by Nevil Shute
On the morning of the next day he came later than usual, and at first sight of him Simon knew that there was something wrong. “Bad news, I think,” he said quietly.
“Aye,” said the fisherman, “bad news it is. They have arrested thirty people to hold for your surrender. Ten of them are children. Jeanne Louise is one, my own great-niece.” He spat.
“They did not fear a rising of the town,” said Simon, bitterly.
The old man said: “They did indeed. They waited for three days till they were reinforced before they did this thing. Soldiers have come from Russia to police Brittany, monsieur—thousands and thousands of them. There are fifteen hundred new ones here to-day, a ragged, scruffy lot, but with plenty of machine-guns. Now they have courage to arrest women and old men and little girls of seven years. Good German courage!” He spat again.
Simon asked: “What will they do with them?”
“They will be shot upon November the 15th,” the old man said, “unless you are surrendered to them first.”
11
IN the dark shed, stuffy with the fumes of tanning, there was silence for a minute. Then Bozallec said angrily: “They cannot do that to us now. It is not last year now. Last year they shot thirty people in one day, in August, in the market-place, but then we had no guns. Now we have Tommy-guns to use: it is different altogether.”
Simon said: “You have seventy Tommy-guns, no more. Last week you might perhaps have done something, but not now. Seventy men with Tommy-guns cannot fight fifteen hundred with machine-guns.”
He glanced at the fisherman. “You will have to give us up,” he said quietly. “It is the only thing that you can do.”
The man shook his head. “I cannot speak for the others,” he said. “They must decide. But I have lived in this place fifty years, monsieur, and I do not think they will do that. If you were ordinary fugitives, or British agents, they might take that course. But you are different, you two.”
“Why are we different?” Charles Simon asked.
The fisherman said: “Before you came and started hurling fire upon the Germans, things were very bad here in Douarnenez, monsieur. The war went on and on, and we were impotent. The Germans were on top of us, and they had everything their own way. We could not see an end, nor any hope, nor anything before us but the life of slaves. Slaves! We Breton folk!”
He paused. “I want you to understand,” he said. “The first Raumboot that you set on fire, we did not fully comprehend. There were queer stories that the English had done it, but no one knew. All we knew for certain was that the Germans in it had died miserably in torment, and we thanked God that some small part of all the misery that they had caused had come to them.”
He went on: “Then you came, monsieur, and told us that the English had done it, and that they would do it again. And that same night you did do it again, right in our own port here in Douarnenez. We saw the fire and saw the Germans in the flames—and we saw your vessel, too, monsieur. One of our sardine-boats, Jules Rostin’s Geneviève, that his son had escaped in at the Armistice. It was even one of our own ships that did this thing. Thirty Germans were burned to death that night, Monsieur Simon, and over fifty taken off to hospital. And they are dying still …
“I cannot tell you what that meant to us,” he said. “That there were free men near us, fighting these foul oafs that had grabbed our city, fighting them, burning them, and making them afraid. There was a mutiny in Brest, monsieur, a naval mutiny. The Raumboote crews would not come here to Douarnenez after that night; they had to shoot a lot of them. This town regained its courage from that day. Each time we passed a German in the street we used to light a match, just to remind them of the way that their companions died. We got them grey and nervous in a week or two, so that they started and jumped round at a step behind them. And their commandant appealed for reinforcements, saying that he could not hold the town unless he had more men. That is true.”
“I know,” said Simon. “We heard that in England.”
The fisherman went on: “And then you brought us guns, little machine-guns that could be hidden away. A man with a sub-machine-gun has something tangible to pin his courage to, monsieur; when things are very bad he can go to it and caress it, and polish it and oil it, and think what he will do with it one day. It gives a purpose to his life.”
There was a short silence. “I do not think that you need fear to be surrendered to the Germans, Monsieur Simon.”
Simon said: “I think the next move lies with us; we must do something now. But now I tell you this, Bozallec, and you must repeat this to your friends. There is to be no fighting with those guns until the English give the word. United with the English you can fight the Germans and defeat them, but if you fight alone you will be wiped out and the town destroyed. Understand that. Tell your friends this. Charles Simon says that they are not to use the guns until word comes from England.”
He paused. “And another thing,” he said. “Tell your friends this: once before Charles Simon told them what was going to happen, and he spoke the truth. And now, Charles Simon says that they need have no fear for their relations, for the thirty hostages, men, women, and little children. Charles Simon says that all of them will be released, unhurt. Tell them that.”
He stood for a moment in silence, thinking hard. “Is Father Augustine of the Church of Ste.-Hélène still in Douarnenez?” he asked.
“He is still here.”
“I should like to talk to him,” said Simon. “Can you bring him to me, in this place?”
“Assuredly,” the old man said. “I will bring him to-night.” He paused, and then said curiously: “Does he know you, monsieur?”
Simon said: “We met and talked together once, in February last. I do not think that he will know my name.”
Bozallec went away, and Simon moved to the back of the store where Rhodes was lying on his bed, awake. “What’s the news now?” the young man asked. “How’s it all going, sir?”
Simon said: “Not too bad. I think I can begin to see my way out of this place.”
“Back to England?”
“Yes, back to England.”
“How, sir?”
Simon said: “I will not tell you now. Lie still and rest, and think of quiet things. When I am certain not to disappoint you I will tell my plan and what your part in it will be. Till then, be patient.”
Rhodes turned restlessly upon the blanket. “Give me a drink of water, would you? It’s so bloody hot.”
In the middle of the afternoon there were steps upon the stair that led up to their store. Bozallec came in, and he was followed by a priest in black canonicals. Simon went forward to meet them.
“Good evening, father,” he said quietly in French. “We have met before.”
In the dim light the priest peered forward at him. “You are Charles Simon?” he enquired. “I have heard of you, but have we ever met?”
Bozallec turned to leave them and clumped down the stairs. Simon said: “I am the man you talked to in the night, on the platform of the station at Quimper, in February last.”
The priest drew in his breath sharply. “So!” he said. “You were the man at Quimper; I have often thought of you. And you are now Charles Simon.”
Simon motioned to a bale of net cord. “Will you sit down, father?” he said. “I have much to say to you.”
The priest sat down, and waited for him to begin.
“Father,” said Simon at last. “Do you remember what we talked about that night?”
“I remember very well, my son. We spoke about the Power of God, and of fire.”
“Yes,” said Simon, “that is what we spoke about. I was a spy then, father, in France on a mission for the English, to learn German secrets.”
The priest glanced at him curiously. “Who are you?” he asked. “You are a Frenchman, from the East?”
Charles shook his head. “I am an Englishman,” he said, “though I have lived in France for half my life. I am a British officer.”
The priest nodded. “I have heard of others such as you.”
There was a momentary silence. “There are others like me,” Simon said at last. “We are lonely people, father, without homes or wives or families—not quite like other men. It may be that we see more clearly to the end, than men who live more normally. I know that when you spoke to me that night about fire, the temporal weapon of Holy Church, you set me thinking, searching, and devising on the basis of your words. In England, by sheer chance I came upon men learning the use of fire. So that in the end, father, we brought fire to the Germans here, and your words were fulfilled.”
“There is no chance in these affairs, my son,” the priest said gently. “Only the hand of God.”
Simon inclined his head. “There is a young man with me here,” he said, “wounded, and in no good condition. He cannot travel far; he should be in a hospital. He is a British officer, like me, father, but he speaks only English. He is the gunner of the flame-gun that we used.”
He paused. The priest said nothing.
Simon went on: “When we were talking together in the night, at Quimper, you said that God from time to time reveals the secret of the temporal weapon to mankind, that they may fight the Powers of Evil in the world, and beat them down. I am a sinful man, father, weak in the faith. I do not know if what you say is true. But if it is, then I say this to you: This young man with me, this young Englishman, has been touched by the hand of God for the benefit of all mankind. All that we have done has been made possible by his great knowledge of the principles of fire. He is a chemist in times of peace. Much of the gun itself was made to his design, and he designed the oil we hurl upon the Germans. There is knowledge and experience locked up in his head which is possessed by no one else. If he should die, or else be given to the Germans, knowledge that has been revealed to him by God goes back to God, and we are as we were. It may be that it is destined to be so.”
Father Augustine said: “All things are in the hands of God, my son. But that does not mean that we are to lie supine, or refuse to use the wit and strength that God has given us, to work His will.”
Simon nodded. “So I think. Father, we must get this young man back to England, that the work may go on.”
There was a pause. “You have done great things in Douarnenez,” the priest said slowly, “by the Grace of God. It was to the English that the temporal weapon was revealed before; again it is the English who are His instruments. I do not understand why this is so, why not the French. But that is by the way. Through that Grace and the power of flame this region has regained its courage. Men now go about our streets with their heads up, spitting towards the Germans, who three months ago were sullen and impotent, sinking into slavery. I have no need to hesitate, my son. I will give you what help lies within my power.”
He glanced at Simon. “There are only two of you to be helped out of France?”
Simon said: “Only one.” He nodded to the bed. “The others, they were all Bretons. They have found safety, each in his own way.”
“What will you do, yourself?”
Simon said: “I speak French well enough to pass in the crowd, father. We need only think of him, of getting him to England.”
The priest said keenly: “They are saying in the town, Charles Simon says no harm will come to the hostages.”
Simon coloured awkwardly, and said nothing.
“Is that correct, my son?”
“We have one thing to do, father, and one thing only. That is to see that this young man gets back to England. Let us talk of that.”
“As you will.”
They sat in earnest conversation for an hour. Then the priest went away; he came back late that night, to meet the doctor and Bozallec in the net shed with Simon. They sat in earnest conference far into the night before breaking up, the priest to walk boldly through the moonlit streets, the others to slink furtively in the shadows back to the open windows of their homes.
On November the 12th, in the forenoon, they roused Rhodes from a semi-coma, and made him get out of bed. The doctor gave him an injection in the unwounded arm; he began to feel stronger, and much clearer in the head. They made him walk about a little in the loft, to ease his legs. Then they told him what he had to do.
“It is only three hundred yards,” Charles Simon said. “Whatever happens you must walk that naturally. You will be quite alone, but we shall be not twenty yards behind you. You must pay no attention to the hand grenades. Walk straight down to the quay, and to the boat.”
Rhodes said: “What will you do, sir?”
Simon said: “Don’t worry about me. I shall be close behind you as you walk, to signal for the hand grenades to be let off, if it is necessary. If all is very quiet and safe, then I will come with you in the boat. But you are not to wait for me. If there is trouble I shall merge in with the crowd and I shall come back to England by the way I know, the way I went before, in February. In that case I shall be in London before you.”
They brought water then and shaved Rhodes, and washed his face and cut his hair to a close, stubbly crop. And then they led him downstairs from the loft, into the sail-maker’s yard. There was a light rain falling; the cold air blew fresh into his face, making him dizzy and light-headed. The injection that he had been given had cleared his head, but he still had a high temperature; he felt his way uncertainly, as if he were walking upon marbles.
Bozallec turned to Simon and the doctor. “He is very weak, that one,” he said. “He will never walk like a German.”
Dottin eyed Rhodes critically. “I have another dose for him,” he said. “He will be better than this.”
Simon said: “I will talk to him. He has great nervous strength to draw upon, and it is only three hundred metres.”
There was a hand-cart in the yard, a two-wheeled affair with a long handle. Bozallec lifted up this handle to the horizontal, and Simon and the doctor helped Rhodes to get up on to the platform. They laid him down upon it, making him as comfortable as possible with a sail as a cover and a pillow; then they covered him over with a heap of fine blue sardine nets.
In that way they wheeled him boldly out into the street and half a mile through the town, past ragged German soldiers staring into shops, past German soldiers in brand-new uniforms walking uncomfortably in new boots, past German sentries upon guard at the street corners. They wheeled him into a small covered yard through double doors, which they closed behind them. There they uncovered him, and helped him into the house, and sat him down in a cane rocking-chair in the shabby little back room of a shop.
Dottin bent over him. “Cognac,” he said quietly in French. “Just a little, with water, in a glass.”
He felt better after that. An old man, whom he did not know, poured him a bowl of soup from a great pot that stood upon the hearth; Simon crouched down beside his chair and fed it to him with a spoon. “There is still an hour to go,” he said. “Stay quiet here, and rest.”
Rhodes drowsed a little, hot and tired. From time to time he opened his eyes; nothing was changed. He could see through the open door of the back room into the shop; it appeared to be a small general shop, with a few groceries, vegetables, and households goods upon the shelves. The old man was pottering about behind the counter.
Presently there were more people in the back room, and in the shop. There was a priest, Rhodes said, in a black soutane, as well as Simon and the doctor and the old fisherman who had brought him there. The doctor and the priest came into the back room and stood behind the door, screened from the shop. Simon and Bozallec stood smoking in the shop, chatting to the old man behind the counter.
In a few minutes the bell at the shop door jangled, and the door opened and closed. A man came forward to the counter. He was a German petty officer in uniform; over his jumper he wore a short pea jacket, with a blue muffler round bis throat. There was an automatic pistol in a holster at his belt. He moved forward, and said something to the man behind the counter. From the back room Rhodes watched
, tense and suddenly awake.
The old man stooped beneath the counter. “It is a special favour,” he said in Breton French. “I would not do this for every one. One hundred and fifty francs.” And furtively he showed a duck, plucked and dressed and ready for the oven.
The German said: “It is too much,” and leaned across the counter to pinch the breast. Rhodes saw Bozallec lift his right arm quickly and strike it down into the middle of the German’s back. There was a thumping, rending sound and the man spun round, fumbling at his holster. Then they were all on him and bore him down on to the floor. There was one stifled cry, and then nothing but the heavy breathing of men struggling upon the ground. And presently that ceased, and Simon and Bozallec got up, dusting their clothes. The German lay motionless upon the floor, face down, his scarf bound tightly round his face. It was only then Rhodes saw the handle of the knife.
The old man said: “Quickly. Into the back room, before he bleeds.”
They carried the body in and laid it down at Rhodes’s feet; be saw the old man with a bucket and swab cleaning the floor of the shop. Then the door was shut, and they began to strip the pea jacket and uniform from the German.
Simon said: “Come on, lad. Up you get, and get your things off.”
Presently Rhodes had German trousers on and German boots; the jumper, roughly wiped, was ready for him. Dottin, the doctor, opened his little case, filled his hypodermic carefully against the light, and gave him the injection. He wiped the puncture with a pad of wool. “So,” he said in heavily accented English. “Now you will be able to walk well.”
They wiped his face over with a cold wet towel, several times, and wiped his hands and his ears. Then, very carefully and gently, they inserted his wounded arm into the jumper, and arranged the light blue, striped collar on his shoulders. And then they helped him into the pea jacket.
