Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  Stopped, and switching off. In a certain amount of cover, and pointing back the way they’d come. Immediate stink of pig plus gazo burner… ‘Do us, will it?’

  ‘Do us nicely. Lads around somewhere, I suppose…’

  Rosie muttered, ‘This is it?’

  He pointed. ‘Through there – it’s just a belt of trees left standing. Windbreak. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Some ‘lads’ were around. Dark figures emerging from the trees – low-voiced as they met, shook hands. Rosie hung back, leaving him to handle it: these were his people, and this was their world, she was a stranger in it. They nearly all wore ‘Canadiens’, wool hats or caps, Stens slung from their shoulders. The man talking to Lannuzel was telling him that the two other sections were already distributed around the wooded perimeter and that ‘le Faisan’’s team were in position.

  ‘Bit premature, Ollie?’

  “Well – if it came early. Wouldn’t want that. Waited this long, then fuck up?’

  ‘Ollie’ was what his name had sounded like. An almost English sound: short for Olivier, perhaps. Looking back – wondering if she was right to have left her valise in the lorry, and concluding she was, nobody’d pinch it. Didn’t want to lug it around with her anyway. The tail-board was down, she saw, the team who’d come with them dragging the tarpaulin to the side, heaping the muck there. They’d spread it back over the load of munitions later, obviously.

  ‘Béa…’ Lannuzel reached to draw her up beside him. He had binoculars slung round his neck, she noticed: but no weapon. Telling Ollie and others, ‘The visitor from afar who organized this for us. Name’s Béa.’

  Grins, warm handshakes: one of them told her he’d had a dog called Béa: finest nose on any hound he’d known. She laughed with them: Ollie murmuring, ‘Tual likes dogs better than people, it’s a compliment. Glad to welcome you, Béa – and thanks.’

  She’d no idea how she’d come to pick the name Béatrice. It had come into her head when she’d been talking to le Guen the other day. Never known anyone of that name… She was walking beside Lannuzel into the tree-belt’s darkness: moonlight was visible beyond it, beyond the striping of the trees’ slim, evenly spaced trunks. Lannuzel had acquired a Sten, she saw – in the past half-minute one of the others must have provided it. This would be the western edge of the dropping zone, she realized. Ollie, leading, was a smaller man than Lannuzel, and like most of them, bearded. Slanting to the right, out of the trees – into moonlight and with an expanse of open, uneven ground in front of them. It was rougher than you’d land a plane on, but OK for parachutage purposes.

  A short, heavy man who’d been sitting with his shoulder against a tree-stump heaved himself up and stuck his hand out: ‘Quellec.’

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Jean. In this light you all look alike.’

  ‘Not in the least, we don’t!’

  Lannuzel’s short laugh… Then: ‘Jean Quellec, Béa. Famous for arguing every bloody point. Béa set up this drop, Jean.’

  ‘Delighted to shake her hand, then.’

  She let him do so. ‘Jean…’

  Ollie explained, pointing, ‘Two red-light markers each side. Saumon’s down that end – five hundred metres from us – and the other side opposite these are Legrand and Blathier. Le Faisan’s there at the top, of course.’ To their right, his gesture indicated – at the narrowing southern end of a space about the size of three football fields end-on to each other. A single flash of white torchlight told them that le Faisan had spotted them too. Must have eyes more like an owl’s than a pheasant’s, she thought. It was a good big clearing – although not quite as big as Lannuzel had described it, that first day – and misty-silver in the moon’s light, which at this juncture was filtering through high, thin cloud. Le Faisan at the top end would control the drop, flashing the recognition signal at the aircraft as it approached from the north; by that time this one who allegedly argued all the time would be showing a red light, as would another half a kilometre to the north on this side, and the two opposite them on the far side. Giving the pilot a marked rectangle and an aiming-point. The red lights – torches with red paper or cloth over them – would be switched on when le Faisan began his flashing.

  ‘It looks good, Guy.’

  He grunted agreement. ‘High ground, you notice, no one to look down on us. Except our pilot. With thirty men stationed in the woods we’re not going to be taken by surprise, either.’

  ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘Let’s go visit le Faisan.’ Glancing round: ‘See you later, Ollie.’ The rest had already vanished, melting into the trees.

  * * *

  Le Faisan had two men with him, who’d act as runners if he needed them. He was a tall man with a beaky nose: she’d thought his name might have been Faisant or le Faisant, but having seen the bird-like profile realized it was a nickname. He had a torch slung on a lanyard round his neck, and confirmed to Rosie that he’d been given the recognition letters by Lannuzel several days ago. ZG – initial letters for Zoé-Guido, as she’d realized – it was all the more obvious for the fact that Jaillon’s were ZP, ‘P’ for Pluto.

  ‘And a container marked with a “Z”—’

  ‘We’ll look out for it, don’t worry.’

  She and Lannuzel retired into the trees behind them, sat with their backs against the same beech trunk. The trees were mostly beeches but there were others too, and most of the leafage was well advanced.

  ‘I was going to tell you, Guy – another thing I talked with Count Jules about on Thursday was coordinating sabotage of rail and road transport, when the invasion comes. Nothing that commits you to anything specific, but in general terms, how it might be coordinated – overall aims, et cetera. Best thing might be for the two of you to get together, before you bring any others into it – or Jaillon, even?’

  ‘With you sitting in as umpire?’

  ‘If you like. My job’s only to support and assist. It’s your business and his, I’m here to help any way I can, that’s all.’

  ‘Which is the diplomat – Suzanne, or Béa?’

  ‘Oh, Suzanne. Béa’s the one who dresses like a clown – baggy pants and—’

  ‘Hear that?’

  Listening…

  ‘Gazo coming?’

  ‘I’ll go see. Tractor or the van or both. You OK here?’

  ‘Go on…’

  He’d gone. She took the 9-millimetre out of her coat pocket and rested it in her lap, checking first that the safety-catch was on. It was Spanish-made and except for the 9-mm calibre was very much like a Colt. And the reason she’d brought it with her – from England in the first place and also now, tonight – derived from her memory of that moment of disaster in Normandy last summer when poor old Romeo had had a gun in his hand and the Boches had naturally returned fire, shot him dead, whereas she having no weapon had remained alive: she’d wished there and then she had had one, could thus have made them kill her too. She could tell herself retrospectively that she wouldn’t have been alive now if she’d had one and used it, that in the long run therefore it was as well that she’d been unarmed; but she could also very easily put her mind back to how she’d felt then and what they’d done to her afterwards. Especially what they’d been on the point of doing.

  In which case she would have been better dead. Ben or no Ben.

  She blew into the barrel to dislodge any dust or fluff, eased the action fractionally to and fro, released the clip and withdrew it about halfway, shoved it back in. There were six rounds in the clip and one in the breech, and a spare clip of seven in the coat’s left-hand pocket.

  Don’t worry, Ben. I’ll be back. I swear…

  Despite that kind of thinking, and the cyanide capsules, in her blouse, it wasn’t a matter of expecting the worst: you had to assure yourself – assure Ben, in your thoughts, but yourself, in reality – that that kind of thinking was – well, theoretical. The blues in the night, or more consciously steeling yourself against the nightmare ever becoming real.
<
br />   As old Peucat had said, It won’t happen, Suzanne…

  It had to the Achards, though.

  Lannuzel was in sight now, limping back this way along the edge of the trees. Diverting and pausing to converse briefly with le Faisan… She slid the pistol back into her pocket. Thicker cloud was obscuring the moon; until this moment she hadn’t noticed. But the drop would be all right – there was a lot more clear sky than cloud, and – she checked the time – at least a quarter of an hour to go yet.

  ‘All right, Guy?’

  ‘All here now.’ Arriving, he put a hand on the tree, let himself down beside her. ‘Tractor and the van. I’ve put your bike in the lorry’s cab, time being.’

  * * *

  ‘Hey. Listen…’

  She was listening. It had been only the faintest murmur ten seconds ago but was now clearly the sound of aircraft.

  Punctual enough, at that!

  ‘I’m joining le Faisan.’ Lannuzel: and he’d gone. Aircraft noise closing from the north, the note of it as well as its volume rising swiftly. Time – four minutes past twelve. The Halifax would be overhead she guessed in maybe half a minute: having shed Jaillon’s load up there northwest of Scrignac. Or its mate having done that: doing it at this moment, maybe.

  Red points of light glowed. Le Faisan’s white light blinking: two longs, two shorts, then two longs and one short. Starting again. Lannuzel was standing beside le Faisan with binoculars up, searching the northern sky: Rosie coming up to join them – stumbling, from looking skyward instead of where she was going. The plane’s noise was a solid roar and still rising, the red lights clear to see and le Faisan still at it – ZG, ZG, ZG… If she’d had an ‘S’ phone she’d have been conversing with the Halifax’s pilot by this time.

  ‘There! See it?’

  Very loud and close: it would be at about five hundred feet, the usual height for a container-drop. She’d have asked the pilot what he had for them, and he’d be telling her, ‘Twelve sacks of goodies, no bods.’ Meaning twelve (or however many) containers, no humans dropping with them. No nylon parachutes therefore, only cotton ones – which were cheaper, and had a higher incidence of failure to open than nylon ones did. In any case containers came down a lot faster than bodies – you wouldn’t want to be under one when it landed.

  ‘Won’t need to circle. He’s right on line.’ Lannuzel was lowering his glasses: le Faisan still flashing. Rosie saw the bomber suddenly: jet black, closer than she’d been ready for, thundering straight at them and then in the next few seconds in a blast of sound over the top, leaving its stream of spawn falling in a line slap down the middle. The flashing had ceased, red lights extinguished, the first of the containers already thudding into the ground and underbrush: thirty-plus pairs of eyes watching, marking…

  ‘Whistle!’

  Le Faisan blew it, as the racket overhead died into moonlit distance. Men were out in the open then, running: le Faisan’s two helpers in the lead from this end, with him and Lannuzel behind them, Rosie on their heels. Maquisards from out of cover on both sides were already converging out there in the middle. One voice – Ollie’s probably – shouting, ‘Looks like eighteen!’

  Eighteen containers. They’d all, including the one with her special items in it, have about the same mix of contents, so it wouldn’t matter which went to which cache. The essential now was not to hang around here any longer than was necessary – not therefore to have to open it all up and sort it. Boche patrols could be homing in on this place. Containers were already being carried over to the transport: two men to each, and over the rough ground it wasn’t easy going. Each container was six feet long, painted green and weighed – well, as if it might be packed with concrete. One ‘chute hadn’t opened fully and the container had embedded itself up to about half its length, had about five men working round it. Rosie telling herself it was bound to be hers, those delicate contents smashed. But it wasn’t; hers was on its way to the transport before the ‘Z’ on it was spotted, and they’d got it to the lorry by the time she came trotting up. They’d left it on the tail end and gone back for another; Raoul offered to open it for her.

  ‘Here we go…’ Levering with the big screwdriver he’d been using, prising the thing open. Standing back, then: ‘You know what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure, Béa.’

  She was getting used to that name now, even quite liked it. Finding to her relief that they’d packed both the radio and the ‘S’ phone very well – bulky parcels of sacking bound with sticky tape, the bulk inside probably cotton-wool or sawdust. Having identified them, she decided to leave them wrapped with Lannuzel for transport back to his farm. Or maybe the ‘S’ phone to the cache: as long as she could get to it when she needed – which wouldn’t be until the next drop. For the moment she put both packages in the lorry’s cab with her valise – first extracting her bike, which would go under the tarpaulin after the containers were loaded.

  Lannuzel arrived with a large group of Maquisards and the last two containers. They’d have searched carefully to make certain they’d got the whole lot, that there hadn’t been say twenty, rather than eighteen. Le Faisan began counting the men off; Ollie took some with him to contact the two sections each of fifteen men who’d been stationed, in the forest and could now be stood down.

  ‘Back to camp then. See you Monday, Guy?’

  ‘I expect so. Monday, yes. You did well tonight, you lads.’

  Handshakes, farewells. She put her idea to him of caching the Mark III at his farm and the ‘S’ phone with the rest of the lorry’s load – ten containers, the other two vehicles were getting four each – and he agreed. ‘But we move now.’ Raising his voice: ‘All loaded, is it?’

  ‘Not covered yet.’ The tractor’s trailer had its four containers in it, but they were still piling timber on top. The lorry wasn’t ready either – pigshit had yet to be spread. Rosie’s bike was in there, though, and they’d got the tarpaulin over.

  ‘One thing, Guido—’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘The new Stens. Something I should show you. The container that had my things in it is open – might get one out of there?’

  ‘Something about Stens you imagine we don’t know?’

  ‘It’s possible you don’t.’ Challenging him – knowing her job and also not disinclined to take him down a peg or two. He could be patronizing, at times. She added, ‘And I tell you, it’s dangerous not to know.’

  ‘All right.’ Rubbing his head, impatiently watching the muck-spreading operation. ‘You can show me when we get to – where we’re going. I was thinking, we’ll drop you after this lot’s cached. Otherwise – three, four a.m., you want to be riding home early morning but not the middle of the night – uh?’

  ‘But we arranged I’d go to Madame Sanson’s. Her youngest child – I told you…’

  ‘It’s not necessary. She’ll swear blind you were there, if she had to. It’s better than actually going to her – this time of night, some neighbour thinking what a funny time to visit?’

  It did make sense. After reports of low-flying aircraft they might well be checking on any allegedly suspicious movements. She nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Maurice – get your van away first. Remember I need an inventory of all that stuff. Paul – same from you – but you leave after us, please.’

  ‘Give you five minutes – right?’

  In the cab – letting the van get a head start – for obvious reasons – she asked him, ‘You said “where we’re going” – meaning Roudouallec?’

  ‘Near there, yes.’

  ‘All right. So this cache I will know, the other two I don’t have to, that’s all. Only reminding you – what one doesn’t need to know?’

  ‘Scared you’d give us away?’

  ‘Someone might – and if it happened that I’d been arrested—’

  ‘I wouldn’t suspect you, Béa.’

  Raoul cut in, ‘Damn well think not.’ He had the e
ngine running. Repeating, scowling round at Lannuzel, ‘Damn well think not!’

  ‘See, the impression we have of you?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you – but I’ll tell you something, Raoul. Nobody – nobody – can be sure that when those bastards get to work on them they won’t tell them everything they want to know.’

  ‘Speaking from experience, you say that?’

  ‘Yes. As it happens.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me. We know people have died with their mouths still shut. I’m saying until it happens none of us can know.’

  ‘Get going, Raoul?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not.’ Into gear, and revving, lurching forward. The waning half-moon was high now: the trees threw less shadow and even getting out on to the track he had no need of lights. Lannuzel asked her, ‘What’s this about the new Stens?’

  Chapter 13

  She’d explained to him that now Stens were being turned out in such vast numbers, being cheap and easy to make, some manufacturers weren’t finishing them off properly, leaving burrs of metal in the barrels which could be dangerous if they weren’t filed off. They’d found one in that unfinished state, needing attention before it was ever fired; there’d almost certainly be others; they’d all have to be checked and if necessary put right, in the course of the next day or two. This was in a barn, near Roudouallec, in which cattle had lived recently and doubtless would again very soon; Raoul had driven the lorry into it, the doors had been shut behind it and straw then forked aside to uncover timber flooring over a newly dug and cemented pit.