CHAPTER VII
GISELLE
I CROSSED one or two fields and came out in the lane which Madame had told me led down to La Hocquerte. About a mile further on I entered the village and slouched along the street, past women with their baskets and old men smoking in the sun. I was just thinking how normal everything looked when a German army lorry came slowly through the village with several soldiers standing in the back eyeing the passers-by keenly. I showed not the slightest interest but kept straight on and to my intense relief they passed me and continued on their way through the village.
I know who you're looking for, my friends, I thought to myself. I could feel my heart thumping away like a piston and looking back now I realise that my nerves must have been in a pretty jumpy condition.
I reached the church and following Madame's directions turned left into the Amiens road and was soon out of the village striding along vigorously in open country. I felt a different man from the tired hunted fugitive who had crept painfully into Marckenface only twenty-four hours before; my back was still rather painful but did not hinder my movements any longer and though my wrist was sprained it felt much stronger.
A few farm carts laden with vegetables passed on their way towards the village and now and again German lorries and cars drove past at high speed sounding their horns impatiently whenever a cart was rather slow in pulling into the side of the road.
After a good hour's walking without meeting any German patrols I sat down in the grass for a short rest and after a careful glance in both directions to see that the road was clear I pulled out my silk map to make sure I was on the right road. There was no mistake about it: straight on for another twenty kilometres or so and I should be in Amiens. I was just replacing the map inside my shirt when I heard a car approaching, so I hastily buttoned up my coat.
As the car came on I saw it was a German one driven by an officer. There were no other occupants. He saw me by the roadside and pulled up sharply just beyond and then leaned back over his seat. “Combien kilometres a Amiens?” he shouted.
“Vingt kilometres,” I replied and started to walk towards him, observing with some relief that his French was worse than mine. With luck he would never spot my accent.
I was now level with the car and had a good look at the driver. He wore the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer and was quite young, not more than twenty-two I think. He was good looking in a rather aggressive way with his fair hair, tanned skin and good teeth, but his face was spoiled by the arrogant expression; he was very much the German officer talking to an inferior. It struck me that there was something in common between this man and those soldiers who had searched the farm, an indefinable quality of toughness and arrogance and also, I must admit, of hard efficiency. I imagine he would have been a very good pilot.
He bent down and pulled a map out of the pocket. “Show me the way please,” he said. I placed a grimy forefinger on his map and indicated an approximate position, repeating “Vingt kilometres.” He studied the map carefully, then folded it up and replaced it in the pocket, said, “Danke schon,” and prepared to drive on.
I had a sudden inspiration. “Herr Hauptmann,” I said, “I know the way to Amiens and I am going there to my family. May I come with you and show you the way?”
He paused for a moment, looked at me, and then said curtly, “Very well. Get in.” I obeyed and we started off.
This suited me very well. With luck now I should be in Laon by night and also there was a better chance of getting through any patrols that might still be watching the road. I sat back in my seat and felt fine.
After a few minutes my companion turned to me. “You look a young man,” he said coldly. “Why aren't you in the army?”
“'Herr Hauptmann,” I said, “I was an observer in a bomber squadron, but we were shot down by one of your fighters near Rouen and my pilot was killed. I have walked for two days now to try and re-join my family in Amiens.”
He seemed interested and became a little more human. “So,” he said. “Where was your squadron?” This was getting on to dangerous ground and I thanked my lucky stars that I had been given such full details of the squadron's recent operations before leaving London.
“We were in Champagne till May 16th,” I replied without hesitation, “and then we were retreating all the time till the Armistice when we were south of Rouen.”
“South of Rouen?” he said. “What aerodrome were you at?”
This was difficult. I thought hard. The information I had been given covered the squadron's movements till just after Dunkirk and for the last fortnight I had no idea where they had been. I was very tempted to reply, “Rouen-Boos” which I knew was south-east of Rouen, but it was risky and it occurred to me in a flash that he was coming from that direction and might therefore have some accurate information on the subject. It seemed safest to be vague.
“We were not at any aerodrome,” I said slowly. “We had lost many aircraft in action and the remainder were destroyed on the ground by your bombing. What was left of the squadron was on the road driving south.”
“How did you come to be flying when you were shot down?” he said.
“My pilot and I were trying to get a damaged machine away from Pontoise, but just after we left the ground we were shot down by a Me. 109. Lieutenant Alliard was killed in the crash and I just managed to get out but my clothes were burnt and I had to buy this suit from a farmer.”
This seemed to satisfy him, for the sharp note of suspicion left his voice and he went on more amiably. “Well, I suppose you French did your best, but you never had a chance against our Luftwaffe. Now you may realise what it means to challenge the German might. In nine months we have crushed everybody who dared to threaten us just as the Fuehrer promised.”
This stung me into an unwise retort.
“What about the English?” I said. “You have not conquered them yet and Churchill says they will go on fighting.”
“The English,” he snapped. I cannot hope to convey the utter contempt and hatred in his tone. “What can they do? They ran away at Dunkirk and in a few weeks we shall go across there and break them for a thousand years. How can an old and decadent race like the English hope to resist the young German nation. They are going to learn a final lesson now and as for their precious Churchill—” he made a significant gesture with his hand across his throat—“we shall know what to do with him.”
“And the R.A.F.?” I said. “You will have to defeat them first and the British Navy too.”
“The R.A.F. will not last a week,” he said. “They have only a handful of fighters and their pilots are inexperienced. Did they save France?”
“No,” I said, “but I believe they stopped the Luftwaffe destroying the Tommies at Dunkirk.”
“Bah!” he retorted. I think the subject rankled slightly. “The British Navy got the Tommies away, not the R.A.F., and when our Stukas operate from the Pas de Calais the British Navy will not dare to show its nose in the Channel. The R.A.F. was at Dunkirk—I saw them there myself—but they lost so many fighters that they can have very few left now. And their tactics were ridiculous—they just attacked immediately even if there were only two or three of them and our fighters shot many down. Brave if you like, but ridiculous. They may have destroyed some of our aircraft, but we have so many that we can afford the losses and they cannot. No, the R.A.F. will be destroyed in a week when Marshal Goering gives the order.”
I knew it would be unwise to protest too much against his extravagant and ridiculous claims and therefore remained silent, but I had noticed one weakness which sprang from his conceit and self-confidence, a complete inability to stand contradiction. This, of course, is an old method of obtaining information; to make an absurd statement which will sting the other man into making an unwise retort that reveals what you want, but it is amazing how people still fall for it. It struck me that I might pick up a few tit-bits which would interest Group Captain Leighton on my return.
I was just thinking what to say next
when the car swung round a corner and I saw ahead a bridge across a small river. Two farm carts were drawn up on the far side of the bridge and several German soldiers stood round them evidently questioning the occupants. I had become so intrigued by this conversation with an enemy pilot and its revelation of the Luftwaffe outlook and mentality that I had almost forgotten the search which was still in progress for me, and the sight of those Huns brought me up with a jolt.
There was no possibility of turning back or trying to cross the stream at some other point. My companion was bound to notice any attempt at evasion on my part, and the only chance was to rely on bluff and my forged carte d'identité.
The car slowed down as we reached the bridge and two soldiers walked towards us waving their arms as a signal to halt. The officer muttered something I could not catch and pulled up. The soldiers came up, rifles slung across their shoulders. One of them was small, red-faced and bloated looking; he looked rather like an unintelligent pork butcher but nevertheless possessed that air of first-rate physical condition which characterised all the German soldiers I saw in France. The other man seemed to be the N.C.O. as I noticed he did the talking. He was tall with pleasant aquiline features, a quiet voice and a pair of shrewd intelligent eyes. Somehow I felt afraid of him. He looked too wide awake and competent to be deceived easily and I would far rather have dealt with the red-faced one.
He saluted the officer smartly as he came level with the car.
“What do you want?” said my companion brusquely.
“I beg your pardon Herr Hauptmann,” said the feldwebel, “but we have orders to examine the papers of all persons travelling along this road.” His tone was polite but there was a firm note in it; the man had authority behind him and he knew it.
“What is all the fuss about?” said the pilot. He produced his identity form from a pocket and handed it to the N.C.O., who glanced at it and handed it back.
“You are travelling on duty, Herr Hauptmann?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” said the officer shortly. “I am on my way to Amiens Glisy. Why all this questioning, anyway? “
“I am sorry, Herr Hauptmann but these are our orders. A soldier was found stabbed to death on the road near Tapecul yesterday morning, and it is believed he was killed by a man who was dropped by an English aeroplane during the night. The district Kommandantur has ordered a general search of the whole area, and we are examining all persons travelling on this road.”
“So,” said the pilot. He nodded his head towards me. “Well, I picked this man up on the road about ten kilometres back. He asked for a ride into Amiens, but I don't know anything about him. He says he's in the French Air Force.”
The feldwebel looked at me hard, then held out his hand and said in a tone very different from that which he had used to the officer. “Your papers, please.”
It was his first remark in French and I noticed with quick anxiety that he spoke it easily and with only a slight accent.
I fished in my pocket and handed over my carte d'indentite.
The work of that skilful forger in Whitehall was about to be tested.
The N.C.O. looked at it carefully.
“Your name?” he said curtly. “Pierre de Buissy.”
“Unit?”
“61st Bomber Squadron, l'Armee de l'Air.”
“Where is your unit?”
“I don't know. A few days ago there were only a few of us left together. We were on the road near Rouen driving south.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I am trying to get to Amiens to find some relatives who may still be there.”
“Where do your relatives live?”
This might have been a poser, but fortunately I'd thought it out already and my reply came without hesitation.
“8 Place du Nord.” I hoped the feldwebel, didn't know Amiens very well.
“Why are you not in uniform?”
I told him the same story about being shot down that I had already told the captain. He still seemed suspicious, and kept looking at me and then back at the photograph.
He said suddenly, “'You are not a Frenchman.”
“Mais oui,” I said as stoutly as I could. “I lived in London for many years because my father was in business there. I returned to France at the beginning of the war.”
He looked at me again reflectively. God, I thought, will the man ever be satisfied.
He put his hand out and seized my wrist. For an instant I thought he was going to pull me out of the car, but he merely raised my arm and examined the metal identification disc on my wrist. This seemed to satisfy him and he stepped back, saluted the officer punctiliously and said, “This man's papers are quite in order, Herr Hauptmann, thank you.”
“Good,” said my companion. He started the car and we moved across the bridge and set off towards Amiens, while I lay back in my seat and felt that I couldn't stand much more of this terrifying questioning. There can be few things more unnerving than the constant feeling of being hunted and watched and interrogated, knowing all the time that one slip will give you away.
However, I must possess a fairly resilient nature because after a few minutes my spirits rose again and I felt much more cheerful, partly because I realised that in all probability I was safely through the cordon now and would be able to finish the journey in peace.
I began to think out a way of leading the conversation along the channels I wanted. It would have to be done very carefully or he would realise that he was being “pumped”.
“Herr Hauptmann,” I said humbly. “When do you think this dreadful war will be over and we soldiers will be able to go home? If the English are mad enough to go on fighting it may last for years, n'est-ce pas?”
He laughed contemptuously.
“Years? It will be over in a matter of weeks, I tell you. The English won't last more than a few days when we get the order to march. Why, the Fuehrer has promised that we shall be in London by September 15th.”
“The Fuehrer must know,” I said, “but do you think he can tell whether the English will give up or not?”
He turned on me angrily. “Are you questioning the word of the Fuehrer?” he snapped. “If so it will be the worse for you. You Frenchmen have got to learn that when Germany says she will do something then that thing is as good as done. The Fuehrer told the world that we should be in Paris by June 15th and you fools laughed but he was right, you see.”
“That’s quite true,” I said humbly. A bit too true, I thought to myself.
I went on after a moment. “But, Herr Hauptmann, I know the English because I have lived there and they are obstinate people. An English officer told me a week ago that you would not be ready to attack before the autumn, and by then the seas would be too rough for invasion so you would have to wait till next year and then the Americans would be fighting.”
“Nonsense!” he said. “You’re an airman too. You know that there is some work to be done on your aerodromes before we are established—repairs to do, bombs and petrol and equipment to bring in, but that will take a few weeks only. I know,”—he repeated the words—“I know that the Luftwaffe will be ready to attack England in six weeks. You can remember what I say when the time comes and you will see once again that the Fuehrer's words are not to be disregarded.”
I made no reply. I had got the bit of information I wanted and it seemed too risky to go on fishing for more. Six weeks. That meant the fun would start around the first week of August. There might just be time to replace the Dunkirk losses in the fighter squadrons and train the new pilots before the storm broke. (I did not know it at the time, but already in June one quarter of the pilots in Fighter Command had been killed and the main battle was still to come.) Every day was going to count now, but we might still make it. Six weeks…
This officer almost certainly did not know the operational plans for the attack on England, nor would he have hinted at them if he did know, but the estimate which he let slip in an unguarded moment would probably
be nearly the correct one particularly as he was in a squadron himself and would therefore have a good idea of the serviceability state of both aircraft and crews. Perhaps for instance they had been told that all leave was to stop at the end of July; there are often a number of such indications which will point to impending operations.
There was something very impressive, I thought, about this man's superb confidence in his service and his cause—impressive and rather frightening, and I was bound to admit that the Germans had very solid cause for their conviction that it was all over bar the shouting. They had conquered the greater part of Europe in a few months and achieved victories infinitely more spectacular than any which the Kaiser's army managed in the last war. No wonder they were so cocksure.
When I was in the squadron, imbued with their infectious spirits and absolute conviction that we could knock the Luftwaffe for six any time they dared to take us on, I should have laughed at this conversation, but now, alone and in enemy country I realised that I wasn't half so brave or so confident as I used to think. Courage is such a collective quality and many people who are capable of anything in the company of other men become so cautious and timid when alone. At that moment I would have given a great deal to see a vision of the C.O. and Johnny laughing heartily, tankard in hand, telling me exactly what Goering could do with his precious Luftwaffe after they'd finished with it, but alas, no such inspiration was forthcoming.
We drove into Amiens without saying another word and near the centre of the down the car pulled up.
“There you are,” said the officer. “Get out please.”
I obeyed, closed the door behind me and bowed slightly.
“Thank you, Herr Hauptmann,” I said. “I am very grateful to you.”
That's quite true, I said to myself as he drove off. I'm very grateful for two things, Herr Hauptmann, a lift in your car which helped me past a sentry and one or two chance remarks which you let slip.
I have often wondered since what happened to that arrogant young man; whether he survived the Battle of Britain to which he looked forward so ardently; whether we ever fought against each other later in the summer in the great battles over London or Portsmouth, and whether he still regards the R.A.F. as such easy meat. I think, if he is still alive, he may have learnt better by now.
Pursuit of Passy Page 18
