Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Suzanne, Zoé, Béatrice. Now we have her twin sister Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, code-name “Angel”. Want to tell me you don’t remember her either – do you?’

  She frowned, gazing up at him. There’d be no sense in seeming to remember anything. Although it was all up with her, she realized. Except for that whispered news – para-drops, and the entire coast under air bombardment. Remember that, believe in it… But if only to avoid torture, one should have no memory. Well – also to avoid being tortured to the point at which one might tell them whatever they wanted to know. In the Rouen area it would be about missile sites and the identities of Resistance leaders whom she’d recruited last summer as informants on that subject. They’d want those men’s names anyway, simply as Résistants; but also, Intelligence reports in recent weeks had indicated that the deployment of the missiles or ‘secret weapons’ was imminent… Her head hurt: telling herself again to hold on to the memory loss – which was all she had. If they’d tied her to Rouen and identified her as ‘Angel’, therefore to the man who’d called himself ‘César’ – whom ‘Angel’ had killed…

  ‘Here, now.’ He’d put the file down on the bed and opened it. Glancing up at the Sister, who’d asked whether anything was wrong, he nodded. ‘You could say so. Or more accurately, we’ve got it right now. Wait – I’ll show you… Is the doctor here?’

  ‘Probably in his office.’

  ‘Get him.’ Then a second thought: ‘No – wait. Have a look here.’

  ‘As you wish…’

  He turned one photographic print for her to see.

  ‘Taken here, four days ago. I sent a copy of it to Paris, for checking against records. And—’ he flipped the other one around – ‘Snap. Hunh?’

  She was studying them both. Shrugging then: ‘There’s a resemblance, but—’

  ‘Not the least doubt – and you know it. All right – tell the doctor I want him here.’

  Cool fingers stroked Rosie’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever it is – put your trust – you know?’

  ‘Get the doctor!’

  Rosie smiled after her. Brave little mouse…

  Wondering then whether landing-craft had touched-down on the beaches yet: and if so, where.

  ‘Give me that chair.’

  ‘Sir.’ Greber slid it along, Hammerling reversed it and thumped himself down. Pointing a thick forefinger at her: ‘Might as well stop the pretence now – eh, Angel?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what—’

  ‘Look at this, then!’

  She moved her right hand over to take it from him. Her other one was inside the bedclothes: it was instinctive on this side of the bed to have it hidden, out of his sight and easy reach. Studying the print. She had no memory of having being photographed in Rouen, but she’d guessed they most likely would have, and here it was. It looked as if she’d flinched against the flash: might on the other hand have had her eyes shut, or tears in them that caught some reflection. Head back, mouth slightly open.

  ‘Supposed to be me?’

  ‘You know damn well it is!’

  ‘I don’t – at all…’ She let it drop. ‘When, where—?’

  ‘August – last year – in Rouen. From where you managed to escape by jumping out of a car, and subsequently knifed a German officer to death.’

  ‘I did?’

  A bark of mirth: ‘Or this twin of yours!’

  ‘I couldn’t – couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘You’re under sentence of death, anyway.’ He looked pleased about it. ‘Have been since August. And believe me, that’s the only escape you’ll ever make.’ She blinked slowly, confused as to whether he was referring to the escape in Rouen or to the prospect of death, the ultimate escape. Ben came into it too, though – he was at the heart of her determination to stay alive if there was any way she could. Hammerling continuing meanwhile in his awful French – if she could believe her ears, wasn’t misunderstanding – something about advantages to herself if she decided to cooperate. Advantages like avoidance of torture, perhaps.

  It would be too. When one knew about the forms of torture: or some of them…

  He’d asked whether she understood. He and Greber both staring at her, waiting for some response. She sighed, closed her eyes. Death would be by hanging, she supposed. Meaning – in Ravensbrück, anyway, as one had heard – strangulation, not the neck-breaking kind.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite follow…’

  ‘Couldn’t, eh? Well – doesn’t matter. It’ll be explained to you when you get to Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’

  He nodded to the younger man. ‘Chain her up.’

  He’d said it in German: she realized a minute later what it had meant. Greber on his way round to this side of the bed – and the doctor coming, she saw, shouldering through the curtain, an arm out behind him to hold it back for the Sister to come through behind him. Greber seized her right wrist, snapped the cold steel of handcuffs on it, locked the other cuff to the bedstead.

  ‘Herr Major – what’s happening, what’s—’ Aghast, pointing at the handcuff… ‘What possible purpose—?’

  ‘Your patient, doctor, is a murderess, under sentence of death. Apart from more recent criminal activities, last August she killed a German officer!’

  ‘Even if that were the case, Major—’

  ‘It is. I just told you!’

  ‘She’s in no condition even to try to get away!’

  ‘They may have thought so in Rouen when she made a run for it that time. Anyway – she’ll be taken from here tomorrow morning. The guard will have a key, he’ll release her at six, you’ll have her dressed and ready by half-past. Clear?’

  ‘But if she can’t walk—’

  ‘Then she’ll be carried.’ He looked down at her. ‘Make the most of your last night in a bed.’

  Chapter 19

  Joan was in civies: and looked terrific, of course. Couldn’t help it – she always had. In green again, this evening: in days of yore she’d known it was his favourite colour for her, and had tended to humour him in that way. A soft, mid-green, a suit made of some silky material, figure-hugging. He kissed her, out there on the pavement: ‘Joan. Lovely. Really is.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ Laughing… ‘Sure it’s not some kind of penance?’

  Big dark eyes inches from his: new arrivals pushing into the pub’s entrance forcing them even closer together, when having kissed her cheek and practically inhaled a small jade ear-ring he’d been in the process of disengaging. And certainly not answering that question, was he sure: he wasn’t, not in the least. He was worried out of his mind about Rosie, news of her he’d had from Marilyn Stuart. He’d set up this date with Joan before that, unfortunately, and the only way to have got out of it would have been to call her today, at such short notice that he’d felt he couldn’t.

  ‘This one of your regular haunts, Ben?’

  ‘Not really. But convenient, I thought. Halfway house between you in your snooty neighbourhood and me in my doss-house… Look – eating takes place upstairs. More room up there, too.’

  ‘OK.’ A short, dark-oak staircase with a bend in it. Climbing it, saying over her shoulder, ‘Amazing, you being at the Mallinsons!’

  ‘Man I work with knew a guy who was moving out, that’s all. Lucky timing. Amazed me you knew them, though.’

  She’d explained the background to that, mostly when he’d telephoned her to make this date. Hermione, now Mrs Mallinson, as a young and penniless war widow in 1919 had been taken on by Joan’s family as a sort of housekeeper. They’d got rid of her at some time around 1930, as one of a number of then essential economies, but Joan, aged about seventeen at the time, had been fond of her and kept in touch. They’d swapped Christmas cards and occasional letters, mainly changes of address from Hermione and from Joan’s side any special news of herself or of her brother. Hermione had had a series of comparatively short-lived jobs, all of a domestic nature and usually describe
d as housekeeping, but she’d finally landed up with Professor Mallinson, a widower, and married him.

  ‘I gather the Mallinsons don’t know you and Bob are getting divorced?’

  ‘Yes. I mean they don’t. Bob being in the Med’s enough to be going on with.’

  ‘Except sooner or later – why wouldn’t you want them to know, anyway?’

  ‘Because Hermione’s very stern on such subjects. Used to lecture me – no end of pi-jaw… Anyway – when it’s a fait accompli—’

  A young but heavyweight waitress intervened: ‘That table all right for you, sir?’

  ‘I’d say so. OK, Joan?’

  ‘Fine – backs to the wall… Ben, this is nice…’

  Actually, pretty awful. With nothing in his mind but Rosie. He pulled the end of the table out so she could get in behind it, and she chose that moment, as she swung her shapely hips in, brushing against him quite deliberately, to make it worse: ‘Am I right in suspecting that you and little what’s her name aren’t seeing all that much of each other, these days?’

  He hesitated: on the point of manoeuvring himself in beside her… Staring down for a moment at her wide, bright smile. The bitch was sensationally attractive. Just about every other man in the room who had a view of her seemed to be thinking the same thing. He asked her – quietly, politely, suppressing that flare of anger – easing himself in, then moving the stick over to the outside to be out of her way – better than hitting her with it – ‘Joan – a favour, please. Any other subject. Tonight especially. OK?’

  ‘But why, my darling? I mean all right, but—’

  ‘Here – menu. No – hell, drink, first. Gin, or – what, Horse’s Neck?’

  ‘Lovely idea!’

  He’d felt he had to ask her out, after he’d met her at his digs, and guessing it was likely he’d see her there again. In any case he’d wanted a chance to make her understand that there was no prospect whatsoever of their resuming any kind of close relationship: having a lasting if somewhat confused memory of that evening six weeks earlier. But not in any negative, censorious attitude to her break-up with Bob – water under the bridge now, didn’t have to be his business anyway – but positively and emphatically because Rosie was and henceforth always would be the one woman in his life. So he’d rung Joan at her brother’s flat and dated her; three or four days ago. Four – last Thursday, aiming to fix something up for the weekend, which hadn’t been possible because she’d been going out of town. And then at the weekend – this was Monday now, June 12, D-day plus six – on Saturday, Marilyn Stuart had rung him in his office in St James’, asking him to meet her that evening – when as it happened she’d be on her way out of town, to one of the SOE country-house establishments where she’d be spending the weekend. Yes, she’d said, she did have news. She’d added, ‘It’s not good, Ben. Don’t expect it to be: it just isn’t. Only not quite as bad as it would have been if I’d had to update you a few weeks ago.’

  Puzzle that one out, he’d thought: putting the phone down with a sudden hollow in his gut.

  * * *

  She’d met him in the Gay Nineties, which for him was an easy hobble up from St James’. He’d given himself a couple of stiff ones before she arrived: he’d known she’d be there on the dot – Rosie had told him he wouldn’t believe how punctilious she was – so he’d got there at six, climbed on to a bar stool and lit his first cigarette by two minutes past. Dreading whatever it was she was going to tell him: something that would have been worse if she’d responded to any of the messages he’d left a few weeks ago. He’d been in the ‘F Section building a couple of times on official business since then too, seeing Hallowell about passengers and munitions cargoes for Brittany, and had manfully resisted the temptation to ask whether she was around: she knew damn well he and Hallowell had to meet quite often, could have left a message of her own with him if she’d been so inclined.

  But OK. Maybe it had been a kindness – if it was going to be better now than it would have been earlier on.

  She’d arrived in uniform. He’d been drinking gin and water and she’d asked for a Horse’s Neck. They’d moved to a small table in the anteroom to the eating area, which was quiet and empty this early in the evening. She’d opened straight away with, ‘Ben, I wish to God I didn’t have to tell you any of this. It’s only because of your own insistence – and the fact you’re practically one of the family.’

  The SOE family, she’d meant. He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You won’t thank me. Nobody’d want this kind of news.’

  She was preparing him for it, he’d realized. Putting him on his mettle. No doubt she’d had to impart bad news before. And she was very fond of Rosie, he knew that. On the other hand – reminding himself again – it couldn’t be all that bad because she’d already said it might have been worse.

  ‘So – let’s hear it?’

  A nod. ‘First thing is – brace yourself, Ben – if I’d seen you more than a week or three weeks ago I’d have had to have told you Rosie was in a car-smash in northwestern France on May fourteenth and had been left virtually for dead.’

  He hadn’t flinched. Hand white-knuckled around his gin-glass.

  ‘But that’s not so?’

  ‘No. What we know now is she was alive on June seventh, day after the landings. She had been in that car smash, but she spent the next three weeks in a hospital – in Morlaix. You’d know where that is?’

  ‘Head of a long estuary between the Beg-an-Fry and Grac’h Zu pinpoints.’

  She went on: ‘The source of the first information – that she’d been killed – was the man who was driving the car. An SIS agent. He was brought out in one of your MGBs from the Grac’h Zu pinpoint on May seventeenth. I’ve spoken to him at length, also seen his written report. He’d got Rosie out of an extremely tricky situation, I must tell you, can’t go into detail, but—’

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t – thanks… Ben – I must emphasize this – the man I’m talking about took a huge risk, getting her out of the spot she was in earlier that night – May thirteenth. Bearing in mind that we and SIS are poles apart, functionally – well, he risked his life for her: in fact if it hadn’t been for the crash—’

  ‘She’d have come out with him?’

  Imagining it. Inhaling hard. That last embarkation from the Grac’h Zu pinpoint: she’d have been one of them.

  Instead of which…

  Marilyn took a gulp of her drink, checked the time.

  ‘I’m emphasizing that point because when it happened – well, she’d gone through the windscreen, and there was a lot of blood, at first he thought she was dead, then detected a very faint pulse. He doubted she’d last: but even at that, he was in a very crucial situation, there wasn’t anything he could have done for her.’ She’d glanced round, and lowered her voice still further. ‘It was in the middle of the night, they were being chased by some Hun patrol – having already broken through one road-block. He’d switched his lights off and swung into a small lane – at high speed, hit a wall, and – that was that. This was miles and miles from where they had to get to, to contact the escape réseau – he couldn’t possibly have carried her, for instance. All he could do was leave her there, and get away himself across-country. Which he did. He’s in no way to be blamed, Ben.’

  ‘All right.’ Swallowing more smoke. ‘She wasn’t dead, and they – someone – got her to the hospital.’

  ‘German military police.’ Marilyn nodded. ‘And what we know now is she was taken out of the hospital five days ago – on the seventh. We’ve heard this from SIS – who got it from some agent of theirs in Morlaix – and they say she was transferred by prison van from there to Paris, that day. She was seen being brought out to the van, and a nurse from the hospital confirmed that one, it was a young female patient who’d gone by the name of Suzanne Tanguy – which was her cover name – and two, that the Gestapo—’

  ‘Gestapo?’

  ‘Yes. They’d assum
ed charge of her during her three weeks in the hospital, apparently, then suddenly ordered her transfer to Paris. Ben – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and I hate this, but – look, with the way things are going for us now—’

  ‘Gestapo had her before, didn’t they?’ Shaking a new cigarette out of the packet. ‘Christ Almighty…’

  ‘Ben – the way it’s going now, they must know the writing’s on the wall, they’re surely going to pay some regard to—’

  ‘The niceties?’

  ‘Well – not quite the word…’

  The Normandy battle was going well, Marilyn had been right, he thought, that the Boches would at least suspect by now that they were going to lose. Once they lost Caen – which insiders were saying would enable Allied forces to break through between the German 15th and 7th Armies – they’d have to. The beachheads were all joined up, and in these first six days the Allies had put ashore more than 300,000 men, 50,000 vehicles and 100,000 tons of stores. It wasn’t any walk-over. Twelve German divisions were in action, including four of Panzers. But Allied air had destroyed every bridge across the Seine below Paris, and most across the Loire, so the enemy could only move through the eighty-mile gap between Paris and Orléans, and the airforces were hammering them hard there.

  That was the background – some of it – as of tonight. To Ben, it was all background. In the foreground and his own focus was just Rosie.

  * * *

  Joan asked him – having talked about her brother Gareth, who was in Italy and had been all right when he’d written her an air-letter card about a fortnight ago – ‘Has the invasion changed your job much, Ben?’

  Small-talk. They’d both had fish pie, she’d eaten hers and he’d had some of his, then offered her a pudding which she hadn’t wanted, so ordered coffee and brandy… Convivial evening and small-talk with one’s former bedmate. With Rosie in some Gestapo cell?

  You needed a shutter on your mind.