by Bodie Thoene
Madame Hasselt had a sister in Courtrai. By this she meant that her sister was a member of a lay sisterhood called the Beguines, who lived in a gray cloister across the square. Could they stay the night and rest in real beds before pushing on?
Madame Hasselt knocked on the centuries-old gate, asked to see Sister Madeline, and was admitted while Josie and the children were asked to wait.
Ten minutes passed, and an aerial dogfight took place overhead. Josie could not tell which planes were Allies and which were Germans. Two spiraled downward in flames and exploded in the flax acreage beyond the walled city. Others made white, smoky circles above Courtrai, as if to mark its location for bombers.
Yacov was cranky from a slight sunburn. Juliette, who was quite ragged now, stretched out on the back of her cow and watched the distant air battle without emotion. She held up the cage of Petit Chou and poked her finger through the bars in boredom.
And then the gate opened on the serene courtyard, and the orb of Madame Hasselt’s face beamed out. “Come in! Come in!” She motioned to them. “Bring the cow!” She applauded herself happily. “There is a BEF medical officer here to discuss the care of additional British wounded at the cloister! I have traded the milk cow to his hospital for a ride across the border to Armentieres for you and the children. I will stay here in the convent with my sister.”
***
Gustave Bertrand was waiting in the study when Andre finally arrived home. He seemed not to notice the bandage on Andre’s head. After all, what was one little head wound when all of France was getting its brains kicked out?
“It took you long enough.” Bertrand was irritable.
“As you can see. . . .” Andre put a hand to his head.
“I hope this does not mean you will not be able to think straight. They have changed the codes again, you know. At the most critical time. And Lewinski with his miracle machine cannot seem to figure out the riddle this time.” Bertrand was clearly impatient with the fiery-haired scientist. “I’ve got to get back to Vignolles.” He stood, then remembering something, dug in his pocket and handed Andre the yellow envelope of a telegram. It was open.
“What does it say?” Andre asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“Our Anastasie intelligence service has chopped it up pretty good, but it says that Josephine arrived safely. At least I think that’s what it says.” He snatched his hat from the coatrack and jammed it onto his head. “Now, if that lunatic in your basement comes up with something, you know where I will be. In the meantime, the new British prime minister is flying into Paris tomorrow for an enlightening meeting with our fearless leader, General Gamelin. Be there. For the historical interest it is not something you would want to miss, at any rate. Our senile old general lecturing Churchill, who predicted every wrong turn our government has taken over the years!” And then, in a grieving voice, “Why did our soldiers not hold the line at Meuse, Andre? How did we let the Meuse be crossed? Is our honor dead?”
“Only sleeping,” Andre remarked bitterly.
“Yes. Well. We may lose Paris and France because of this little snooze. Good day, Andre. I know my way out.” With that, Bertrand hurried out of the house and sped away in his staff car.
Alone, Andre sat down slowly behind his desk and slipped Josie’s telegram from its envelope. The paper was filled with black marks—words crossed out by the censors until only the barest essence of the message remained.
Difficulty crossing to the . . . All safe at . . . Coming soon to . . . See you . . . Love, Josie
Filling in the missing pieces, Andre read the message as he assumed she had written it: She had experienced difficulty crossing the Channel. She and the children were finally safe in England. They were coming to . . . someplace . . . maybe London?
“Thank God they are out of here.” Andre sighed. His head was throbbing.
***
The next day Andre met the Flamingo light plane when it arrived at Le Bourget Airport, carrying Prime Minister Churchill and his staff assistant, General Hastings Ismay. Andre’s head was still wrapped in bandages, and he was afraid he would look foolish.
“Andre, dear boy!” Churchill exclaimed. “How good to see you up and about. I heard about your injury. Clemmie and I were very concerned for you.”
Andre grinned ruefully. “Tell Clemmie that she and I now have something in common, and tell her that she did much better with her automobile accident than I did with mine.”
The reason for Churchill’s decision to fly to Paris had hinged on an impassioned phone call from French Premier Reynaud. “All is lost,” Reynaud’s voice had gasped in Churchill’s ear. “The Germans will be in Paris in two days!”
“Tell me the truth, Andre,” Churchill urged as they rode in the limousine toward Quai d’Orsay. “Is it as bad as all that? This attack began only six days ago.”
“There has been a breakthrough near Sedan,” Andre said. “But I am sorry to say that I was not made privy to the details. I will be as much a student at this lesson as you.”
Churchill snorted. It was evident the idea of sitting while General Gamelin lectured chafed him.
The spacious consultation room on the ground floor was occupied by Gamelin, Premier Reynaud, and Defense Minister Daladier. Near the fireplace was an easel bearing a map of the French northeastern provinces.
“Mr. Premier,” Churchill addressed Reynaud, “how sad that our first official meeting as heads of our respective governments should come at such at hour.”
The diminutive man with the features of Mickey Mouse wrung his hands. “It is worse than sad. It is tragic!”
Gamelin lectured with all the pomposity Andre had expected. “This black mark I have drawn on the map represents the front line.”
Churchill nodded his understanding, as if the chart were not self-explanatory.
“And this bulge,” Gamelin continued, “represents a breakthrough of German tanks in the area of Sedan.”
“How big and how deep a penetration?” Churchill asked.
Gamelin looked unhappy at being interrupted. “As I was about to say,” he said peevishly, “the gap is one hundred kilometers wide and one hundred kilometers deep.”
“And has it been contained?”
Gamelin nodded. “Surrounded, sealed off. I am afraid our esteemed premier has exaggerated the danger.”
Andre thought that if Gamelin was not worried, that fact by itself was tremendous cause for concern.
Reynaud was certainly not reassured. “The German tanks are exploiting the gap. They are racing toward Amiens . . . Arras . . . even Abbeville on the coast. Or perhaps they will turn south and strike at Paris.”
Churchill tried to sound reassuring. “But surely, Mr. Premier, a counterattack launched against the flanks of this corridor would prove efficacious.” Turning to Gamelin he asked, “How many divisions are there in reserve for such a counterthrust?”
“There are no reserves,” the commander in chief replied blandly. “Oh, eight or nine divisions can be withdrawn from elsewhere, and I can order another eight or nine sent from Africa in . . . two weeks, perhaps three.”
Churchill and Andre were alike stunned at the news. No reserves, and the French reeling back before the hammer blows of the Panzerkorps? Churchill pursed his lips and asked judiciously, “And what assistance are you seeking from us?”
“Planes!” Reynaud interjected. “Fighters to deal with the terrible menace of the Stukas and the other German bombers. Our artillery can deal with the tanks if we do not have to face bombers.”
Churchill pondered a moment, though he had come prepared for this request. “I can offer four additional squadrons.”
“It is not enough!” Reynaud pleaded. “We need more.”
Gamelin actually looked pleased at his leader’s discomfiture.
“I will seek approval to release an additional six, for a total of ten,” Churchill said at last. “But that is the absolute limit. The rest must be reserved—” he laid extra stress on the word,
staring at Gamelin as he did so—“reserved for defense. You understand.”
Reynaud was almost pathetically grateful. “Thank you! That will make the difference. We will turn the tide now; you will see.”
Churchill approved of the return of confidence in the premier, but he also wanted to know how the French really planned to deal with the German thrust. “And the counterattack?” he quizzed Gamelin.
The commander shrugged. “We have inferior numbers . . . inferior equipment . . . inferior methods. . . .” The rest of the sentence expired in the air and fell to the floor. This was the response from the man who had presided over the training and equipping of the present French army.
“I am sure you will find a way to cope with the situation,” Churchill said, but his expression showed he was dubious. “And now I must go telephone my cabinet in regard to the fighter squadrons.” Passing near Reynaud but close enough for Andre to overhear, Churchill muttered to the premier, “You must get rid of him.”
Reynaud bobbed his head nervously and hurried out of the room. Gamelin covered the map with a cloth. He wore a satisfied expression, as if a successful lecture equated to a successful military victory.
Churchill paused before exiting the room as square green object hurtled past the window of the conference room to explode like a bomb in the courtyard. Another followed and another. A cloud of smoke drifted upward in front of Churchill’s view, carrying fragments of burning paper on the rising drafts. “What is that?” Churchill asked. “What is going on?”
“The government office upstairs,” Daladier said. “We are burning the secret files . . . as a precaution.”
17
Fish in a Barrel
It was the second pullback in three days. “Don’t return after this patrol,” Wing Commander Brown told David’s flight. “Too much chance of being caught on the ground by another raid. We’re moving back again. Your personal effects will come by truck. Good luck and good hunting.”
David’s Hurricane was orbiting at twenty-five-thousand feet when Simpson’s voice clicked over the radio.
“Right,” Simpson said. “A half-dozen Heinkels without escort at angels twelve, twenty miles north. Tallyho!”
It was a situation tailor-made for a fighter pilot: slow-flying enemy planes without fighter protection too close by to miss and too much lower in altitude to escape. Covering the distance was a matter of three minutes. David scanned the space below him for the group of bombers. Then suddenly there they were. “Fish in a barrel,” David muttered.
“They’ve seen us,” Simpson reported as the Heinkels began to break formation and scatter. “I’ll take the leader. Jones, yours is the next clockwise; Meyer, the next to port. Watch your six.”
David’s first pass on the Heinkel 111 shattered the top turret’s Plexiglass and silenced the machine gunner. He came back on the clumsy aircraft from its opposite quarter, just as the German pilot was attempting a roll-away from his attack. The stream of fire from David’s eight machine guns converged on the underside of the Heinkel. As David rocketed past, a ball of flame and a concussion shook the Hurricane. It was obvious that these bombers had been intercepted before delivering their payloads. Five thousand pounds of high explosive had detonated, disintegrating the German plane in midair.
David’s altitude was now down to eight thousand feet, so he put Annie into a steep climb to regain some height. As soon as the nose pointed skyward, David gasped at what he saw and got on the radio. “Simpson,” he called urgently. “Forty more Heinkels on the way in from northeast. They have top cover, too . . . looks like twenty . . . no, make that thirty 109s.”
“Roger that,” Simpson responded. “I’ll try to get us some more for our side. Pick out a partner; looks like the dance is in full swing!”
David roared at the Heinkels from underneath this time, loosing a burst at the port-side wing of one as he swept upward. There was no time for a return pass; the accompanying Messerschmitts had seen him and were already beginning their pounce.
At a severe disadvantage because of his lower elevation and slowed by the climb, David could do nothing but meet the enemy head-on. As the range toward the swooping German fighter closed to under a quarter mile, David fired a short burst and then another. The Nazi pilot was firing back, but was more intent on not colliding with David than on his gunnery. The two planes jerked violently apart at a distance of mere yards, without damage to either.
When David came out of his bank and roll, two more Messerschmitts were on his tail. He ducked away from one, using the Hurricane’s tighter turning ability. The first enemy attacker hurtled by, and David was able to turn toward the other in another headlong rush.
He took more deliberate aim this time and saw the line of his bullets converge on the 109’s nose. An instant later David was rewarded by an eruption of black smoke from the Messerschmitt’s engine. It fluttered from side to side, like a dog shaking its head, then dropped away.
David followed, loosing another short stream into the tail of the enemy fighter. After a final burst, his ammunition was exhausted. This was no place to be without a weapon. The Heinkels had taken the opportunity to disappear, but the sky was still full of dogfighting Hurricanes and 109s. Obviously Simpson’s call for more players on the side of the RAF had been answered.
One of the latecomers was in trouble. David watched a Hurricane ten thousand feet above him get into a losing tussle with a pair of Messerschmitts. David was streaking for home himself, but he kept an eye on the damaged British plane as it tumbled like a leaf out of the fight. The Germans must have figured it was done for, because they left off pursuing it and took out after another Hurricane.
When the falling aircraft reached David’s altitude, it regained some measure of control. The pilot was able to level out, even though the plane was trailing smoke. David moved Annie to join formation with the injured one. He recognized the numbers on the craft as belonging to the First Squadron, together with the identification letter K. Who flew the plane designated K in First Squadron? David could not remember.
The injured Hurricane seemed to be able to fly all right, but David could see what part of the difficulty was: An oil line had been shattered and covered the windscreen with a thick black layer. On the radio David announced, “Hurricane K, this is Meyer. I am formatted on your left wing. I can see your problem and I can help. I’ll guide you home. What’s your engine temp reading?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know,” replied a voice that betrayed near panic barely under control.
Suddenly David remembered who it was that flew the airplane in First Squadron with the letter K. He recognized the voice. It was David’s longtime nemesis, Badger Cross!
“What do you mean, don’t know?” David asked, trying to keep the contempt he felt out of his voice.
“When the hot oil . . . I opened the canopy . . . my eyes and my hands are . . . help me, Meyer! I’m blind!”
“Pop the hatch and hit the silk,” David urged Badger Cross. “Get out of there!”
“I tried!” Cross’ voice screamed through the earphones. “The hatch is jammed! It won’t open any farther!”
“Hammer on it!” David shouted back as though the two men could hear each other through the twenty yards of air that separated the two planes.
“My hands are burned. Burned! Do you understand? All I can do is hang on to the stick!”
Swallowing hard and trying to think what to do, David got back on the radio. “All right, Cross. I’m with you. Just do exactly as I say, and you’ll be all right.”
David knew what had happened. When the Messerschmitt’s bullets had pierced the oil line on the Hurricane, the hot oil streaming over the engine manifold had filled the cockpit with smoke. Cross had cracked the canopy to clear the fumes, but the slipstream had sucked the boiling lubricant over his hands as they reached up to open the hatch and directly into his face. Now with the canopy jammed, it was impossible for the man to bail out.
David began searchin
g for a suitable field. Without being able to get a picture of the oil pressure and the engine temperature in the stricken craft, there was no way to tell how soon the engine would seize up. It was essential to get down as quickly as possible.
“Meyer!” came Cross’ anxious voice. “Where are you? You can’t leave me!”
Gritting his teeth, David replied, “I’m right here, Cross, and I’ll stay right here. Keep it steady and level for now. I’m just hunting for a clear space.”
Over rolling hills and forested terrain they flew, each passing moment decreasing Cross’ chances of survival. Not that they had ever been good. How to talk a blind, crippled flier down from ten thousand feet while hurling through the air at three hundred miles an hour in a machine about to break at any minute was not in any course of instruction David had ever had.
There was a field coming up. It looked flat enough, and there were no obvious ditches or rocks sticking out. “Okay, Cross,” David radioed. “There’s your field coming up now. We need to kill some altitude, so when I count to three, I want a nice easy dive and a gentle bank left.”
Through the oil-streaked glass of Cross’ canopy, David could barely make out the hunched-over figure of the pilot. “Relax,” David said. “Pretend this is back in the old Tiger Moth training days, and I’m sitting in the backseat telling you what to do next.”
The gradual circuits of the field brought them down to fifteen hundred feet. David maintained a running monologue about routine things, keeping his voice even. “Bring the nose up a touch, Cross. That’s it; you’re doing fine.” If David let so much as half a minute go by in silence, Cross began yelling over the radio. The man seemed certain that David would abandon him.
David moved the Annie into a direct line astern of Cross. “All right now, pay attention. You are lined up perfectly with the field. When I say to, cut your engine. Don’t move the stick or rudder, and you’ll glide right in. Got it?”
