lucky. Looking left and right, I hesitated for a second before jumping in and closing the trunk behind me—smart enough not to let the thing shut all the way. I’d been in trunks before, when Jack snuck me into the drive-in movies on Long Island. I was dead tired. Before I could stop myself, I let loose a yawn that sounded like a lion mating call. Suddenly, the hood popped open and there was Daphne, standing with one hand on the trunk and the other on her hip.
“I should have known you’d run off,” she said. “Get out of there this second!” Her full skirt gave me something to hold onto as I yanked her into the trunk and brought the lid down behind her. She kicked me in the shin and said, “Are you out of your mind, Thomas?”
“Look, just give it a minute or two, would you? This is the car I saw the two Nazis driving—back in London.”
“How can you be certain?”
I mentioned my photographic memory. My arms were around Daphne’s waist and she was struggling to get free—still too weak to put up much of a fight. We both heard a noise at the same time. Daphne’s body went slack.
Footsteps running toward the car.
The driver’s door creaked open and the car rocked as someone got into the seat. Daphne made a move to escape, but I rolled her over so her body was away from the trunk lid. I clapped my hand over her mouth. The engine started and we rolled down the road. She slapped me across the cheek, but quietly.
“We can jump out any time we want,” I whispered.
“I’m not jumping from a moving vehicle,” she said. “And why must I always allow you get me into these predicaments?”
“ ’Cause I’m your man of honor?”
“Because I’m balmy is more like it. Couldn’t you just once listen to your elders?”
We didn’t get far when the car came to a stop and the engine was killed.
“I bettya we’re at the train station,” I said. “At this hour there won’t be many people there. Give them a ten-second lead and then we’ll follow. At least we’ll get a good look at them.” I counted to ten and then popped the lid, leaping from the car and looking around for a sign of the escaping Nazis. We weren’t at the train station after all, but near the castle. Down the street was a gate leading into the military installation. In the dark we saw a woman, her back facing us. We stalked her, hiding behind a mailbox as she showed her identification to a sentry. She was wearing a knee-length gray wool overcoat over a blue skirt and flat heels. A scarf was tied around her head. Sneaking from the bottom was dark brown hair, almost black. Even though it was still night, she was wearing sunglasses.
“Too thin to be Blanche,” I said. “And the brown hair—I can’t see clearly, but that narrows it down to Geraldine or Dot.”
“Dot, then,” said Daphne, not wanting to incriminate her friend. “And the problem is we can’t get into the base. But like you say, we’ve narrowed the search down and that’s—”
“Shush,” I said, as the sentry let the woman pass. He looked at his watch, yawning and stepping away from the gate. Probably to take a leak.
“I can climb that fence, no problem,” I said. Before Daphne could stop me, I was racing to the gate, sticking the toe of my sneaker in the chain-links. When I leapt from the top I saw Daphne right behind me, making her way like a monkey climbing a stepladder. She was always good in a pinch.
Floodlights came on just then. A man perched somewhere to the left and above us shouted from a megaphone. We ducked behind a building and then sprinted in the direction we’d seen the woman go, slowing once we spotted her in front of us.
She was entering a door marked DRESSING STATION—a door, glory to God, that led into one of the underground tunnels above the castle. The door was just about to shut when Daphne reached it, holding it open for me. I looked behind, seeing nothing but an empty pathway that led back to the front gate; so far, no one was following us.
“Let’s keep behind her, but close the gap until we can get a good view,” said Daphne. We were walking downwards through a narrow, arched tunnel. The woman opened another door and we followed about forty steps behind. When we opened the door ourselves, we saw her exiting another door on the far side. Cots lined both walls. As we passed, several men called out to Daphne, thinking she was a nurse.
“Begging your pardon, so sorry,” she kept saying as we sped past. A wounded man reached out for Daphne’s hand, pulling her to him and causing her to crash into a wheeled cart. Medicine bottles shattered on the floor. A bedpan—full, of course—crashed to the ground, splattering my sneakers.
A nurse shouted, “Whoa there!”
Opening the far door, we heard the sound of the German’s heels, slamming the stone floor and echoing down a long, vaulted corridor. Bare light bulbs, less than ten watts each, were strung at intervals overhead. She slowed under a dark patch, swinging her face in our direction. A bulb right over our heads gave her a clear view. Dashing down the corridor, she made a turn.
“That’s it.” I said. “She’s seen us. Let’s nab her!”
Daphne shouted: “We know you’re a German agent, whomever you are!”
We picked up speed, making the turn without slowing. In front of us was a stone staircase, leading upwards. I caught a glimpse of the woman’s shoe as she turned onto a landing.
She was fast, I had to give her that. The Germans trained her well. Down another corridor, up another staircase, around a bend—we were gaining on her, but just barely. We passed several rooms. I caught a quick look through glass windows into banks of equipment. Women—all in uniform—manned the instruments, pushing and pulling cords out of huge switchboards that looked like something out of Flash Gordon. It came to me that we were in a RAF radar station. It figured they’d put one in the tunnels—tunnels 22 miles from Nazi-occupied France. They were looking for German bomber squadrons heading for England. Would they spot a small tugboat, making its away in the other direction?
Daphne was winded and stopped short, putting both hands on her knees. A WAAF swung a door open and came into the corridor. “Can I help you?” she said, and not too nicely. She looked at me. “You’re not permitted to be here. This is a restricted area. Come with me, young man. And you too, miss—”
“I’m not sure I can do this, Thomas,” said Daphne, breathing heavily, all the blood drawn from her face. “And I don’t want you running after her alone. It’s not safe—she could be armed. Why we didn’t alert the gate attendant in the first place, I don’t know. I could slap myself.” She turned to the WAAF, “Listen—”
I widened my stride.
“Stop,” said the WAAF. “I’m calling the MPs straightaway!” Her voice echoed off the stone walls, “way—way—way.”
I heard the tap-tap of Daphne’s toes behind me; she ran like a ballet dancer. If I let her get too close, she’d grab onto my shirt. I bent down for a sprint like I was trained to do in gym class. A door slammed above me. I took three steps at a time, bounding up another staircase. Opening a door at the top of the stairs, a cold wind blew in my face. In front of me was a long grassy field sloping downhill. The castle loomed off to the left, the sea and the White Cliffs of Dover to my right. Waves crashed below. A fog horn sounded from a lighthouse across the harbor.
The woman was now far in front of me. She stopped short, whipping her head left and right—not sure which way to make an escape. I prayed she’d head toward the castle. I wanted a chase through the ancient ruins—it would’ve made a better story.
She headed toward the cliff, instead.
If she had a gun, she would’ve used it by now. The door behind me creaked open and crashed closed. Daphne came stumbling toward me.
“She’s headed toward the cliffs,” I said, without waiting for her to choke out a protest.
A hazy moon was going down below the sea’s horizon, taking away what little light there was. Stepping into a hole, I twisted my ankle. Tears came to my eyes when I took the next step. But I knew this was my big shot at a medal. I pushed myself forward by picturing the king pinning it onto my chest. I visualized President Roosevelt handing me a trophy—a bowling trophy, funny enough. Blinding pain messes with your head.
It wasn’t until I was sliding on my bottom—wet grass soaking through to my underwear—that I noticed it was raining cats and dogs. A boulder got in between me and the cliff edge. That was the good news. The bad news was that I slammed into it, breaking my arm.
My back was to the sea—resting against the cold, hard, rock—when I saw the shape of a woman cutting her way through the fog toward me. I couldn’t even raise my good arm to fend her off. Any second and I’d be flung into the hungry sea. Right then, I wished I had a parachute. I wished I knew how to swim. I kicked my legs in the air, aiming for her knees.
“For crying out loud, Thomas. It’s me,” said Daphne.
She gave me a hand up, which I shook off. Instead, I tore along the cliff edge in the direction I was sure the Nazi agent had run.
“You can’t escape, Fräulein!” I yelled into the powerful wind, not sure if the woman could hear me.
“Please stop, Thomas!” yelled Daphne coming after me. “The cliff edge isn’t stable.” Just as she said that, a big chunk of grass and white sand crumbled from under my right foot, falling to the sea below.
I seen three Spitfires flying out of the fog, low over the cliffs, and headed out to the sea. The sun was coming up behind the castle, shedding just enough light to let me see the woman up ahead, as she skirted around the cliff edge. Her scarf had come down onto her shoulders. Wet hair flew around her head, blinding her. Her hand reached up to swipe strands from her eyes. Frustrated, she pulled off a soaking wet wig, heaving it over the cliff edge. Underneath was dishwater blonde hair.
Just then, one of her shoes got stuck in mud. Heavier fog—this like potato soup—moved in from the Channel, making it impossible to see even my own nose. I lost sight of the woman, afraid to move forward and not sure where to put my foot—my aching, twisted, gashed foot. Daphne came up behind me, holding onto my sleeve: the one that held my broken arm. I yelled out in pain.
Another scream drowned out my own. At first the sound was booming, then grew fainter and fainter, taking the voice down, down, down, until the roaring of the sea muffled the voice, and the voice and the sea became one angry roar.
Me and Daphne stood straight, silent, and still: like the mirror statues of Ramses at Abu Simbel, only colder.
I crossed myself. “God forgive me. Do you think it’s my fault she fell? Is her blood on my hands, you think?” I looked down at my opened palms. They were muddy, but not bloody. Daphne began to weep—big sobs with little spaces in between for gulps of air. “I don’t think it was Geraldine,” I said, figuring it was the idea of her double-date friend’s death that upset her most.
“I thought I’d lost you back there, Thomas. What would have happened to Jack? He’d never have gotten over it. Never. Why”—big sob—“I never would have gotten over it myself.”
I turned around and threw my one good arm around Daphne, clinging to her. A shiver went down my wet body, building in force until I was shaking and my teeth were chattering in my head. Two MPs made their way to us. Out of the fog, I saw they both had rifles pointed at our chests.
“Get back from the edge,” said one of them. “Raise your hands above your heads,” said the other soldier.
“One of my arm’s broke, sir. Mind if I raise just one?”
“It’s only a kid,” said the first soldier.
“And a girl,” said the other.
They helped us make our way back up the slippery slope. We di
dn’t mention the broken body laying—I was sure—in a pool of blood somewheres below the White Cliffs of Dover. First things first.
“Any chance you fella have some hot cocoa brewing?” I asked.
“Tea,” said a soldier. “That’s the best we can do.”
They patched me up at the tunnel dressing station, while the MPs interviewed me and Daphne. They already knew about the three Nazis loose in Dover and were on the hunt themselves. A pretty nurse made a plaster cast for my arm, and another wrapped my ankle in an ACE bandage. She restitched my foot using black thread. They even found some sugar to put in my tea.
“Do you need me to identify the body?” I asked.
“No!” cried Daphne. “She’ll be a hundred shattered pieces. It’s no sight for a child.”
Daphne was shown to a phone and connected with the Dover RAF airfield. Jack and the other two pilots had just gotten back from their mission. As I suspected, it was their Spitfires we’d seen flying above us. Within a short time, they joined us at the dressing station.
“What happened?” I wanted to know.
The three men looked at each other without speaking.
“I’m twelve and a half! Stop babying me.”
“You? A baby?” said Jack. Daphne shot him a look and shook her head. For once Jack ignored her. “We got to the seaside and saw the tugboat was missing.”
“No sense going after them in a row boat,” said Squadron Leader Kennard.
“Too slow,” said Sel Edner. “So we drove back to the airfield, to our Spits. A WAAF on duty phoned the radar station and a minute later they called back to say they’d spotted a tiny blimp, heading southwest about seven miles across the Channel.
“It wasn’t one of ours,” said Kennard. “Of that, they were certain.”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Sel. “One way or another—”
“So, we headed out,” said Jack. “It was a piece of cake finding the boat. The tug was like a sitting duck. The sun was up then and we buzzed it low—wing to wing—getting a good look. It met Lord-What’s-His-Name’s description: white with a green hull.”
Message For Hitler Page 20
