‘There are shortages in London too,’ and he smiled at the young girl, ‘anyway my mother used to make her soup like this, with a ham bone?’ The girl nodded. ‘It was the most warming thing I’d ever tasted, until today.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her face reddening a little.
Montueil laughed, ‘Harry is a rare beast, Simone, an Englishman who knows food and perhaps even a little about wine.’
‘More than you, you old goat,’ chided Walsh.
‘Perhaps, but only because your mother was French,’ and he turned his attention back to the girl. ‘You could do worse in a man, Simone.’
Simone blushed once more and Lemonnier gave her a fierce look, a cloud immediately hanging over him. Walsh noted his jealousy and assumed it was Montueil’s intention to cause it.
‘Harry’s already taken, I’m afraid,’ said Cooper with what sounded like relish.
‘No! Harry, you have a woman?’ Montueil said it with such disbelief you would have thought Walsh had confessed to the ownership of a wooden leg.
‘I’m a married man, yes.’
‘But how did she ensnare you? Witchcraft? I don’t believe it! Harry Walsh married?’ Montueil began to laugh at the very notion. ‘Can it be true?’ and he shook his head at the wonder of it, ‘well, she must be special.’
‘Then you will leave our women alone,’ said Lemonnier and his proprietorial gaze fell on Simone once more.
‘I am not your woman, Lemonnier,’ and there was clear contempt in her answer.
The men mocked Lemonnier as she left them. He purported not to care but it was only after Simone was gone that he dared answer, ‘You will be,’ to more jeering from the men.
As Simone made the long walk back to her home she contemplated this Englishman, for she had regarded his arrival with interest. Simone was not sure if he was handsome exactly or if it was the quiet authority he seemed to have over the Maquis that she found so attractive. After all, these same men usually ignored or dismissed her with a bawdy comment yet all but the foolish young ones were energised by the presence of this soldier from London. Simone knew it was her patriotic duty to feed the defenders of her country but the truth was, until now, only Montueil seemed to appreciate her efforts, and here was Harry Walsh comparing her cooking to his own mother’s. Captain Walsh had been courteous, you could even say gallant, and he was no stranger to soap, which was more than could be said for the rest of the men. Of course, he was married and there was an end to it. It didn’t stop her wondering about him though, as she went on her way. Thoughts never harmed anybody.
It was Walsh’s turn to address the commune. ‘In the morning I’ll show you how to strip, oil and reassemble the weapons.’
‘We know how to do that already,’ said Lemonnier.
‘Then it shouldn’t take long. In the afternoon we go up to the high ground where we can’t be heard and you’ll learn how to use them.’
‘You are going to teach me to fire a gun, English?’ asked Lemonnier. ‘What then? Will you teach Montueil to catch a fish?’
‘Let him speak,’ ordered Montueil but Lemonnier ignored him.
‘Give us the guns and we’ll use them. I promise you that,’ he said.
‘You’ll get the guns,’ insisted Walsh, ‘after you prove to me you can use them.’
Lemonnier shook his head. ‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Maybe, but that’s the rule; no training, no weapons.’
Lemonnier was clearly accustomed to getting his way. ‘You should take me more seriously, Captain Walsh. I’m the only one round here who has done anything.’
Montueil snorted, ‘You? What have you done?’
‘I’ve killed Germans, which is more than you have lately.’
‘Killed Germans? Ask him who he has killed, Harry. Go on, ask him.’
‘All right, who have you killed, Lemonnier?’
‘A German officer.’
‘The lowest rank it is possible to be,’ added Montueil.
‘My men took him when he came out of a café one night.’
‘Your men?’ asked Montueil in disbelief, before sneering, ‘They kidnapped a boy, Harry.’
‘We took him into the hills and held him there. The whole German army was looking for him by the end.’
‘He was barely old enough to use a razor.’
‘Shut up, Montueil.’ There was hurt pride in the young man’s words. Montueil merely glowered at him silently. ‘I wanted to burn him alive, poured the petrol over him myself,’ Lemonnier said proudly, ‘but my men are soft-hearted. They couldn’t bear it when he screamed and begged and pissed himself, so I was merciful. We hanged him instead and made sure the Germans knew where to find him,’ he concluded the tale as if describing a great victory.
Walsh nodded sagely, ‘So, you kidnapped a boy officer, stirred up a massive man hunt, risking the lives of everybody in this camp, then killed him anyway. You’d have been better off shooting him in the street.’
‘At least we did something!’
‘And what did the Germans do?’
When Lemonnier answered his mouth seemed to go suddenly dry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what he means,’ answered Montueil and he turned to Walsh. ‘They chose twenty people at random and shot them in the square. Twenty people dead and all because this one will never listen to me.’
‘What would you have me do, eh? Nothing? Sit up here in the hills talking about fighting? I’ve told you, that’s not war!’
‘I’ve told you,’ answered Montueil, his voice rising in frustration, ‘we wait, until we have the supplies and equipment we need,’ and he pointed at Harry, ‘until London sends their best man to tell us what to do.’
‘Nobody tells me what to do.’
‘I can see that,’ said Walsh.
‘Nobody!’ Lemonnier rose to his feet, puffed up to his full size, strong, powerful and full of wounded pride. He was very tall, with a labourer’s physique. ‘Anybody want to try?’ and he looked into the face of each man there. Cooper looked to Walsh, expecting a response but nobody moved or answered the challenge. ‘No?’ Their acquiescence satisfied Lemonnier, ‘I didn’t think so,’ and he marched away.
‘Idiot,’ hissed Montueil when Lemonnier was gone, ‘now you see what I must tolerate. I should strangle the young pup.’
Then why don’t you? thought Cooper. It was as if Montueil had heard his thoughts. ‘But he has followers; the young ones. I don’t have so many men that I can afford to split the group down the middle.’
Once again Walsh kept his own counsel and Cooper was disconcerted that the young man had been allowed to say his piece and leave without being put firmly in his place. To the American, it smacked of weakness.
25
‘A man who is of sound mind is one who keeps the inner madman under lock and key.’
Paul Valéry
The next day a column of maquisards, carrying bundles of weapons and ammunition on their shoulders, snaked its way up towards the higher ground under a slate-grey sky, reaching their destination by mid-afternoon.
As Walsh suspected, they were not as proficient as they needed to be, particularly with the Sten gun. Most of their shots with that weapon were high and wide of the target. He allowed the men several attempts with no particular evidence of improvement, Lemonnier’s small band of followers faring no better than the rest. All eyes were on Walsh as he called the men to him. They gathered around him in a semi-circle.
‘You have a problem, a big problem,’ he told them, ‘you are not half as good as you think you are. I’m not questioning your courage and you’re keen enough but that won’t matter when the Germans are picking you off in a battle. Most of you could not hit a horse’s arse from five yards.’ One or two of the men laughed self-consciously, some glowered, most just listened silently. Lemonnier’
s men adopted an insouciant air, as if Walsh was either wrong or could teach them nothing. It was time to assert some authority.
‘Yesterday one of your number told me it was a waste of time to train with these weapons,’ Lemonnier glared at Walsh who stared straight back at him, ‘yet I notice he is no better than the rest of you.’
Walsh could actually see the colour filling Lemonnier’s cheeks as he spoke. ‘Care for another try, Lemonnier,’ and Walsh held out the Sten. The men all turned to look at Lemonnier, who was flushed with embarrassment and anger but hesitant, not sure what to do next. Cooper noted the look of calm on Walsh’s face.
‘Come on, Lemonnier, take the Sten.’
‘I told you before, you don’t give me orders, English,’ he took a step towards Walsh. ‘I did not take orders from the Communists, I don’t take them from Montueil,’ another step forward, ‘and I won’t take them from you.’
‘But you’ll take my weapons?’
‘From your dead hands if you choose,’ and he reached for the gun.
Walsh spun the Sten around so it was facing Lemonnier butt first. As the young man went to grip it, Walsh put his weight behind a firm shove, which sent the hard metal thumping into Lemonnier’s midriff. He let out a crumpled gasp as he took the blow. It sent him backwards and he sagged visibly but did not go down. Instead he straightened and went straight for Walsh, letting out a volley of crude names and curses ahead of the heavy blow he was determined to land.
Walsh threw the Sten to Cooper who caught it easily. The Englishman then took a step back, parried the blow and hit Lemonnier with a sharp jab in the nose that jarred his head back. Straightaway Walsh landed two more jabs to Lemonnier’s face but his attacker stayed stubbornly on his feet, blinking at Walsh fiercely as he tried to focus. Walsh was happy for the fight to continue while all the men were watching it. Lemonnier had annoyed him the previous night but there was more to it than that; he was an obstacle that had to be removed if the mission was to succeed. A lesson was needed, a display of authority, and Lemonnier was going to take a beating none of his men would ever forget.
Cooper looked on intently as Lemonnier tried to land a serious blow and Walsh merely stepped away from him. The older man’s evasions seemed effortless. It was like watching William Fairbairn toy with a trainee at Beaulieu. Cooper winced inwardly at the memory. The fight was just as one-sided but simpler and more direct, like a boxing match between two mismatched opponents. It was as if he was watching one of those circus prize-fighters that pay out if you can stay on your feet for three rounds against them, thought Cooper. They use your strength and clumsy inexperience against you. You flail wildly and they stab at you, picking their spot with precision, drawing blood, causing pain before gliding away once more.
Cooper lost count of the number of blows Lemonnier had taken. He was reeling now, half blinded from the swelling round his eyes, milling his arms like a small child trying to fight off a bigger boy. All the men had gone silent. The message was clear. Walsh was a professional, whereas Lemonnier was just an overgrown boy with a big mouth. Some of them were probably wondering why they had not done it themselves before now. Even Lemonnier’s handful of followers seemed embarrassed by this loss of face. Walsh finished the fight with a tight flurry of punches that left Lemonnier’s head lolling uselessly. Then he fell sideways and crashed to the ground unconscious, never again to be taken seriously.
‘That’s enough training for one day,’ announced Walsh, who seemed barely out of breath, ‘tomorrow I will show you how to use the explosives. If you listen to me very carefully you might not blow your arms off.’ Lemonnier let out a faintly discernible groan. ‘You men!’ Walsh was addressing Lemonnier’s followers and they seemed quite alarmed he could identify them, ‘pick him up and carry him back to camp.’
They groaned with the effort required to hoist the huge prone figure aloft but they did not question the Englishman’s instructions. Walsh hoped they would grow to hate Lemonnier by the time they’d lugged his heavy frame all the way back to camp. Montueil had witnessed the spectacle without comment but, as the unconscious Lemonnier was carried past him, he gave Walsh a private grin.
‘As soon as we’ve finished the explosives training, we move camp,’ Walsh told him.
‘Move camp?’ asked Montueil, his smile vanishing.
‘Surely you don’t have to ask me why? The place stinks so bad I’m surprised German patrols can’t smell you from Elbeuf.’
‘It is true, Harry,’ his eyes dropped in shame, ‘we live like animals here.’
Walsh put a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. ‘Then tomorrow it all changes and you begin to live like men again.’
As they walked back to camp, Cooper caught up with Walsh. ‘Tell me something, Harry, why did you not knock some sense into that knucklehead before?’
‘Without an audience?’ Walsh asked him and the question was explanation enough.
When they finally reached the camp that evening, Walsh expected Valvert to be waiting for them but there was no sign of him.
‘He should be back by now?’ he asked Montueil.
‘Yes,’ agreed the other man, ‘he should.’
‘Then I suggest you double the guard tonight.’ And Walsh wondered what they would do if they had lost a member of their group before they had even fired a shot in anger at the enemy. If Valvert was dead already, this was hardly proof that Jedburgh teams could work in practice. If he had been caught how long could he hold out before betraying them? Walsh wanted to move camp the next day but would that already be too late and if Valvert was still alive but merely delayed somehow, how could he find them if they had already relocated the camp?
Walsh had moved on to trying to find a new way to resolve the predicament of being unable to contact London when there was movement from the other end of the camp. One of the men manning its perimeter had left his post and was walking towards the Englishman. On his left was the man who had escorted Valvert to the other Maquis group, on his right Walsh could make out the diminutive figure of Valvert himself. Relief flooded through him.
Valvert was weary but he confirmed he had located the other group of Maquis, was vouched for by Montueil’s man and permitted to send his message to London. A reply was received and an assurance given that a new radio would soon be on its way. Walsh was grateful for that small mercy.
Major Robert Price had been sitting at his desk, trying to decide what excuse he could give to escape a social function involving his wife’s extended family, when the message arrived. The cipher clerk knocked gently and walked into the office.
Price muttered something unintelligible to illustrate he had more important things on his mind than the contents of the decoded signal that was handed to him on a slip of paper. The preoccupation with his wife’s relatives continued. Even as the clerk left the room and he scanned the words in front of him, Price was still contemplating the extended family to which he owed his property and private income. From day one, the aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews on his wife’s side had not taken to Price, considering him both an opportunist and an arriviste, which of course he was, but it still galled him that they failed to even mask their disapproval when he was in the room. For years he had craved acceptance but no longer; they continued to treat him with a form of silent contempt, so he would return the compliment.
Price narrowed his eyes and read the message through once more. No, he had not been deceived, for an opportunity had suddenly presented itself. Of course, the message had not really been intended for the eyes of Major Price. He was out in the cold on the Harry Walsh operation and was damned if he didn’t know it. But the cipher clerk had recognised Walsh’s code name on Valvert’s message. Naturally, though wrongly, he assumed the correct destination for the decoded note was Price instead of Colonel Buckmaster. One of the department’s agents needed help; who better to assist Walsh in his hour of need than his immediate sup
erior? It was an understandable lapse of operational security from an overworked operative in a fledgling organisation – an all too regular occurrence for an outfit still finding its feet. Price knew he should really do something about it. Instead he blessed the clerk’s error, for it afforded him a perfect opportunity to make life more difficult for Harry ‘Golden Boy’ Walsh.
Walsh was in Normandy and in need of a new radio, poor cherub. Someone would have to be sent with it of course; now who could Price spare at short notice? He saw an opportunity for mischief. Captain Harry Walsh, always so calm, so unflappable, the man who never lost his head under any circumstance. Well let’s see how he handles this. Price smiled to himself. It was time to put a cat among the pigeons.
26
‘If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things.’
René Descartes
Sam Cooper lay on a ridge overlooking the valley. In the far distance the town of Elbeuf shimmered beneath the sun but it was not the view that held his attention. Cooper had lain motionless on the hard ground all morning, watching small dark specks rising from the airfield as the German fighters flew off on intercept duty. The Royal Air Force had once manned this same base before the Germans had overrun France. Hurricanes had flown out of here to engage the Luftwaffe; now the situation was reversed, with Messerschmitts scrambled day and night to try and shoot down relentless waves of Allied bombers.
It had taken half an hour with one of Montueil’s guides to reach his vantage point. Cooper then dismissed the man, confident he could find his own way back to the camp. He had decided against using field glasses. They weren’t needed to identify a plane that travelled at the speed of the Komet and he didn’t want to give away his position if sunlight reflected back off the glass. Now he waited tensely for any sign of the Komet’s presence but none came.
Of course, they could all be the victims of inaccurate intelligence, German plans could have changed or perhaps the Komet was yet to arrive but Cooper couldn’t risk leaving here without a sighting. If he did glimpse the plane, he knew Professor Gaerte would not be far from it. And so he stayed.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 15
