The Arrow's Arc

by John Wilcox

  “Bloody marvellous!” cried Dumais. “She just popped in to blow out the candle. Now she’s gone back to pick up her ducklings. Well, waddya know! Three cheers for the dear old British Navy.”

  He exchanged grins with Gladwin. Then his expression changed.

  “Okay. They can’t come back for you now, so let’s get the hell outa here. Fritz will come callin’ on this beach as sure as God made little green apples. Let’s go.”

  Proctor began to run to the path. “No,” called Dumais. “Not that way. We don’t wanna incriminate the Giquels – I just hope that Georges has time to clean the place up. No. Come on. Along the beach and in the water. We don’t want to leave any tracks. Here.” He threw a small rucksack to Gladwin. “Run towards the gun. They won’t expect anyone to go that way… at least, I bloody well hope not.”

  It was not easy running along the edge of sea in darkness, ankle deep in water and carrying their small bundles of possessions. Proctor and Gladwin, whose ankle was beginning to ache, were soon out-distanced by Dumais, whom they could only just see ahead. Then he stopped and waited for them.

  “Okay,” he said, “here’s where it gets dangerous.” He gestured to the cliff that rose sheer above them. “The gun emplacement, the searchlight and God knows what are just about above us now. A little further ahead is a point where a stream runs down into the sea, so there’s a kinda valley between the cliffs. We’re gonna turn off there and make our way up into woods at the top of the valley. On the other side of the woods there’s a chateau which is a safe house, where we can stay for a couple of days.”

  “I was once told that there are no safe houses,” said Gladwin.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. But this is just about as safe as we can get. Now, open that haversack.”

  Gladwin did so and produced a Luger automatic pistol and a clutch of six hand grenades. He handed them to Dumais.

  The Canadian looked at the two men. Gladwin returned his gaze without emotion. Proctor’s jaw dropped as he saw the weaponry and he regarded Dumais with a frightened gaze.

  “Right. What were your jobs in aircrew?”

  “Pilot and rear gunner,” replied Gladwin, indicated which was which.

  The Canadian’s brows shot up on hearing of Proctor’s role, but he made no comment. Instead, he gave the pistol to Gladwin. “If you can handle four Brownings, you should be able to use this thing. It’s got six rounds in the magazine in the handgrip here and you cock it like this.” He showed him and directed a quick glance at Proctor. “I’ll keep the grenades. They can be damned dangerous if you don’t know how to use ‘em.”

  “We’re not going to have to fight, are we?” asked Proctor.

  “I certainly hope not, my friend. These are to be used as a last resort and only when I say so. Now…” he looked up at the cliff face. “The tide’s coming in and we don’t need to paddle any more and, anyway, it’s safer now to keep close in under the cliff face. Let’s go there now. Run across this line of seaweed. Go now.”

  The trio floundered across the slippery seaweed until they were sheltering under the lee of the cliff. There, Dumais beckoned them close again.

  “As far as I know,” he said, “there are no infantry based at the gun site up above, so Fritz won’t have many men to check the beach out. But he will undoubtedly send out a patrol of some sort along the sand to find out what the hell’s been going on. My bet is that they will go down to the beach the easiest way, the path by the cottage. This is quite a big bay and we’re at one end, so the odds are that they will start searching the beach the other way, away from the gun. If they do turn this way, they will be behind us now. There’s just a chance, though, that there might just be a few Jerries coming towards us. If we meet ‘em, there might be a place to hide, or there might not. If not, we can’t pretend that we’re Santa and his Reindeers so we will have to fight – though I don’t want to create a noise with these bombs unless I really have to. Come on, then, and keep your eyes peeled.”

  The three had been scrambling among the loose stones at the cliff’s bottom for no more than three minutes when Dumais, some twenty yards in the lead, suddenly dropped to the ground. The others followed suit, scrambling to find whatever cover they could.

  Around the edge of the cliff, where it projected so that it met the encroaching sea, came three German soldiers carrying rifles, their great coats and familiar helmets bulking them out in the gloom and giving them the appearance of Wagnerian warriors. Their gaze was torn between scanning the ground ahead and to their left, towards the cliff, and looking down to make sure they did not slip on the wet stones beneath their feet. In fact, so well had the hunted men concealed themselves that they might have escaped detection completely if Proctor, desperate to hide himself further, had not wriggled deeper among the sand and stones and dug his foot into a pile of shale which tumbled down.

  Immediately, the soldier at the rear of the patrol swung round and saw Proctor and Gladwin. “Schau mal hier!” he cried, and raised his rifle to his shoulder. Gladwin’s bullet took him cleanly in the breast and he slipped to the ground without a sound. The Welshman shot the second of the three neatly in the forehead just underneath his helmet. Perhaps the leader had not heard the shouted warning over the booming surf, for he was the last to turn and the third shot took him in the chest also, killing him instantly. Gladwin swivelled round quickly on his stomach and sighted the Luger two-handedly on the edge of the projecting cliff and waited, but no one came round the corner. It was, it seemed, just a three man patrol.

  “Bloody hell, man,” called Dumais, who was lying behind his rock, one grenade poised in his hand, “that was magnificent shooting. I didn’t get time to pull the fucking pin out.”

  “For God’s sake,” shouted Proctor, scrambling to his feet. He whirled on Gladwin. “You didn’t have to kill them, you bloody fool. Now we are bound to be captured and shot. I’m getting out of here.”

  He began to stumble across the beach, slipping and stumbling between the stones, back the way they had come. Dumais caught him within fifteen seconds, whirled him round and felled him with a crisp right hook. Proctor laying sobbing on the ground. “You bastard,” he cried, holding his jaw and looking up at the stocky Canadian standing over him, “it’s a court-martial offence to strike an officer. I’ll get you shot for this.”

  Dumais reached down and, grabbing the New Zealander by the coat lapels, dragged him to his feet and pulled Proctor’s face to within a few inches from his own. “One more word out of you, you snotty little prick,” he breathed, “and I’ll shoot you myself. Step out of line one more time and it will be a bullet in the back for you. Your silly rules don’t count over here. Now – do you understand me?” In emphasis he shook Proctor’s lapels until his head jerked back and forth.

  “Well?”

  “Yes.” The acknowledgement was whispered.

  Gladwin approached the pair and heard himself trying to defend Proctor. “Steady on, Sergeant Major,” he said. “He’s flown quite a few trips and he’s got a bit nervy. That’s all.” He looked down at his own trembling hands and frowned. “I guess we’re all a bit stretched. As a matter of fact… I’ve never killed a man in cold blood before – let alone three – and I don’t much like it.”

  The Canadian gave him a keen glance. “Huh huh. Well, there’s no time to have the willies now. I doubt whether the shots have been heard above the surf – glad I didn’t have to use the bombs – but we can’t take any chances. We’ve gotta drag these guys back under the cliff and see if we can hide them, partly anyhow, with rocks. I don’t want ‘em found until the morning. That will give us a head start.”

  A cowed Proctor was still shaking but he played his part in pulling the dead Germans back into a crevice in the cliff face and placing stones over them. The work took a precious ten minutes but they were not interrupted and they then recommenced their cautious progress along the base of the cliff. Dumais took the lead again but he quietly asked Gladwin to make up the rear, so t
hat Proctor walked between the two of them. Eventually the little party came to a defile, where a gurgling stream had carved its way to the sea. Here, they turned and began an awkward climb upwards, following the stream as it flowed between trees and choked undergrowth.

  After half an hour of difficult going, which left their clothing torn and their skin scratched, they reached the top of the cliff where fields stretched on either side and the stream flowed more passively between bare willow trees from a distant wood. To their right, some three hundred yards away, they could see a dark group of low buildings silhouetted against the night sky, and the barrel of a gun pointing out across the sea. Faintly, they could hear shouted commands, the scrape of shovels and other work being carried out under a heavily-shaded lamp.

  “They’re tryin’ to repair the searchlight,” said Dumais. “Good. That’ll keep them busy. Come on. Keep low and stick by the willows.”

  They reached the safety of the woods in fifteen minutes and climbed a fence to penetrate its dark depths. To Gladwin and Proctor, it seemed that there was no defined path through the trees and undergrowth, but Dumais led as though he was striding down Bond Street. The man from Canada, reflected Gladwin, had the leadership qualities and resourcefulness of a General – a good one, that is.

  They found an unlocked gate in the fence on the far side of the wood and they walked across pleasant pastureland, picking their way between a fine herd of cattle, until they met an unsurfaced road which, in turn, led into well cut lawns and, eventually, a fine chateau standing proudly behind formal gardens, studded with topiary.

  “The safe house?” queried Gladwin.

  “You could call it that,” said Dumais. “It’s the local headquarters for the German army.”

  “What!”

  “Yep. But we’re goin’ to creep round the side – the place is remarkably badly guarded. I’ve already been here once or twice. But tread quietly and follow me closely. There’s a much smaller house just round the corner there,” he pointed. “That where the Comte de Loudin has lived since the Germans commandeered his chateau. He’s expecting me, if not you two. The Comte and Comtesse share the house with his estate manager. Don’t worry. They are good friends of ours and the Germans never think of looking under their noses. Sometimes, you know, despite the fact that they’ve conquered Europe, they can be bloody fools.”

  The little party skirted the main gardens of the chateau and walked down a track to where a small but not immodest house stood sheltered in a group of poplars. Dumais led the way round to the back and quietly opened a door which led into a typical French kitchen – Gladwin was reminded, with a leap of his heart, of the kitchen in the de Vitrac house. Making sure that the window shutters were closed, the Canadian lit a candle and gestured for them to sit.

  “I guess everyone’s in bed,” he said, and looked at his watch. “And so they should be at this time in the morning. We’ve gotta hunker down too and it had better be safe because, when the jerriesfind those bodies there will be all hell to pay…”

  Gladwin interrupted him. “I’ve been thinking about that. Will the Germans…” His voice tailed away and he realised that the shootings on the beach had affected him in a way that had never happened before, even when he had watched his victims explode in mid-air in a ball of fire. That, somehow, had been dispassionate and a fair fight. These killings had been intensely personal and the soldiers had never stood a chance, with the possible exception of the first man who had time at least to raise his rifle. Now he felt guilt. He cleared his throat and tried again to find the right words. “Will the Germans take reprisals against the local French people as a result of… of… what I did?”

  “Bugger that,” interrupted Proctor, “what will they do to us when they find us? That’s what worries me.”

  Dumais ignored him. “Could well do. They’ve done it before, although usually after Maquis activities. But if they blame the Maquis for this – and they are likely to – then it won’t necessarily harm us in operating the line here. The Resistance is proactive, blowing up things and such. Fritz could double up his guards on targets like gun emplacements and so take a bit of pressure off us. As for reprisals…” he mused for a moment. “Maybe the Comte would be able to talk ‘em out of it. He plays it close to the Germans and I think they trust him. But you never know.”

  He turned to Proctor. “What will happen to you if they knab you? The chances are that they will shoot you out of hand, after some painful interrogation about who has helped you get this far and so on. So,” and he frowned fiercely and pushed his face towards the New Zealander’s, “don’t go tryin’ to give yourself up. You won’t end up in some cushy POW camp, chum. Take it from me.”

  Proctor turned to Gladwin, as though for support, then thought better of it and sank back in his chair, despairingly pushing his head back and closing his eyes.

  Dumais put out his hand. “Give me the Luger, brother. You certainly don’t want to be found with that on you.”

  Gladwin pushed the heavy pistol across the table and the Canadian put it away in his haversack. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s tuck ourselves away. The Germans are bound to search this house tomorrow. They’ll go through the hay barns outside with bayonets and look down every bloody well, so you’d better come in with me. The Comte’s found me a pretty good hidey hole. It will be cramped but it will have to do.”

  Treading quietly, they made their way upstairs by the light of the candle into a large, low-beamed attic that seemed to stretch the length of the house. Old furniture and other domestic detritus were scattered about and Dumais pulled a chair towards a corner of the room, stood on it and pushed at a section of the ceiling that seemed no different from the rest. It gave way and revealed an opening, some three feet square, almost impossible to detect because the hatch fitted so closely to the ceiling around it. The Canadian reached inside and pulled down a rope ladder. He then carefully replaced the chair and gestured to Gladwin.

  “Up you go. I’ll hand up the candle to you and there’s another couple up there, but don’t set the place on fire. It’s as dry as tinder.”

  Gladwin found that he was in a windowless, arched loft with a bedroll in one corner and a two-way radio in another. Blankets were piled in a further corner with, incongruously, a Sten gun lying across them. Proctor swayed his way up to follow him, followed by Dumais, who pulled up the ladder and, with great care, fitted the hatch back again.

  “Okay,” he said. “No mattresses, I’m afraid, but plenty of blankets – and you will need ‘em because there’s no heating and it gets as cold up here as dear old Manitoba, I can tell yah. No rats though. Just mice. Get some sleep and we will talk in the morning. I guess I’ll have to contact London.”

  He threw blankets to Proctor and then walked across to Gladwin and spoke quietly. “Say, what’s your first name, Mr Master Gunner?”

  “Bill.”

  “Okay Bill. I’m Lucien. Listen to me now. You killed three guys tonight who were going to kill you. They were probably just ordinary Joes who had been called up to fight for their fuckin’ Fuhrer. But maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were like the Nazis who are probably workin’ over poor Yvonne at this very moment – ‘cos they often do that at night, you know. Either way, they’re very dead now and you got us out of a hole. Don’t torture yourself about it. This war ain’t nice. Now go to sleep.”

  “Okay Lucien. Good night.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Germans came in the morning very early, probably before dawn. The fugitives were woken by the sound of jackboots on the gravel outside and a subsequent banging on the door. Finger to his lips, Dumais gestured to the others to get dressed and did so himself. Then, in stockinged feet, he threw a blanket over the radio, detached the rope ladder and hid it behind the folded blankets, which he piled high enough for them to crouch behind. He took the Sten gun and handed the Luger to Gladwin.

  “The Comte tells me,” he whispered, “that they’ve searched the attic a coupla times and never bee
n too meticulous. But if they do spot the hatch – and I don’t think they will, because it’s in a dark corner – there’s just a chance they’ll stand on a stool, poke their head through and take a quick look round, see nothing and that’s that. But if we are found, we’ll just have to take a few with us.”

  *

  They heard the search party come into the attic eventually but it was obviously merely a ritual, for the Germans stayed for only two minutes before noisily tramping down the stairs again. The trio heard an exchange in French with, presumably, the Comte at the door of the house, then they moved away with a crunch of gravel.

  Dumais grinned at Proctor. “Saved again, mon cher. It must be because our hearts are pure.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Proctor. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  Gladwin and Proctor were left in the loft for half an hour while Dumas descended to speak to the Comte, then he came back for them. Down in the attic their host was waiting to meet them: a small, erect little man with a fine, white moustache who bowed and welcomed them in excellent English. As he shook his hand, Gladwin could not help but wonder if his line went back to the fifteenth century and, if so… He shook his head in annoyance to dispense with the thought. There were enough problems facing them in the present without allowing his mind to speculate about the past.

  The Frenchman explained that three elderly men had, in fact, been taken by the Germans from the village that morning and had been shot in reprisal for the killing of the soldiers. His manner was formal, almost matter-of-fact, and he gave no impression of harbouring any elements of blame towards his unexpected guests. Nevertheless, his eyes were cold and Gladwin experienced a wave of guilt and depression at the result of the shootings on the beach. Wouldn’t it have been better if they had given themselves up, after all? He began, haltingly, to apologise but Dumais cut him short before the Comte could gain an understanding of what he was trying to say.