Operation Kingfisher

by Hilary Green

  ‘On bicycles?’ He gave a brief sceptical laugh.

  ‘No, of course not. We … we’re hoping to meet up with some friends who will help us.’

  He looked from her to Luke again.

  ‘So what are you doing in France in the first place?’

  ‘We live here. Our mother is French and our father is English, so technically we’re British. That’s why we have to get out.’

  Cyrano’s eyes were still on Luke’s face. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

  Luke nodded unwillingly. ‘And is she right, about you?’ he countered.

  Cyrano leaned heavily on the handlebars of the bicycle, his head drooping. He spoke in English for the first time.

  ‘OK. I’m going to trust you. Yes, she’s right. I’m a British agent and I was dropped by parachute two nights ago. I should have been met but I was dropped in the wrong place. I landed badly and, as you can see, I’m more or less helpless. I’m going to have to rely on you to get me somewhere where I can contact friends.’

  ‘You see?’ Christine exclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Luke said. ‘There’s someone in Baye who may be able to help. We’ll get you there, at any rate.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cyrano lifted his head and gave them a weary smile. ‘What an incredible stroke of luck that you happened to come along.’

  ‘Do you think you can ride?’ Luke asked.

  ‘I’ll have to try.’

  Cyrano pushed off with his good foot and steered an erratic course for a few hundred yards along the road, with Luke and Christine following. It was obvious at once that pedalling the bike with only one foot was not as simple as it sounded. On the downward thrust there was no problem but as the pedal rose, the momentum faltered and he had to hook it up with his instep. Added to which, the other pedal tended to catch his bad ankle and even to rest his foot on it was painful. They covered a short distance but then he came to a stop.

  ‘I’ll have to take a breather.’ He was sweating and his face was pale.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Luke said. ‘Lean on my shoulder and I’ll push you.’

  They made better progress like that but by the time they rejoined the canal, beyond the village of Bazolles, it was obvious that Cyrano was in a lot of pain.

  Christine looked at the swollen ankle.

  ‘You could do with a cold compress on that.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t have anything to make a bandage with.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you sit on the bank and dangle your foot in the water for a bit, and I’ll see if I can find anything suitable.’

  Cyrano slid off the saddle.

  ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’

  Luke helped him to the edge of the canal, and he lowered his foot into the cold water and gave a small cry of mingled pain and relief. Meanwhile, Christine was rummaging in the haversack containing their clothes. She had dragged out the cotton petticoat she had been wearing under her skirt when she left home. Her coat was too bulky to fit in the haversack and she had rolled it up and tied it to the back of her saddle. Now she undid it, and felt in the pocket for her penknife. A sharp nick opened a seam in the petticoat and she was able to tear off a long strip of material.

  Luke watched her with amused admiration.

  ‘Clever old you! But I don’t know what Maman would say.’

  ‘She’ll never know,’ Christine responded.

  She took the strip to the canal bank and dipped it in the water. Then she turned to Cyrano.

  ‘Can you swivel around so I can get at your foot?’

  He did as she asked and she bound the wet fabric tightly round his ankle and under his instep, then dug into a pocket and produced a safety pin to fasten it. When she looked up, he was watching her with a smile and she was suddenly aware of how blue his eyes were and how they creased up at the corners when he smiled.

  ‘You’re a remarkably resourceful young lady,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Chris can fix anything,’ her brother said. ‘You’d be amazed what she can produce from her pockets.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Luke!’ For some reason she felt the colour rising in her cheeks. She finished the bandage as quickly as she could and stood up. ‘See how that feels.’

  Luke helped Cyrano to his feet and he attempted to stand, but gave up with a wince.

  ‘I still can’t put any weight on it, but it is less painful, so thanks. Let’s try the bicycle again, shall we?’

  At last, the first houses of the little village of Blaye, and the broad expanse of the lake beyond it, came into sight and Cyrano called a halt.

  ‘Who are you planning to contact here?’

  ‘The lock-keeper.’

  ‘Are you sure he can be trusted?’

  Christine and Luke exchanged glances.

  ‘We’ve been told that he often helps people … people like us who need to travel without having to show their papers,’ Luke said cautiously. ‘Look, why don’t you wait here with Chris and I’ll go ahead and see who is around. Just in case the lock-keeper’s got visitors or something.’

  Cyrano nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Sit here, in the shade,’ Luke said, pushing the bike close to a tree. He helped him to lower himself onto the grass and Christine propped her bike against the trunk and sat beside him. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he promised.

  She was suddenly gripped by the fear that was never far from her mind.

  ‘Luke, be careful!’

  ‘I will.’ He forced a smile and then mounted his bike and rode away towards the cottage.

  Cyrano said, ‘You know, I’m really grateful to you and your brother. I hope I’m not being too much of a nuisance.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re not. Not at all. We’re very glad to be able to help.’

  She looked in the direction of the lock-keeper’s cottage. Luke had disappeared from view, and she suddenly found herself beset by gloomy forebodings. Suppose the lock-keeper refused to help them, or there were no boats that would take them on their way? Suppose he had been arrested by the Nazis and his place taken by someone else, a collaborator; or perhaps the lock might now be in the hands of the Germans…. Luke could be walking straight into a trap. What should she do if he failed to return? How long should she wait?

  Luke leaned his bicycle against the wall of the cottage and stood still, watching and listening. There were no boats going through the lock and the door of the cottage was closed, so there was no way of knowing who, or how many people, might be inside. He waited, steeling himself, but in the absence of any clue about the occupants, there was nothing for it but to go ahead and hope for the best. He walked up to the door and knocked.

  There was a pause, then the sound of shuffling and disgruntled muttering from inside and the door was opened by a small man with a shock of grey hair that stood up from his head like a brush. He looked past Luke, obviously expecting to see a boat waiting to enter the lock, then returned his gaze to his visitor.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur. I’m sorry to disturb you. I was asked by Madame Delahaie to return this bicycle to you.’

  ‘Ah!’ The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Madame Jeanne Delahaie.’

  ‘I understood her name was Eloise,’ Luke said.

  The man nodded. ‘Eloise, to be sure.’

  Luke drew a breath. ‘She told me to ask you if you see many kingfishers around here.’

  The man’s look of suspicion was replaced by one of alert recognition.

  ‘Yes, I saw three only yesterday.’ He stepped forward and examined the number plate attached to the saddle and for the first time, Luke was glad that all bicycles had to be registered, by order of the occupying forces. Obviously the lock-keeper recognized it, because he grunted a form of assent. ‘Are you just returning the bicycle?’

  ‘No. She asks for your help to deliver a package.’

  ‘A package?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where is it?’
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br />   ‘Can I come in and explain?’

  The man stood aside and indicated with a jerk of his head that Luke should go in. In the low-ceilinged room, which seemed to serve as kitchen and living room, he motioned him to a chair and put a bottle of wine and two glasses on the scrubbed wooden table.

  ‘So, what’s your name?’

  ‘Luc Beauchamps. And you are M. Simon?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He poured two glasses of wine so dark it was almost black. ‘Santé!’

  ‘A la vôtre,’ Luke responded and drank. The wine, he reckoned, was not a patch on even the most ordinary vintage of Cave des Volcans.

  ‘So, we haven’t met before. What’s your connection with Eloise Delahaie?’

  ‘I was introduced to her … by a friend. The fact is, Monsieur, we need your help.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My sister and I. We need to get to Auxerre.’

  The lock-keeper’s small dark eyes narrowed. ‘What’s wrong with the train?’

  ‘On the train the Nazis check your papers. I don’t have the right ones.’

  Simon looked him over with a frown.

  ‘You look too young to be an airman, or POW. What are you, a spy?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ As succinctly as possible, Luke explained his dual nationality and the loss of his identity papers. ‘So we need to get out of France, you see. I want to go back to England to join up. Mme Delahaie said you sometimes help people to escape.’

  ‘But, my friend, you are heading in the wrong direction. You should go south, to the Pyrenees and Spain.’

  ‘I know that is what most people do. But our godfather lives near Montbéliard. He is a mountain guide. If we can reach him he will get us across the border to Switzerland.’

  ‘Hmm. I see.’ The lock-keeper rasped his hand across his unshaven chin. ‘And your sister is with you, you say? How old is she?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘And the two of you are hoping to cross France on your own, without papers?’

  ‘With your help, Monsieur – and your friends’.’

  Simon continued to rub his chin broodingly and Luke began to fear that he was going to refuse.

  Eventually the older man said, ‘I can get you down to the bottom of the staircase. My brother has a boat. If anyone asks, he can say he is going to collect stone from the quarry at Picampoix. Jacques Molan, at the bottom lock, can be trusted. He may know of someone who is heading north and might be prepared to take you.’

  Luke let out a breath he had been unconsciously holding.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur. If you can speak to him for us, we shall be forever in your debt.’ He hesitated. ‘There is one other thing. We are not alone.’

  ‘Now you are going to tell me your sister has a child with her!’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Your pet dog, then? No, no. No animals!’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. We met a man, a few kilometres back. He was hiding in a barn. He has a sprained ankle, or it may be broken for all I know. He says his name is Cyrano.’

  The lock-keeper almost shot out of his chair.

  ‘You have Cyrano with you?’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘A man was here yesterday, asking if I had heard anything – one of the Maquis from up there in the Morvan. Well, come along! What are you waiting for? Show me where you left him.’

  He was out of the door almost before Luke could get to his feet and striding away up the towpath, as fast as his short legs could carry him. As they reached the tree where the others were waiting, Luke saw Cyrano drag himself to his feet and his hand went once again to his trouser pocket.

  Simon stopped a few feet away and spread his hands in a gesture of reassurance.

  ‘You are Cyrano?’

  ‘Yes,’ was the cautious response.

  Simon stepped forward and embraced him.

  ‘Welcome to France! Your friend Gregoire was here only yesterday asking if I had any news of you.’

  Cyrano submitted to being kissed on both cheeks, and then said, ‘You know Gregoire?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry. We are all friends of the Maquis here. He is worried because you did not arrive at the time and place he expected. Come, you need to get the weight off that foot.’

  Before long, all four of them were sitting around the kitchen table and the rough vin ordinaire had been replaced by something much more palatable. Cyrano’s ankle was encased in a proper bandage and he had his foot up on a chair.

  ‘What happened?’ Simon asked. ‘According to Gregoire, you should have been dropped two nights ago, close to the Lac du Settons.’

  ‘That was the plan,’ Cyrano said. ‘But if you remember, it was very misty two nights ago. It was as clear as a bell when we left England, but once we got here it was impossible to see any landmarks. I knew we were looking for a lake, so when I saw this one through the mist I assumed it was the right one. The pilot tooled around for a while, looking for the signal lights, but in the end he was getting short of fuel so I had to make a decision: either jump and hope we were somewhere near the target, or go back home. I was fed up with waiting, so I chose to jump. Unfortunately,’ he indicated his bandaged ankle, ‘I landed badly, with the result you can see. I managed to drag myself as far as the barn where these two found me, and then I lay up, hoping it would get better. But no luck. I was beginning to get desperate when they happened along.’ He smiled at Luke and his sister, then turned to the lock-keeper. ‘Can you help me to get to Corbigny? I have a contact there who will pass a message to Gregoire.’

  ‘Pas de problème, mon cher!’ their host exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow my brother will take you down to Jacques Molan. He will know someone who will take you on from there. Now young lady, you can help me get some dinner on the table and then we’ll have to think about where you are all going to sleep.’

  Chapter 8

  Soon after dawn next morning, a small barge appeared out of the mist that lay over the surface of the lake and moored beside the lock. A slightly younger version of Pierre Simon stepped onto the quay, where the three travellers were waiting.

  ‘My name is Jean,’ he said, shaking hands with Cyrano. ‘Welcome to France.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cyrano responded. ‘It’s good of you to agree to help us.’

  ‘I am a patriot, Monsieur,’ the man replied. ‘I am too old to fight but I am happy to do anything I can for those who are prepared to help drive the Boche out of our country.’ He turned to Luke and Christine and offered his hand to each of them in turn. ‘And you, my brother tells me, are going to England to join the fight.’

  ‘That is our plan,’ Luke agreed.

  ‘Then you too, are welcome to any help I can give. So come, let us be on our way.’

  After brief farewells to the elder Simon, the three boarded the barge. Although Cyrano’s ankle had benefited from a night’s rest, he was still unable to walk so Pierre had given him a stout stick and with the help of that and Luke’s steadying hand, he managed to hop up the gangplank. Pierre heaved their bicycles on after them. Jean cast off and the barge moved out into the mist. Luke shivered suddenly.

  ‘Cold?’ his sister asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s all this – the lake and the mist. It reminded me of Tennyson’s Morte d’Arthur, where the barge with the three queens comes out of the mist to carry him off to Avalon.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with poetry,’ Christine said brusquely. ‘It puts ideas in your head.’

  Before long, the canal veered away from the lake and entered a deep cutting. Here, Christine found that the surroundings worked on her own imagination, in spite of her scornful dismissal of her brother’s poetic reaction. The wooded banks rose steeply on each side so that only a narrow strip of sky was visible. Wraiths of mist lingered among the trees and overhanging branches mirrored themselves in the still water. Even Cyrano seemed uneasy.

  ‘What a place for an ambush,’ he murmured.


  ‘No fear of that,’ Jean replied, overhearing him. ‘The Germans never come anywhere near here. Why would they?’

  Nevertheless, Christine wrapped her arms around herself and huddled a little closer to her brother. Worse was to come. Ahead of them loomed the mouth of a tunnel so narrow it hardly seemed wide enough to take the barge. A small, grey vessel was tied up just outside it and they all jumped as Jean sounded a short blast on his horn. In response, a door banged somewhere above them and a man appeared, scrambling down a flight of steep steps cut into the bank.

  Jean cut the engine.

  ‘Gilbert will tow us through the tunnels. It would be dangerous to use the engine, because of the fumes.’

  The man jumped aboard the grey barge and threw a line to Jean, which he made fast to the bows. There was a whine from some kind of motor and a clanking of chain and they began to move forward.

  ‘Oh, it’s a toueur, like the one Bernard described at Decize,’ Christine exclaimed.

  Her delight was short lived. The tunnel was unlit, except for the headlight on the towing vessel, which showed them the dank walls closing about them, and cold drips fell from the roof, which was only feet above their heads. It seemed a long time before the pinprick of light, which marked the tunnel’s end, grew to the size of an orange, and then a pumpkin and finally allowed them out into the daylight. Even that was only a brief interlude. There were three tunnels to negotiate in all and they breathed a sigh of relief when they came to the end of the last one and found themselves at last in the open. Here, the hills fell back on either side to form a wide valley and the morning mists had evaporated. It was good to feel the sun’s warmth on their shoulders.

  Close by, there was a small village.

  ‘Port Brulé,’ Jean announced. ‘Don’t worry. No one will bother us.’ He cast off the line from the toueur and they waved goodbye to the man who operated it. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘comes the hard work. This lock is the top of the staircase and there are sixteen in all.’

  ‘We’ll help,’ Christine said eagerly. ‘We know about locks.’

  There were times when she almost regretted her offer. It took them nearly four hours to negotiate the sixteen locks. Each had, as a matter of course, its own lock-keeper, who operated the sluices and whose job it was to open and close the heavy gates; but they were all more than happy to allow Luke and Christine to help. They soon found it easier to walk from one lock to the next instead of jumping on and off the barge, and that was a pleasure after the darkness of the tunnels. It was a beautiful spring morning and the canal descended step by step through a sylvan landscape. Each lock had its tiny lock-keeper’s cottage, with its little vegetable garden and pots of spring bulbs, and the canal was bordered with apple and pear and walnut trees, which would provide extra sustenance in season. Wild cyclamen and primroses bloomed in the grassy banks and every now and then, they heard the plop as a fish rose to the surface of the canal to feed.