Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  He walked more slowly now, past the dispersal pens and the squadron’s crew huts on the far side of the field. From the activity going on inside the huts, it looked like the squadron was packing up for a move. That was not unusual as the RAF constantly moved its squadrons about, flying the aircraft and pilots out. Some of the maintenance personnel would follow but the rest of the base would stay behind, ready to accept the next squadron that would arrive shortly. Zack wondered when his squadron, 25, would be moved. They had been at Church Fenton since May of 1942. A long stay by RAF standards. That makes sense, he reasoned; move the aircraft to where they can work most effectively.

  It took him an hour to make the circuit of the field. Finally, he was headed back for the officers mess, feeling more relaxed. A staff car he hadn’t seen before was outside and the old tingling sensation brushed his senses. Willi was back and his brief vacation was over.

  “You were told to wait here,” Willi said when she saw him.

  “What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled, ignoring her reprimand. “You’d like it here—many nice people.”

  “Get your bag,” she ordered. “We’re leaving.”

  The mess steward suddenly appeared, carrying Zack’s bag. “Here, sir,” he said. “I took the liberty of packing when the young lady asked for you.” He gave Zack a bland look that said, “Off to a dirty weekend, I take it.”

  Zack played the game to Willi’s obvious discomfort. “Thank you. We really don’t want to waste any time.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” the steward replied. Willi stomped out of the mess while Zack settled his bill and thanked the steward.

  The driver loaded Zack’s bag and they headed out the gate, turning toward London. “The house at Wimbledon,” Willi told the driver.

  A polite “Yes, miss” answered.

  Zack arched an eyebrow. “Tennis this time?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.

  A cold silence hung over them as the driver headed into London. This was the third time Zack had been to London and, as before, he found the city depressing. War had made the huge metropolis even more drab and dirty. He wondered if this was the fate of all big cities. Maybe Ruffy’s right, he thought; we are going to have to change things after the war. He looked skyward, searching for relief in the clean and simple sky. Then he saw them and smiled. “I see you’ve taken precautions against sinking.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Willi asked.

  He grinned at her and waved out the window. The sky over London was stacked with tethered barrage balloons. “You have so many balloons tied to the ground that your lovely little island is bound to stay afloat under the weight of all us Yanks.”

  The driver laughed. “I think he’s right, miss.” Willi looked out her side of the car. It did indeed look like London was suspended from under a canopy of bloated silver sausages, each anchored to the earth by a slender cable that stretched earthward from the underbelly like an umbilical cord.

  “They serve a very real purpose,” Willi told him, disapproval in her voice. Then she saw the humor of the sight. “You do have an odd way of looking at things,” she said, her voice softer now.

  “It makes things much more interesting,” he told her.

  “Miss,” the driver said, “there’s a diversion ahead.” A traffic warden was standing in front of a barricade. “I’ll ask for directions.” He pulled up beside the woman who gave them precise directions around the area that had been bombed the night before. “It would be best to take the Waterloo Bridge,” he explained and pulled back into traffic.

  “Yes, do that,” Willi said, giving Zack an odd look. She settled back into her seat and studied the American’s face, waiting for a reaction. As they neared the River Thames, more and more American GIs packed the streets, moving aimlessly about.

  “How long has it been since you were in London?” Willi asked.

  “Eighteen months ago,” he answered.

  “It’s changed since then.”

  “All the Yanks?” he asked.

  “And the tarts.”

  Zack studied a number of women on the sidewalk mingling with the GIs. “My God! They can’t all be…”

  “Most of them are,” she told him. “It’s so bad that a decent woman can’t walk the streets without having one of your countrymen wave two pounds in her face. It is not pleasant to see so many of our women turned into prostitutes.”

  “Where did they all come from?” Zack asked.

  “They’ve always been here, sir,” the driver said. “Before the war, the newspapers claimed there were over seventy-five thousand of them in London alone. We call ’em Piccadilly Commandos. Their ranks have swollen a bit and they are more open about it now. Probably does ’em good, open-air work and the like.” Zack saw what he was talking about—standing back in an alley was a GI. A woman was kneeling in front of his open fly, her fist guiding him into her mouth. Zack’s head jerked away from the sight and he stared into the car.

  You’re blushing! Willi thought. Then it came to her—he was also ashamed.

  The driver pulled into the drive of a big house set well back from the road. He hurried around to open the door for them but Zack was already out of the car. “That was quite a maze you drove through,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Piece of cake,” the driver said, beaming at the praise. He ignored Willi and handed Zack his bag.

  Willi led the way into the house. A dumpy, nondescript woman came rushing up. Zack recognized her as the woman he had mistaken for Willi at the duke’s country estate. “They got her out last night,” she said. “She’s here.” Zack stood frozen in his tracks.”

  “Good,” Willi told her. “But first we need to explain the drill to Mr. Pontowski.” She motioned Zack into the lounge and sat him by the bay window overlooking a large, unkempt garden.

  They were joined by a middle-aged, balding, round little man who had a pipe permanently stuck in his mouth. “We brought you here for two reasons,” he said, not bothering to sit down. “First”—a big puff of acrid tobacco smoke swirled about his head like a fog—“we want you to identify Mrs. Bouchard—”

  “I thought…” he stammered, interrupting him.

  “Yes, her maiden name was Chantal Dubois,” the man explained. He paused at the stricken look on Zack’s face. “Can we continue? Good. We could have done this with a photograph. It is really the second task that is much more important. We want you to help us determine if she has been turned by the Germans…that is…we need to know if she might be a double agent.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “By spending some time here, of course,” he answered, puffing lustily at the pipe.

  “Alone?”

  “Impossible, old chap. Out of the question.” More smoke.

  “What happens if she has been turned?”

  “Then we try to convince her to be turned again.”

  “And if you fail?” Zack asked.

  “Don’t think about that, old chap. Ready? Good.” He waddled to the door leading into the next room and held it open. Zack stood up, seriously doubting if he could take the next step. He didn’t have to. Chantal Dubois, now Mrs. Bouchard, walked in.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered.

  They were walking in the overgrown garden late the next day. Zack scuffled his feet, deep in thought as he and Chantal walked the path that led around the high walls. He glanced at the big house and saw Willi standing in an upstairs window watching them. He wanted to take Chantal’s hand but thought better of it. So much had changed since he had last seen her.

  “There is much you want to ask,” Chantal said in German, still their best language for communicating.

  “I wish I spoke French better,” he told her. “I don’t think it would sound so hostile, considering where we are.”

  “And I, English,” she replied. “Your Miss Wilhelmina would not look at us with so much disapproval.” She laughed at the thought of Willi’s stern looks whenever they spoke t
ogether. Her laughter was clear and bell-like, echoing through his emotions. “It is strange that the English would give one of their children a German name. After all, she must have been born after the Great War. She looks so young, like you.”

  “I was born in November of 1918,” Zack told her. “On the eleventh, to be exact.”

  “On Armistice Day,” she said, a twinkle caught in her voice. She was doing some mental arithmetic. “I am two years older than you.” She watched his face and then laughed at his discomfort. “Please, don’t be so embarrassed. It is acceptable to be seen with an older woman.”

  “I seem to be in love with one.” He felt much better for having said it.

  “Oh.” So much in that simple word—but no other reply. They walked in silence while Zack cataloged the way his world had changed. Chantal had matured during the seven months they had been apart. The months might as well have been years. Her age had exploded like a bombshell, and yet it changed nothing. Chantal had only become more beautiful—and confident. And she was married.

  “We must talk,” Chantal finally said, breaking the silence. She took him by the hand and guided him to a garden bench. “What is bothering you?” she asked, sitting him down.

  “Your name,” he managed to blurt out.

  “Ah, that.” Her voice had that flat, practical tone only the French can master. “It is really quite easy to explain.” She smiled at him and he felt his legs go weak. “But matters like this are very difficult for Americans to understand. You remember Leonard?” Zack’s chin came off his chest at the mention of the English agent who had helped them escape out of France. “His name,” she said, ignoring his reaction, “or at least the name he was using, was Leonard Bouchard.” She put her fingers to his lips, not letting him speak. “Leonard came back for me…” She spoke slowly, carefully choosing her words, and told how Leonard had returned to Zaragoza and waited until General Alphonse de Larida y Goya was done with her. She didn’t bother to explain how the old man was nearly impotent and had taught her how to help him achieve an erection. Under the best of circumstances it never lasted long. “Goya became bored with me very quickly and threw me out—after taking my papers. Leonard decided that marriage was the quickest and safest way to create a new identity and get me out of Spain. So we were married.”

  “Was that necessary?” Zack asked.

  “You Americans are so naive. You have no idea what it is like to be without papers in Europe.” She told him how Leonard had bought a forged French passport for her that wouldn’t stand up to rigorous scrutiny but was sufficient to get them through an official Spanish marriage ceremony. They had then taken the false passport and very real marriage certificate to the French embassy in Madrid where she applied for a legitimate French passport under her married name. A substantial bribe had been passed to facilitate matters and the consular official had issued her a real passport and French identity card with her new name. It had been amazingly easy.

  “Did you…” He blushed brightly. “Ah…sleep with…”

  Chantal held his hand in both of hers. “We were married and shared the same bed.” Tears filled her eyes. “He was kind and gentle…a very good man. We returned to France and I helped him as a courier until he was picked up by the Gestapo. He had an L pill…” She explained how he had crushed the capsule between his teeth and died within seconds before the Germans could interrogate him. “I was picked up as a matter of routine by the French authorities and held for three days. They released me when my papers held up and did not turn me over to the Gestapo. I went into hiding to avoid the Germans until I could establish contact with the Resistance.”

  “Were you interrogated?”

  “It was worse when we were captured by the Gestapo in Germany. The French only wanted to check my identity.” She smiled. “I was most believable as a hysterical young bride.”

  Inside the house, Willi waited until the short fat man removed the headset he was wearing. The bench that Chantal and Zack were sitting on had been bugged. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It checks,” he answered. “We can use her. Get rid of Pontowski.” He puffed a blue haze into the room. They didn’t see the couple gently kiss and embrace.

  Late that same afternoon, the driver who had chauffeured Zack and Willi from Fairlop appeared at the door. Willi told Zack to pack. The driver would take him back to the RAF base. “You don’t waste any time discarding people when you’re done with them,” Zack said. “Am I allowed to say good-bye?”

  “Of course,” Willi replied. She could understand why he was disturbed, perhaps angry. Still, she had her job to do and listened discreetly at a distance while Zack and Chantal spoke. It disturbed her that they were speaking German and she wished her pipe-smoking superior hadn’t left for the day. He spoke fluent German.

  “They’re sending me back tonight,” Zack said. Chantal said nothing and stared at the floor. “I was hoping we’d have some more time…” He didn’t trust himself to say more. He touched her cheek and she raised her chin, looking directly at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t want to go,” he finally managed.

  “There is never enough time,” she murmured. “Perhaps…after the war…”

  “Yes, perhaps.” They knew the dangers they faced. Neither had a good chance for survival.

  “I love you,” she said in French. The soft words seared his soul. “I wish we had one night.” The last was in German.

  “Maybe,” he said, his mind racing, “there’s a way we can arrange that. If we can get you out of the house and you had something else to wear…”

  Chantal’s eyes widened at the thought. She and Willi shared the same bedroom. “There is a spare uniform hanging in Wilhelmina’s closet.”

  “Borrow it,” Zack said. “Go down the back stairs, sneak out the rear, and wait at the gate by the road for the car to leave. I’ll keep Wilhelmina occupied. Hopefully, she won’t notice you’re gone. Make this look like a real good-bye.” Chantal gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Her lips brushed against his, sending him a promise of warmth and love. Then she pulled back, gave him a long look, and ran from the room.

  Zack shot Willi a sad look and walked past her, heading for his room. “I’ll pack now.” Halfway up the stairs he paused, turned, and looked back down at her. “Is a little more time together out of the question?”

  “There is a war on, Mr. Pontowski.”

  “I suppose that’s the right answer. But I sometimes wonder what you English use for hearts. Carburetors?”

  “Please hurry.” Her face was impassive but something caught in her throat. Their good-bye had touched her and she understood his anger. It upset her to know that Chantal would probably suffer the same fate as most of their agents sent into France—capture, interrogation, and torture. The Gestapo would end her ordeal by marking her “Nacht und Nebel—Rueckkehr Unerwuenscht,” “Night and Fog—Return Not Required,” and transporting her for execution.

  “Time for an oil change, Miss Crafton. You’re starting to sound gritty. That might make it difficult for you to slip around and use people. Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”

  Do you think I enjoy this? she raged to herself. But she refused to be baited. Her mouth hardened into a tight line. She decided to wait where she was and not lower herself to his level or argue. But why did his words cut so deep? Before she realized it, he was back, bag in hand. “Ready,” he said. “I don’t want to delay the war.”

  “This is not called for,” she said, following him out to the waiting car.

  “Again, the right answer from one of my betters. I am put in my place.” There was a power in his voice she had not experienced before and his words cut deep.

  “Please take Mr. Pontowski away,” she told the driver. “We are quite finished with him here.” She stared at the departing car and walked back into the house, determined to keep her dignity intact, not thinking about Chantal.

  “Bit of a row back there,” the driver said as they drove
away. “Never seen her so upset. Normally, she’s a cool one.” The American must have put her in her place, he decided.

  “Can you stop here?” Zack asked. The driver braked, coming to a halt at the gate. Chantal stepped out of the bushes.

  “Sorry, sir,” the driver said. “Service personnel only. They’d have me on the peg.”

  Zack opened the rear door from the inside and saw that Chantal was carrying a uniform in her arms. “Not even for a Piccadilly Commando?” he asked. “She’s got a uniform.”

  “Bloody hell,” the driver said. “Are they callin’ ’em up now? I’ve got to see this.” Chantal climbed into the car and they headed for London. She quickly changed into the uniform she had taken from Willi’s closet. The driver kept looking over his shoulder. “A FANY!” he roared with laughter. “I should have known that.”

  Chantal finished tying her shoes and looked up at him, a beautiful smile lighting her face. She told him how much she appreciated the lift—in French.

  “And a bleedin’ Frog to boot!” He shook with laughter and almost ran off the road. “Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.” He thought for a few moments. “We’ll never get ’er past a sentry. Where would you like to go?”

  “I thought you had to take us to Fairlop?”

  “I was detailed to make a run to Fairlop and I’ll do that,” the driver explained. “But my last orders were simply to take you ‘away.’ I was never told ‘where’ to take you. So, where would you like to go? Within reason, mind you.”