So here we go…
Turning her, as she lifted. Digging the blade in, leaning on it hard, forcing her round as a big one came rushing…
‘Oars!’
Meaning, stop rowing. They had done – oars across their knees, the men both stooped forward… Balancing act, too, swaying against the motion of the boat, but the work was all Ben’s now, holding her stern-to, while the wave carrying her into the beach flowed on under, melting into the boil of surf.
‘Boat your oars!’
Otherwise they’d be smashed…
Scraping of sand under her bow: then she was out of contact with it again, lifted and driving in. A heavy jolt, then, impact under the keel, her forefoot – on sand quite solidly, but still driven…
‘Hi, there, Navy!’
Dark figures wading to them through the surf, yelling over the noise of it and waving. Another American voice: ‘Are we glad to see you guys!’
‘Hey – not Krauts, are you?’
‘Sorry we’re late.’ Davidson and Abercrombie were out of the boat, one each side, joining the airmen who were hauling it up. Ben got out too. An English voice yelled ‘Cripes – we going in this?’
‘Safer than you’d think, cobber… Senior officer here?’
‘Guess that’s me.’ Yank: tall, about Ben’s own build. ‘Charles Hansen – major, U.S. Air Force.’
‘Ben Quarry, lieutenant.’ Ball had come to join them, trailed by the group who’d met his boat and hauled it up. Ben told the major, ‘This is Nick Ball, sub-lieutenant. He’s the fellow that counts, small-boat genius… Major, are there still seventeen of you?’
‘Yeah. Half in each boat, eh? Oh – here’s your senior British officer – Tom Bristol, squadron leader.’ Ben shook hands with him ‘Should get a move on, if you’re ready. Two trips: first one I’ll take four and the sub here’ll take five; we’ll be back in about an hour and take four each. OK?’
‘Whatever you say. Australian – right?’
‘Couldn’t miss it, could you?’ Thinking about that light, narrowing his eyes into the darkness, looking for it. It should have been visible from here – if it was still shining and in the same place…
It was. So that was fine. The major was telling the crowd of men around him, ‘Nine of you, this time. Five in that boat, four in this. I’ll wait with the next crowd. Get to it, fellers.’
* * *
The light was still there, its apparent flickering due probably to the distance and the conditions between here and there. Bearing near enough due east. Struggling back on this first return trip – the rowers having a much harder time of it, fighting out with the weather broad on the bow and Ben’s scull needing all his strength right from the start to hold her on course, and four Americans crouched on the dinghy’s bottom-boards – he had the light somewhere near abeam ail the way. It had to be a couple of miles away, and the distance from shore to ship was only about 250 yards; the bearing couldn’t have changed by more than a degree or two between shore and ship.
His first sight of the gunboat came after he’d seen Ball alter course sharply into the wind to run up alongside. Hughes had been ready for them, had her lying across the wind again to make the transfer of passengers easier. He’d have been counting off the minutes, Ben guessed. They’d left the island just after 0200, and it was now 0250. Twenty minutes – roughly – ship to shore, and forty-five shore to ship: they had a barely adequate hour now in which to get back to the beach, embark the rest and bring them out – and from Hughes’ angle to have them on board, boats out of the water and anchor out of the sand by 0400.
It wasn’t a stipulated deadline, but no-one could fail to be unaware that even with this heavy overcast, any later than that you’d be looking for the first flush of dawn.
As would the Germans in their coastal defence positions.
Ben’s Yanks were directed to the ladder, and hauled on board. Abercrombie was then relieved by A.B. Bright, a Gosport man, and Davidson by ‘Tommo’ Farr from Port Talbot. Real name Jimmy, nicknamed after the great Tommy Farr who a lot of people thought should have been given the decision at his world heavyweight championship fight with Joe Louis in ’37.
Ball pushed off, Ben followed, as before. Anxiety over the time element was ameliorated by the comfort of having the light still there. If he should happen to lose sight of Ball he’d have at least some idea of a course to steer. He’d thought about using the wind direction for the same purpose, but it wouldn’t have helped much, particularly as it seemed to be backing and veering from one minute to another between southwest and northwest: how it felt, anyway – which was what counted.
In the sea, as much as on it.
Same routine then at the island: Ball into the surf-line first, then Ben well clear of him, and airmen wading into the surf to meet them. They’d separated themselves into two teams and were ready to embark; the dinghies had only to be turned round, to battle their way out again.
Time: three-nineteen. Ben’s passengers were the American major, the R.A.F. squadron leader and two sergeant-pilots. Two each side of the boat, steadying it and ready to push off and jump in. Ben told them, pointing in Ball’s direction, ‘Let him away first. He has the compass.’
‘You don’t?’
Shouting, over the thunderous booming of the surf… ‘Borrowed boat, this one. Came with a duff compass.’ To his crew then: ‘Oars forward!’
They couldn’t start rowing until the passengers were inboard: taking the dinghy out a few yards first, foam boiling up thigh-deep. Ben yelled, ‘All right, get in!’ A wail like a seagull’s shriek, to his own ears and above the surrounding din: and they were in, the dinghy beginning to swing away – with the danger of being rolled over – but OK then as the oarsmen put their weight into it. Ben looking for Ball’s boat…
There. Thank God…
Scull in, ruddering her round to get on to Ball’s port quarter. Easier than following directly astern, with the rowers’ heads and shoulders blocking one’s view some of the time. He’d realized this on the last trip out to the ship and had felt stupid for not having caught on to it before.
The light was still there, with its fast, infinitesimal flicker. Then as the dinghy plunged into a trough, nothing in sight at all, only the stroke oar’s regular lunging to and fro and the white flashes of broken water, a wave’s white-fringed crest overhanging, threatening… Rolling hard to port as he steered her round to climb it: telling himself, Be alongside just after four. Won’t have been bad going, for an amateur…
Riding high again then: but he couldn’t see Ball’s boat. Down in a trough of its own, he supposed. Then, watching for its reappearance, he realized suddenly that the wind was well abaft the beam, quickly wrenched the scull’s blade outward to haul her round ten or twenty degrees to starboard: the fact occurring to him that if you let that happen too often, or steered ten degrees off course for say one minute, Ball would by then be a long way out of sight: also that in terms of steering by the wind direction as one felt it, twenty or even thirty degrees this way or that was as good as you could hope for.
Find that light…
Smell of vomit in the wind. The last lot had been sick, too.
There. Close to the beam – where it belonged. So – OK. Now find Ball.
Not immediately, you wouldn’t. Falling bow-down again, black water lifting like a wall ahead. Just hang on, no panic…
Because of the existence of that light, no panic.
Shooting up again: the dinghy practically standing on her transom – and trying to pay off as the wind hit her bow. He’d checked that: and the oarsmen were performing miracles. No pauses, no mis-strokes: in these conditions… Still couldn’t damn well see Ball, though. How long since he last saw him? Much too long – that was for sure… Sweep-oar well out to starboard again, his weight on it… Bloody hell, though, the law of swings and roundabouts had to apply here, surely, at least some of the time you’d have to be well up simultaneously – see each other?
&nbs
p; If you were in visibility range at all…
Check on the light again.
Couldn’t find it…
Had to be there. Less than a minute ago it had been in sight, on the beam. Even if – well, if you were say forty degrees off course – which theoretically was – well, Christ’s sake…
No light anywhere. Switched off, or covered? He’d searched all round – an acknowledgement in itself of having little idea which way he had the dinghy pointed.
But he hadn’t. Hadn’t a bloody notion…
7
In Rouen, Rosie woke with the dawn: on a bed like corrugated iron. It would be why she’d woken this early, she supposed, opening her eyes to a grid of pinkish light between the slats of shutters which Marthe Bonhomme had warned her last night not to open, unnecessarily advertising the fact they had someone living in their attic. She’d been about to open them in order to let some air in: in the top of the old house the summer heat was trapped under the low, sloping ceilings.
It would be a damn sight less comfortable in Dachau or Ravensbruck, she reminded herself.
Happy thoughts, in the delicately pretty light of dawn – and a delicious aroma of baking bread. This was a bakery – the ground floor was – Boulangerie Bonhomme, in Rue de la Cigogne.
Wondering about Vidor. Whether he and his réseau were still functioning or whether he’d have shut up shop at the news of Guillaume’s arrest: in which case, what might have happened to the dozen airmen who should have been in his charge by the time he’d had that news? She guessed that he’d have seen at least that operation through, counting on Guillaume’s holding out for the prescribed forty-eight hours. Might even have decided to hang on and chance it – depending on how he felt about Guillaume. If you could ever be certain: even about yourself, for God’s sake… But – odds-on, she thought, that he’ll have got that lot on their way. In which case they’ll be on board the gunboat – now, this moment, on its way back to England, having cleared the French coast before first light. Thinking about that, she was visualizing Ben in his little chart-room, stooped over the chart, his face half-lit by the light from that gooseneck lamp and the other half of it in shadow: this serious, intent Ben…
She could say now that was where and how they’d met. If she saw him again, if he had a leave and she invited him and they came to stay in Buckinghamshire. Wouldn’t have to tell her mother, We met by chance one evening and finished up in bed…
Thursday, this was. One of César’s days to be at the Café Belle Femme. He was to be there on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 11.15 to midday, and she was to arrive at 11.25 sharp; he’d be expecting her at exactly that time, would take no notice of anyone showing up at say 11.23 or 11.27. He’d be alone at a table with two cups on it – and there’d be the business of the spoons… A cardinal rule in all rendezvous arrangements was that you stuck precisely to the times: if the person you were meeting didn’t show by the deadline, you didn’t hang around.
What she had to decide now – because she’d been too tired to think straight last night – was whether to keep the rendezvous today or leave it until next Tuesday. Factors involved in the decision were – in favour of going along – that he might have been waiting for her two days a week for the past fortnight or so, that you were supposed to make contact as soon as possible after arrival, and that important S.O.E. operations might be held up until the two of them did get together. Or the three of them, if he’d decided to take a chance on Romeo. But the contrary argument – the alternative of giving it a miss today – was the fact she had these other tasks which he didn’t have to know about – namely (a) getting the message out about the parachute drops – which was extremely urgent – and (b) starting some kind of ball rolling with Jacqueline Clermont. It might make a lot more sense to get (a) done with and (b) under way while she was still so to speak a free agent.
They really did need to know now, about the drops, to have time to prepare for them. Each reception involving at least half a dozen men, and transport, and having caches ready – pits dug, or whatever. None of which she needed to know about. She had only to tell them where and when, and the code-phrases to listen out for. There was a good chance – she reached down, touched the attic’s boarded floor – that passing it all to one individual in the village of Lyons-la-Forêt might take care of both drops, saving her a certain amount of time and pedalling.
She’d have to travel by bicycle. Louis might not approve of this as a means of transport for the Maison Cazalet’s representative, but she’d be able to explain it easily enough, if called upon to do so. New to the job, no money, having to economize at least until she’d started earning some commission. She’d take the radio with her, of course: a clear priority was to get a signal off to Baker Street reporting her arrival in the area and notifying them that the safe house in Lyon had been taken over by the Gestapo. This would be at Louis’s request: they’d been upstairs in his house on Tuesday discussing the ins and outs of the perfumery business when he’d been called down to the shop and had come back up ten minutes later looking worried: ‘I have had bad news, Jeanne-Marie. A planque in Lyon, Pension d’Alsace, is now a mousetrap. Several arrests.’ He’d put a hand on his diaphragm: ‘You know, it makes me ill to think of it. Really ill… but you could help us with this, please – if you’re going to be talking to London soon?’
So the contact with London was a priority, because of the Guillaume business, and consequent doubts of the security of more than one réseau and their pianists’ operations in the Paris area… And actually it was a strong point in favour of meeting César this morning. He’d have to know – later – that she’d made that signal, so he’d know she’d been here, and in reporting her arrival she’d be bound to include, No contact made as yet with César or Romeo. If she’d deliberately avoided making contact, he’d justifiably want to know what she was playing at.
So go ahead and meet him? Tell him frankly that she had a job to do this weekend which wasn’t strictly his business, and that she’d be available to him full-time as courier/pianist by say Tuesday?
Best solution, probably. He mightn’t like it, but it could save later complications.
Telling no lies…
* * *
She made her own reconnaissance of the town, and before eleven had located the café and the hairdresser’s, having asked strangers here and there for directions – advisedly not having asked the Bonhommes, as she’d intended, before setting out from the bakery. What she had not found as yet was a bicycle shop: which was odd, seeing that the streets were full of bikes; you’d have thought they’d sell them on every corner. Could have asked Raoul Bonhomme that, she supposed, without giving anything much away. Might ask him later, if she still hadn’t found one – or unless César had been here long enough to know.
Or Romeo, if she met him. He’d be the best bet by far, for local knowledge. If she met him: which was a decision best left to César.
She was on the Quai du Havre now, on a stone bench, resting her feet as well as killing time, and resting her eyes – behind sunglasses – on the Seine’s smooth-flowing surface. Flowing from left to right, on the ebb, swirling around the massive stone supports of the Pont Jeanne d’Arc. This was the Rive Droite; she had the sun climbing to her left, its reflection dazzling on the water even through the glasses, which had been a present from Louis.
A sense of peace here – antiquity, continuity…
As far as the river was concerned, anyway, and the ancient streets through which she’d been wandering for the past two hours or so. Ornately decorative stone frontages on some of the wider streets and squares, heavily timbered lath-and-plaster enclosing the winding cobbled lanes, some so narrow that in places the overhang of upper floors just about shut out the sky. The centuries had washed through them, leaving them unmoved. Picturesque, all right: but she’d soon begun to appreciate that cobbles weren’t all that good to walk on, in French cardboard-soled shoes. Bloody agony, in fact. She’d eased one shoe off and was ma
ssaging that foot, her thoughts moving meanwhile to the desirability of finding somewhere else to live. Through César, perhaps.
Marthe Bonhomme had invited her to get her own breakfast when she was ready for it. There’d be coffee on the stove and this morning’s bread on the table. Her husband would be at work in the bakery – from as early as four a.m. – and she’d be in the shop from about seven-thirty… ‘But tell me, will you be out all day?’
‘Well…’ At close range, looking back into the rather small, brown eyes: ‘I expect so…’
The query had still been there, an invitation to tell her where she’d be going or what she’d be doing. Natural curiosity, probably, but it was coupled with a certain edginess which Rosie understood now but which at the time had reminded her of that insistence on keeping the shutters closed – when in fact there was no reason she should not have been staying here. Her cover was really very sound: young widow with a child in its grandmother’s care, the need to earn a living and some distant cousinship with a well-known Parisian who was prepared to give her this chance – and who happened, incidentally, to be a chum of Reichsmarshall Hermann Goering, as well as other bigshots. Jam on the bread and butter: repulsive as it might be from some other points of view… Admittedly, if the Gestapo had been tipped off that an S.O.E. female agent would shortly be arriving in this city, or that one might recently have arrived, they’d be looking at every new face; but the Bonhommes knew nothing about that – about Guillaume, whose arrest was the factor imposing this special danger.
At the time of Madame Bonhomme’s warning about the shutters, there’d also been her strange question: ‘You don’t walk about at night, I suppose?’
Rosie had laughed. ‘Not usually.’
‘No.’ A brusque gesture. ‘There’s a bolt on the door. You’ll lock it, will you?’
Presumably her husband did walk about at night, she’d guessed, and when he’d unexpectedly joined her in the kitchen this morning the suspicion had been more or less confirmed.
Into the Fire Page 11
