Close Quarters

by Thomas Wood

  I began to long for the hours that I had wasted, sitting in a deckchair, just a hundred-yard sprint from my Hurricane, reading novel after novel instead of sleeping.

  It was perhaps why I was so depleted of energy now, in comparison to Mike’s buoyancy. He had been the squadron sleeper, the one whom you could rely on to be asleep at any given opportunity. In fact, he had probably spent more hours asleep in a deckchair, copy of The Hotspur stretched out across his face, than he had done in the cockpit of his Hurrie.

  I let him continue to waffle on, knowing him all too well now to be aware that he would surely summarise his arguments in five minutes’ time. I would tune my ears back in then and pretend that I had been carefully considering his every word.

  His unrelenting energy levels, the never-ending preparing and voicing his thoughts, spurred my own mind to come up with a theory as to why he was like he was. Every time I ended up coming to the same conclusion, my weary mind not really wishing to partake in any more effort than it needed.

  He needed to take his mind off something, someone. He had left behind a girl in Tours, one that he was exceptionally fond of and was willing to risk his life for. But, like everyone else in this war, he was called upon to make a sacrifice and, on the surface at least, he was all too happy to oblige. But, deep down, it was clear that he was torn, and that something else would have to occupy his affections until such a time that he could return.

  And, for Mike, the quicker the war was over, the quicker he could get back to her, so he focused incessantly on bringing the war to a swift end.

  “And with all the air raid sirens and whatnot, there can’t really be that much of a justification…not from what I can see anyway…for why they’re doing what they’re doing…”

  Had it not been for his mouth, motoring along at such a speed that even a sports car would be jealous, then the morning would have been quite peaceful, enjoyable even.

  We were fortunate in that we now resided in a small village, dominated by farms, that meant we could pick a different route to walk every morning, and get lost in the early morning mist.

  Except on that morning, as Mike refused to let up, the mist was thicker and greyer than usual, somehow heavier. It was noticeable as I breathed, as if the particles were somehow bigger and clung to the inside of my mouth causing a great thirst.

  The smell of cordite and detonated ordnance was hardly surprising, considering the number of aircraft that we had heard roar overhead the night before.

  It did not shock me that the topic of Mike’s morning musings was the bombing, as the frequency of raids over our patch of France had undoubtedly risen in recent weeks.

  Distant towns had borne the brunt of the force, with only the odd, stray, bomb falling onto Besçancon, with little consequence other than a disgruntled farmer.

  “Are you listening, old fruit?”

  “Hmm? Yes, of course. Carry on, Mike.”

  Unperturbed, he continued.

  “Well, my theory is that they’re hitting certain targets. And, if I’m correct, they’ll be getting a damn sight closer over the next few weeks. I think we’re going to have to shield ourselves with more than a blackout, if you know what I mean.”

  I grunted an acknowledgement which seemed good enough for him, as I began to think of all the poor inhabitants of the nearby towns that had suffered at the hands of our bombers.

  I could not help but think of the fear that commandeered their rational minds the second that the sirens went, and the sheer terror of being able to do nothing but wait as the bombs fell all around them.

  I tried desperately to put off the inevitable thought, but it soon got the better of me.

  It made me think of my wife, and my young son.

  They had perished at the explosion of a German bomb, quivering under the staircase of our house in Richmond, London.

  Had it not been for me, they both would have survived, my stubborn and unrelenting belief that the Germans would never dare to bomb London enough to persuade them to stay.

  There had been a safe haven, for the two of them, in a small country house in Norfolk, with Grace’s parents, that would have been enough for them to stay away from the bombs. And, even if Hitler had decided to obliterate rural Norfolk, then at least I would have been too far away to not have to see the devastation of a ruined home, and the broken bodies of the two people that I loved most in the world.

  “Are you sure you’re listening?”

  “Yes, of course I am. The bombs.”

  “Yes, quite. Well, as I said, I think I’ve had rather a good idea. A splendid one if I may say so. And I think we should relay it back to London.”

  The early morning sun, that was basking the fields all around in an orange glow, sparkled in his eyes as he spoke. He was clearly proud of what he was about to say but trying in earnest to keep a cool lid on things.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, those bomber boys can barely hit a thing, can they? And not because they’re not good, not as good as us fighter boys of course, but—”

  “Cut to the chase, Mike.”

  He stopped walking, pulling my shoulders round so that I faced him head-on.

  “What if we could do as much damage, perhaps more, than those bombers could do, in a single night?”

  His eyes sparkled ferociously, as the tunnels of darkness that led down to them were momentarily illuminated with a passion that I had never seen before.

  “In doing so, I reckon we could save hundreds, if not thousands of lives.”

  “How?”

  “These towns are being targeted for a reason, correct? They all have something that helps the Germans to further their war effort. Ports, airfields, crossroads. But the towns around here don’t have that, do they? So, what do they have?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Factories! Industrial machinery! Raw materials! That’s what they all have in common. Engines, steel, weapons, that’s what their targets are. And I can guarantee you it’s the same across France.

  “My proposal is that we send small teams into these factories; five or so men a time, place some charges then get out. Watch the entire Nazi war machine come grinding to a halt because of a handful of men.”

  He beamed. I could muster no emotion, other than complete indifference. It was almost as if he had said nothing at all.

  “What?” he said, agitated. “I thought it was a jolly good idea.” He began skulking away, like a child and I immediately pulled myself together to rebuff his petulance.

  “I never said it wasn’t, Mike. I was just thinking it through, is all.” I gripped his sleeve and pulled him round to face me. “It is a good idea, Mike. All I’m thinking is if it would work.”

  “Of course, it would.”

  “To pull something like that off would involve getting close to the target, literally within touching distance. The Germans don’t leave these sorts of places out in the middle of the countryside like this,” I announced, spreading my arms to illustrate the point.

  “They protect them…If it was to work then it would work well, I think. But if it failed, and it is likely too, then it would fail spectacularly. There would be no coming back from a failed op like that one.”

  He pursed his lips as he looked towards the sun. I could see him chewing at the inside of his cheeks. He always did that when he was frustrated that someone else was talking sense.

  “Look, why don’t we think about it. We won’t be able to stop the air raids straight away anyway. We’ll keep it from London until we have a proper course of action. It’s more likely to be approved that way and we can get proper resources.”

  He mulled things over, before turning back to return to the safehouse.

  “I suppose that there is quite a lot to be getting on with, anyway. We have a busy few days before we could even begin to plan it.”

  “Exactly. In the meantime, maybe you can think about something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what we
’re going to have for breakfast.”

  5

  I stopped twiddling the pipe around in my fingers, finally bringing it up to my face for the first time in five minutes. Giving it a slight tap, I made sure that the tobacco was packed properly and ready for a light.

  As I pulled out the box of matches, I coyly checked the time on my wristwatch. Eleven thirty-seven. It was exactly the right time.

  Carefully, I lit a match and held it to the end of the pipe, taking in a few puffs and trying not to choke myself to death. The pipe, a bland and unremarkable object was, I had been told, an expensive and popular brand, one that most Frenchmen would save for a long time to be able to afford.

  So, it was reasonable for me to wonder why this particular pipe had been offered by one of the other members of the circuit, when I found myself in need of one. He had gone to great lengths to instruct me on how to use it, including not letting the flame dally for too long on one area, in case the rim of the pipe itself got burnt.

  I let it hang from the corner of my mouth while it bubbled away, a few unwelcome mouthfuls of smoke reaching my lungs.

  I tried to ignore the unfamiliar and rather unpleasant taste in my mouth by focusing on the man who had just got to the gate of the park.

  I had first seen him a few minutes before, immediately knowing that he was my man. There was something about him that had made him stand out, not because of any garish features, but quite the opposite. He was so common and ordinary that he stood out like a sore thumb.

  He was short, I guessed five foot four, maybe an inch or two more if I was to be generous, a slim frame but still bulging at the seams of his clothes. His spectacles made his face seem more pointed and sharper than it actually was and his eyes, skitting around all over the place, completed the image of a man who seemed completely out of his depth.

  It was why, as he made his way over to me, that I was quite surprised that he did not call out and wave, giving the whole game away.

  It was that fear, the game that had caused me many sleepless nights and even more irritated daytimes, that I changed our agreed plan, rather quickly.

  I got up from the bench that I had found myself occupying and began to walk towards the opposite gated exit of the park. I walked neither so slowly that I appeared suspicious, nor fast enough that the man’s little legs could not catch up, but I was far enough away for him to have to call out to me from behind.

  “Eh, pardon, Monsieur.”

  He looked at me, cigarette wobbling between his fingers, more out of nerves than anything else.

  “Do you have a light?” His French was impeccable, so much so that I thought he could not possibly be my man. But, as he leant into my hand with flickering match, I heard the unmistakable sound of what I had been listening for, twice over.

  “The weather in Tours is very similar at this time of year.”

  I stared at him, through his chunky spectacles, as he drew in a long breath of tobacco and turned his face to one side to expel the air, revealing a small scar along his jawline.

  I sucked on my pipe before nodding almost indiscernibly and turning away, picking up such a pace that I could have been mistaken for running. The fact of the matter was that I didn’t want to be around this fellow for any longer than was strictly necessary.

  As I glided through the park, I sucked in far more air through the pipe than I perhaps ought to have done, coughing and spluttering my way to the perimeter gate.

  Daring not to look behind, I felt confident that the man was following on behind me, his short stubby legs making it hard work to keep up with me, which was the desired effect. I did not want any potential onlookers to suppose that we were there for a reason, that our short conversation was nothing more than coincidental.

  My pace slowed as my knee began to burn with fire, the stitches that had been etched into my skin still leaving their mark and preventing me from running with any real determination.

  I exited the park and turned to my left, walking along the perimeter fence and, crossing the road, onto the pavement on the other side of the street. It was busier than I had expected it to be, with plenty of people skipping past one another and ducking into the road to allow a pram to get past unhindered.

  There were few cars on the road, but instead one side was full of automobiles all parked and waiting for their owners. On my way into the park, I had not taken in how many there had been, and I felt my heart begin to flutter, my eyes skitting around, panicked.

  I was looking for the car that I had arrived in, hoping that Mike was still ready and waiting at the wheel, but I could not see him anywhere.

  Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn around and check if the man was still following me, simultaneously peering through some of the back windows in order to glance a look at the back of Mike’s misshapen skull. But I knew I had to refrain.

  As I came up with a contingency, walking around the block to pick up a newspaper and having a second attempt at trying to find Mike, I caught sight of a dark figure in one of the cars.

  I threw the door open.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I thought you’d gone.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  As I slammed the door of the Renault, Mike turned the engine over and crunched into gear, pulling away with an all-familiar whine.

  He moved off slowly, holding back on the accelerator as if his foot had no more weight behind it than a dove’s feather.

  “Are they following us?” I asked, expectantly, knowing that it was not my job to turn in my seat and look behind us.

  The reasoning for not looking behind was the same as to why I had planned to go and pick up a newspaper if I could not find Mike. We always had to remain aware of a third party in everything, not just the Germans, but also inquisitive Frenchmen who might question your presence without a purpose.

  “Yeah. Two up. Passenger wearing thick spectacles.”

  “That’s them.”

  We drove along in silence for a few minutes, taking random left and right turns to make sure that we hadn’t picked up any kind of a tail whilst in the park. Finally, confident that we hadn’t, Mike began to make his way to the safehouse properly. It was only then that either of us spoke.

  “So, what do our friendly agents look like then?”

  “I’ve only seen one.”

  “Alright, well what does he look like then? Good shape?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I sighed heavily, as the smoke on my lungs began to make me feel quite lightheaded. The man had seemed short and quite dumpy, unathletic by all accounts and not the sort that one would typically assume would make a good agent. But London must have deemed him good enough, he would have been through all the same training as us after all.

  “His French is good…every inch of him seems to scream unremarkable. Inconspicuous.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “His feet.”

  “His feet? What’s his feet got to with anything?”

  “He’s wearing a pair of Lobbs, for crying out loud.”

  “Lobbs?” Mike almost shouted, hitting the brakes harder than he should have done and almost sending the following car into the back of us. “As in the shoemaker?”

  “As in one of London’s most famous shoemakers, yes.”

  Mike muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite catch, but I was fairly sure it would have made even one of the most seasoned sailors blush with embarrassment. We both sat, seething for a few more minutes, until Mike spoke again, this time with more apprehension in his voice than anger.

  “Well, that wasn’t there earlier.”

  “Let’s hope they wave us both through,” I said, observing the spontaneous checkpoint that had been set up. Two young privates stood next to a motorcycle, its machine gun facing back down the road towards us. Just behind them were two men in plain-clothes, leaning against the bonnet of a car, smoking. />
  “Gestapo,” Mike stated, an observation that did not need making.

  We passed the two soldiers, carefully, Mike even offering a quick flick of his hand as we drove past them. I never really knew what to do in such a situation. I had tried staring at them as we went past, waving as Mike had done, or staring dead ahead and not even acknowledging them, each option making me feel just as guilty as the last.

  “No…” Mike groaned through gritted teeth as he let the accelerator come up for a second.

  “What?”

  “I hope that none of those soldiers like bespoke British footwear.”

  I turned around, forgetting everything that I had been taught.

  Their vehicle was slowing up, as one soldier had stepped out in front of them, hand raised, the other manoeuvring around to the driver’s window. Thankfully, the two Gestapo men had barely stirred. In fact, they seemed quite disinterested in the whole affair.

  But that did nothing to quell the nerves that instantly stirred in my stomach. I replayed the scene in the park over and over, to see if I could picture any other man that had been there without good reason. Had someone spotted us? Had we been compromised?

  But, if that had been the case then why only stop the one car, why not both? I began chewing on the end of the pipe, which had gone out a while ago, as I shook my brain to think of any possible connections that they may have had to us.

  Mike did the same.

  “They don’t know where they are going, so they can’t compromise the safehouse. They don’t know our names, nor our faces. We can lay low for a while if it comes to it.”

  “He knows my face, Mike.”

  “It’s quite a forgettable one, old fruit.”

  No amount of joking was going to make me feel any better. The man that I had seen, although he spoke perfect French, did not seem like the kind of man that would deal well in a situation such as this.

  He appeared as quite weak and feeble, the kind of person that might break down in tears if asked too difficult a question. I could only pray that they had conjured up a solid cover story for where they were heading, and why. But it was unlikely seeing as they did not know where it was they were actually heading. They only had the name of a village. Besançon.