The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  Soon the four of them were sitting, balancing plates on their laps and cups of tea on the arms of their chairs, for all the world, Gladwin recalled, as though it was Sunday afternoon at his grandmother’s house in Brecon. Proctor was similarly affected. “Very nice indeed, Madam,” he said. And then, typically, “Can you tell us what is going to happen to us?”

  The old man shot him a keen glance. “The British navy will try and take you off tomorrow night, if the weather is good. By good, I mean if the sea is kind and the light not bright. But there will be not much moon and I think not much of a sea.” He lifted his big nose and his nostrils twitched as though he was scenting the air. “The wind is from the south east – unusual – so there will be perhaps a bit of a swell from off the coast, but not too much.”

  Proctor groaned.

  “Ah, it will be nothing,” the old man said. “Better that we had bad rain, to keep the Germans inside.”

  “The coast is well guarded, then?” asked Gladwin.

  The man brushed crumbs from his blue jersey. “Of course. The Germans have gun emplacements along the cliffs. We try to embark your people before from a beach near here. The first attempts though,” he jabbed his pipe downwards, “disaster. So we… what you say… we let things lie. We have a new place, a little further away. Perhaps it work well because we think the Boche have gone to sleep again. At least, we hope…”

  *

  “How do you do it?” asked Gladwin.

  “There is a beach to the west. It is not exactly near – perhaps some eighty kilometres away. But it is good for the purpose, you know? It is called – you will like this – la Plage Bonaparte, at Anse Cochat, a little place near Plouha. We take you there tomorrow during the day and, in the middle of the night, a motor gun boat from Dartmouth creeps quietly in and sends a boat ashore for you.” He grinned. “C’est plus facile, n’est-ce pas?”

  “What’s he say?” asked Proctor hoarsely.

  “He says it will be easy.”

  “Oh yeah? I’ve heard that one before. I don’t like it Taff. I don’t like it at all.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The next morning, the two men were served an unusually delicious breakfast of poached eggs and real coffee by a smiling Danielle – the black market was obviously thriving in this far flung corner of Brittany – genially observed by the old man who sat sucking his pipe in his chair, still in his night shirt but wearing an incongruous pair of sea boots.

  “Do you come with us, Monsieur?” asked Gladwin.

  “No. Too old now to be any good if there is a fight.” Proctor sucked in his breath but the old man paid no attention and continued. “Anyway, I must fish because the weather is good. The Boche only let me fish within a few kilometres of the shore, which is good, because I go with a man even older than me. You see, all the young men have been taken away. But we do well enough.”

  “So is Danielle our courier?”

  “No. You will be collected in a few minutes. It is organised. We are used to this.”

  And so it proved. Within ten minutes the door was opened in response to a discreet tap and admitted a girl, this time no more than eighteen years old, wearing the ubiquitous tightly-belted raincoat and headscarf of Yvonne and sharing her slightly worried, earnest look. However, unlike Yvonne, her makeup had been rather too heavily applied, in the manner of teenagers the world over, and she seemed to be not long out of school. Gladwin recalled the phrase, ‘all the young men have been taken away’, and he experienced a quick moment of apprehension that their safety lay in the hands of so young a girl, a slip of a thing whose mind should have been preoccupied with Clark Gable and what to wear, rather than with conveying two such dangerous ‘packages’ through enemy lines. Yet she seemed coolly competent for, after greeting the fisherman and his daughter, she gave her charges a keen look, taking in their dress and their distinctly unmilitary appearance, before giving a brief nod of approval.

  “We take a little local train, now,” she said, displaying almost perfect English, “to a place called Guingamp. Then you will be taken by motor truck down to the coast to Plouha, where you will stay until after nightfall.” She gave an almost petulant pout. “That is all you need to know now. So far away from Brest, I do not think your papers will help you much if you are stopped by the Germans, but I will try and make sure that this does not happen. If it does, I cannot help you, I am afraid. If you are captured, then say who you are and that, on your own, you were trying to get to the coast to steal a fishing boat to cross to England. You do not need to know my name and must not incriminate me or Madame and Monsieur here. Is that clear?”

  The Flight Lieutenant and the Flying Officer, veterans of many bombing raids, nodded meek acquiescence to the orders issued to them by the eighteen-year-old. Then, with heartfelt handclasps and expressions of thanks to their hosts, they were off; once again walking behind their courier and keeping the statutory ten paces to the rear. So precise had been their instructions and so crisp the air of command, that even Proctor had been too daunted to emit any note of despair.

  The first part of the rail journey was uneventful and the train was uncrowded. In fact, Gladwin found it hard to believe that they were travelling behind and almost parallel with probably the most defended coastline in the world, for the “Atlantic Wall”, as Hitler called it, lay only a few kilometres to the north-east, as the little steam train followed the configuration of the Breton coastline. That fact, however, was quickly brought home to them when the train hissed to a halt at a small station called Plouagat. They saw to their horror that the platform was crowded by rows of Germans soldiers in field grey greatcoats, packs on their backs and rifles slung over their shoulders, their whole appearance made even more menacing by their familiar, coal scuttle helmets.

  In they bustled, crowding into the compartment shared until then only by Gladwin, Proctor, the girl and one elderly woman. Gladwin found himself squashed between a fat corporal and an equally large infantryman and, after their entry, he immediately feigned sleep by allowing his head to fall forward on his chest. He need not have worried, however, for the soldiers’ attention immediately focussed, of course, on the girl, with whom they all began to try and converse, although Gladwin could tell that their French was confined to a few obvious and lewd phrases.

  The Welshman’s heart went out to the young girl for the way she handled the situation. As they grinned and shouted at her, she allowed her glance slowly to travel from face to face. Her expression displayed the hauteur and composure of a woman twice her age. Then she spoke dismissively in very fast French to the corporal, sniffed and turned to the window, keeping her gaze there for the rest of the journey. Whatever she said – and presumably the Germans could not understand a word – it cooled their ardour and an uneasy silence descended on the carriage until Guingamp was reached. Here, the army contingent descended, flooding the platform, and the two fugitives and the girl were able to slip through the barrier without challenge.

  As before, Gladwin and Proctor walked behind the girl until, in a small square behind the railway station, they approached an old farm vehicle, its deck behind the driver’s cabin covered by a billowing tarpaulin. Looking around her with care, the girl then quickly gestured for them to climb into the back, where they sat awkwardly upon a pile of potatoes.

  “No, no,” she said in a stage whisper that seemed to Gladwin’s anxious ears to echo round the square, “under them, of course. Not on top!” At least, thought Gladwin as he and Proctor burrowed underneath the dirty vegetables, she hadn’t uttered the word “imbeciles!”

  The two had lain there, in extreme discomfort, for what seemed like an hour but was probably no longer than twenty minutes, when they heard the engine being hand-cranked. It exploded into life in a cloud of blue smoke and then someone climbed up behind the wheel, crunched the elderly vehicle into gear and they began their lurching, bouncing journey. Once again their courier, their brave eighteen-year-old going on forty-five, had slipped away to make her retu
rn journey and they had had no chance to express their thanks, let alone admiration.

  Their journey took perhaps and hour and a half and was exquisitely uncomfortable, lying as they were above and beneath the knobbliest and dirtiest potatoes that Gladwin had ever encountered. They crunched to a halt and the tailgate of the vehicle was unlatched and allowed to crash down. “Alors, messieurs, nous sommes arrivés. Descendez!”

  Wincing with stiffness, the pair half fell off the back of the lorry to be met by a stiff sea breeze and to realise that they were in a field, high on a clifftop, with white arched waves beating onto a beach far below them. Behind them, some way back from the cliff edge, stood a small, stone cottage whitewashed and looking as though its walls enclosed only one room. From the cottage a rough path led to the edge of the cliff and then, corrugated with chalk and flint outcrops, led precipitously down the cliff face to the beach below. The sky to the east was already darkening and their driver, a late middle-aged man in blue overalls, impatiently beckoned them to follow him to the cottage.

  The door was opened by a short, very thickset man with full lips and wide-set eyes. He was dressed inconspicuously in French working-class style, but his hair was carefully cut in a military short-back-and-side and he had an air of almost truculent authority about him. He exchanged a few brief words in French with the driver, then held out his hand to the airmen.

  “Glad to see you, lads,” he said in a strong Canadian accent. “Get inside now, quick as you like.”

  The unexpected incongruity of hearing a broad North American accent on this wind-swept French clifftop threw Gladwin and Proctor for a moment and they both stood, open-mouthed, on the doorstep. The twinkle in the man’s eyes disappeared in a flash. “Move your arses,” he said, “or I shall kick you inside.”

  The two men sprang into the interior of the cottage and the door was slammed behind them. It was a tiny room with a door presumably connecting to a second room. In one corner a young woman was stirring a large pot over an open fire. She gave the newcomers a cheery nod, as did an equally young man dressed as a fisherman, who sat beside the fire. Nearby a young baby slept in a cot and a double bed stood against one wall.

  “Sorry about that,” said the Canadian. “But there’s a German gun position just over there,” he nodded with his head, “and I couldn’t have you hanging about on top of the cliffs. I am Sergeant Major Lucien Dumais, of the Fusiliers Mont-Royal, Canadian army. I run the line around here and you will do as I say. You may be officers and I am only a warrant officer, but that doesn’t matter a toss here. I am in charge. Understand?”

  “Er… yes, of course,” said Gladwin.

  Proctor frowned and drew himself up to his full, inconsiderable height. “Well,” he began, “I think that’s a bit…”

  Dumais paid not the slightest attention to him. “Right,” he cut in. “Come on through now and meet the others.”

  “Others?” said Gladwin. “Where the hell…?”

  “Some next door. Others in the loft. It’s a bit crowded all right but we hope to get you out tonight. There are eighteen in all and you make twenty. There are twelve Americans, four RAF types – you make six now – and two Frenchmen who want to join de Gaulle across the Channel.”

  “Americans?” queried Proctor.

  “Yeah. There’s been a lot of daytime heavy bombing of Brest by Fortresses and the losses have been severe over Brittany. I have many more Yanks stashed away around Paris. As a matter of fact… hang on. What time is it?” He pulled out a wristwatch from a pocket of his denim jacket. “Damn! Nearly missed it. Giquel,” he called across the room. “Le radio. Vite!”

  “Ah oui.” The Frenchman rushed to an old radio set in the corner, turned the dial and bacon frying atmospherics immediately filled the room. Dumais looked at his watch. “Quiet everyone,” he said. “Should be about now.”

  A sober, very BBC-sounding voice suddenly emerged from the background buzz, speaking in French. Then, very clearly, it enunciated, “bonjour tout le monde à la maison d’Alphonse.”

  Dumais crashed one fist into the other. “That’s it,” he declared. “It’s on.” He turned to the new arrivals. “That’s the signal to say that the boat has left Dartmouth. Should be here just after midnight. We’re going to get you off. Come on.”

  He turned and pulled open the door to the other room and walked through, beckoning the others to follow. A sea of faces looked up at Gladwin and Proctor from about a dozen men who were lounging on three chairs, sprawled on the floor and perched halfway up a wooden stairway to a loft opening, from which the legs of others dangled. The windows of the room were screened by shutters behind which short black curtains hung, so only candles and the glow of cigarettes illuminated it.

  “Okay guys,” shouted Dumais. “The bad news is that our late arrivals are here, so it’s going to be even more crowded…” a chorus of groans greeted this news. “But the good news is that we’re going to lift you out tonight. Just heard that the boat has left Devon.” Muted cheers arose from the smoke-filled room. Dumais continued: “Okay. Discipline now. The Germans are all around and I’ll kill the bastard who fucks things up at the last minute by breaking the rules. So – no going outside under any circumstances. Use the can to pee and shit in it only if you must. Never move the blackout curtain. Mrs Giquel has got a stew on, so we should be able to have something hot before we go. Now, settle down now and let these new guys sit down. Get what rest you can after we’ve eaten. We will leave here at about an hour before midnight. I’ll give last minute instructions then. Right. Any questions? No. Good.”

  The question was rhetorical, for the Sergeant Major had left no time for answers anyway. Gladwin watched him intently as the little man turned and left the room. Everything he said and did carried an air of urgency and supreme confidence. It was, the Welshman concluded, a psychological tour de force, a carefully-constructed edifice designed to inspire optimism and, most importantly, instant obedience to any order given: a kind of throw-back, in fact, to the pseudo-terror created by NCOs and warrant officers to break in new recruits at basic training depots. He looked around. It certainly seemed to have worked with all the commissioned officers and sergeants who filled the room and were now talking to each other animatedly but in low voices. Even Proctor looked excited.

  Gladwin turned to a fair-haired giant sprawled next to him. “How long have you been here?”

  “Three days goin’ on five fuckin’ years,” came the reply in tones redolent of Yank. “You guys are lucky, for sure. It’s been hell just hangin’ around in here – no beer, no Coke, no exercise and bein’ bawled out every half hour by a bloody Canadian, of all people. Shucks, mack, I’ll be glad to get outa here.”

  “Fortress?”

  “Yep. Shot down five days ago on the way back from Brest.”

  Gladwin smiled. “Well, I have to say you can’t really complain. You could be back on your station within a week. That’s pretty bloody amazing.” He gestured around the room. “It’s all so well organised.”

  The American shrugged. “Well, I suppose so. By this stage they seem to have gotten things sorted out, I guess. I just wish they’d found some Chesterfields.” He gestured in derision at the cigarette he was smoking. “They’ve issued us with this fuckin’ Player rubbish.”

  Gladwin turned away, half in disgust at the shallow selfishness of this giant, well-fed American. Pictures came into his mind of the doctor and his wife sharing their virtually meat-less dinner with their fugitive guests at Abbeville, and then of de Vitrac cutting coarse black bread at the kitchen table in the farm house. De Vitrac… Marie… What was she doing at this minute? Chauvin had said that neither the Resistance nor the Germans would harm her. He wished that he could feel convinced of that. She was so vulnerable. And then he smiled to himself. Vulnerable? She was strong and determined and she would survive, grieving for de Vitrac and anxious about her “eternal husband”, no doubt, but she would survive. He pulled the silken green scarf from his pocket and kno
tted it at his throat and then closed his eyes and put his head back against the wall.

  His musing was interrupted by the door being thrown open. “Grub’s up,” said Dumais. “One at a time, don’t rush.”

  Gladwin allowed most of the others to file through and joined the end of the queue. He was given a bowl and Madam Giquel ladled hot soup into it and gave him a hunk of bread. He sniffed at the bowl as he walked back to his place against the wall. It smelled delicious and tasted even better. It was, of course, a fish soup containing goodness knows what remnants of the young fisherman’s catch of the day before and Gladwin reflected that, in a nation suffering under a rationing system of the most punitive kind, it was better to live at the coast than inland.

  “Taffy.” Gladwin turned to Proctor, who had joined him, somehow finding room beside the huge American. The New Zealander’s face had now regained its habitual look of concern. “I know you think that I am a Jonah, but I really am worried. How are all of this lot going to get on board a launch and how on earth are we going to avoid the E-Boats? Look, I’m no fool, Taff. I know that this whole bloody coast is patrolled by German E-Boats, who have got a damned good reputation for sorting out our MTBs.” Proctor looked quickly round the room. “As a Flight Lieutenant, I should think that you are probably the senior officer here. Can’t you go and see if this cocky warrant officer chap knows what he’s talking about?”

  Gladwin sighed. But Proctor had a point. The German navy had a poor reputation in England for its surface ships. The exception was the E-Boats. They were being used to patrol the French side of the English Channel and they were powerful, well-armed and armoured, fast motor launches which had proved more than a match for the British lightly-built Motor Torpedo Boats. If an MTB was going to be used for the pick-up it could prove an extremely hazardous operation.