‘The dog, the barge,’ said Weber, cupping his hand to his ear. ‘It must be near. We must find it.’
It found them, floating mysteriously towards them through the mist, the dog howling as if to guide them. They each croaked a sort of cheer as it obligingly came alongside. There was even the metal ladder so that they climbed aboard easily. The dog was ecstatic. The hearse was travelling undisturbed.
They made a fuss of the dog and Gino found a few biscuits in a container next to the improvised kennel. He put the biscuits through the bars of the cage. ‘Not so many,’ warned Weber. ‘We may need them.’
But they did not. They had only been aboard, crouching under some sacking, for half an hour when it began to get light and the mist started to thin with the growing dawn. Then a noise like a grunt made them climb the ladder to the deck level. Another tug was lying half a mile away and someone was waving. ‘We are saved,’ Gino said. ‘Thank God.’
Weber said: ‘Yes, thank you, God.’
Two hours later they were in St Malo in dry, odd clothes donated by their rescuers. No one on the quay took any notice of them and they both felt left out. ‘You would think that somebody would mention it,’ sniffed Weber. They did give a statement in German, French and sign language to a French official who seemed only mildly interested. Acidly, Weber asked him if they were taking up too much of his time. ‘No, monsieur,’ said the man, pushing his cap back. ‘This will take only one page in my book.’
More interest was shown in the hearse and the occupant of its coffin, which were unloaded just after the dog. Gino waved to the dog who was being put on a cart pulled by a donkey.
‘He was a well-known man,’ said the French official as they watched the hearse. ‘They will take him home to Rouen.’
Weber said: ‘Well, he wasn’t disturbed. There was a fucking big bang but he didn’t even stir.’
Two hours later they were aboard a halting, wooden-seated train going to Caen. They had been given breakfast at St Malo – a special breakfast, apparently, which included an egg and some horse-meat sausages kept for heroes or survivors of battles – and then taken to the train. ‘I hope nobody drops a bomb on this train,’ Weber had said lugubriously as he climbed, stiff and tired, aboard. ‘Or that terrorists don’t remove the railway lines. We’ve had enough war for a while.’
He wedged himself into a corner and dropped into an exhausted sleep. On the opposite seat Gino surveyed the passing countryside, grey-green under the sullen sky, and wondered what was going to happen to him. He was deeply fond of Fred Weber but the experiences of the past few hours made him think that he might have been better off marking time until the end of the war as waiter in the officers’ mess in Jersey.
They stopped at every insignificant station. At one, a grumbling priest puffed into the compartment, a man so begrimed and ragged that Gino almost asked him if he needed help. His shabby cloak just encircled his fat body, his eyes were deeply ringed below the threadbare hat, his fingernails were black moons and even his rosary, which he produced and fumbled, was greasy.
When his panting had subdued he peered at Gino through sticky eyes. Weber was snoring. The priest looked irritated. ‘This man is snoring,’ he said to Gino.
‘He is asleep, Father,’ the Italian pointed out.
‘I don’t like men who snore,’ said the priest. He seemed to realise that the statement might compromise him. ‘I have heard them in workhouses.’
‘This man is a sergeant in the German Army. He is wearing civilian clothes because we have both been swimming in the Channel.’
‘Early in the year for that,’ grunted the priest.
Gino scowled but not directly at the priest. ‘We were in a ship and it was blown up by a mine. Everybody else was lost. We were lucky.’
‘God was good to you,’ said the holy man taking out his filthy rosary and calculating the beads through his dirty fingers. ‘He wanted you to live. Perhaps he has some gallant destiny for you.’
‘With due respect, I hope not,’ said Gino. ‘I am too old for war.’
‘So am I,’ said the priest, as if he had been in the thick of it. Suddenly his eyes glimmered in their pits. ‘Great things are coming,’ he said.
‘The invasion,’ nodded Gino. ‘Let’s hope it is soon, and all over in no time.’
A look approaching contempt contorted the priest’s face. ‘Invasion?’ he growled. ‘Who cares about invasion? That’s all people talk about. Something much more important than a trivial battle is coming – the procession of Our Lady of the North.’
Weber began to snore again and Gino leaned over and prodded him gently. Weber murmured: ‘Scheisse,’ and half turning into a different curl continued his sleep. ‘This is a big event?’ asked Gino politely.
‘Big? Big? It is the greatest event ever in France. Every year there is the procession of the Blessed Virgin,’ manically he crossed himself three times, ‘but this year there have been visions and signs. Every year the likeness of the Blessed Virgin is taken in procession through all of northern France and thousands, thousands, monsieur, follow. Sometimes it stretches for miles, village to village, town to town, people joining in.’ He smiled greasily. ‘Big collections.’
‘It sounds really nice.’
‘Nice? Is that all you can say? It will be the greatest thing in France’s recent history. It will stop this mad war in its tracks. Be prepared for it.’
‘Do you have a date?’ asked Gino uncertainly.
To his surprise the priest found it necessary to produce a shabby diary. ‘June the sixth,’ he said. ‘It will be a day no one will forget.’
Evidently he had afforded Gino enough time. He replaced the diary with a tattered prayer-book and hung low over this, working his lips for the rest of his journey. He rolled out at a small station, turning on the platform and dismissing them with a sharp blessing.
Weber stirred. ‘I heard him,’ he groaned. ‘God himself couldn’t talk as much as that prat.’
‘It seemed very important, Fred,’ said Gino uncertainly.
‘Scheisse,’ said Weber.
At Caen a small army truck was waiting for them. ‘That’s very prompt,’ said Weber. ‘Has the Wehrmacht suddenly become efficient?’
‘The general wants his dinner tonight,’ said the driver. ‘He says only you can cook like his mother.’
‘Depends on the supplies,’ said Weber, nevertheless pleased.
They climbed into the vehicle. ‘Any baggage?’ asked the driver.
‘At the bottom of their sea,’ said Weber. He was disappointed that the soldier did not ask how it got there. Instead, as they drove away, he said: ‘The supplies are not good. The bastard French charge so much money for their rotten farm stuff, and anything good they hide away for themselves. They are waiting for the Americans to feed them.’
‘No one here seems very confident of victory,’ pointed out Gino carefully.
The driver snorted. ‘Victory? It’s too late for victory. All people think about is the best way to get out, to run.’ He leaned towards them confidentially. ‘For myself, I keep a supply of gasoline hidden so that I, with one of the superior officers, can make my escape. I will just go home to Bremen and hide in the attic.’
It was twenty miles before they reached an ancient arch by the side of the main road. The villages they passed seemed subdued, with few visible people, only squads of German soldiers making vague barricades and digging hopeful trenches. They turned in under the arch and drove down a long single road, straight as only a road in northern France could be, lined most of the way by upright poplars now coloured with May leaves.
They came to another gate guarded by sentries. There was an armoured car which looked as if it had not moved for some time – dock leaves sprouted around the wheels. The crew were sprawled on the turret, faces turned up to the sunshine. A sergeant came forward and did not appear worried that Weber and Gino had no papers and were wearing odd clothes. ‘Good that you are here at last,’ he said. ‘The
general needs you.’
Weber said: ‘Watch out for June the sixth.’
‘The invasion?’ asked the sergeant casually. ‘Is that when they say it is?’
‘Much more important,’ put in Gino. ‘The procession of Our Lady of the North.’
‘Oh, good,’ grunted the sergeant. ‘I’ll watch out for it.’
They went into a large, fine house, old and red with turrets peering over the countryside. In a cavity on the roof was a light anti-aircraft gun and they could just see the toadstool helmets of the gun crew. To their amazement, General Bergensdorf came into the reception hall as they entered, almost as if he had come to greet them. Weber came to an awkward attention and Gino shuffled his feet together. The general raised a flat hand in an absent-minded salute. ‘Where have you been, Sergeant Weber?’ he said good-humouredly.
‘In the sea, sir,’ said Weber. ‘The boat struck a mine.’
The general did not seem surprised. ‘Well, I’m glad you survived. Nobody here can cook.’ He glanced curiously at Gino. ‘You two must look after each other.’
As he went away, at a slow march as if he had a lot on his mind, Gino regarded Weber dolefully. ‘He really believes we are … you know … lovers.’
‘Whatever he thinks, he thinks,’ said Weber. ‘But we must stick together, Gino. Because of when this war is over.’
Gino smiled bleakly. ‘You mean our restaurant in Jersey, Gino and Fred’s,’ he said wistfully. ‘It seems a long way away.’
The German looked doubtful. ‘Yes, our restaurant, sure,’ he agreed. ‘But that is in the far distant future. I was thinking of right after when the war is over. I’ll need a reference from you.’
‘From me?’
‘You are neutral and you can tell the Americans or the British that I am no friend of Adolf Hitler’s.’
‘I see. If they’ll believe me.’
A sleepy-looking soldier appeared. ‘I must show you your quarters,’ he said.
‘And the kitchen, please,’ said Weber. ‘We would like to see where we will work.’
‘And the officers’ mess,’ said Gino.
The soldier looked uncomfortable. ‘The orders were just to show you your quarters.’
Weber regarded him caustically. ‘If all you do is obey orders you won’t last very long in this army.’
‘Who will?’ shrugged the man. He turned and they followed him first to a fine lofty panelled room with long, polished tables laid around three sides, and a round table for six on the fourth. ‘The top brass sit at the round table,’ said the sleepy soldier. He assumed the faintest touch of pride. ‘We had Field Marshal Rommel here last week.’
‘This table is my responsibility,’ said Weber. He glanced at the man. ‘Is he coming again?’
‘Maybe. It depends when the shooting starts, I suppose.’
Food to the dining-room was delivered by two small lifts from the kitchen below. ‘Dumb waiters,’ said Gino. ‘Very useful.’
‘All the waiters here are dumb,’ said the soldier.
‘This sort doesn’t speak. They don’t tell tales,’ said Gino, pointing to the lift.
The man merely nodded his head and led them through a panelled door and down a curved staircase to a kitchen in the wide stone basement. Weber went around testing surfaces with his finger, crouching to look at the gas stoves. ‘Is there an emergency supply?’ he asked.
‘Wood,’ said the soldier. ‘There is plenty of wood. The French sell it.’
Weber, followed by Gino, went to the cool larder and then looked carefully around the room. ‘How many cooks?’ he asked.
‘Too many. They get in each other’s way. That is why the food gets cold.’
‘I am only dealing with the general and his staff at the round table,’ said Weber firmly. ‘They must not have cold food.’ He put his head into the aperture of the dumb waiter, sniffed and looked up like a man peering up a chimney. Then he explored the second lift.
The soldier led them up the stairs again and then from the mess up three more flights to the top of the tall house. Gino wondered who had once lived there. They had two small rooms in the turrets that they had seen projecting from the roof. The wooden latticed shutters were open and a breeze filtered in. From the window of his room Weber could see the coast and a small village wedged in the cliffs. ‘Is there any fishing nearby?’ he asked.
To his surprise the soldier brightened. ‘Cod, sea bass and other fish,’ he said confidently. ‘You can go out with the Frenchmen from the village or they will hire a boat to you if they think you won’t sink it. The catches are not bad.’
Weber gave Gino a pleased prod. ‘I told you. We must make arrangements.’ He glanced at the soldier. ‘The general is partial to cod,’ he said.
The soldier departed.
They looked around the room and then went into Gino’s quarters which were identical. ‘Not much luxury,’ said Weber. ‘But the view is fine.’ He went to the window. A green, peaceful evening was lying across the French fields and the Channel beyond.
‘Gino,’ said the sergeant, ‘it’s not at all bad. The view is good. The sea is no distance.’
Gino looked disconsolately at the same scene. ‘Fred,’ he said, ‘you realise we are in the front line.’
Chapter Eighteen
Again Paget had to walk up the Baker Street stairs. ‘You’re still waiting for them to mend the lift,’ he said to the FANY at the reception desk.
She hardly looked up from the telephone directory she was searching. She kept her finger on the page and said: ‘Bootmakers.’ Then she turned to Paget. ‘It’s been done,’ she said flatly. ‘But it’s up the spout again. Apparently it’s down to the war.’
While he waited she rang through to the inner office and then, with a stiff smile, said: ‘Fairy will see you now.’
Colonel MacConnel, wearing a pained expression, was at his oriental desk. ‘It’s buggered my back climbing those stairs,’ he said. ‘I had to have a week off sick. How is that helping to win the war, I ask you?’
Paget merely shook his head sympathetically.
‘All a bit of a mess-up in France, wasn’t it?’ said the colonel, lifting a file from the desk and sniffing as he opened it. He then stood up and shook hands as though he had previously forgotten.
Paget took a chair. ‘More or less,’ he said. ‘I was almost caught red-handed. It’s a good thing the Germans are so lax. By the time I’d got to the Bookbinder Circuit those resistance people under the death sentence had been sprung from prison by the bombing and gone home. That bombing apart, it’s all hit and miss over there. If it wasn’t so tragic it would be funny.’
MacConnel lowered his head pensively. ‘What would resistance have been like in this country if we’d been occupied by the Germans in 1940?’ he asked. His eyes came up. ‘It would not have been wholehearted, you know. There are some …’ He paused. ‘Some in this building … who would have come to an accommodation with Hitler. Resistance groups would have been splintered, just as they are in France. There might have been betrayals, assassinations even. The French don’t have a monopoly on inward hatreds. They always emerge at times like this.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Paget.
‘In France, sometimes it works,’ MacConnel went on. ‘And we hope very soon it will work very well. The trouble is there are so many factions in the French resistance. Each plays the game as they see fit and half the time the Germans just sit back and wait for a betrayal. On the other hand, miles and miles of France is now virtually out of the enemy’s hands.’
He sighed and pressed his fingers together. ‘It’s not been an outstanding show over there,’ he admitted. ‘Belgium is worse. We’ve lost almost a hundred people – out of, say, three hundred.’ His face brightened a little. ‘Our big success has been in Norway, you know. It’s still secret but I’ve got to boast to someone.’
‘What was that, sir?’
‘We blew up a heavy water plant. With the help of the locals, of course.
But it’s going to stay blown up.’
‘I don’t know what a heavy water plant is,’ said Paget.
‘I’m a bit vague myself, to tell you the truth. But it really was a big success. It’s got a lot to do with atomic energy, however that works. Anyway, it was a brilliant operation and it’s put the Germans in the mire.’ He paused. ‘In France there are other objectives.’
He took out a tattered atlas and turned to France. ‘Did you ever get around to that poet chap … What was …?’
‘Verlaine,’ said Paget. ‘The sobbing of the violins in the autumn.’
‘Terrible stuff. But good, you know all about it anyway.’
‘So does everybody else. The resistance know it and, therefore, the Germans know it.’
‘Someone always sneaks,’ said the colonel with no surprise or disappointment. ‘We’ll still use it, I expect. They’ll think it’s a double bluff. When the BBC recite that rigmarole some will twig it’s the invasion and some will say it’s a bluff.’
‘There seems to be a lot of activity like that,’ said Paget.
‘Double bluff? Yes, it’s a useful excuse when the enemy finds out. Anyway, Verlaine and his sobbing violins is still in place. Once the troops are ashore, the priority for the resistance will be to block the railways and if possible the roads. Someone has come up with a wheeze, someone in France for a change, and what’s more they’ve informed us. In a roundabout way, that is. Have you ever heard of Our Lady of the North?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘It’s a huge traditional religious procession. One of those plaster saints, you know, like they have, hoisted through the countryside for days on end and followed by thousands, priests and peasants most of them.’ He paused cautiously. ‘You’re not a Roman Catholic, I take it, Paget?’ Paget said he was not. MacConnel continued: ‘It’s due to drag itself across northern France at the beginning of June. If we could arrange it so that it got in the Germans’ way … even for a few hours …’
Waiting For the Day Page 25
