The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  Some ten minutes later he heard the trapdoor being taken back and, to his relief, the sound of Marie’s voice. She turned on the light and came towards him, diffidently. “They have taken him,” she said. Her voice shook a little but she was not tearful. Her eyes, however, were wide and Gladwin could see that she was trembling in reaction to the sudden intrusion into her living room of jack-booted soldiers, hung about with carbines and submachine guns. But she stood away from him, desperately needing comforting but equally anxious not to prompt again the terrible rejection of a few days before.

  They stood for a moment, a few paces apart, her body taut but her eyes beseeching him. It was more than Gladwin could bear and he sprang towards her and engulfed her, pressing her head onto his breast as she broke into terrible, wracking cries. They stood together swaying, holding each other tightly, as she spoke to him in incomprehensible French, broken by great, convulsive sobs.

  “Shush, shush,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever leave you again. I promise. I will never leave you. I do love you.” He searched for words of comfort, caring nothing now for his good resolutions. There was no way he could live without this woman. He had tried and failed. So be it. They would be together somehow, whatever the difficulties of the war and other damned existences, if they had ever occurred. He pulled his head away and looked into her brimming eyes. “And Henri will come back. You must remember that he expected to be taken and he will come back.”

  “Do you really mean it?”

  “Of course, I do. They will question him for a couple of days, that’s all. That’s what he expected.”

  “No.” She sniffed, half in shame. “I meant… I meant about us. Will. Please say that you love me. I have been so unhappy at the thought of losing you again. I could not bear it.”

  He embraced her again. “I am sorry, my love. I was trying to be noble. It clearly doesn’t suit me. I promise I truly do love you and always will.”

  She emerged from under his chin and smiled up at him through her tears. “I am ashamed of myself for thinking only of us and not of Henri. But I am truly worried about him, as well, Will.”

  “Yes, of course.” He led her to the bed and they sat down together on it. “What did the Germans say when they took him?”

  “Nothing, except that he was being taken away to Hesdin for questioning. They were quite polite. They said that I was not to be alarmed.”

  “How long will they keep him, do you think?”

  She shrugged her way out of his encircling arm. “I do not know. Sometimes it is only one night. Sometimes people they take never come back.” She regarded Gladwin with round, questioning eyes. “It is strange, because the Germans have always treated Henri with a little respect – I expect because of his rank and his position in the community here. But that is the German army, the occupying troops. The Gestapo are a different matter and, as you say, Henri has been expecting to be arrested by them for weeks now. He thinks that they have begun to suspect him because of his work in helping people to escape and they can be cruel, so cruel.”

  “Oh, Marie, I am sorry.”

  “Yes. Oh, how I hate this war.” She put her head on his shoulder and they stayed together silently for a while.

  Then Gladwin cleared his throat. “May I come upstairs, do you think? It will surely be unlikely that the Germans will come back so soon and, to be honest, I am going mad down here. It is like being in a prison cell.”

  She smiled up at him. “Of course, mon cher. But I do not think that we should be… er… affectionate in front of the old couple. I do not wish to be seen dishonouring Henri in his own house. I know that you will understand, Will?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  *

  Bertie was put outside as watchdog and, later, they took a frugal lunch together in the kitchen and spoke inconsequentially in monotones. The alarm, then, when Bertie began barking was all the more frightening. Despite his weak ankle, Gladwin spedacross the floor and down the open hatchway, which Marie lowered after him so quickly that it hit his head. He switched off the light and took the by now familiar route to his hiding place in the dark in seconds. After piling the barrels up again he listened attentively but nothing except a faint buzz of conversation came from above. He tried to reason: it was not likely to be the Germans, for surely they would have heard the sound of a car or truck above Bertie’s barking? Perhaps a neighbour, or a tradesman?

  It was at least a quarter of an hour before he heard the familiar scrape of the door being opened and then the welcome sound of Marie’s voice, now much lighter and happier in tone: “Will, you have a visitor.”

  He pushed back the barrels and turned into the cellar, now lit by the electric light. Marie stood smiling at the top of the stairway and down the steps was descending a strange figure, dressed in scuffed, well-worn denim. It stopped at the bottom and turned to Gladwin with a slightly embarrassed smile.

  “Good God!” gasped Gladwin. “Proctor!”

  CHAPTER 6

  The two men stood gazing at each other – Gladwin in shock, for Proctor was the last man he expected to have survived the crash of the Lancaster, and Proctor with an air of cocky discomfort, as though expecting to be attacked but equally determined to resist whatever was hurled at him.

  “You!” said Gladwin eventually, a frown distorting his features. “How the hell did you get out of the kite before the others?”

  “Huh. Nice welcome, I must say.”

  “You know the others were all killed?”

  “Yeah, I know. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “But you must have been furthest from the hatchway, stuck up there in the cockpit. The others must all have been nearer and should have been able to jump before you. How did it happen?”

  “Dunno.” Proctor had shaved off his huge moustache and looked pinched and white in the weak light of the cellar, clad in his ill-fitting overalls. “They must have all have bought it when the cannon shells hit us. I couldn’t see much, anyway, because of the flames.”

  Gladwin pictured the scene and disliked what he saw. He felt his anger mounting and took a step nearer to Proctor. “You bastard,” he said. “I bet you knocked ‘em all out of the way to get to the hatch first. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  Proctor backed away. “You’ve got no right to say that, Taff,” he said. “How would you know what happened, you weren’t there – and, anyway, you must have jumped before anyone.”

  “No. I saw you bale out before I’d even clipped on my ‘chute. You didn’t even stay to see if you could hold the plane for a few seconds while the others jumped. You’re a snivelling, crawling coward, Proctor, and I’ll see that you’re court-martialled as soon as we get home.”

  “You’ve got no right to accuse me.” Proctor’s voice had taken on a whine now and he looked round the empty cellar, as though seeking help. “You’ve always been jealous of me, Gladwin, because I was the driver and you were just the tail-end Charlie. And you were always swinging that extra ring of yours…”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.”

  A deep male voice cut Proctor’s protest short and made both men turn and look up to the top of the stone steps, from where an amazed Marie had been watching their confrontation. Behind her loomed a large figure, difficult to distinguish clearly from beyond the edge of the light cast by the single bulb.

  “This fighting is not a good start to your long journey,” he said, speaking with a heavy French accent. “If you are to escape, you must not be’ave like naughty children in a playground. You must live together as amis and comrades, or,” he chuckled, “you will not live at all.”

  The speaker stepped carefully around Marie and descended the steps. He was a huge man, perhaps six foot and four inches tall, broad-shouldered and wearing the nondescript clothes of a French farm worker. But he held himself as erect as a soldier and, with his black eyes and fierce moustache, he had an air of command about him that contrasted strangely with the muddy black boots and the faded beret h
e wore. The square jaw and the thin lips under the moustache reminded Gladwin of the French actor, Jean Gabin.

  Marie followed him down the steps. “This is Monsieur Jacques Chauvin,” she said. “Monsieur Chauvin, this is Flight Lieutenant Will… er… William Gladwin. Monsieur Chauvin has brought your… ah… friend here today, Will.”

  The two men shook hands and Gladwin just had time to prepare himself for the crushing grip he sensed was coming.

  “Flight Lieutenant eh?” The Frenchman grinned and revealed yellow teeth like headstones. “So you will be the… what is it?… boss, then, because you are senior, n’est-ce pas?”

  Gladwin shifted awkwardly. “Not really. It doesn’t quite work like that.”

  “It is no matter.” He looked round the cellar and then spoke quickly to Marie in French.

  “I think it will be safe enough,” she responded in English. “We can go into the kitchen, I think, to talk – and perhaps take a cup of coffee.”

  The four of them climbed the stone steps and sat down awkwardly at the kitchen table, while Bertie was put outside to resume his guard duty. Gladwin remained glowering at Proctor who hunched in his chair, while Marie busied herself with the coffee pot. Chauvin looked at the two men with a slight smile and made no attempt at conversation. He seemed to be vaguely amused at the animosity between the two Englishmen and sat, drumming his fingers softly on the table, until his coffee was placed before him.

  He thanked Marie and spoke quickly to her in French then he turned and addressed the other two.

  “Monsieur de Vitrac” – Gladwin noted the formality and wondered if this was a mark of de Vitrac’s seniority or merely the Frenchman’s courtesy towards a colleague – “is being, ah, interrogated by the Germans.” He spoke without emotion, as though this was a daily occurrence in this part of France. “We do not know why but, as far as we know, there is nothing to connect ‘im with the Resistance or the escape line. It is always dangerous when one of us is taken in like this, but I do not think that ‘e will be… er…” he shot a quick glance at Marie, “put under pressure. He is a man of some, what would you say in English, ah, some distinction in this area.” To Gladwin, Chauvin’s smile smacked of irony.

  “But it is dangerous for you both to stay in this region – dangerous for you and dangerous for us.” He paused and sipped his coffee, clearly well aware of the way his listeners were hanging on his every word. “So we ‘ave been working quite ‘ard to prepare papers so that you can travel to the Spanish border as soon as possible. However,” he paused again for effect, “there is another possibility; per’aps another route for you to go back ‘ome.”

  Gladwin leaned forward. “The sea?” he asked. “By boat across the Channel?”

  Chauvin held up his hand. “I cannot give you details yet,” he said. “It may not be possible, although Monsieur de Vitrac ‘as been trying for some time to arrange it.” He turned and spoke quickly to Marie in French.

  “That is why,” translated Marie, “Henri has been making so many visits to Hesdin.” She seemed surprised and Gladwin realised that she must be unaware of much of de Vitrac’s undercover work.

  “Oui,” continued Chauvin. “Myself,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I doubt if this other way will work. We shall see. We must wait a few days, anyway, and we can do nothing until Monsieur de Vitrac is released. But while you wait, you must prepare yourself for the long journey down through France to the Spanish border at the Pyrenees. It will be very dangerous for you because you could be stopped at any time.”

  “But others have got away, haven’t they?” Proctor asked, his eyes wide.

  “Certainement. But others ‘ave failed. Now.” He reached into his pocket and produced a large brown paper envelope. “These are your papers. They show that you are Poles from Gdynia who ‘ave been working in the docks at Dieppe and who ‘ave been ordered south to employ your skills at a little shipyard at Adour near Bayonne.”

  “Do we travel alone?” asked Gladwin.

  “For most of the way, no. You will be relayed by a series of our people who will look after you and pass you on to the next link in the chain. But per’aps there will be times when you must be on your own, because…” he shrugged again, “it is not always possible for our people to take train journeys, you know. Sometimes we do not ‘ave the permits or the money.”

  “What about money? I have a little.”

  “Good. I think the British give you some, yes?”

  “Yes, although it’s not very much.”

  “We can give you a little.” He opened the contents of one envelope and produced a small bundle of soiled notes. “Here are a few francs. You will find inside ‘ere also your travel warrants for the railways. They are all forged, of course, but they are good enough.”

  Gladwin took one of the envelopes and fingered through the contents. An identity card showed his name, Josef Krantowsky, his date and place of birth, his physical measurements – all remarkably accurate – his occupation as a welder and the name of his next-of-kin, his wife, Anna, back in Gdynia. But there was a blank space at the top of the card. He looked enquiringly at Chauvin.

  “Ah, yes.” The big man nodded. “There remains one more thing to do.” He turned and spoke to Maria, who rose and left the room. “Monsieur de Vitrac has a good camera. I must take your photographs now and we can develop them within two days, stamp them and put them onto your cards.” He smiled. “Then it will be bonne chance and bon voyage for you – unless, that is, we decide to post you ‘ome the other way. But I do not think that will be likely.”

  Marie returned with a bellows-type hand camera and Gladwin hurriedly returned to the cellar to don his French clothing. Without fuss, they were then photographed separately against the stone wall of the kitchen, Chauvin peering down through the viewfinder, cupping his hand around it to shield the light. At Proctor’s turn the Frenchman growled, “no, no. You do not smile. This is not a beach photograph. You are not on ‘oliday.” Then going to the darkness of a cupboard, he carefully removed the film, sealed it and put it in his pocket. With a nod to each of them he left, a worried-looking Marie escorting him outside, leaving Gladwin and Proctor standing self-consciously in the kitchen, ignoring each other.

  When Marie returned she looked no less concerned but busied herself with practicalities. She ushered them both down to the cellar and soon returned with Josephine, the two women awkwardly attempting to carry a collapsible, narrow bed down the steps until Proctor and Gladwin rushed to help. Then blankets and a pillow were provided.

  “There is not room for Mr… er… Proctor behind your barrier, Will,” she said, passing the back of a tired hand across her forehead, “so he must sleep out here in the cellar. If we are searched again and they come down here it will be too bad, but it should not be for too long.” She forced a smile at Proctor. “I am sorry if this is not as comfortable as where you were, Monsieur.”

  Proctor shot an uneasy glance around the cellar. “Ah no, Miss… ah… Madam. This will be fine, thank you.”

  “Bien. Wi… Monsieur Gladwin, can you come back with me into the kitchen for a moment, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Gladwin was conscious of the eyes of Proctor following their every step as he and Marie climbed up the stairway. In the kitchen, Marie carefully replaced the trapdoor and, after a quick look to ensure the absence of the elderly couple, immediately flung her arms around Gladwin’s neck and they stood for a moment locked in the embrace, before Marie gently pushed him away and indicated a chair at the table. She regarded her lover in silence for a moment with sad eyes and Gladwin reached and took her hand in his.

  “Listen, Will,” she said. “For some reason, Chauvin thinks that the Germans will release Henri tomorrow – I do not know how he knows, but he seems certain of this. He also tells me that, as soon as Henri is back here, they will try and get you and your colleague out of France by aeroplane.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He says there is a possib
ility that they can arrange this with London but they must wait for Henri.”

  Gladwin frowned. “By aeroplane! But that will be difficult and very dangerous, I would have thought – and a hell of a lot of trouble for two, well, unimportant blokes like Proctor and me. I don’t understand it.”

  “Mon cher, I do not think that you understand how important you are.” She gripped his hand tightly. “There is so much I do not understand, but I do know that aircrew men – British and Americans – are very valuable to the Allies because it takes so much money to train them. That is why your people work hard to get you back. We have helped four airmen to escape, before you – although I fear they were recaptured later. But I did not realise that Henri was involved with the Resistance – and Chauvin is the leader of the Maquis in this area. He is a big man, Will, this one, and I know that Henri has never liked him.

  “What does he do?”

  “He is a farmer. But he has always been involved with politics here on the Left. I think he is a Socialist.”

  “Not a Communist?”

  Marie withdrew her hand and put it to her eyes. “Oh I don’t know. I am not sure I understand the difference. But look…” she leaned forward, her eyes wide with concern, “all of this means that we have little time for your… your…” Her voice tailed away. Then she swallowed and tried again. “Will, I am so anxious for you to discover for yourself what I know.” She looked down at the floor and then, in that familiar half-coquettish, half-pleading fashion, up at him through her eyelashes. “I know that you do not like this sort of thing but it means so much to me. Would you please try once more with my little experiment. Please…?”

  “Oh, hell!” Gladwin regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, for tears had welled up in Marie’s eyes. “I am sorry, my love,” he said, regaining her hand, “Of course. I know this is important to you and I will do whatever you wish.”

  She nodded and smiled through her tears. “It is important, my dear Will, for I do want you to know how we loved each other, in another time, another place.” She nodded her head slowly. “It will prove to you, mon cher, that all of this,” she waved her hand around her head, indicating a world beyond the kitchen walls, a world of war and hatred, “is not really important at all. Yes, you will see. But I am not sure that you can do it. It is not… how do you say it… controllable, you see. And we have so little time.”