The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  His voice tailed away in a petulant whine. Gladwin’s heart sank. Proctor had only been in captivity for a few days, yet already he was talking of giving himself up. The man was pathetic – but he was also potentially dangerous. He tried to reason with him.

  “Now look here, Peter. It’s no use talking like that. These people are risking their lives for us and, frankly, they are in much more danger than us. If caught, we would only be thrown in the bag. But Henri here and Marie, his wife, would be put up against a wall and shot if it was found they were harbouring us.” He rose and strode around the cellar. “And you’re wrong about the Lysander. The whole point about sending a crate like that to pick us up is that it is slow. It can not only land on a snotrag but it can totter along at just above tree top height, making it difficult for any fighter to swoop down and attack it. You can see the point. The bloody plane has proven itself on jobs like this and artillery spotting since the war began. Come on, now, you’re an experienced pilot. You don’t need me to tell you all this.”

  He stood looking down at the hunched, thin figure of the New Zealander and silence once again came to the cellar. Eventually, Proctor looked up. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But I still don’t like it. Anyway, I guess we’ve not got much choice. We are in the hands of these people – and a bloody fine prospect that is.”

  Gladwin raised his eyes to the ceiling but decided that a victory, of sorts, had been won. He retired behind his barrel partition and lay down on his bed, hands behind his head. In many ways, he had more important things to think about now than the merits of the Lysander and the cowardice of the Prick.

  Their imminent departure now concentrated his mind as never before on the subject of Marie. He closed his eyes and forced himself to examine this strange, consuming relationship as rationally as he could. The thought of having to leave her so soon after having found her dismayed him, there was no doubt about that. But was the depression caused by the thought of being cut off from the newly-discovered joy of sex – an act, with Marie, more satisfying and sweet than any he had experienced before? He had never regarded himself as a sensual man and copulation itself, he felt innately, ought not to be that important. No, he loved her for all her virtues: her open nature; her gentle, enquiring mind; her loyalty; her courage.

  He lay back and stifled a groan. Regression… bloody regression! Was it real or just some strange, circumstances-induced dream? Was he really Will Gladewyne, reincarnated archer and hero of Agincourt? Hero? He had never regarded himself as being brave – in fact, he was always felt scared before take off on a trip, not the sort of thing heroes experienced, surely? Yet he had been awarded a DFC in this life. In this life… Aw come on! There was only one life and he was living it now. NOW.

  Gladwin frowned as his mind raced. All right. If there had been no previous life, what was that ground shaking and battle noise that he felt as he lay, trying to pull in his parachute on the field of Agincourt? Why did he experience all the thigh-burning symptoms of dysentery as he lay there and why did he find the archer’s nock just in time to save himself from strangulation? The nock. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the piece of horn and gently rubbed it with his thumb. Had it really been at Agincourt? He held it to his nose and sniffed. No smell at all. Nothing this time from down the centuries; no noise, no trembling.

  He rubbed it against his cheek. Obviously Marie, as well as this strange artefact, was supposed to be a key to open the door to the past. In which case, perhaps she was some kind of witch who had put a spell on him? She was certainly possessive – in fact quite demanding. He smiled at the thought. He remembered the Wizard of Oz, which he had gone to see at the Odeon in Brecon in 1940, just after he had been accepted for aircrew. There was nothing of Marie in the Wicked Witch of the West in the film: no hooked nose, no tall pointed hat, no long black robes, no evil green eyes. Just a rounded, sweet face, framed in those braids of golden hair, with a body to die for… He sighed. No doubt about it. He was in love all right.

  His thoughts lingered on her for some moments, recalling her light, tripping step, her habit of looking at him with head on one side, the smile that suddenly lit up the serious little face. Surely, what he felt for her must be right, even if they were both married to other people? His shoulders hunched in an involuntary shrug. Well, he knew that the Lysander could only take two passengers, so that settled the question of whether she could come with them. Perhaps this forced parting was a good thing. It would be a test of their love. Perhaps this intense, almost unreal passion would burn itself out when denied the fuel of physical intimacy? How long would this bloody war last, anyway? Tiring of the questions, he turned onto his side and soon drifted off into sleep.

  *

  That evening, Josephine brought down their meal and Gladwin wondered how Marie had taken the news of their departure. A feeling almost of panic came over him at the thought that there would probably be no chance now of any more moments of privacy, let alone intimacy, with her before they left. In fact, it was likely that they would be unable to say goodbye properly at all.

  And so it proved. The next morning, their breakfast tray was carried down by Marie. She looked at Gladwin with deep, troubled eyes and spoke, of course, with propriety: “I think, then, that you will be leaving us tonight, gentlemen. I understand that London has agreed to send the aeroplane for you both. It will be good for you, of course.”

  “Humph,” growled Proctor. “I’m not so sure of that, Miss. Those things are bloody deathtraps.”

  Marie’s eyes widened with anxiety.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Peter, Marie,” said Gladwin, moving to take the tray from her. “He’s a driver and they are always pessimists.”

  “A driver?” she echoed faintly.

  “Yes, a pilot. They don’t like to be flown by anyone else. They are a strange breed.” He smiled across at her and was able to brush her fingers with his own as he accepted the tray. “Do you know what time we must leave?”

  “No. Henri will tell you later. But it must be before dark to avoid the curfew, so you should begin soon to put your things together… the little you have,” she finished lamely. She cleared her throat. “Before you go, will you be able to spare a moment for me, Will, perhaps just after déjeuner?”

  “Yes, of course. The… er… accounts. Certainly.”

  “Oh yes, Taff,” growled Proctor. “Must tidy up the books before you go.”

  As soon as they had finished their luncheon soup, Gladwin carried up the tray and empty bowls and knocked on the trapdoor. Proctor’s eyes followed him, a sardonic grin on his face. The trap was lifted by Marie and she relieved him of the tray and beckoned to the living room. “Would you please wait in there for a moment, Will,” she requested, “while I talk to Josephine in the kitchen.”

  She came to him within the minute and they embraced, then she pushed him away. “We have only a few minutes,” she whispered, “for Henri will be back soon and I do not want him to find us here.”

  “I understand. I love you, Marie.”

  “And I love you, mon cher. You are my heart and my body. I cannot tell you in English how much I love you.” She blinked back the tears. “You will definitely leave tonight, I am told. Go safely and come for me when this war is over. It cannot go on for long now, for everyone is talking here about an invasion soon. So we will not be apart for long. Here, I want to give you this.” She opened a little handbag that stood on the table, drew from it a lime green silk scarf, and pressed it into his hand. “To remember me when we are apart.”

  Gladwin’s jaw dropped. “It’s not… it can’t be… can it?”

  She gave her urchin smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? But keep it safe anyway, and let me have it back when next we meet.”

  Gladwin took the scarf and kissed it. Then he kissed her gently. She pushed him away, with one eye on the door, but he retained her hand. “And I have something for you,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pressed the nock into her
hand.

  She looked up at him with wide eyes. “But…” she began.

  “No. You keep this for me. If this is the key to regression then I do not want to carry it on my own. I do not want to make that journey back without you being near, at least. Please don’t argue.”

  She shook her head. “No. I think this will keep you safe.”

  Marie’s insistence that they had know each other in previous lives was so compelling. Could she be right? Gladwin looked again at the little piece of bone. He should trust her instinct. “Alright then, yes. In that case I will keep it. I have a feeling I am going to need a lot of luck He smiled. “The two of you go together. But I will keep it for you.” He tucked it into his pocket.

  Outside, Bertie barked. “You must go,” she whispered. “Goodbye my love.”

  He kissed her again quickly and then walked to the hatch and lifted it – for the last time?

  Down below, Proctor looked up from pushing his few belongings into an old French haversack. “Blimey, that was quick,” he said. “Columns all add up then, eh?”

  Gladwin gulped. “Don’t be an arsehole all the time, Proctor, there’s a good fellow. You can be an awful strain.”

  “Sorry, Taff. Just interested in your well being, that’s all. Any firm news?”

  “No – well yes. It looks very much as though we will be off, probably within the hour. You’re going to joyride in a Lysander.”

  *

  They were both ready and waiting in their rough workmen’s clothes when the hatch was opened and they were beckoned up. Two middle-aged men, swarthy, grim-faced and dressed as farm workers, were waiting for them in the kitchen, as were de Vitrac and Marie, the latter looking drawn and trying to smile.

  De Vitrac closed the trap door behind them. “We must go quickly now,” he said, “because we must be at our destination before dark and we have about thirty kilometres to go. Forgive me if I don’t introduce you to these gentlemen here but they don’t speak English and it is best if you do not know names anyway.” He gave them his distant half-smile. “We have a camionnette outside. I’m afraid it will be uncomfortable for you but we have no choice. Come now, we must go.”

  The two Maquisades moved outside and de Vitrac held open the door for the two escapers. Proctor gave Marie a brief, nervous nod and was gone. Gladwin moved to Marie, whose lower lip was trembling. He seized her hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Marie, for everything,” he said, feeling how inadequate the words sounded.

  She did not trust herself to speak but gripped his hand so hard that her knuckles shone white in the dark kitchen. The two unfamiliar Frenchmen climbed into the cabin of the little van and, with de Vitrac, the airmen climbed into the back. As the doors were closed, Gladwin craned his neck to catch a brief glimpse of a white figure at the window of the farmhouse. Then they went bumping down the unmade road.

  “Here,” de Vitrac leaned forward and gave them their papers, with their photographs now inserted and smudgily over-stamped. “If we are stopped,” he said, “I shall say that we are dropping you off at the railway station so that you can continue your journey. I shall say that you, Gladwin, are a distant cousin of Josephine and that you have briefly visited her, with your friend, on the way south. It is a quite ridiculous story, but it is the best we can do. We must just hope that we are not stopped.”

  “Oh Christ,” muttered Proctor.

  It was clear that de Vitrac himself was no more comfortable than the two flyers. He sat on the edge of the wheel arch and paid no further attention to them, nor to the other two Frenchmen, but his face was pale and small drops of perspiration were now apparent on his brow, despite the fact that the vehicle had no heating and the late afternoon was bitterly cold. As for Gladwin, he sat with his broken-peaked cap pulled well down over his face. Although his eyes were closed, he could see clearly a small white, round face, and brown eyes brimming with tears.

  *

  The journey was uneventful and it was almost dark when they turned off the road and bumped their way along a forester’s track into a thick wood. Inching along without lights, they eventually emerged onto the edge of clearing where the little van was immediately surrounded by dark figures, some of whom carried rifles and light automatic Sten guns. From out of the gloom emerged the huge frame of Chauvin.

  He nodded briefly to de Vitrac, who gave no sign of greeting or recognition, then walked over to the two refugees.

  Bonsoir, comrades,” he said jovially. “We ‘ave a good night for it, I think. Not much cloud and good moon.”

  Gladwin shook his hand. “Thank you for doing this for us,” he said.

  The Frenchman grinned. “It is not all for you, mon ami. This is – what shall I say – a bus stop. Someone gets off and you two get on. If all goes well, that is. We exchange packages.”

  Proctor’s face looked white and haggard in the half-light. “Look here,” he said, “no bloody plane can land in this clearing. It’s too small. It’s dangerous.”

  Chauvin’s eyebrows shot up. “Your pilots do not seem to think so, monsieur. They ‘ave dropped their ‘parcels’ ‘ere twice before.”

  Proctor fell silent. Gladwin looked about him. “What exactly do you want us to do, Monsieur Chauvin?”

  “Ah.” The Frenchman looked up to the sky, as though to sniff the wind. “The wind is coming this way,” he indicated with his arm, “from the west. So the aircraft will come in from the east, so. As soon as it lands it will come to a stop about ‘ere. Then you must run quickly to the plane. One man will get out, with per’aps a couple of bags. Then you must get in quickly. The pilot will turn and… and… what do you call it… ‘e drive along the ground?”

  “Taxi?”

  “Ah oui, taxee. ‘E taxee to the other end and then take off this way.”

  Gladwin tried to gauge the width and length of the clearing. “My colleague is right. It will be difficult to land because there is very little space. How will he see to descend and put down?”

  “When we ‘ear ‘is engine, we will shine our torches facing ‘im in two lines. It is not easy but, if it is the same man flying as last time, then ‘e can land well enough, for ‘e ‘as done it before.” He looked at Proctor. “They are brave men, these people, you know.”

  “They certainly are,” agreed Gladwin. And so are you, he added to himself. “How long to wait?”

  Chauvin pulled an old-fashioned timepiece from a waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “’E will not come until after midnight, so we ‘ave more than five hours yet.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It is a long time to wait, but we ‘ave to be ‘ere early because of the curfew, you know. Now, my friends…” he leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice, “I am not expecting trouble tonight but these things are always dangerous. So please now keep back under the trees and per’aps try and ‘ave a little sleep, no?”

  “What sort of trouble?” Proctor’s voice was querulous.

  Chauvin displayed a faint air of irritation. “’Ow do I know? But with Germans all around us, this is a dangerous affair, so we must always be prepared for trouble. Now please keep out of sight.” He walked away, looking every inch a Maquisard with his black beret, leather jacket and Sten gun slung from his shoulder.

  “Come on,” said Gladwin, “we’ve a long time to wait so we might as well relax.”

  Proctor grunted. “Relax! Blimey. We shall be lucky.”

  Gladwin sighed and walked to the edge of the clearing and, under a tree, found a mossy bank covered with pine needles to lie on. He was tired of Proctor’s peevishness and, although he knew that the Lysander pilot would have to exercise all his skill in landing and taking off on this narrow, ill-lit runway, he was happy to trust him – at least Proctor would not be flying the bloody thing! He noted that he felt completely unafraid now. Perhaps that was Marie’s influence.

  He laid his head back on the pine needles and shook it in frustration. His life had changed so dramatically in the last two weeks that he was not – he could not be
– the same man who had taken off from that Cambridgeshire airfield a lifetime ago. Well, with any luck, he would be back at Mepal within, say, twenty four hours. Would all this – Agincourt, Marie, de Vitrac, a night rendezvous with a Lysander – seem like a dream, or a collection of dreams, once he was back in the insane sanity of a bomber squadron mess? Shit! How would he know? He resolved to try and get some sleep.

  *

  He was shaken awake by Proctor. It seemed dark, very dark, and the cold had penetrated his limbs as he lay on the grass. “Better get up, Taff. It’s almost time, I should say, because these blokes are spreading out with their torches. It’s bloody cold.” The New Zealanders voice slipped into its familiar querulous tone. “You are a lucky sod to be able to sleep anywhere and at any time. I’ve been sitting here for hours, freezing to death, and all you do is snore.”

  “Sorry about that.” Gladwin stretched and climbed to his feet, stamping them both to restore circulation and to shed the pine needles from his clothes. He looked up to the sky and as he did so he realised that it was not as dark as he had thought, for the cloud cover was thin and, as he watched, a bright moon broke through to give silver light to the clearing. More a setting for ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, he mused, than for a night landing. As his eyes accustomed to the light, he could make out figures hugging the trees on both sides of the clearing, with torches in their hands and all heads turned to the east. The illuminated hands on his wristwatch told him that it was ten minutes past midnight, the witching hour. Good night for a regression, he thought, then spat in self-disgust at his flippancy. He must, he really must, learn to take this business seriously!

  Near him, stood Chauvin, seeming even larger in the semi-darkness. There was no trace of joviality about him now and he seemed the complete military commander as he braced himself towards the east, his legs apart, his Sten gun still slung over his shoulder but a large, slug-black automatic pistol in his hand. As Gladwin watched, the Frenchman nodded and a small group of his compatriots slipped away towards the far end of the clearing, bent low and with their automatic weapons at the ready. He seemed to have a small army at his command. At Chauvin’s side remained a thick set man, gripping a large, heavy-snouted pistol that Gladwin recognised as a Very light. Why on earth would a signal pistol be needed on a night operation deep in enemy occupied territory? Such a signal would surely alert German troops for miles around.