Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  It felt alien to be out on the streets of Rouen so brazenly after his time in the Maquis camp. Walsh had his papers of course and his cover story was well rehearsed. He was a vendor of wines, excluded from compulsory work service because of asthma, taking what was left once the Germans had plundered the best of course, then selling it on to the hotels that welcomed the occupiers. He knew his cover well for it had been his father’s occupation before the war.

  Walsh senior had crossed the Channel often, had met Harry’s mother on the French side of the water and brought her back to England with him. Walsh could only imagine his father’s happiness, as distant now as it was short-lived – the beautiful French wife, the young son, then the cancer that took that wife from him, leaving him with a permanent, sad reminder of her in Harry’s boyish face.

  The rest was all too predictable. ‘Remember Harry,’ his father would tell him as he raised his glass, ‘wine is a good servant but a poor master.’ Edward Walsh would fail to heed his own advice. Somehow he would just about manage to hold things together during daylight hours but there was never an evening when he did not test a sizeable quantity of the product he bought and sold. When he inevitably joined his wife, ten years almost to the day after the disease that took her, it was clear the main cause of his death was alcohol. What Edward Walsh really died of might romantically be described as a broken heart, exacerbated by an overburdened liver.

  Walsh had borne witness to and understood his father’s loneliness and despair. It was one of the reasons for adopting his old life as a cover story, for it was the only thing that now remained of the man.

  Walsh returned to the hotel, hoping his contact hadn’t tried to visit him during his short absence. He walked along the corridor till he reached his room then turned and glanced back the way he had come but there was no sign of anyone. Walsh placed his hand on the doorknob but did not open the door. Instead, he pressed his ear against the wood. Was there a sound, a movement from within, or was it just the swish of curtain against an opened window?

  Walsh took the Luger from his belt and placed it down at his side where it could be quickly hidden once more. He didn’t want to point a gun at a member of the hotel cleaning staff. Walsh turned the doorknob gently then pushed the door hard. It swung noiselessly open. There was no one in the room and he almost relaxed but immediately sensed a presence in the bathroom. Someone was in there, he knew it. Walsh gently closed the outer door and approached the bathroom cautiously. Its door was closed but the latch not fully engaged. It could be a chambermaid silently going about her business but he would take no chances. Walsh raised his boot and gave the door a firm kick. As it flung open he went straight into the room, raised his gun then stopped in his tracks. Emma Stirling started and just managed to stifle the scream before it could alert others, her hand darting to her mouth. Emma was lying in a shallow bath, the regulation couple of inches of water permitted by the hotel management failing to mask much of her nakedness.

  ‘Christ, Harry,’ she managed in an alarmed whisper that would have been a loud exclamation if they had been anywhere but occupied territory. Her arms moved instinctively to cover her breasts and she squeezed her legs tightly together. ‘You scared the life out of me.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked idiotically, knowing he should tear his gaze away from her but finding he was unable to.

  Emma suddenly felt priggish disguising her nakedness from a man who had once been her lover and she lowered her arms, hiding nothing from him now. ‘I brought you a message from Montueil,’ she said defiantly. Paradoxically in her naked state, Emma felt more in control than the obviously distracted man before her. ‘When I saw the bath I couldn’t resist it.’ Walsh was clearly discomfited by her nudity and he was hardly acting like a gentleman, standing there, staring at her and making no move to leave. ‘Didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘It’s all right, Harry, you’ve seen it all before,’ Emma was starting to enjoy herself now, there was something deliciously naughty about this and it was reassuring that she could still distract him.

  ‘Not recently,’ Walsh said quietly before he could think of a better response. Then he seemed to wake from his trance, ‘I’ll leave you to your bath.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’m done,’ and she rose, water running from her hips and trickling down over her bare legs. Emma held the bath for support and lifted her leg over the side as she climbed from the tub. Standing on the bath mat, Emma looked about her with exaggerated nonchalance. She reached for the smallest towel in the bathroom and raised her arms to unhurriedly dry her hair, leaving her body entirely on show. Walsh stood dumbly by, not knowing what to say or do.

  ‘You can have my water, if you like,’ she said, as she walked towards him.

  Walsh moved out of her way and caught the sweet smell of Emma Stirling as she brushed past him. He instinctively turned to watch as her naked rear swayed towards the bedroom. When he turned back he caught his reflection in the mirror as he wrestled with what remained of his conscience. He had tried to bury his feelings for Emma Stirling, lord knows he had tried, but there was surely only so much a man could take.

  ‘Bugger it,’ he told his reflection softly, ‘you’ll probably be dead in a week.’

  And with that he turned and went to her.

  As was often the way of these things, it was the work of an informant that led them to the hotel that morning. Combret, the leader of the local Milice, had seen it a hundred times before. A sweating, frightened individual who claimed he was acting to save a loved one. The informant denied money was a factor but took it just the same. They always did. The man had been scared right enough, more so than normal and Combret had used his fear against him. When a man knows his treachery will cost him his life if it is discovered, he is easy to own. Though the informant did not realise it, Combret could go back to this creature time and again. Work for me or be turned in to your own group for bloody retribution. Whatever the informant’s motivation that day, the intelligence he provided was priceless. Apparently an Englishman was staying at the Hotel Europa.

  32

  ‘Conscience is our unerring judge, until we finally stifle it.’

  Honoré de Balzac

  Morning sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains onto Emma’s face.

  She stirred in his arms, stretched like a cat and looked up at Walsh, who smiled down at her.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder what I had to do to get your attention these days, Harry.’

  ‘That did it all right.’

  ‘Glad you finally noticed me.’

  ‘I never stopped noticing you.’

  They lay in silence for a while until Emma said, ‘Know when I first noticed you?’ Walsh correctly assumed she did not expect an answer, ‘When you spoke to us at Arisaig – on how to handle life in the field. The regular instructor gave you quite a build-up before you arrived; you didn’t hear that bit did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A “remarkable man” he called you, somebody we should listen to very carefully, a brave man who has been in and out of France for years. He said you went into occupied territory so early there wasn’t a training program to follow and you practically invented what he called “field craft”. By the time you walked into the room we were all completely in awe. None of us knew if we could survive one mission and here was a veteran of so many. You made quite an impression.’

  ‘I had no idea why Price sent me there or what I was going to talk to you about until I began.’

  ‘He probably just wanted to be rid of you for a few weeks.’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘But you did talk to us, Harry, without notes as I recall, and everything you said made such sense. You scared me to death because I wouldn’t have thought of any of it. We’d spent weeks being taught by men who had probably never left England. Oh, s
ome of it was good but a lot of it was tosh I’d forgotten before I’d even left the lecture room. But not from you, we were hanging on your every word. Everything from how to jump out of a Halifax without breaking your nose on the lip of the hatch to how to put a whole factory out of action.’

  Walsh smiled. ‘So you were paying attention.’

  ‘Oh, I was. I noticed you all right, Harry Walsh, and you noticed me, eventually.’

  Walsh could be more frank now. ‘I noticed you right from the beginning.’

  ‘No you didn’t but it’s nice of you to pretend you did. The first time you noticed me was when they gave us all the night off to go into town and I walked into that dingy little pub on my own. Lucy had a cold remember, and I was about to turn round and go right out again, when you came waltzing through the front door.’

  ‘Timing is everything.’

  ‘And do you remember the first thing you said to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar, it was so good you must have used it before, probably often, but I didn’t care. You said, “Darling, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, please come home. The children miss you.” I think it was the first time I’d laughed since I arrived at that bloody awful place. The looks the men gave us as you escorted me out of there!’

  ‘They thought you were a bad mother but I knew the real truth, you just had poor taste in pubs. I felt duty bound to take you somewhere better.’

  ‘Well, it can’t have been that bad, you went there.’

  ‘What if I said I only walked in because I saw you go inside? What if I told you I’d trailed you from the railway station? How would that make you feel about me?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It is part of an instructor’s job to follow potential agents into town and see how they act when they have had a few drinks. Will they behave indiscreetly, compromise themselves; tell the landlord they are agents about to be parachuted into occupied France? You’d be surprised how some people are once they‘ve had a sniff of the barmaid’s apron.’

  ‘Oh I see, so you tailed me there, did you? But why march up to me straight away before I ordered a drink?’

  ‘Because I told you, I noticed you right from the beginning, Emma. You were sitting in the second row of the lecture hall, listening a little more intently than the others and you caught my eye.’

  ‘Second row?’ she frowned, ‘I may have been. Go on, I’m half convinced.’

  ‘I noticed your brown eyes and your long, dark hair was tied back,’ and he smiled, ‘oh yes and you wore green as I recall.’

  She laughed. ‘It was khaki and we all wore it. Plus the eyes and the hair don’t count when you are here with me now. That hardly constitutes a memory.’

  ‘True but the eyes do count and they are why I tailed you to the pub and broke every regulation in the book that night, and a few more later.’

  ‘My God, maybe you are telling the truth. I’m amazed and very flattered. And there was me thinking I was just another conquest for you to boast about in the officer’s mess, Captain Walsh. Don’t frown like that, Harry, I’m joking. I did wonder if my complete lack of resistance might have given you second thoughts about me though.’

  ‘You resisted, for a while.’

  ‘Two evenings in the pub as I remember; my mother would have been mortified, but I didn’t care. I’d already convinced myself there was no way I would survive France so I was damned if I was going over there as pure as the driven snow. War changes things, Harry, we both thought that as I recall.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’ Walsh became serious then, ‘Emma, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you again after Arisaig.’

  ‘You did see me once – to let me down gently? I thought it was quite noble of you really under the circumstances. It was all a bit too close to home for you in London, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was under no illusions, Harry, well maybe a few but they were entirely of my own making. You were honest from the start. “I’m married” you said “and always will be.” You didn’t exactly lead me on, I could never say that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But people do divorce you know, this is 1943 after all and the whole world is turned upside down. A man can leave his wife and it barely warrants a raised eye brow these days, perhaps only a paragraph in the paper.’

  ‘But not me.’

  ‘Why is that, Harry? Why can you never bring yourself to even think about leaving her when you are clearly unhappy? You have strong feelings for me, I know you do but when you stopped seeing me it was like you were slamming a door in my face.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, it’s all right. I’d just like to know.’

  ‘Because I made a promise,’ Walsh felt unable to add anything to the inadequate words. Emma seemed unwilling to risk the newfound accord between them and she too fell silent. ‘I have to go and meet Montueil’s contact or I’ll be late,’ he climbed from the bed and began to dress, ‘but I will be back, Emma.’

  ‘Then I’ll be here waiting, Harry.’

  Even if he had not had a description of the clothes Romain was wearing, Walsh could have picked him out in the café. He sat alone, nervously drumming his fingers against a knee and nodding his head almost imperceptibly, as if there was music in the room that only he could hear.

  ‘Romain, it has been such a long time,’ said Walsh.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ spluttered Romain as he shook hands. It was as if he had forgotten the script he himself had insisted upon to begin their encounter, the fake introduction designed to ensure no impostor could ever take Walsh’s place. ‘I have been working too hard to see my dear old friends, please forgive me.’

  They ordered coffee from a disinterested girl. The café was virtually empty and Romain had chosen his seat well for the empty tables around them afforded privacy. The coffee arrived and the girl retreated, which was the signal for Romain to come straight to the point.

  ‘Montueil trusts you, so I will trust you. He tells me you need to hear about the professor who stays in our hotel?’

  ‘That’s right,’

  ‘I can’t stay long, it’s too dangerous to be seen with you. You have until I finish this cup of coffee for your questions then I leave, so speak fast.’

  ‘It’s very easy, tell me everything he does; what time he wakes up and when he goes to bed, does he eat breakfast, what time does he leave the hotel and when does he return?’ Romain nodded. ‘What is his room number and where is it? Describe the room.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where does he take his meals, does he leave the hotel or stay in at night, how many guards does he have and where are they?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Who does he spend his time with; soldiers, friends, other scientists? Does he have visitors?’

  Romain snorted, letting out a little laugh, then he looked down at his coffee and stirred it self-consciously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Visitors, yes, there have already been visitors.’ For some reason Romain seemed to find this amusing.

  Combret was pleased with himself. There had been no Englishman at the Hotel Europa that morning as they burst through the door but there was a pretty young girl. They took her away for questioning and found the girl spoke perfect French. It was flawless in fact with no trace of an accent, so good it just had to be her second language. There was no slang or patois, no mispronounced vowel sound or out-of-place small talk, no fashionable phrase picked up from a governess or maid that showed itself, as it would, under the stress of protracted interrogation. Evie Soyen was too good to be true. In other words she was a fake.

  What Englishman? There was no Englishman. Evie had booked the room in a man’s name because her father had told her men would be less likely to bother her. What rubbish, though he could understand why men would want t
o bother her. He himself would not be averse to bothering Evie Soyen, whoever she was, but he knew the Gestapo insisted on receiving its captives intact and undamaged, they preferred to do the harming themselves. Let the Germans damage the girl then. What did it matter? Combret had just done a very good day’s work.

  As for the girl, from the moment she had slept in the Englishman’s bed she was doomed.

  33

  ‘This love will undo us all.’

  William Shakespeare, Troilus & Cressida

  Walsh returned to the Europa in time to see Emma led from the building. He was standing on the opposite pavement when she was bundled into the car by two men in plain clothes. One of them was barking orders at the other and Walsh could tell they were French not German, so it was the Milice not the Gestapo which offered some hope. At least he was in a position to try and help Emma if he could just work out how. If he had returned from his appointment with Romain two minutes earlier, he would have been in that car too and unable to do anything.

  Walsh was meant to return to the camp that day, picked up by the same labourer in the little green van. When he made his rendezvous with the driver he was relieved to see that Montueil was with him. ‘I wanted to make sure everything was all right,’ he told Harry.

  ‘It’s not all right,’ Walsh told him, ‘Emma has been taken. The Milice arrested her at the hotel.’

  ‘But how could they know she was there?’ asked Montueil.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Walsh admitted, though he had a pretty good idea.

  ‘It must be Combret, a real shit,’ then he conceded, ‘the Milice is bad but the Gestapo would have been worse.’

  ‘What will the Milice do?’ asked Walsh.

  ‘Take her to one of their houses, interrogate her and, when they are done, give her to the Germans.’