The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  “So, what do you know? For instance, where are we? How many men are here? Who leads them? Ah, come on! You don’t know a fucking thing – so they will torture you until you make something up, to stop the pain. Then they will find out that you lied – and you will get more of the same. Don’t be bloody stupid, Peter. You can’t wander off and hand yourself over to the Gestapo. You will be safer with me, going down the line.”

  Proctor’s expression of sullen resentment deepened. But he had no answer to Gladwin’s logic. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, stirring the dust at his feet with his boot. “But I still don’t fancy crossing the Channel in a bit of a boat. I nearly drowned as a boy, on a fishing trip with my father and I can’t stand small boats. I hate the sea.”

  *

  Early the next afternoon, Chauvin drove up in the little van and called to Gladwin. “Do you still ‘ave your papers and money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We will leave within the hour. You will be taken to a safe ‘ouse, though,” the mirthless smile was revealed again, “no ‘ouse is really safe these days, my friend. Then tomorrow, you start your journey to Brittany. So,” he pulled out his ancient time piece, “we go at trois heures moins le quart. D’accord?”

  “D’accord.”

  At precisely that time the two fugitives were taken to the little van. Proctor climbed in to the back but, at the door, Gladwin turned to Chauvin. “Are you coming with us?”

  “No. I cannot give time to be your nanny any more. Bertrand will take you. It is to ‘is father’s ‘ouse. The old man is a doctor and ‘e can look at your ‘ead and also your leg. But, from the way you tackle me, it is better now, eh?”

  “Yes. There is nothing like having a knock on the head to forget the pain in the ankle.”

  Chauvin gave a genuine smile this time, one that reached his eyes. “Yes. But one word of advice, my friend: you must tackle lower, at the knees. I almost stayed upright.”

  “Bullshit.” Gladwin extended his hand which was immediately lost in the Frenchman’s great palm. “Thank you, Chauvin for all you have done for us. We are truly grateful. When the war is over I shall return and buy you the best dinner you have ever eaten. Until then, I wish you good luck in your war. But… one word of advice to you, now.”

  “Oui?”

  “Remember that sometimes you have to be soft, as well as hard.”

  “Ah, merde! Non. Pas merde – bullsheet.”

  The two men grinned at each other and then Chauvin slammed the doors shut and the little van began bumping back along the track.

  This time their journey was more comfortable in that Bertrand drove with care, obviously anxious not attract attention. At first Gladwin worried that the van would have been seen in the retreat from the landing strip and must surely be a marked vehicle, but their journey was uneventful and just before the curfew at dusk they pulled up before a modest house in what appeared to be a small village.

  An elderly couple quickly ushered them inside and, once their door was closed, they both embraced Bertrand, the woman with tears in her eyes. It was clear that they had not seen their son for some time and the couple found it hard not to touch their slim, boyish son. Despite being an unsentimental man, Gladwin could not help reflecting again about the tragedy of war: would the young man survive to look after the couple in their old age, and would he ever be able to return to medical school?

  As Bertrand, who had to stay overnight because of the curfew, drove the van off the road to a half-hidden spot behind the house, both men were offered hot baths and gratefully accepted. Proctor took the first bath and as Gladwin waited for the wood-burning boiler to heat up again, the doctor cleaned and dressed his wound.

  “Not serious,” he said and he smiled. “My son is definitely getting better. It seems that the wound is healing itself and only needs a small plaster now. Too late for stitches, anyway. How did it happen – no, don’t tell me. It is better not to know these days. Thank you anyway for allowing us to see our son again, if only for one evening.”

  They all dined together. It was a frugal meal, high on vegetables and low on meat, and the British pair sat silently for most of the time, allowing the parents to exchange voluble conversation in French with their son. Inevitably, however, it was Proctor who broke the convention. “Excuse me, but can you tell me what is going to happen to us?”

  The doctor shrugged. “It is part of the rules of what we do in working ‘on the line’ that no one knows beyond his own piece of the chain. I only know that you are going towards the west, to Brittany, and that someone will call tomorrow to take you to the nearest railway station and go with you on the train. It is the only way, because we cannot spare the petrol for long journeys by car, but I do not know where you go, exactly.”

  Proctor’s concern seemed to deepen. “But… but… what happens if we are stopped?”

  “You have papers, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you just show them. It happens all the time.”

  *

  It was wonderful for Gladwin to sleep in a proper bed for the first time since he had left England so many lifetimes ago. He was concerned about their onward journey, of course, because this would be the first time either of them would be depending on their disguise and luck to survive in occupied France. But his main concern was for Marie: how would she cope with the return to the farmhouse of de Vitrac’s body, and would someone tell her that he and Proctor had been able to escape? He wished – oh how he wished – he could have just one more meeting with her to explain.

  Bertrand had departed by the time Proctor and Gladwin descended to eat a breakfast of wheat grain coffee, black bread and jam. As soon as it was finished, there was a light knock on the door and a young woman, bespectacled and dressed simply in mackintosh and sensible shoes, with a scarf around her head, entered. She introduced herself as Yvonne – not her real name, she explained – gave them berets to wear instead of their dreadful caps, removed Gladwin’s green scarf and tucked it in his pocket and asked them to sit down while she gave them instructions. Her English was not good but she made her meaning perfectly clear.

  They were to walk about ten paces behind her at all times and they should slouch, not walk with a military bearing. They must remove their wristwatches – an unknown luxury for Polish workers – and put them in their pockets. Their haversacks should be slung from one shoulder and not worn on the back, military style. If they had to travel on a train without a courier, they should try and pick a crowded train, so that it would be difficult for the Abwehr, the German counter-intelligence officers, to push their way through to examine papers. They were to beware of fit young men in civilian clothing, usually wearing long raincoats, who were to be seen at railway stations, standing at ticket barriers, sitting in cafés or pretending to make calls from public telephone boxes. They would almost certainly be Gestapo.

  She gave them new travel warrants that indicated that they were travelling from Paris, via Abbeville, where they would actually board the train, to work in the shipyards at Brest. But, in fact, they would alight at Saint-Brieuc, in Brittany, where she would hand them over to the next link in the chain.

  Gladwin marvelled at her cool self-assurance and air of command. She behaved like a young schoolteacher – she looked no more than twenty-four years old – lecturing her pupils on how to behave on a day’s excursion. Despite her solemn manner and dour expression, Gladwin warmed to her efficiency and bravery. How many times had she done this?

  She finished with a firm injunction. “Do not talk to anyone. The Germans are now putting advertisements in all our newspapers offering one ‘undred thousand francs in cash to anyone who gives names of those people ‘arbouring escapers. And don’t forget – our people are all poor now.”

  Proctor gave an audible gulp. “What happens when we get off the train at Brittany?” he asked.

  “I give you to someone we meet there,” she said. “I then return to Abbeville.”

&n
bsp; A petulant frown now settled on Proctor’s face. “That’s all very well,” he said, “but what if… er… something happens to you. How will we know who to look for? I mean, it’s all a bit…”

  She interrupted him briskly. “We do not tell you, so that if you are captured and interrogated you cannot put this person in… ah… trouble and break the line. Now we go. Come.”

  So quick was her exit, that the pair hardly had time to thank and say goodbye to the doctor and his wife. Once outside, Gladwin realised that they were not, in fact, in a village, but in the suburb of a large town, for they walked through urban streets for at least half an hour before they approached a large railway station. Yvonne dropped back a little so that she could speak to them over her shoulder.

  “If there is a check at the barrier, just show your papers and do not be afraid. If you are asked anything, say you do not speak French and that you are Polish. That is: ‘Je ne parle pas français. Je suis polonais.’ Say it to me.” They did so. “Again.” They parroted the phrase again, their accents sounding outlandish, particularly Proctor’s, with his New Zealand twang. “Ugh,” said Yvonne. “It will ‘ave to do.”

  At the station barrier, two grey-uniformed Abwehr were checking papers and tickets. Yvonne passed through without any problem. Two places behind, Gladwin assumed a sullen, hangdog expression and was glad that he had not shaved for two days. He met the blue eyes of the German, then dropped his gaze to the floor and shuffled forward, handing over his identification papers and travel warrant.

  The soldier studied the documents with a frown, then grunted a question in what even Gladwin could detect was inexecrable French. Despite the tension, Gladwin could not resist a thrill of excitement at meeting the enemy face to face at last, after four years of war. Florid of complexion and carrying large jowls, the German exuded an air of pompous mastery, like a bullying prefect at school. Gladwin fervently wished him transported to the Russian front and then shrugged and growled, “Polonais. Je ne parle pas français.” He jabbed his warrant. “Brest. Brest.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the ashen-faced Proctor. “Polonais aussi. Ze sklowitz ichn.”

  The guard’s jaw dropped in incomprehension and he looked over his shoulder, as though looking for someone in authority to consult. Seeing no one, he snarled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, giving them admittance.

  They moved down the platform to where Yvonne was standing, looking quite uninvolved. Proctor whispered to Gladwin, “What the fuck did you say to him, Taff?”

  “I don’t know. I just spoke Polish – you know, as you do.”

  A quick frown from the girl showed her disapproval and they fell silent but, within, Gladwin was hugging himself at his small triumph.

  When the train arrived, they followed Yvonne meekly into a carriage, where they sat well away from the girl, but opposite her so that they could catch her eye if necessary. For Gladwin, the journey would have been a joy, if it had not been for the nagging worry at the back of his mind about Marie. It was another fine, cold winter’s day, although the sun showed the promise of the spring soon to come. The countryside, as they chugged westwards, was a pattern of large, cultivated fields and dark copses, with poor-looking villages dominated by huge, indulgent churches slipping past the window. There was no trace of war in the brown fields and fat cattle, for there had been no fighting in this part of Normandy and there was no evidence of bombing, of course, in this rural expanse. Gladwin allowed himself to luxuriate in the warm pretence that he was back in peace-time France.

  At a small station, a group of three men boarded and found spaces in their compartment. They were roughly dressed in country workers’ clothes and they were young – strangely young for a country where young French men out of uniform were rarely now to be seen – and seemed ill at ease, and at first Gladwin wondered if they could be Germans in disguise. Then the dreaded ticket inspection and identity checks were made – by a fat French railway guard and two uniformed Germans sliding open the compartment door and barking, “tickets, documentation!”

  Gladwin immediately felt Proctor cringe but the Germans’ eyes went straight to the three young men whose faces, it seemed to Gladwin, had blanched. The French guard interrogated them and the men answered him in resigned monosyllables. The guard shrugged his shoulders and gestured to the Germans. Immediately, the men were seized and pulled out of the compartment and pushed down the corridor. Gladwin forced himself to engage the guard’s eye openly, but he need not have worried. The arrest of the men had diverted attention away from the rest of the occupants and the inspection of tickets and identities now was merely a ritual. It was as though offerings had been made to the beast and his hunger had been sated.

  At Rouen the train stopped and became overbearingly crowded. Gladwin saw that two men, one in German uniform and the other plain-clothed, were waiting on the platform to board, but they obviously gave up the laborious task of pushing down the corridor, for the airmen’s papers were not requested. At midday, as though a bell had tolled, parcels of sandwiches were opened in the compartment and devoured by the occupants – all from rural areas, judging by their rough dress – and Gladwin realised that he was incredibly hungry. He caught Yvonne’s eye and ran his tongue over his lips. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head and stood up, carefully placing her raincoat on the seat to reserve it but taking her large handbag with her. Gladwin gave her a minute, then followed her, taking his haversack with him and pushing his way down the corridor to the toilet. There, he waited until she came out. She gestured quickly to the interior, before making her way back to the compartment. Gladwin entered the toilet, locked the door behind him, and gratefully snatched up the two neatly wrapped parcels of sandwiches left in the washbasin. He tucked them into his knapsack, flushed the toilet and then pushed his way back to sit down, once again, next to Proctor. Together they shared the bread and cheese, apples and a little flask of red wine and Gladwin sighed his thanks to Yvonne, who permitted herself a prim smile as she returned to the book she was reading.

  Eventually, long after the train had shed most of its passengers, they pulled into a small rural station that announced itself, from swinging boards, as Saint-Brieuc. Yvonne quickly gathered her things together and, without a glance at them, opened the door and alighted.

  After a suitable interval, the others followed and stepped down onto a charming village platform, where the welcome tang of sea air immediately hit their nostrils. More to the point, there were no guards at the station exit and they followed Yvonne through to the almost deserted street outside, where she gently embraced a middle-aged lady. The two then turned and walked arm-in-arm without a backward look and, meekly, Gladwin and Proctor followed, self-consciously trying to make low conversation with each other.

  The women turned down a winding lane and Gladwin caught a glimpse of a blue sea right at the end. “Bloody hell, Peter,” he said, “It’s the Channel. We’re almost home.”

  “I’ll believe it when I’m there, mate.”

  But the smell of salt on the clean, fresh breeze, the fact that his head had stopped aching and his ankle seemed now completely mended, gave Gladwin a surge of hope. England lay across there, across that patch of blue. Were they really about to make it?

  The older of the two women now stopped at a small cottage and turned the key in the lock. After a quick look up and down the deserted lane, she beckoned the two men inside and they gratefully shuffled into a tiny, whitewashed room, hung with nautical memorabilia. Yvonne allowed them to enter first and then paused on the doorstep before allowing her immobile features to break into a momentary smile – of relief?

  “Bonjour messieurs, and bonne chance,” she said. “I am sorry I forgot to give you the the sandwiches before we got on the train. It was a pity but lucky for you that the réfractaires were caught…”

  “Réfractaires?”

  “Yes.” She spoke sadly. “They ‘ad no workers’ certificates and ‘ad ‘idden from the Germans so that they did
not ‘ave to be taken to Germany for forced labour. Sad they were caught. Eh bien. I leave you now.” She turned to go but Gladwin moved forward and caught her arm.

  “Go? But where?”

  The girl’s eyebrows rose above her spectacles in surprise. “Where? Back to Abbeville, of course.”

  “But it is nearly dark. What about the curfew?”

  She shrugged. “I am all right if I am on the train before the curfew starts. And there is a train in five minutes.”

  “That means you travel all through the night?”

  “Bien sûr. I ‘ave to be back at my work tomorrow morning.” The schoolmistress touch returned. “We cannot all lie about all day, you know. Some of us ‘ave to work.”

  Again the half-smile and then, with a nod to the middle-aged lady, she was gone. Gladwin paused on the doorstep for a moment and watched her frumpy figure walk down the lane. Not for the first time he was left to reflect on the courage and self-sacrifice of these very ordinary people who thought nothing of risking their lives and giving up a night’s sleep to help two strangers, men who had not even made much attempt to learn their language. He felt ashamed.

  “Dans l’interieur, s’il vous plaît.” The woman pulled him back inside and then, with a quick glance up and down the lane, shut and bolted the door. Gladwin noticed for the first time that a man was seated by a small, open fire. He was old and his face was deeply tanned. His white hair had thinned but remained curly and he wore a poorly-trimmed white beard, out of which jutted an old pipe. He removed it and gestured with it to two armchairs, covered in what looked like sail cloth.

  “Sit,” he said. He nodded to the middle-aged lady. “This is my daughter. You can call her Danielle, though that is not her real name. She does not speak English. But I can manage.”

  “More than manage,” said Gladwin, gratefully sinking into the chair. “You speak it very well.”

  “Very well,” echoed Proctor.

  The old man grinned. “First World War. I learn it with the British Navy. I sail with them for a time on the old Dover Patrol. Now we shall have tea. The English like tea.” He nodded to his daughter who was busying herself with cups and saucers and what looked to the amazed eyes of the fugitives like currant cake. “Ah,” said the man, noticing their surprise. “Black market. In exchange for fish. I still fish – and I am a good fisherman. The Germans take most of it but they cannot see into all parts of my boat.” He chuckled and the pipe was replaced and bobbed up and down in satisfaction.