It was still dark when Bosanquet felt a nudge in the ribs. He woke in a confused state with wisps of hay in his nose, to find the woman, whom he only knew as Simone, handing him a cup of steaming coffee.
‘From the farmhouse.’
Marie lit the storm lantern before she briefed Bosanquet on the nature of her network. He found that he had been landed and rescued last night by three women – she gave no names. Not one of them would ever have been allowed into White’s, Bosanquet thought. He gathered that there were a few other Resistance workers around, although Marie was hazy about the details. It all sounded inadequate for the task ahead. They talked for a while about how they might sabotage the U-boat, before Marie ended the discussion:
‘First things first, though. We need to get you into the base.’
‘How?’ asked Bosanquet.
‘I’ll think of something. See you this evening,’ said Marie.
****
At 8.00am that day, Marie, neatly dressed and showing no trace of the night’s adventure other than a few briar scratches on her face passed through the base turnstile. A normal day lay ahead. It would be the last for a long time.
Bosanquet, who had been left with a stock of food and water, and strict instructions to only use the yard pump after dark, settled down to life in the field. Now recovered from the confusion of the previous day, he began to anticipate his exploits to come. Other than the pungent smell of the cows, this life was a welcome change from labouring at the Admiralty. No more poring over the reports of others at sea and in the field. No more having requests for action rebuffed by pen-pushers. Now he was the action – he and Simone, that is.
****
The night was clear and frosty as Marie set out to join Bosanquet at the farm that evening. First, she called at the Café Grégoire where she had a glass of wine with some friends. Later she chatted with Grégoire at the bar while keeping an eye on those coming and going at the rear of the café. After ten clear minutes, she slipped out to the toilets. Moments later she was outside at the rear of the building. For the next fifteen minutes Marie walked around the side streets, taking left and right turns with the sole aim of ensuring that she was not being followed. Once certain that she was alone, she retrieved an old bike that she kept round the back of an abandoned logging yard and cycled out into the country. (This was Simone’s bicycle. As Marie, she used a different machine that she kept at her lodgings.) Twice she heard vehicles in the distance, forcing her to take cover in the ditch, but none passed her on the road. As she neared the farm, she dropped the bike and walked the last stretch.
Bosanquet was thankful to see Marie after a day without any information from the outside world. He was also relieved to see the Sten gun that she had brought for him. She slumped down in the hay with a defeated air.
‘Something wrong?’
‘The Boche. I keep losing workers. It’s all so hard.’
‘Can’t you recruit more?’
‘Perhaps. But it’s not easy asking someone to volunteer to die.’
‘That bad?’
‘More or less.’
Bosanquet had no answer to this. It was different in his world – the world of the forces. The state did the asking – or rather, the commanding – so no one felt bad about it. Asking a friend, a colleague … that was another matter.
They sat in silence for a while until Bosanquet steered the conversation back to Armageddon.
‘At least we’ve got something to get our teeth into. Where do we start?’
‘Yes, the sabotage. I’ve been thinking about that.’
‘Good. Something spectacular?’
‘Raymond, you don’t seem to understand how we work: a few of us, moving around without being seen, acting when we can. We don’t do spectacles. More like pin-pricks.’
‘Oh.’
‘Let’s settle for trying to delay the U-boat’s departure. Okay?’
Reluctantly Bosanquet agreed to this modest ambition. At least it would gain more time to persuade Simone into doing something more spectacular later. Meanwhile, he listened as Simone outlined her plan and the part he was to play.
‘Is that all?’
‘It may be a small part, Raymond, but I need a new face to get away with this plan. Remember, inside the base I’m another person. I’m sure that I’m watched all the time. I can’t act – not there. You can – and you can slip away when the job’s done. I have to stay. And that means being near to invisible.’
As they were talking, the cows began to snort and shuffle around.
‘They’ve sensed something,’ said Marie.
Slowly Marie descended the ladder and eyed the yard through one of the many cracks in the dilapidated door. She saw a movement and noticed that several bits of farm equipment had been disturbed.
‘Raymond, bring your gun!’
After Marie’s whispered explanation of the situation, they slipped out of the door, one to the left and one to the right. The yard appeared to be deserted as they checked all the doors, looked under tarpaulins and rummaged behind piles of logs, scrap metal and other farm debris. There was no trace of any human presence. Just as they were about to abandon their search, they heard more noises from outside the yard. They dashed towards the exit, while keeping tight up against the walls, and peered out.
‘Boche,’ whispered Marie, and cocked her weapon.
‘It’s only me,’ came a voice from the darkness.
‘Monsieur Durand!’ said Marie.
The farmer had been out looking for the thief who was taking potatoes from one of his clamps. For good reasons, he never asked Marie when she intended to visit. Nor did he ask what she did in the barn. It was best not to know. If he ever had to account for her presence, he could always say that he never interfered with lovers’ trysts.
With the panic over, Bosanquet and Marie returned to the loft to continue their discussion of their plans for the following day. The red and white chequered cloth once more lay between them on the hay, spread with their evening meal of bread, sausage and cheese. A bottle of red wine stood in an empty apple crate. These two people, who for so long had led solitary lives, were soon lost in their joint venture.
Marie looked at her watch. ‘Curfew. I must go.’
Bosanquet took her hand as she got up to leave. In that grasp each was reminded of the loneliness of their position. Marie had to be careful about who her friends were. Every move of her life had to look like that of a dutiful citizen and loyal worker. She could confide in no one. Bosanquet, too, led a lonely life in London. His work was too secret to mention to anyone. Any woman in his life was bound to be suspicious of a man who could explain so little about his movements. The single kiss on the cheek that followed was a kiss of solidarity rather than romance. They parted.
‘Seven twenty-five tomorrow!’
21
When Bosanquet woke early on the following day he could hear the gale outside. The barn door down below was banging against its chain and the cows were agitatedly stamping on the straw-covered ground. From the courtyard, he could hear sounds of pails and other loose items rolling around in the wind. Bitterly cold rain swept across the deserted countryside beyond.
A wash at the pump was superfluous in the circumstances. He would be wet all day by the look of things. Bosanquet breakfasted off bread and cheese, followed by cold coffee. Taking one last look at the map that Marie had left him, he tore it into minute pieces and went out into the storm. He flung the map shreds into a steaming pile of manure and set off for their day of action. The map, now thoroughly remembered, showed him a path along field lanes that would take him to the main road between the town and the base. And, more particularly, take him to the tree.
‘Remember: inside the hollow of the old oak tree,’ Marie had said.
It was 7.15am by the time that Bosanquet could see the oak. It was about 200-yards from the junction of the lane and the road. While he walked the last fifty or so yards to the tree, Bosanquet surreptitiously looked
around to see if he was being watched. No one. The hollow in the tree was well-hidden – it faced towards the hedge. He reached inside and felt the knapsack, just where Marie had said it would be.
With the knapsack over his shoulder, Bosanquet walked on a few yards and pulled himself into the hedge to wait. Marie had been so insistent: ‘Seven twenty-five. Not four, not six. Five!’
The last few minutes as he prepared himself to enter the enemy’s lair felt eternal.
‘At last, seven twenty-four!’
Bosanquet crawled out of the hedge, wiped his muddy boots on the grass verge and picked off some spikey seeds from his clothing.
The small food truck for the base arrived exactly as he set foot on the main road. Both it and its driver had reached the age when haste is neither possible nor desired. It sidled to a halt as if even the act of slowing down was an effort too far.
The beaten-up passenger door, barely attached to its hinges, was thrown open from the inside.
‘Raymond?’ croaked an old voice.
‘That’s me.’
The driver slapped the passenger seat with his hand, and Bosanquet jumped in. He gingerly put the knapsack on the floor between his knees and pulled the door closed. He heard the catch click but as soon as the van moved off the door swung open.
‘Use the string,’ said the driver.
With the door tied up, the driver introduced himself.
‘Pierre.’
Pierre showed no inclination to talk, so Bosanquet had plenty of time to take a look at his driver. He was in his seventies – too old to have even fought in the Great War, thought Bosanquet. His rough hands spoke of a lifetime of manual labour, while the deep brown pallor of his parchment-like face suggested an outdoor life. Resistance etiquette restrained Bosanquet’s longing to ask Pierre about his life. Perhaps, he thought, Pierre was just what he seemed – a driver, not a Resistance worker. And then he realised that Pierre probably knew nothing about him either. The less they said to each other the better.
Pierre’s truck arrived every day at the base at 7.30am bringing in food supplies. Most days Pierre arrived with his brother.
‘Antoine?’ asked the guard.
‘Sick. Flu,’ said Pierre.
‘You,’ said the guard as he poked Bosanquet with his machine gun. ‘Pass!’
Bosanquet pulled out the grubby, tattered pass from the knapsack that Marie had given him and flashed it before the guard. A sudden gust of wind whipped the pass from the guard’s hand. He chased after it as it skipped through the puddles and mud. He caught it with his boot before reluctantly picking it up, now a sodden muddy mess. Having lost interest in the troublesome document he handed it back to Bosanquet and waved the truck into the base. This lax security, thought Bosanquet, was a hopeful sign for his operation.
Most days the guards barely noticed the truck and showed little interest in its contents beyond a quick opening of the doors and a glance inside. Until that day.
Pierre realised that that day was different as soon as two guards stepped in front of his truck.
‘The Boche look hungry today,’ he said. ‘As if they aren’t well enough fed already!’
Marie had warned Bosanquet to play ignorant if there was any trouble about the truck so he hopped out, knapsack in hand, and walked well to one side. He casually lit a Gauloises.
Half a dozen soldiers descended on the truck and began a thorough search. Sacks of potatoes were thrown to the ground and bread was piled up to go sodden in the rain, along with vegetables, cheese and all the other perishable supplies. Having found nothing, the guards demanded to see inside the engine. Finally, they looked on the truck’s underside. They pretended to be incensed at their failure to find anything incriminating. In fact, they were delighted at their personal haul of some hams and wine.
The decision to place these “rewards” amongst the everyday foods had been part of the first stage of Marie’s plan. It had gone well. Her anonymous phone call to the base to report a weapons smuggling attempt in the truck’s food had distracted the guards, so allowing Bosanquet’s arrival to go unremarked.
Pleased with their rewards, the guards went into a huddle to discuss how to share out their haul. This gave Bosanquet the chance to slip to one side and await stage two of Marie’s operation.
Three yard workers had approached the van and asked Pierre for some bread. A scuffle broke out as they argued about whose turn it was to be served. Fists began to fly and the air was filled with wild shouting. The guards ran out from their lodge, pounced on the bickering men, separated them, and ordered them to their work stations. Bosanquet chose this moment to take the flask out of his knapsack and slip it to a worker by his side. It disappeared into a deep pocket on the inside of the man’s storm jacket.
Casually, Bosanquet walked back to the truck and took his seat next to Pierre.
‘Do you smoke?’ he asked Pierre.
Pierre shook his head.
‘That’s a good thing. There’s only one left,’ said Bosanquet. With the lighted cigarette in his mouth he completed his charade of the conveniently empty packet by tearing off the upper half before tucking the lower half into the truck’s windscreen. Marie would find some excuse to wander round the base that morning. The torn cigarette packet would signal the successful entry of the explosives onto the base. A moment later, Bosanquet found himself whistling tunes from the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta The Pirates of Penzance. That was always a sign that things were going well for him. Only afterwards did he recall how improbable it would be for Raymond Lapointe to be familiar with such quintessentially English music. On the other hand, there was little chance of a German recognising its origin.
Once the truck ceased to interest the guards, Bosanquet joined Pierre in helping with offloading the supplies at various points around the base. The first delivery was to one of the smaller canteens. As Pierre drew up outside the door a Frenchman came out.
‘Any specials today?’
‘Specials! After the Boche have helped themselves!’ said Pierre.
Pierre’s stiff old limbs ached as he wrestled with the challenge of getting down the steps of his cab. His scrawny gnarled hands shook as he felt for the grab handles. The accompanying grunts and groans told of the pain of his ageing body.
Pierre showed Bosanquet which sacks and boxes were for that canteen. He gently pulled a small box towards him and lifted it so unhurriedly that he looked like a character in a slow motion film. His step-at-a-time walk to the door seemed to take an eternity. The canteen man offered him a cup of coffee, which he drank in the same measured fashion. Meanwhile Bosanquet was depositing his second sack of vegetables.
‘Slow down!’ cried Pierre. ‘The Boche reckon we’re lazy bastards. No need to disillusion them.’
For all the cover that his French clothing and perfect French accent gave him, Bosanquet had yet to master the Frenchman’s air of resigned indifference to zealous work. This was the land of unions, of solidarity. He corrected his demeanour by joining Pierre and the driver for a break in the doorway. While they sipped their coffee, he lit another Gauloises, saved from the packet now stuffed in the windscreen. He struggled to adopt the right manner of slow drags and laidback exhaling as he watched a soldier across the road. Whatever the reason for the soldier’s presence, thought Bosanquet, it was not to force a decent day’s work out of intractable Frenchmen.
‘The Boche are watching our every move today,’ remarked Pierre. ‘Something’s up.’
Bosanquet glanced furtively around. Pierre was right. In one doorway there was a soldier, apparently leaning casually against the doorpost. From under the shadow of his helmet his darting eyes were missing nothing. His two-handed hold on his weapon proved his readiness for action. On the other side of the roadway a soldier was leaning over the open cover of the engine of a personnel carrier. His weapon lay on top of the radiator, angled for rapid retrieval.
‘Not usually like this then?’
‘God, no. They’re an i
dle load of bastards. Wohlman’s sleepers we call them.’
An hour or so later Pierre and Bosanquet made their last delivery. Their round had been accompanied by numerous complaints about soaking wet bread. To each protest Pierre merely shrugged his shoulders.
There was one last coffee/cigarette break, this time with some kitchen staff huddled round the food waste bins of one of the canteens. It was hardly a salubrious location, given the stench of the waste and the recurrent down-swoops of the screeching gulls in search of lunch.
‘Time to go,’ said Pierre as he began his laborious climb back into the truck. He slammed his door shut, waved to the kitchen workers, and started the engine. ‘Pastis time,’ he announced as the truck set off for the gateway.
The truck had barely begun to move when Pierre opened up. ‘What a humiliation! Feeding the Boche. My father killed what he could at Verdun. Should have made a better job of it.’
‘Killed was he?’
‘No. Just wrecked. Never a proper man again.’
Bosanquet, recalling that he was now a Frenchman, responded: ‘What a terrible war that was for us.’ He would like to have gone on but accepted that if he inquired too much into Pierre’s background, he would have to reciprocate. His own cover story as Raymond Lapointe was too thin for him to dare to sustain it unnecessarily.
At the gate a guard came forward, apparently to inspect the truck before its exit. Then more guards arrived and blocked the truck’s path in a threatening manner.
‘What do the bastards want this time?’ said Pierre.
He didn’t have to wait long to know their intentions. Two soldiers approached Bosanquet’s side of the truck and opened the door. With levelled guns they ordered him out. As soon as his feet were on the ground they manhandled him away from the truck, slammed the door shut and shouted ‘Go!’ to Pierre. He hesitated to leave his passenger in this manner.
‘Go, you dozy buffoon! This is none of your business.’
Pierre obeyed. He drove off with the passenger door flapping to and fro, its string trailing along the muddy road.
Operation Armageddon Page 9
