Operation Kingfisher

by Hilary Green

  The men were sitting round a table on the far side of the bar from the residents, drinking beer. It was clear that they were determined to ignore each other. Cyrano pulled out a chair for her.

  ‘Feeling better? What would you like to drink? A glass of wine, lemonade?’

  ‘I’d like a beer, please.’

  ‘Excellent! Madame, a blonde for the young lady.’

  Luke leaned closer to her. ‘Sorry, Sis. I should have thought. You OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just wish I had my other slacks.’

  Jeanette brought over the beers, all demurely downcast eyes and fluttering eyelashes, and Christine was shocked to see how all the men responded with little pleasantries that made her blush and giggle. Even Cyrano joined in!

  At that moment, a door opened on the far side of the room and a woman came in; all the men at the table stopped looking at Jeanette and fell silent. The newcomer was probably in her late twenties, Christine guessed, tall and slender with shining blonde hair framing perfectly regular features. She was exquisitely made-up and she was dressed in a full-length crimson evening gown. She greeted the other residents with easy familiarity and Christine was amused by their reactions. The men all got up and two of them kissed her hand. The women’s reception was distinctly less welcoming. She looked around to share her observation with her brother, but he was staring at the new arrival like a man hypnotised.

  ‘Who is that?’ she whispered to Cyrano.

  ‘Madame de Montfort – Adrienne,’ he murmured. ‘Though I suspect that is not her real name. A widow, by her own account, and before that an actress. The ex-mistress of some minor aristocrat, according to others.’

  The lady turned away from her admirers and came across the room to where they sat and all the men rose.

  ‘Our gallant Maquisards! Good evening, gentlemen. I’m delighted to see you all well.’

  She offered her hand to each of them in turn. Xavier kissed it, murmuring some fulsome flattery; Gregoire and Cyrano contented themselves with shaking it, though they both gave a little formal bow as they did so. ‘And who is this young Adonis?’

  Luke was blushing.

  ‘Luke Beauchamps, Madame.’

  ‘Enchanté. A new recruit?’

  ‘Just a temporary one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What a pity. And you,’ she looked at Christine, ‘you are…?’

  ‘Christine Beauchamps, Madame.’

  ‘Ah! You are en masquerade, n’est-ce pas? Playing the breeches part. How droll!’

  One of the men from the other side of the room called, ‘Adrienne, your drink is here.’

  She made a little grimace. ‘Such a bore! But one must be polite. Au revoir, mes amis.’

  As she drifted away, Christine muttered fiercely, ‘Ghastly woman!’

  Luke responded, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought she was rather … attractive.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ She wanted to kick him, but realized this was not the time or the place.

  Isabelle felt almost light-hearted as she walked back towards the house. She had been tasting the new vintage with her head vigneron and it promised to be good. The men had come as promised and removed the barrels of stolen explosives and, though she preferred not to think about what they intended to do with them, it was a relief not to have them on her premises.

  Best of all, she knew that her children were safe, even if their whereabouts was a mystery. She hummed to herself as she entered the kitchen. She was about to start preparing the evening meal when she heard a car draw up outside and then the voices of her two German lodgers. They were back earlier than usual.

  Hoffmann came into the kitchen and she saw at once that his breathing was laboured.

  She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘Sit down, Leutnant. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘Not exactly. That is, I fear the time has come for me to say goodbye. I have to leave early tomorrow.’

  ‘Leave?’ To her surprise, the news was unwelcome.

  ‘Yes, my company is being redeployed. I shall be very sorry to go. You have been most kind. But I expect you will be glad to see the back of us.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I can’t pretend that you were welcome guests, when we first met. But in the event, we have been good company. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do, Madame, most heartily. I shall miss our conversations – and your hot milk!’

  ‘So, where are you going? Or am I not supposed to ask?’

  ‘We are being sent to a place called Saint-Nectaire.’

  ‘Saint-Nectaire!’ Isabelle turned away to the stove, so that he could not see her face.

  ‘It seems there has been some Resistance activity in the area and we are charged with rooting it out.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I know we are supposed to be enemies, but I think if the roles were reversed and your people were occupying my country, I should admire these brave young men.’

  ‘Which way will you go?’ She had to struggle to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  ‘By the shortest route. It is cross-country, but my captain thinks that is where the Maquis are hiding out. He wants to make a reconnaissance.’

  ‘You should stick to the main roads,’ she said quickly. ‘That other route is very hard to follow. You could easily get lost.’

  He shrugged. ‘It is not for me to decide, Madame. I go where the captain orders.’ He got to his feet. ‘I think I will sit outside for a little while. Schulz is packing my things and I feel better in the fresh air.’

  When he had gone, Isabelle dropped into a chair and put her head in her hands. The mental image she had had when Louis told her what the Maquis intended, of twisted metal and broken bodies, came back even more vividly. To imagine it happening to some unknown enemy soldiers was bad enough, but to let it happen to the gentle soul who had come into her care was unthinkable. But what was the solution? To warn him would immediately expose her as an associate, however unwilling, of the Maquis and he might feel it his duty to report the fact to his superiors. What was more, if the Germans became aware of the ambush that was being prepared, they would be able to surround the Maquisards, who would become the victims rather than the aggressors. This would result in the death of many and the arrest of the others. She could not be responsible for doing that to her countrymen. There was only one solution: somehow Hoffmann must be prevented from joining that convoy.

  As she racked her brains, she heard him cough outside the window and the germ of an idea came to her; if he were to become too ill to report for duty, the convoy would leave without him. She knew that he was allergic to certain things and exposure to them would bring on an asthma attack. What were the things he had mentioned? Horses! He had said that he had been forced to join the infantry because being with horses made him ill. She had a horse, an old cob which had provided motive power for various appliances until the advent of the tractor, and which had now been called into service again. But she could hardly invite Hoffmann into the stable. Whatever pretext she gave, he would refuse knowing the consequences. Would it be sufficient to walk the horse past him, perhaps to stop with it and chat? He would certainly avoid being anywhere close to it. Then she had an inspiration; there was an old blanket in the stable, which they used to throw across the horse’s back when the weather was cold. It was thoroughly impregnated with horsehair. If she could somehow smuggle that into his room, even replace the blanket on his bed with it, that might do the trick.

  She paused, wondering. How severe might the effects be? Did she have any right to inflict more suffering on her unfortunate guest? But would that not be better than letting him go to almost certain death?

  She got up and took a carrot from the vegetable rack as colour for her actions, then strolled across the yard to the stable, where the old horse accepted her offering with alacrity. The blanket was on the hook where it was kept. She took it down and rolled it into as small a bundle as she could manage. Now, how to get it back to the house witho
ut him seeing? To her relief, he was writing something, his head bent over a pad on his knee, and he did not look up as she passed.

  The next problem was Schulz. Hoffmann had said he was packing for him. She left the blanket just inside the door of Christine’s room, which was opposite the one now occupied by Hoffmann, and tapped on his door. Schulz was stuffing clothes into a kitbag. He looked around as she entered.

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Fritz, could you do something for me?’ (She had abandoned the formal Herr Schulz long ago.)

  ‘Of course, Madame. I have almost finished here, then I am at your service.’

  ‘Thank you so much. I’ve run out of water. Could you bring another bucket from the well?’

  ‘Certainly. Give me one minute.’

  Isabelle returned to the kitchen and took the bucket from under the sink. It was still half full so she poured the contents round the rose that grew by the door. When Schulz appeared she handed it to him, saying, ‘The lieutenant tells me you are leaving tomorrow. I shall miss having you to help with jobs like this.’

  ‘I shall be sorry to go, Madame. We both will. But I will bring up the firewood and fill the water bucket again before we leave.’

  She thanked him and watched him go off towards the well. Then she hurried back to Hoffmann’s room. She retrieved the blanket, stripped back the quilt, tucked the blanket in place and covered it with the quilt. It was too much for a warm evening, but Hoffmann seemed to need warmth, so she hoped he would not notice the difference. Then, torn between relief and guilt, she returned to the kitchen and got on with preparing the evening meal.

  Isabelle slept badly. Her room was at the other end of the house so she could not hear anything that went on in Hoffmann’s, but suddenly she was woken from a light doze by the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. Schulz was stoking up the fire in the range, and he had pulled the big iron kettle onto the hotplate.

  He looked around as she entered.

  ‘Madame, forgive me for waking you. The lieutenant is very poorly. His asthma is worse than I have seen it for a long time. Sometimes it helps to inhale the steam.’

  ‘You must do whatever is necessary,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘There is very little we can do,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes the attack passes off. Otherwise we shall have to get the doctor to give him an injection. Can I bring him in here so he can sit close to the kettle?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Let me help.’

  Hoffmann was propped up on his pillows, and Isabelle was horrified by the sight of what she had brought about. His lips were blue and he was breathing in short gasps, as if every breath was a struggle. Between them, Isabelle and Schulz half carried him to the kitchen and sat him by the steaming kettle, but there seemed to be very little improvement; she was terrified that her actions were going to result in his death.

  ‘Fritz, you must go for the doctor straight away. Leutnant Hoffmann needs help.’

  The batman looked at his officer and Hoffmann gave the faintest of nods.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  For Isabelle, the next half hour was one of the longest of her life. She sat by the young German, rubbing his back in a vain effort to relieve the symptoms, and refilling the kettle so that there was a continuous supply of steam. At last, she heard a vehicle draw up outside and a uniformed officer came in, followed by Schulz.

  He clicked his heels formally.

  ‘Kapitän Doctor Müller, Madame. I am the medical officer for the battalion.’

  Isabelle got up. ‘I’m so relieved to see you, doctor. Please, can you do something for this poor young man?’

  The doctor bent over Hoffmann, listened briefly to his chest, then opened his bag and took out a syringe. ‘Fortunately, the condition responds well to an injection of adrenalin.’

  He inserted the needle into Hoffmann’s arm and slowly depressed the plunger. The result, to Isabelle, was almost miraculous. Even before the whole contents of the syringe had been delivered, the young man’s breathing began to ease and she saw the tension go out of his shoulders. Abruptly, she remembered that the offending blanket was still on his bed. She excused herself and hurried back to his room. She had just had time to extract the blanket and throw it into Christine’s room when Hoffmann came back, supported on each side by Schulz and the doctor.

  When he was propped up once again on his pillows the doctor said, ‘There should be no recurrence of the problem tonight. But he will need to rest. I will sign a certificate releasing him from duty for the next three days. Then we will see how he is.’

  ‘But I understood he was supposed to leave tomorrow,’ Isabelle said. ‘He told me his unit was being redeployed.’

  ‘So they are,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But he will not be with them.’ He looked at Hoffmann. ‘Don’t worry, boy. You’ll be able to rejoin your men in a day or two.’

  When the doctor had gone Hoffmann said weakly, ‘It seems you will have to put up with us a little longer, Madame.’

  She smiled at him, relief flooding through her.

  ‘I’m very glad you are staying. You must rest and take all the time you need to get well.’

  The following evening, Schulz returned from duty, the habitual creases in his face deeper than ever.

  ‘Terrible news, Madame! The company being redeployed to Saint-Nectaire was ambushed by the bandits who call themselves resistance fighters. Hardly any of them escaped.’

  Isabelle put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how awful!’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed. He met her eyes, and for a moment she saw a wild speculation in them. Then he shook his head in wonder. ‘And to think, the lieutenant and I should have been with them’.

  Chapter 16

  The next two days at the Maquis camp were spent in training with the new equipment. Luke spent long hours at the improvised firing range and Christine swotted away at the Morse code. By the second afternoon, she was able to convince Cyrano that she had a good grasp of it and he unpacked his radio set and showed her how to use the Morse key to transmit the dots and dashes.

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t actually transmit anything,’ he assured her. ‘This is just practice.’

  It was more difficult than she had imagined and while she was still struggling with it, Gregoire arrived in camp. He called Xavier and half a dozen other men, including Luke, and they hunkered down in a circle while he opened the pack he was carrying.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked Cyrano.

  ‘It looks as though he’s teaching them how to use the plastic explosive,’ he replied.

  ‘Could I watch?’ she asked eagerly.

  He hesitated a moment, then grinned. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Gregoire glanced up as she joined the group, craning to see over the shoulders of the men around him, but he made no comment.

  ‘I want you all to listen very carefully to what I am about to say. This stuff is perfectly safe if you treat it properly but it can be lethal if you don’t.’ He unwrapped a package to expose a lump of material that reminded Christine of green plasticine. The smell of almonds wafted through the clearing. ‘Its proper name is Nobel 808 but it’s called plastique because that is what it is. When it is warm, you can mould it to any shape you want, so it is ideal for fixing to parts of machinery, for example, or metal supports. The best temperature is about body heat, so the most convenient way to carry it is here.’ He opened his shirt and lifted his arm to show a chunk of the explosive nestling in his armpit. He removed it and handed it to one of the men. ‘See how easy it is to mould it to any shape you want.’

  The man took it gingerly and bent it, then gaining confidence he rolled it into a sausage and joined the two ends.

  ‘That’s the way,’ Gregoire approved. ‘Pass it round so everyone can have a try. The only snag with this is, as you will have noticed, the smell. The Boche are perfectly familiar with it, so if you happen to be stopped while carrying it, they will know exactly what your in
tentions are. And it clings. It takes a lot of washing to get rid of the smell. Now,’ he reached into his pack, ‘in order to detonate it, you need one of these. You can’t detonate it by setting fire to it; it will just burn. Even a rifle shot won’t do it. You have to have a proper detonator. This is what we call a time pencil. You can see why: it’s just about the same shape and size as an ordinary pencil.’ He held up a brass tube. ‘Inside this end, there is a glass capsule containing acid. Running alongside it is a wire, which is connected to a spring holding back the striker. To activate the device, crush the end of the tube with a hammer or under the heel of your boot so that the glass capsule breaks. The acid then eats away the wire, which releases the spring and the striker then hits the percussion cap at the other end of the pencil, which you have pushed into the plastique. The thickness of the wire determines how long that process takes, so different time pencils give different delays between breaking the glass and the detonation. You can have pencils with a ten minute delay or up to 24 hours. They are accurate to within a couple of minutes with a ten minute delay, and an hour if set for twelve hours or more. Any questions?’

  ‘Yes,’ Xavier said. ‘What’s our first target and when do we start?’

  ‘That’s something we need to discuss,’ Gregoire said. ‘I have identified several possible targets. The main objective is to disrupt the enemy’s lines of communication or hamper his ability to rearm or reinforce. So, railways will be a prime target, but also factories, fuel dumps, electricity supplies and so on.’

  ‘What about the canals?’ someone said. ‘The Boche use them to transport materials.’

  ‘We could blow the lock gates at Marigny,’ another voice joined in.