Assignment in Brittany

by Helen Macinnes

  He propped the bicycle against a café wall, and entered the airless room. He brushed the flies away from a ringed table, and ordered beer. He might as well wash out the taste of dust from his mouth before he was picked up by a curious Nazi. He settled himself as comfortably as possible on the narrow chair, ignored the proprietor’s curiosity, and returned the stare of the only other customer. The man went back to his newspaper.

  It wouldn’t be long, he had guessed. He was right. The light beer was only half finished when the loud step of solid boots on stone broke the drowsy silence of the bar. Hearne, his back to the door, saw the tension on the proprietor’s face. The man at the corner table, after one look at the doorway, was still more engrossed in his newspaper. Hearne had only time to notice that the paper wasn’t held so steadily as it had been, and then a loud voice said in atrocious French, “Whose bicycle?”

  Hearne swung round to face the two men. One was moon-faced, broad-shouldered; what hair was left on his head was very fair. The other, if he had had a clubfoot, might have been Goebbels’ twin brother. He had the lean and hungry look all right.

  “Whose bicycle?” It was the bald-headed man.

  Hearne rose. “Mine.”

  “Your papers,” the large man demanded. Curlylocks wasn’t wasting any time. Hearne searched quickly in his pocket. He brought out his identification card and Corlay’s list of his fellow traitors’ names. To the top of that list Hearne had pinned a sheet of paper. In square letters he had printed clearly:

  TAKE ME TO MAJOR KALB. DO NOT SPEAK MY NAME IN FRONT OF FRENCHMEN.

  The bald-headed man passed over the collection of papers to the thin, dark man. Both faces were quite impassive.

  It was the little Cassius who spoke next. “It is against the regulations to leave a bicycle blocking the narrow pavement. You will accompany us. There will be a fine to pay.”

  Hearne looked towards the corner table and the bar. The proprietor was busy with some glasses. The other man was reading as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

  Hearne held out his hand for the identification papers, but Cassius placed them in his own pocket. His smile was as false as his face. The risk had begun, Hearne realised. He shrugged his shoulders, and fell into step between them. The quicker he got through this episode, the sooner he would see Kalb.

  The black-haired man walked with Hearne on the narrow pavement. He kept one hand on his revolver. He certainly wasn’t the trusting type, Hearne thought. Curly-locks followed, officially wheeling the offending bicycle. In this way Hearne retraced his steps on the Grande-Rue. There were fewer people in the street now. The distant sound of singing came to them as they crossed the narrow entrance to the cathedral. Noonday service, Hearne calculated. And then the voices were hidden by the cluster of old houses, and they were passing under medieval gables and balustrades into the small square. It was at one of the larger houses here that the Nazis halted him.

  “Inside.”

  Hearne obediently entered. A broad curve of staircase faced him along with its two S.S. men standing on guard.

  “Inside.” It was Cassius again. This time Hearne was guided by the arm into a small, square room at one side of the hall. It was shuttered and cool, but that was all that could be said for it. He was alone, with the small table and two chairs for company, and with the two Schutzstaffel men thumbing their belts outside. Through the shuttered windows he could see the square, and then the bright blue blouses, all the brighter in the glaring sun, of three young Breton boys. Then the splatch of colour was gone; and Hearne was left wondering just how comic it would seem to his friends when they heard he had walked of his own seeking into this dark house, out of the sunshine, never to see it again. His friends would never know in that case, he reminded himself. That would be a bitter joke for only himself to enjoy.

  Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Hearne paced the little room. He rehearsed his story carefully. That kept him from thinking about the chance that he might never be able to use it. Eighteen minutes. And then he heard the quick, precise footsteps of the dark-haired man.

  “This way,” he said. The smile was still inscrutable.

  They mounted the stairs. The guards stood immobile. Hearne breathed more easily. His confidence in his plan returned. The dark-haired man pushed a door open on the first landing they reached. By its size and magnificence Hearne guessed this must be the most important floor in the house. His confidence increased, and he entered briskly. The man closed the door behind him, and again he was alone.

  But this time the room was large. There were pictures on the walls, an abundance of delicate furniture neatly arranged over the thick carpet. Flowers to match the long yellow silk curtains were massed at one corner of the large writing desk. Elegant, Hearne thought, and moved his eyes from the desk on which lay his identification papers, thrown on top of a large glass-covered map. And business-like, he added, noting the rows of card-index boxes, the three telephones, and the large safe half hidden behind a carelessly draped tapestry on the panelled wall. He was sure now that the waiting period in the depressing room down-stairs had seen a lot of activity in this mixture of office and boudoir. The telephones, the card-index... A lot of activity: enough to let him stand here, anyway. Hearne smiled to himself. The papers so openly displayed on the desk, the half-disclosed door of the safe, were rather touching in this supposedly empty room. Even if they thought you were their friend these chaps couldn’t stop setting their little traps, it seemed. He sat down on the nearest chair, a gilt-edged affair with spindle legs and a satin seat. The soft notes of a tremulous song filled the room. “Holy Night.”...Hearne dropped the magazine he had picked up, and looked around him in amazement. And then the delicate sound gave him a clue. He stood up, and the music ceased.

  There was a laugh from behind him. Hearne turned round; the young man in officer’s uniform closed a side-room door, and came forward. “Amusing, isn’t it?” he said in excellent French. “But not all my visitors are obliging enough to choose that chair.”

  Hearne nodded. He was annoyed and yet more relieved than annoyed, that he should have furnished the Nazi with some amusement.

  The officer’s face was impassive now. “You wanted to see me?”

  Hearne noticed the captain’s insignia on the man’s uniform, and felt his irritation increase. He kept his voice smooth. “I came to see Major Kalb, on the orders of Lieutenant Traube, stationed at Saint-Déodat. There were instructions, I believe, which Major Kalb was to give me. I am Bertrand Corlay, of Saint-Déodat, in charge of—”

  “I know. I know.” The young man silenced Hearne with his hand. “Why didn’t you come direct to this house? You knew the address.”

  So that was something Corlay must have memorised and never trusted to his private notes. Anything with direct reference to the Nazis had been carefully omitted from Corlay’s documents. Even the man Hans Ehrlich had only been recorded as H.

  Hearne said quickly, “I arrived at an awkward time of day. I thought I would make myself presentable first, for as you see I have been travelling; and I thought I would have something to eat so as not to disturb you at lunch-time. And then there is the man Bruneau. I wanted to find out how his work was going, before I had the honour of seeing Major Kalb.”

  The explanation wasn’t questioned. “ Sit down,” the German said, and took his place at the desk. “Major Kalb has been called away very suddenly. I am his deputy, Captain Riedel. What did you want to see him about?”

  “I wanted to discuss the work of Bruneau with him.”

  “It is satisfactory. As Lieutenant Traube noted in his very full report, Bruneau has a tendency to grumble. But he can be kept in line with adequate rewards.”

  “That is what worries me.”

  “What?”

  “Adequate rewards. The fact that we have achieved such results as we have, the fact that the fifteenth of August and victory are so near, is sufficient reward for anyone who is wholeheartedly with us.”

  The Nazi
nodded. Hearne’s earnest eyes waited. Black hair, he was noting; brown eyes; mole on left cheekbone; heavy eyebrows; tanned skin; long upper lip; undistinguished nose and chin. It was a pleasant enough face, except when the eyes were wary and the lips were tautened. But now the mouth had relaxed and the eyes were approving.

  “Yes?” Captain Riedel said.

  “On the other hand, Bruneau is a good worker. He will work very well, if only he is promised enough. And as he has been well trained for the last two years, it would be difficult to find someone with equal knowledge of this town and its surroundings. The data he has accumulated in the last two years are particularly necessary to us at this time.”

  “I agree,” Captain Riedel said. He had relaxed against the back of his chair. His fingers were playing with Corlay’s papers. He suddenly added, “What made you think of this?” He picked up the sheet with the printed instruction TAKE ME TO MAJOR KALB.

  “The chance that I would be questioned. I wanted no fuss over any arrest. The less my countrymen notice, the easier it will be for my work.”

  “True. Now tell me, what else did you come to see Major Kalb about?”

  “So far the only general instructions which have been given our organisation are to prepare for founding a separate Breton national state. I have been told, of course, about the fifteenth of August. But it seems to me that our organisation could be of some use to you about that date.”

  “In what way?” There was a hint of amusement in the German’s voice.

  “For counter-sabotage. Some soldiers must have been talking; some quick French ears must have been listening.”

  The implication was not lost on Riedel. The amusement left his voice. “So.”

  “So. There are rumours among the people that something very big is about to happen. The date of August the fifteenth is beginning to be mentioned, here and there. That rumour will spread. As the movements of troops and supplies, as our preparations increase in the next few weeks, even the sceptical will believe. You know the Bretons. You know what they will do.”

  “Sabotage? But I assure you, Corlay, that Ehrlich’s men will find out all we need to know.”

  “The only men under Ehrlich who will find out anything from the Bretons will be those who are Bretons themselves. You know these people. They distrust even a man from Normandy, or Bordeaux, or any other part of France.”

  Riedel nodded. “I see. Then you suggest that Ehrlich should use your particular organisation to discover any plots which his own men may fail to detect?”

  “Only if you agree with me that non-Bretons may fail to discover what is going on in the Breton mind.”

  Riedel was silent. His lower lip protruded and cupped the upper one. “I am inclined to agree,” he said at last. And then suddenly, “Curse those Breton swine! They respond neither to smiles nor to kicks. They live within themselves, behind a prehistoric stone wall that nothing breaks down. There’s only one thing they hate as much as a German, and that’s a Breton traitor. Be careful, you, Corlay. I shouldn’t like to be in your place if they find out about you.”

  “They won’t.” Hearne’s jaws hardened. “And I don’t consider myself a traitor, Captain Riedel. I’m a true patriot. I know that the only good for Brittany is Germany’s friendship and guidance.” His voice rang earnestly through the high-ceilinged room.

  Riedel’s anger had gone. He stared morosely at the map of the Channel coast resting under the glass top of the desk. “These cursed Bretons,” he said. “When will they learn?”

  “With time and patience. We shall try that first. Later, when the war is over, we can try harder discipline. But now there is first the problem of their autonomy; and secondly—and I think this is more important—there is the complete success of our undertaking against the British. For without that, the war will be long. And of all the invasion coast, we are responsible for the most difficult area to control. If we fail in Brittany, if sabotage hinders any of the Führer’s plans, not only will you and Major Kalb and Ehlrich be called to account, but, Captain Riedel, I and my friends will be held responsible, too. For that reason, it is necessary that we know just where we are to guard against possible sabotage, just where the danger points are, just where materials and men are being assembled. Then I can warn the rest of my men.” Hearne pointed quickly to the map. “Look, Captain Riedel. Here is Number 8 in Dol, Number 6 in Saint-Malo, Number 5 in Rennes, Number 9 in Combourg, Number 3 in Paimpol, Number 4 in Saint-Brieuc, Number 10 in Dinan. These alone could find out a great deal, if they were only told what they were to guard against. But now, all we’re told is to get the Bretons to vote the right way. They may vote the way we want them to, but that won’t prevent them conspiring to sabotage. They just couldn’t resist the chance if they got it! And even a small piece of sabotage can dislocate a railway, a canal, a main highway, an aerodrome, just on the very eve of its usefulness.”

  “Why don’t you tell this to Ehlrich?” There was a touch of a sneer in the German’s voice. Hearne remembered Tacitus and his observations on the Germanic tribes. Invidia, spite, was their worst fault: that, and the baseless fear of being encircled. Tacitus, or was it Caesar? Not that it mattered. Only the observation mattered now.

  Hearne, concentrating on invidia, said gloomily, “Oh, he isn’t there. Nor is Lisa Lange,” and watched Riedel innocently. “Now I hear from Traube that they may not be back for another week or so.”

  Riedel rose abruptly. He paced the room. “Ehrlich has summoned Major Kalb. Dragged him away from some trouble at the coast.”

  “Do you know when the Major will return? If only we had more time before the fifteenth, we could wait for his advice.”

  Riedel looked angrily at Hearne. “I am in Major Kalb’s place at the moment. I know what he knows, and I can make any necessary judgments.” But he still paced the room.

  Hearne said slowly, “And Traube won’t be any help to us. The army has its own job. The detection of sabotage is left to Ehrlich’s department, or to your own. It is the Gestapo and the Schutzstaffel who will be blamed by the High Command if we overlook any dangers.”

  Riedel shook his head impatiently. “I know. I know,” he said irritably. But his decision was almost made.

  Suddenly he halted, and then moved quickly to the desk. He was now a man of action. “Where did you say these men of yours were stationed?”

  “Here,” said Corlay, “and here, and here...” He pointed to the map, town by town.

  “Well, as you’ve already been told, the zero date is August the fifteenth. Aerodromes are now almost complete along this part of the coast”—the captain’s finger swept across the flat plains north of Dol—“and from them will develop Phase Two of our attack: Bristol, Plymouth, and the southern ports will be destroyed. Phase One, the attack on the Channel shipping and the Channel fleet, has already well begun.”

  “But the British aerodromes?”

  “Attended to, from farther north. But here, what we have to worry about is the maintenance of a steady flow of material and troops to the north coast of Brittany from the Paris-Rennes-Brest railway. Our men are already arriving, and concentrating west of Saint-Brieuc. Others must be enabled to reinforce them continuously. Barges and light craft are being assembled. Tidal seaports along these miles of sand have to be guarded with particular care. So far the enemy has concentrated his attacks on the Norman and Belgian coasts. So far our shipping has been safe in the small harbours of Northern Brittany. Southern Brittany’s better harbours are more under suspicion.” Riedel jabbed at the map of the northern coast, angrily. “At these six points,” he said, “your men must take special precautions to maintain order. Under protection of the aerial attacks of Phase Two, our barges and ships will sail. Phase Three...” His finger swept up towards the south-west of England, and into the Bristol Channel. His eyes were fixed on the south of Ireland. He flicked his fingers over Cork. “If need be,” he said, and disposed of the Irish problem.

  He added, “That is sufficient for yo
ur purpose, Corlay.”

  “Yes, Captain Riedel. I’ll direct my men immediately as you suggest, and as soon as they learn of any possible sabotage I’ll inform you at once. And, of course, I’ll inform Ehrlich. Then you can instruct your men to contact my informants and go to work. This plan of yours, Captain Riedel, will be a double safeguard. The army will be in your debt, more than they will ever know.”

  Riedel was pursing his lips at the map. “Just what are you going to tell your Breton agents?” he said suddenly.

  “Only to ensure that there is no disturbance in those particular areas. I’ll put the fear of death in them, without telling them the reason why. That is your suggestion?”

  “That is my suggestion.” Riedel folded the identification papers and pushed them across the desk.

  Hearne buttoned his jacket. He was a very serious, very exalted member of the chosen band. He gave their masterful salute, and uttered their brief confession of faith.

  “One more thing. How are you returning to Saint-Déodat?”

  “The way I came. It isn’t far. And a bicycle will arouse no suspicion among the Bretons.”

  Riedel nodded, and looked at the map. Hearne repeated the salute. Outside the door of the room the sardonic man was waiting for him to conduct him downstairs. The bicycle was in the hall.

  Outside he paused to run two fingers round his sodden collar. For a moment he halted and leaned on the bicycle; then he was painfully negotiating the cobbled surface of the square.