The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  Gingerly, he lowered his right foot to the floor and immediately felt the pain shoot up his leg. He pulled his foot onto the bed and explored the ankle joint carefully with his fingers. The swelling was pronounced, of course, but he could detect no sign of bone protrusion. He pressed as hard as he could bear with his fingertips and, though acute, the pain was bearable. Ah. Thank God! A sprain, almost certainly, and not a fracture. That meant he should be able to walk… in what? A couple of days? Good.

  He was still examining his ankle when Marie de Vitrac materialised, again noiselessly, at his side. Did this girl walk on air? This time, she placed a tray on the bedside table, quickly glided up the steps, pulled down the trap door, turned on the electric light and came down to stand again by his bedside.

  “Is it bad?” she asked, nodding towards his ankle.

  “No. Not as bad as I thought. Perhaps only a sprain and not a break. But I can’t be sure.”

  “Good. Henri has gone to find the doctor and also to discover what happened to your comrades in the aeroplane.”

  “That is very thoughtful, thank you.”

  She stood quite still by the bedside without speaking but holding his gaze without embarrassment. Gladwin looked away and then back again, in some discomfort. He gazed around the cellar. “Won’t you sit down? Is there a stool somewhere, perhaps…?”

  “No, thank you. I do not wish to sit. I cannot stay.” But she seemed to have no intention of moving. Hands folded across her pinafore, she remained perfectly still, looking down at him, a slight frown furrowing her brow.

  Gladwin realised that she was pretty in an unsophisticated, schoolgirlish kind of way. In fact, now that he could see her features more clearly, she seemed a little older than he had thought at first: perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four – but still considerably younger than de Vitrac. He wondered how long they had been married. She had the body of a young boy but her features were completely feminine. Soft brown eyes were set in a round face framed with plaited hair tied into a bun at the back. Her nose had a delicious retroussé tilt to it, which gave the face a rather mischievous air and did its best to undermine the gravity with which she spoke. Yet there was an underlying ambience of melancholy about her and she regarded Gladwin now with that half-frown bestowing a questioning puzzlement, as if she was trying to assess him, to weigh him up. Then, suddenly, she smiled and her small, round countenance lit up as though her unexpected visitor reminded her of a joke which she must share. Her eyes positively twinkled and she revealed small, regular teeth. To Gladwin, it seemed as if a shaft of sunlight had suddenly penetrated the gloomy cellar to shed joy all around.

  He smiled, too, and asked, “may I share the joke?”

  She shook her head and put her hand to her mouth as though to wipe away the smile. “No,” she said, looking down in some embarrassment. “I am sorry.” Then that direct gaze fixed itself upon him again and she said, “It is just that I am so pleased to see you.”

  Gladwin felt his jaw dropping again. “Well,” he faltered, “that’s… er… very kind of you. Yes. Well. Very kind indeed, I am sure.” He looked around seeking rescue. “Won’t you have some… er… coffee, or whatever?”

  “Non, merci.”

  “Yes, well…” Damnit, he was behaving like a schoolboy on a first date. He coughed and then held her gaze. “I don’t wish to sound rude,” he said, “but why on earth should you be pleased to see me? I would have thought I must bring you nothing but trouble.”

  Marie de Vitrac looked away and, despite the poor light, he felt sure she was blushing. “I am sorry,” she said, lowering her gaze once more. “It is my poor English expression, I think. I meant to say that you are welcome in this house. Very welcome.” Then the girlish grin reappeared. “Now, when you have finished your breakfast I shall bring you water and soap so that you can wash. So please excuse me.”

  Then she was gone again, tripping up the stairway in a balletic sequence of tiny steps, slipping through the open hatchway and lowering the trap door behind her almost in one movement. Gladwin watched her go in growing wonderment. He picked up the unbuttered bread from the tray, spread it with jam and munched absent-mindedly. This girl – this woman – was disconcerting, to say the least. Words like elfin and fey flashed into his mind and he realised that she and her husband must make a strange pair in the neighbourhood: the tall, reserved, patrician husband and the gliding, melancholic child wife. Still… he gulped down the coffee – tasting better this time, although still not genuine – all of this was no concern of his. What mattered was how well connected the couple were to the escape underground. De Vitrac had spoken of receiving ‘several visitors’ over the months and they certainly seemed to be well organised to take in fugitive airmen. How long before they could pass him down the escape line, and how did these things work?

  He had finished his breakfast when Marie reappeared with a bowl of hot water, soap, a small square of flannel and even a shaving brush, shaving soap and tiny mirror.

  Gladwin smiled his thanks. “This is a very good hotel,” he said. She flashed her quick, illuminating smile in return but did not speak and hurried back up the steps.

  He quickly washed and shaved and tried to take stock. The ankle was still throbbing but he felt happier now that he felt there was no break. His ribs were sore and in the yellow light he detected what seemed like a purple bruise emerging but, again, he felt sure that none were fractured. Replacing his undervest, shirt, sweater and uniform jacket he felt refreshed and downright frustrated that there was no immediate way he could set out for the Channel coast to begin his escape. He took out the lightweight box from the patch pocket on his flying suit. The silk map showing France was of such large scale that it seemed to be virtually useless. Nevertheless, he looked closely at the Pas-de-Calais area. He had no idea where Tramecourt could be but it was clear that he was tantalising close to the south coast of England. Would the escape network be able to get him across the Channel? He doubted it. Hitler had created a fortress line of defences along the Channel coast to prevent invasion and it must be almost impossible to slip through it and cross one of the most carefully watched pieces of water in the world. Everything he had heard about the escape route for shot down airmen spoke of a tortuous route down to the south and the Spanish border; a long and dangerous passage – especially for someone with a busted ankle. He sighed and the momentary sense of elation that sleep and soap and water had brought slipped away as though it had never existed.

  *

  The doctor arrived later that morning. An elderly, moustached man, he descended gingerly down the cellar steps with de Vitrac before him and Marie behind. He spoke no English and wasted no time on social courtesies, merely nodding at Gladwin and muttering something quickly in French.

  “Take off your trousers,” interpreted de Vitrac. Gladwin looked uneasily at Marie, who was discreetly standing by the steps and showing no sign of moving. Awkwardly, he complied, uncomfortably aware that he was wearing his underpants for the second day in succession, though, as always, he had put on fresh linen for the flight, in case of a shred of fabric being crushed into a wound and making it infected. The doctor examined his ankle with care, pressing and twisting the foot so that Gladwin grimaced with pain. Then he sniffed, nodded and spoke rapidly to de Vitrac, who nodded.

  “It is not broken,” said the Frenchman. “We must apply a compress and bandage and you must rest for two or three days. You should be able to walk again within a few days or so.”

  “A few days!” exclaimed Gladwin. “No. I shall walk before then.”

  “I doubt it, my friend. You cannot hobble the length of France on one leg.”

  The length of France! So it was to be the southern route. Gladwin nodded glumly. “OK. I would not want to bother the doctor again,” he said, “so while he is here perhaps he could take a quick look at my ribs. I was hit by something as I baled out. I think I am only bruised, but it would be better to be sure.”

  He took off his sweater, shirt
and undervest and the old man examined the bruise, delicately prodding the ribs. Eventually the doctor shook his head. “Rien,” he said. Then he stepped back a pace, raised his eyebrows and looked anew at Gladwin, motioning him to stand. The Welshman did his best, wobbling slightly as he stood with one hand on the bed to take his weight. The doctor said, “non, non,” and motioned to de Vitrac to support him, aiding him by putting both hands under Gladwin’s armpits before stepping back again and looking intently at the man before him. Eventually, he sucked in his moustache, gave a little smile and directed a question at de Vitrac.

  “The doctor would like to know what you did in civilian life.”

  “What?”

  “Your occupation. I do not know why he asks.”

  “Well, I was a teacher, though I don’t see what…”

  The doctor interrupted him and again de Vitrac translated. “You were not a… er… blacksmith or stonemason or something like that?”

  “No. I was a teacher and, when I was not teaching rugby, I sat on my arse all day.”

  The Frenchman smiled and translated. The doctor shrugged, smiled and gestured for Gladwin to lie again on the bed. He then spoke to de Vitrac in what sounded to Gladwin like an apologetic tone, turned and picked up his bag. He moved towards the stairs and then, recalling the courtesies, turned and reached out his hand to the Welshman. “Adieu, Monsieur,” he said. “Bonne chance.” Then he was gone, with de Vitrac following him up the steps.

  Marie remained behind and Gladwin turned to her. “What was all that about?” he asked.

  She looked equally puzzled. “The doctor said that the ribs were not broken but he was… er… interested in… how can I say… how you stood.”

  “How I stood. What on earth did he mean? When I haven’t busted – sorry, sprained – my ankle I stand like any ordinary man, don’t I?”

  “Ah yes. But the doctor said that he was interested in… what is the word… physionomie… no, that is faces, I think. The skeleton – learning what people do from the way they stand. It is his ‘obby, I think. It is not important.”

  “But what did he say about me?”

  Her face broke into that puckish, pixy smile. “He said that he thinks you are left-handed, that your left forearm is thicker than your right, and you stand slightly twisted to the left. He thought that you must work hard physically. That is interesting, n’est-ce pas?”

  Gladwin scowled. “Well, as a matter of fact no – and quite wrong. I am right handed and, until I fired guns, I led a very dull life teaching small boys about boring old battles.”

  “Ah. You taught history, Will Gladwin? How interesting.”

  “Not really, it was very dull most of the time.” He directed a quick glance up the steps. He could hear de Vitrac in low conversation with the doctor. He took his opportunity. “Tell me, Marie – you do not mind if I call you Marie?”

  “Oh no, of course not.”

  “Marie. Why do you call me Will?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry. I am being too familiar.”

  “Of course not. As a matter of fact I rather like it. It is just a little strange because everyone calls me Bill. In fact, I do not know anyone who calls me Will. But,” he added hastily as her eyes fell again, “please do continue to call me Will. It’s very, sort of, well, old fashioned again. And I rather like that. Whenever you call ‘Will’ I shall come running – or, rather, hobbling.”

  Her teeth flashed. “Ah, now you make fun of me. But – like you – I do not mind.”

  They stayed smiling together, looking without embarrassment into each other’s eyes and Gladwin had an absurd impulse to pick her up, swing her round and then kiss her. He felt instinctively that, if he did so, she would not mind one little bit. He took a half pace forward, winced as he felt the pain in his ankle and broke away as he heard de Vitrac begin his descent of the steps. He was carrying a crude wooden crutch. The Frenchman said something curtly and quickly to Marie and Gladwin caught the words ‘compress’ and ‘vite’.

  The young woman bent her head in acknowledgement, shot a quick glance at Gladwin and then floated up the steps. Gladwin sat on his bed in some embarrassment and inwardly cursed himself. He did not wish to compromise himself with this strange man on whom his life depended. “Thank you for fetching the doctor,” he said. “I am most grateful.”

  De Vitrac made no acknowledgement. “We must talk now, Mr Gladwin,” he said, “about what we propose to do with you. But here,” he handed Gladwin the crutch, “you may find this useful. It helped me back in 1940. Now I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “What?”

  “Your aircraft crashed about twenty kilometres from here. Our people were able to get to the wreckage before the Germans and found the remains of five men inside. The bodies were badly charred, I am afraid, and we were not able to find their identification discs. I know that these things are important, for their families back home, but there was not enough time. But we are certain that it was your aircraft – a Lancaster bomber, yes?”

  Gladwin nodded. He held the Frenchman’s gaze without seeing him. There would be nothing left of the men within that blackened wreck and he just hoped that the cannon shells had got them before the flames did. He had long felt himself inured to death in war. Too many of his friends had not returned from trips, too many happy faces had just been wiped out overnight, out of his life forever. This was one of the reasons he had held himself aloof from his fellow crew members over the last two years. Familiarity and friendship meant, sooner or later, sadness and heartbreak and he had had enough of that. But hearing now of the fate of his comrades as he stood in the silence of this French cellar, far from the determinedly jolly atmosphere of the smoky, beery squadron mess, was different: here he was closer, somehow, to their deaths and to their spirits. He had been with all of these men only a few hours before, sharing their levity and their danger. Now, they would be unrecognisable in what was left of the Lancaster’s fuselage. They were dead in France. He was alive in France – and he felt ashamed. Lucky old Taffy. Lucky old Taff again. Why them and not him? Six out of…

  Then he remembered the flash of that parachute opening above him as he struggled to get out of the flaming aircraft, and realised that de Vitrac had said the remains of five men. Who had got away with him? Not dear old Chuck, of course, but which one of Proctor, George, Smithie, Mac and Hampton had been able to jump? Who was nearest to the escape hatch? Hampton was probably still trying to man Chuck’s guns and would be furthest away, and Proctor would still have been perched high up in his cockpit, with Smithie helping him. It would have been difficult for those three. George and McKenzie would have had the best chances. He shook his head.

  “I am sorry, monsieur,” said de Vitrac. But his eyes held no warmth.

  “Thank you,” muttered Gladwin, his head down. “It was thoughtful of you to tell me.” Then he looked up. “There was one other member of the crew who parachuted from the bomber. Do you know what happened to him?”

  The Frenchman nodded. “Yes. Just as with you, our people found him before the Germans got to him. He is in hiding, like you.”

  Gladwin’s thoughts tumbled through his mind quickly now. “Good. Do you know his name? Where is he? Near here? I must talk to him. Is that possible?”

  “Eventually, yes, but not for a few days yet. We have had word that one or the other of you – perhaps both – was seen parachuting down by the Germans and a search is being mounted. It is not possible to move you yet, which is just as well because you are not yet able to walk properly. I fear you must stay with us a little longer.”

  For the first time since landing in France, Gladwin experienced a real shaft of fear. “A search? Will the Germans come here?”

  De Vitrac gave his joyless half smile. “Oh yes. They suspect me of being involved with le Maquis, but so far they have not been able to find any evidence. One day, they will arrest me anyway on suspicion, but they seem strangely reluctant to do that so far.
They will certainly come and search the house so we must be particularly careful for the next few days. I am afraid you must not leave this cellar.”

  “Of course. But I am concerned about you both. What will happen to you and Mar… Madame de Vitrac if they find me here?”

  “Oh, it is quite simple. The formula is well established. We will be handed over to the Gestapo who will torture us to make us reveal the names of our comrades and then we will be shot, or even beheaded, the old fashioned way. They are starting to do that now.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but then, Gladwin could not imagine the Frenchman speaking in any other way. He always seemed detached and without emotion.

  Gladwin bowed his head for a moment and then looked up. “I cannot accept the responsibility of putting you both in danger,” he said. “I must ask you to let me leave. With my ankle bandaged I am quite happy to take my chance outside. I am really quite fit and I am sure that my ankle will heal more quickly than the doctor thought. Spain is too far, I grant you, but I should be able to reach the Channel coast quite easily from here and I could steal a fishing boat and be home for supper by Friday.” He tried to sound jaunty, but he did not deceive the Frenchman.

  “I appreciate your gesture,” said de Vitrac dryly, “but you would not last two kilometres. As I said before, the Germans are here en masse expecting the invasion and I do not know of any English or American airman who has survived without our help. And monsieur,” he took Gladwin’s arm to emphasise his sincerity, “I cannot guarantee that even we can take you to safety.” He shook his head. “We have lost as many men as we have saved – but our organisation is your only hope.”

  “How, then, does it work?”

  “Ah, more of that later. We are at the moment trying to find clothes that you can wear.” He gave his half smile. “Doctor Duval’s hobby of studying skeletal structure has helped us here in assessing your size. Once you are able to walk you will be joined by your friend and you will be passed through our escape network. We are preparing false documents for you and I will explain later…” he was interrupted by Marie’s entrance at the hatch and her descent carrying a bowl and bandages. “Now, we must concentrate on healing your ankle. I think you will find my wife a good nurse.”