Escape by Moonlight

by Mary Nichols

  The Lysander began to buck about as the pilot dodged the anti-aircraft guns over the coast of France and a few minutes later it straightened out and began to lose height. ‘Two minutes to go,’ the pilot shouted back at him.

  Elizabeth stood at the door of the farmhouse and looked up at the mountain slopes. ‘It will snow before long,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ Justine was standing beside her. Both women were much thinner than they had been, particularly Justine who was always on the move and never had enough to eat. ‘We had better make this the last crossing this year.’

  ‘Perhaps there won’t be any more wanting to go.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. British aircraft are being shot down all the time and whoever picks the crew up, somehow or other finds me.’

  ‘Do you wish you weren’t doing it?’ Recently there had been a German decree that any man caught giving aid to Allied airmen would be shot without trial and women would be sent to a labour camp in Germany. Justine risked that with every man she helped.

  ‘Sometimes, when I’m extra stressed, but then I think where would the poor men go, if I didn’t help them?’ She laughed suddenly. ‘It’s my contribution to the war effort, sending them back to fly again and no doubt getting shot down again.’

  ‘So you’ll take the next one down to Lyon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll take Roger and Andrew over the border tomorrow. Will you stay?’

  Roger Wainbridge was an army captain who had been in a prisoner of war camp ever since Dunkirk and had managed to escape in a rubbish truck. He had learnt about Justine from another escapee who had been recaptured after being on the run for weeks and who had been caught as Justine led him from her apartment to the train station. The information he brought back with him was useful to others planning an escape and that included Roger. He was a handsome self-assured man who had been unbearably thin when he arrived, but had soon put on a little weight.

  Andrew Lawton was a pilot who had baled out when his Mosquito had been crippled by flak. He had been caught stealing food by a farmer in the Ardennes who had passed him onto an agricultural salesman who had taken him to a large villa near Versailles. The people there had hidden him and fetched Justine.

  ‘No, I must go back on the early morning train. You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m used to it now and the gendarmerie seem not to be interested. Papie provides them with eggs and butter.’

  ‘All the same, be careful.’

  ‘I will. But I’m more worried about the risks you are taking.’

  Elizabeth had lost count of the number of men she and Justine had helped, Justine particularly because she passed some on to others besides Elizabeth. Nor did she know how many of them had actually made it back home, but she was sure the powers in London must know what they were doing by now. She wondered if news of it ever got back to Nayton. She could not imagine that quiet village and its inhabitants ever changing. Sometimes she was terribly homesick and wished she could correspond with her parents. And Max, of course. Where was he?

  The news that came over Vichy Radio told them nothing except how well the Germans were doing. Papie tuned into the BBC Overseas Service and she heard its reports of what was happening, which she trusted to be more accurate. The RAF were bombing Germany continually, something she knew by the number of bombers shot down, something the Vichy Radio reported with satisfaction. There was fierce fighting in Russia where Leningrad was under siege, but Malta had been relieved, which was a blessing. Besides the news the BBC broadcast personal messages to friends and relatives in France, some of them so strange only those in the know could understand. She listened avidly but none seemed to be for her.

  ‘I think I’ll give Roger or Andrew a note for my folks,’ she told Justine. ‘Maybe they didn’t get the last one. I could ask them to let me know how they are through the BBC.’

  ‘I don’t think you should compromise the boys or yourself, Lisabette.’

  ‘I won’t hand it over until we reach the border.’

  Elizabeth roused her charges long before daybreak because she wanted to cover the first, most dangerous part of the walk in the dark. It was all very well to tell Justine the gendarmerie turned a blind eye, but there were others who saw no reason to help the Allies and would turn them in if they saw them. They ate breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen with Justine who was leaving at the same time to take a bus to Annecy and catch a train back to Paris.

  It was a journey she had done dozens of times, often in disguise because she did not want her frequent trips to Dransville to be noticed and questioned. Today she was wrapped in an unbecoming black overcoat, green with age, which came down to her ankles, and a black cloche hat that covered her hair. She wore down-at-heel flat shoes and no make-up. A basket containing a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs and some cheese hung on her arm. Anyone less like the usual chic Parisienne would be hard to imagine.

  On leaving the station in Paris, she shuffled along, pretending to search for cigarette ends in the gutter, until she came to her own home, when she looked about her carefully and then darted up the steps and in at the front door. Racing upstairs to her first floor apartment, she let herself in, breathing relief. An arm went round her and a large hand came over her mouth and a male voice said. ‘Don’t scream. It’s only me.’

  He dropped his hand and she swivelled round to face Max, dressed in an ill-fitting civilian suit and a black beret.

  ‘Max! What in God’s name are you doing here?’ She was shaking with shock. Her life was so geared to secrecy, to never knowing when a heavy hand would land on her shoulder, that finding someone in her flat had frightened her to death, making her heart beat uncomfortably fast.

  ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘Why? How did you get here? How did you get in?’

  He laughed. ‘One of the things I’ve learnt recently is how to pick a lock. I daren’t wait outside, I didn’t know how long you’d be. I was just beginning to think I’d have to go away again.’ This was said in perfect French which made her doubt her own ears. But it was undoubtedly Max.

  ‘You scared me to death.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Is it safe to talk here?’

  ‘Yes. Let me get this coat and hat off and make some coffee – if you can call it coffee, God knows what it’s made of – and then you’d better tell me why you’re here. Didn’t you make it home after all?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve been home, but I decided I’d be more useful in France.’

  They sat over ersatz coffee and then over wine and omelettes, made with eggs she had brought from Dransville, while he explained what he had been instructed to do. ‘I’m expected to set up a new circuit in the Ardennes area,’ he told her. ‘That means recruiting resistants and after that to arrange for supplies of money, arms and explosives to be dropped to them and organise the sabotage of enemy installations and communications.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been told to ask you if you would be willing to help with recruiting and act as a courier until they send me one from London. You don’t have to, of course, it’s entirely voluntary.’ He paused. ‘To tell the truth, I am not sure I should ask. It’s more than a bit risky.’

  ‘A bit risky,’ she laughed. ‘That’s an understatement, and it’s a bit different from guiding airmen over the pass at Dransville.’

  ‘Are you still doing that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just left numbers twenty and twenty-one with Lisabette. What she’s going to say to all this, I don’t know.’

  ‘She is not to know.’

  ‘Not to know? You mean the fact that you are in France masquerading as a paint salesman is to be kept from her?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all to do with security. She would be compromised if the Germans found out about the connection.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be, I suppose?’

  ‘I know it’s asking a lot. In fact, I think I’ll radio London to say you can’t do it.’

  ‘You will do no such thing.�
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  ‘You mean you want to?’

  ‘Of course I want to. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I was going to book into a pension.’

  ‘I shouldn’t. They’re full of Germans. You’d better stay here, at least until we can find you a safe house.’

  ‘That’s hardly respectable.’

  ‘Who cares? Besides, you aren’t the first man I’ve had staying here and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. I’m getting quite a reputation.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’

  ‘No.’ She shrugged expressively. ‘The people I care about and who care for me know the truth. Besides, we need to decide how you’re going to fulfil your brief. I’ll make up the spare bed. Tomorrow I must report for duty at the school, but I think I’ll talk to Giles Chalfont, my principal, about it. He’s involved with the Resistance.’

  ‘You mean he belongs to one of the circuits?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, it’s just a group of people anxious to make things difficult for the Boche, mostly by printing and distributing an underground newspaper. They may make your first recruits. We’ll need to have a meeting to thrash out the details.’

  ‘I’ve got a rendezvous with a wireless operator tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. You keep that and I’ll meet you back here after school is out. We’ll go on from there.’

  ‘If you’re sure …’

  ‘I’m sure. I imagine you had no sleep last night, so I’ll make up your bed.’

  She left the room and he sat in contemplation. Everything had gone like clockwork so far, but he was not such a fool as to suppose it would always be plain sailing. Justine was a marvel, a real heroine, the way she coped. She made him feel safe and he supposed that was the same for all her escapees, but at what cost to herself? He had really frightened her, hiding behind the door of the flat like that. It was symptomatic of the high tension under which she lived and operated. But he was glad he had found her and even more glad that they would be working together.

  Annelise picked the post up from the doormat. Gone were the days when a footman brought it to her on a silver salver. They didn’t have any footmen now; there was only Peters, the butler who was too old for military service, Mrs Baxter, housekeeper-cum-cook, and a couple of daily women coming in from the village to do the cleaning and laundry. Annelise found herself doing much of the housework herself. She didn’t mind that half as much as her well-to-do friends who complained bitterly about the difficulty of hiring and retaining staff, as if they couldn’t live without them. The last letter she had had from Lady Davenport was full of it. But the letter she had in her hand was not from Serena Davenport, nor anyone whose handwriting she recognised.

  She slit it open and another envelope tumbled out and the writing on that she did recognise. ‘Charles! Charles!’ she shouted, running along the hall and into the library where he was working on some accounts. She waved the letter at him. ‘This is from Lizzie.’

  He looked up at her excited flushed face. ‘How did it get here?’

  ‘In another envelope.’

  ‘Well, open it. See what she says.’

  Her hands shook so much she could hardly obey. He rose and took it from her, drew out the single sheet and started to read aloud.

  ‘Dear Mama and Papa, I hope you receive this because I want you to know I think of you all the time and wonder how you are. I can only imagine what wartime life must be like for you and hope it is not too bad. We get so little news here, and very little of it can be trusted. We are safe and well here on the farm and not troubled too much by the Germans, though they come for the skiing in winter and walking in summer. I am supposed to be Uncle Pierre’s daughter. Isn’t that funny? We decided it would be safer.’

  Charles turned the paper over and continued.

  ‘Since Vichy is only allowed a small army to keep order, Henri and Philippe have not been called up and still work at the vineyard. The wine was good this year, most of it bought by the Germans. Papie is well in himself, though he cannot do much since his stroke and spends his time telling me what to do. I have become a very efficient farmer. Mamie is her usual placid self. They both send their love and say you are not to worry about them. We are better off in the Zone Libre than in occupied France, but Justine manages to visit now and again. She, too, is well.

  ‘You cannot answer this letter, I know, but I would love to hear that you have received it and are well. Can you get a message to me through the BBC? We tune in to it every day. All my love, your dutiful daughter, Lizzie.’

  He stopped reading and looked at his wife who had flopped into a chair with tears running down her face. He smiled. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart, this is good news, isn’t it? She doesn’t sound at all troubled.’

  ‘No, thank God.’ She mopped at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘She must have helped another airman escape, don’t you think? How else did this get here?’ She looked in the envelope in which the letter had come but it was empty. ‘There’s no note.’

  ‘No, but you remember what Major Buckmaster said when we got the last one. We tell no one.’

  ‘We can’t not tell Amy and Jack. And Max too.’

  ‘No, but we’ll wait until we see them face-to-face. Amy is due home next week and Jack will get leave, but as for Max, I don’t know. Do you suppose he’s still in Scotland?’

  ‘We could write care of Britannia Barracks like we did before.’

  ‘I don’t think we can, sweetheart. I’m sure Major Buckmaster would say putting pen to paper is too much of a risk. You never know who might see it.’

  ‘You are probably right’, she agreed. ‘Do you think we could get a message to Lizzie through the BBC?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, carefully folding the letter and returning it to its envelope. ‘I’ll have to take advice about what is permitted.’

  Charles took the train to London the next day and went to the War Office where he asked to speak to Major Buckmaster, which caused a little consternation. After a long wait while someone went off to find out where the major was, a rendezvous was arranged in Marietta’s restaurant in Mayfair the following lunchtime. Charles was more than ever convinced the major was involved in some secret work.

  Buckmaster was already there when Charles arrived, having stayed at the Ritz the previous night. They greeted each other warily. The major ordered drinks for them both and they sat in red leather chairs in a secluded corner to talk.

  ‘How can I help you, My Lord?’ he asked, when they had been served.

  ‘You had better see this,’ Charles said, pushing Elizabeth’s letter across the table to him.

  ‘Thank you for showing it to me,’ the major said, after reading it. ‘How did it come to you?’

  ‘I imagine through another escapee. It was in a second envelope posted in London with no indication of who had sent it.’

  ‘But it is your daughter’s handwriting?’

  ‘Oh, no doubt of it. I want to do as she asks and send her a message via the BBC. I thought perhaps you would know how to go about it.’

  Buckmaster smiled. ‘I think it can be arranged. What do you want to say?’

  ‘I just want Lizzie to know we have the letter and are well. I imagine there are rules about what can be said.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. We have to vet everything. Have you thought of the wording?’

  ‘How about: “Papa and Mama will save some of Mrs Baxter’s Christmas pudding for Lizzie.”?’

  ‘Who is Mrs Baxter?’

  ‘Our cook. She is famous in the family for her puddings.’

  ‘Then that will do very well.’

  ‘Is she as safe as she would have us believe? After all, if she is ferrying men over the border …’ He paused, watching Buckmaster’s lean face, but it was inscrutable.

  ‘She is in the unoccupied zone and so long as she keeps her head down, she should be all right.’

  ‘And Justine? My wife is concerned for her. She lives and teaches in Paris.’

&
nbsp; He tapped the letter. ‘Your daughter says she is well.’

  There was something about the way the major said this that alerted Charles to undercurrents. Buckmaster knew more than he was saying. ‘Do you think she is safe?’

  ‘I have no reason to think she is not.’

  Charles smiled. ‘But you would hear if she were not, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Major. You would know, wouldn’t you?’

  Buckmaster shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you anything, My Lord.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I wish I could have a useful job to do, but no one seems to want me. Could you use me?’

  The major smiled. ‘It’s a thought. Are you as fluent in French as your son and daughters?’

  ‘Almost, not quite. My wife tells me I have an English upper-class accent, but I can read and write it well.’

  ‘There might be a job in the communications room. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll arrange to have a BBC message sent.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They rose to go and came face-to-face with Jack and Belinda Davenport, who were being shown to a table.

  ‘Pa!’ Jack exclaimed, in the way he had as a small boy when caught out in some mischief. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then to Buckmaster, as if remembering his manners. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  The major smiled. ‘Flight Lieutenant.’ He offered Charles his hand. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ And with that he left them.

  ‘Pa, what are you up to?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Nothing, trying to get myself involved, but no one will have me.’

  ‘I imagine that will please Mama.’