Dawson nodded. "I know. I had to tell you personally. You knew nothing of Tony’s work, so I knew it would be hard for you to accept. That’s why I came."
"I know all about his work. Liaison with factories. He isn’t in danger there."
"That was just a cover, Sir Michael."
Sir Michael looked down at his hands, which were shaking violently on the desktop. He clutched them tightly together and looked back at Dawson. His eyes begged him to say that it was not true, it was all just a cruel joke.
"I don't understand."
Dawson’s heart went out to the man.
"I know. Please let me explain. Of course, I would appreciate it if you don’t tell too many people the details until after the war." Sir Michael nodded but said nothing. "It all began just after Dunkirk. With France in German hands, we needed men behind enemy lines to send us information, and to disrupt the enemy wherever possible. Because of Tony’s excellent French and his knowledge of the Saint Nazaire area, we recruited him to the Ministry of Economic Warfare, a euphemism for the Special Operations Executive. He was given a high degree of training and parachuted into France in September '41."
"My God!" Sir Michael’s eyes were wide in amazement. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"He wasn’t allowed to. He was assigned to the Saint Nazaire area and set up a Resistance group, with the help of a man he knew from before the war. You know him too, I believe. Jean-Paul Boues."
"Jean-Paul! Of course I know him! He worked with Tony?"
"Yes. On that first mission he was looking for U-boat bases. He found one, and with the help of his group managed to destroy it. In the process he was injured. We managed to get him back by submarine a week later."
Sir Michael was frowning. "Was that around the time he was caught in the air raid?"
Dawson nodded. "Yes, but the injuries were not caused by an air raid, but a cliff fall in France."
"The poor boy." There were tears in Sir Michael’s eyes. "All that time I said he was a coward and would not avenge David’s death. How I must have hurt him." He frowned. "You sent him back again?"
"Yes, when you thought he was in America in early '42. This time his group carried out a number of attacks. On the docks at Saint Nazaire, railways, convoys. They did a great deal of damage, and had the enemy really worried. They were lucky. But their luck didn’t hold out. Tony was taken by the SS"
"God! No!" Sir Michael pushed himself violently out of his chair. "Did they know who he was?"
"They only suspected at the beginning. But by the time they finished with him, they knew he was one of our agents."
Sir Michael brushed tears from his cheeks. "What did they do to him?"
Dawson shook his head. "You don't want to know the details, Sir Michael. His group managed to break him out, and we flew him home. For a time it was touch and go, but he made it in the end. When he was nearly recovered, we let him come home to convalesce."
"And I turned him away. While my own son was still suffering the results of torture at the hands of the SS. I threw him out of my house, because I thought he was a coward! No wonder he was angry and hated me. I wish I’d known, then we could have parted as friends."
"I'm sure he understood, Sir Michael. He was just waiting for the end of the war to tell you."
Sir Michael looked at him accusingly. "But he didn't live to see the end of the war, did he? You sent him back."
Dawson nodded. "Yes. I sent him back, but I had little choice. Please let me explain."
Sir Michael was pacing agitatedly back and forth as Dawson continued.
"After his brush with the SS we planned to keep Tony in England. It was too dangerous to send him back to where the SS could identify him. Then with the Second Front coming, we needed a man in Saint Nazaire. Tony was the best man for the job, but I would never have asked him to go back after what he’d been through. He volunteered for the job, Sir Michael, and I couldn't turn him down. We needed him too badly."
Sir Michael sat down heavily once more. "What happened?"
"He went back to France at the end of April. With his group he destroyed bridges, telephone communications, rail links, anything that could have helped the Germans to push us back on the Normandy beaches. He led an attack on the docks at Saint Nazaire in the early hours of the morning of 6th June, D-Day. The last anyone saw of him, he was fighting alone, surrounded by the enemy."
Sir Michael looked up, desperate hope in his eyes. "There was no body? How can you be sure that he’s dead?
"We can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but the Germans didn’t say that he had been taken prisoner. The Resistance can find out nothing. The only real possibility is that he was killed, and buried without the Germans realising who he was."
"Or they could have taken him and be torturing him now." Sir Michael’s voice was low, tortured as he knew his son had been.
Dawson shook his head. "No. He would have talked by now, and the rest of the group would have been taken."
"Tony would never talk!"
Dawson’s eyes were filled with compassion. "He would have talked. No-one could stand up to SS treatment for this long."
Sir Michael shook his head. "Until I know for certain, I won’t give up hope. Don't you see?" His eyes were filled with pain as he spoke. "I sent him away. I called him a coward. He has to live, so that I can ask him to forgive me! I love my son, Captain Dawson. I won't accept that he’s dead!"
Dawson stood up. "I'm sorry Sir Michael, but Tony was aware of the dangers. He asked me to give you this if he didn't come back."
He held out the package. Sir Michael reached out hesitantly to take it. He cradled the parcel in his hands, and gazed down at the familiar writing before meeting Dawson’s eyes.
"I’m proud to have known and worked with your son, Sir Michael. The peoples of England and France will never fully know the debt they owe him. He was one of a rare breed of men, Sir Michael, a hero. Be proud of your son." He held out a hand, which Sir Michael took, his firm grip masking his shock.
"Thank you for coming in person, Captain Dawson. I would never have been able to understand if I had suddenly been confronted by a telegram."
Dawson nodded. "Tony deserved better than that."
"If you should hear anything..."
Dawson nodded. "I will let you know immediately, if I hear anything. But don't hope for too much."
"I must hope. That’s all I have left."
“Goodbye, Sir Michael."
Sir Michael nodded but said nothing, his hands caressing the package from Tony. Dawson turned and left the room, closing the door quietly on the man whose heart bled for his son, and the way he had treated him.
Sir Michael made his slow way back to his desk and sat down. Placing the package carefully in front of him, he sat looking at it for a few moments, as though not opening it would in some symbolic way deny everything Dawson had told him. If he did not read the letter, it would be easier to believe that Tony was still alive. Finally he reached for his paper knife. He carefully unsealed the package and drew out two sheets of folded paper and a small leather-bound box. Laying the letter aside for a moment, he gazed curiously at the box. Then with tentative movements he lifted the lid. As his eyes fell on the contents, his tears began to fall. His vision blurred for a moment and he wiped roughly at his eyes. Then he lifted the Distinguished Service Order from the box. All the time he thought Tony was a coward, he had been laying his life on the line for his country. He must have shown a bravery matched by only a few to have been awarded such an honour, yet he could never speak to his parents about it. Sir Michael laid the medal to one side and picked up the letter with the familiar writing of his son. What would it say? Would Tony condemn him for his lack of understanding and cruel words, even from beyond the grave? He closed his eyes for a moment as though in prayer. Then, steeled to face whatever recriminations the letter might hold, he began to read.
Dear Dad and Mamma,
If you are reading this then I must assume th
at I am now dead. I want you to know that I regret nothing of what has brought me to this state. I have been proud to serve my country, and as I prepare to go to France once more, I am aware of all the risks. Who knows better than me what lies ahead, for I have been there before. My one regret is that I will not be able to see you again, to explain for myself why I have kept so many things secret from you during this war.
Dad, you once said that you bitterly resented the fact that no one from our family was actively fighting to free France and to regain Grandmamma’s home. Tell her I have been doing just that. Tell her that I have seen the Germans in Saint Nazaire, seen their flag flying from her home, fought beside good friends like Jean-Paul Boues and made sure that the occupation of her home does not go uncontested. Tell her too that her home has not been damaged. Her land still produces food, and her people still love her. When this war is over and she goes home, no one will say that she abandoned them. They knew that she had to go, and they look forward to seeing her again in a free France. You called me coward, Dad. That hurt bitterly, to think that you believed I could sit back and do nothing while our country is at war. But I don't blame you for what you said. I know how much you loved David, and how deeply his death hurt you. You see, I felt the same way too. I am as much to blame for our problems as you are, because I kept my work secret. I hope that you understand that I could not tell you. It was not allowed. You know, you might think that it took a great deal of courage to jump from a plane into Occupied France. But I will tell you that it was not as hard for me as keeping silent in front of you.
This war has caused more hurts than those physical ones brought about by bullets and bombs. It was this hurt that made us lash out at each other, but I believe that underneath it all, there was love. You loved me as a child, Dad, and I cannot believe that that love has died. So do not be hard on yourself. I go to France now, knowing that you love me, and that love and the love of my dear Mamma will be what I remember when the end comes.
Dearest Mamma. I know the hurt my death must cause you. You had two sons who loved you dearly. Now you have none. But remember, our love will still reach out to you from beyond the grave. David and I are together again now. We will await the time when you will join us in heaven. But let that time be long, Mamma. Live the rest of your life with joy. Remember us with pride.
My dear parents. I send you my DSO. You will be no less surprised to receive it than I was! Please put it with David's DFC, and always remember that we earned them fighting for England, and for France. Remember always that I love you both now as I always have, and always will. May God bless you and keep you safe.
You were the best parents anyone could have, I am proud to be your son.
Your ever loving
Tony.
Sir Michael sat in unseeing silence for a long time before laying the letter on the desk. Burying his face in his hands, he gave way to his grief and wept bitterly.
Captain Dawson drove back down the drive from Heronfield Hospital. His meeting with Sarah Porter had been difficult, but not as difficult as the one with Sir Michael. The young woman had taken it well, or so it seemed. He only hoped there would be a friend close by when the full realisation of what he had said hit her. He drove slowly past the lodge. Lady Kemshall was no longer in the garden. He was glad he had not been the one to tell her about Tony, and his heart went out to Sir Michael as he broke the news to his wife. Pulling out onto the road, he turned the car back in the direction of Beaulieu, starting his return journey to the base where other young men and women like Tony were undergoing training.
Sarah sat at Doctor Millard’s desk. He had called her into his office. A Captain Dawson had wanted to speak to her, a stranger who had brought unbelievable news about Tony and left her with a small parcel. She recognised Tony’s handwriting, but still did not believe what the officer told her. It was just too extraordinary to be true. While she wanted to believe that Tony could show such bravery in the defence of his country, she could not accept it. That would mean accepting the other news, the news of his death. She was not sure she could cope with that
Steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, she carefully opened the large envelope and took out the familiar leather box. As she looked at it, her heart plummeted. She opened it slowly to gaze at the graceful lines of the golden heron. She did not have to read the letter to tell her that what Captain Dawson had said was true, she knew Tony would have kept the heron if he could. To have it in her hands now meant the end of everything. She closed her eyes, remembering again the touch of his lips, and the way his hair felt as she ran her fingers through it. Then she took out the letter and began to read.
My darling Sarah,
This is the hardest letter I have ever had to write for I know that if you are reading these words I must be dead, and I will never be able to see your beloved face again. I am sure that by now Captain Dawson has told you about the work I have been doing. Do you remember, Sarah? You said you sometimes felt that I was two people in one body; now you know that is true. I sometimes had to bury the real me because I was not allowed to tell you everything, and it caused a wall to grow up between us. I'm sorry, Sarah. I hated lying to you. You must know now why there were times when I did not write or visit, but through those times you were never far from my thoughts. And I firmly believe that through it all you never really stopped loving me. I have to believe it, for it is your love which has made my life worth living.
I love you, Sarah. I have loved you from the very first time I saw you, and I will love you for all eternity. Mourn me a little while, my darling, but never forget what I told you after Joe died. You must not waste your life on what might have been. Bobby is a good man, and he will make you happy. Take a chance with him, and put the past behind you. All I ask is that you take out the golden heron once in a while, and think of me as I have so often thought of you. When I was in France, it was thoughts of you that kept me strong. I know that whatever happens between now and my death, thoughts of you will never be far from my mind, for you are forever in my heart.
God bless you, my darling Sarah. I thank him daily for allowing me to love you, and to share happy times with you - however brief they may have been.
Good luck, my darling. Be happy.
Tony.
Sarah picked up the heron and traced its outline with her fingertip. If only their love had been allowed to soar with the freedom of a bird. She regretted all the wasted time which she could have spent with Tony, and she vowed to make it up to him. No matter what Captain Dawson said, she would not, could not, believe he was dead, that she would never be able to see or hold him again. He would come home, and then they would spend the rest of their lives together. A small voice deep inside whispered 'Don't believe it. He's dead. He won't be back’. She tried to block out the sound, but however hard she tried, it continued to whisper, forcing her to face a reality she did not want to believe. By the time Jane came to find her at the bidding of Doctor Millard, Sarah was staring unseeingly at the wall, tears coursing down her cheeks and a small golden heron clutched tightly to her breast.
160
Tony pulled the pin from a grenade and threw it with all of his might, before diving down behind a pile of rubble. As the grenade exploded he was showered with dust and small stones. He heard the cries of someone in pain as he laid his three remaining grenades on the ground in front of him, and quickly glanced over his shoulder at the retreating forms of Jean-Paul and Vincent. He was relieved that nobody was pursuing them. Throwing two grenades in rapid succession, Tony then began to fire the Sten gun methodically at the approaching Germans. Some fell in the hail of bullets, but there were always more to take their place. They fired unceasingly at the lone Englishman, crouched low behind a pile of rubble. Tony grabbed his last grenade and threw it. Then he pressed himself against the low wall which was his protection from the force of the blast, and from the advancing Germans. As the débris from the explosion ceased to rain down, he raised himself to where he could see the Germans
spreading out around him. There seemed no hope in his situation. He felt a cold fear in the pit of his stomach. Not a fear of dying but a horror of surviving the next few minutes, and being taken once again to the cells beneath the SS Headquarters, to endure once more the full horror of Hitler’s depraved élite. The trigger clicked against the empty magazine. Tony ripped it from his gun and threw it aside in desperation. Taking a firm grip on his last magazine, he slammed it into place. He began to fire steadily at the approaching Germans, determined to sell his life dearly. He could see the sky glowing orange and red now, lit by the fires raging within the docks, fires ignited by himself and his group. As he thought of his French comrades, he was relieved that they had all made their escape. They would be able to fight beside the liberating armies now, instead of in secret.
Tony’s face was grim. But a light of triumph shone in his eyes as the first bullet tore into his shoulder. He turned to his left and fired awkwardly with one hand, bringing down the man who wounded him. Turning back, he pulled the trigger once more. Nothing happened. With a roar of frustrated anger, he threw the gun at the approaching enemy and turned to run, only to be confronted by a group of Germans who had circled around behind him. Ignoring the fiery pain in his shoulder, he picked up a brick and threw it at the enemy. It was a futile gesture which could not harm them. But it made him feel better. Then he stood and waited, determined not to show any fear. The approaching soldiers halted, unsure what to make of the unarmed man who faced them so defiantly, left arm hanging awkwardly and dripping blood. Then over to the left, two shots rang out. Tony felt a blow to his left leg just below the knee. He crumpled to the ground as a fiery trail was burned across his chest by a second bullet. Waves of pain engulfed him. He felt his life’s blood draining steadily from his body. His eyes found the soldiers who approached him slowly, but already his sight was growing dim, and their figures soon became too indistinct to see. It seemed to take a tremendous effort to hold his head up above the ground, an effort his body could no longer sustain. He lay down, surprised to find that the bricks and rubble, far from being hard, were as soft as a feather pillow beneath his cheek. As his eyes slowly closed, Tony was transported back once more to a grassy river bank beneath a warm summer sun. He seemed to turn his head, and there she was smiling at him, her eyes full of love.
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