Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  ‘I don’t believe this, I can’t believe it! A girl! They let a girl walk into his room and kill the man! All those guards, all those precautions, and the Englishman simply sent a girl to kill the professor and she walked calmly away afterwards! They say she even lit a cigarette in the doorway! What kind of a woman is she? It’s beyond my comprehension!’

  It had been Kornatzki’s unfortunate duty to report the events of that morning and he had dreaded the task. He was forced to tell Tauber that the whore was not a whore but an assassin, sent by his nemesis the English agent to kill Gaerte. To make matters worse the crime had only been discovered when the professor failed to appear for breakfast the next morning, so the killer had the whole night to get away. Shortly after the body was discovered, a hand-written note reached the hotel notifying them of the whereabouts of the terrified Madame Dechabert and she was able to fill in all of the gaps.

  ‘I want every man in that guard duty punished, every man, whether he was on duty at the time or not,’ and Tauber banged his fist onto the desk, ‘why should I take all the blame?’

  Oh God, the blame, thought Tauber. My responsibility, this is my responsibility, and he desperately searched for a way out of his quandary. He needed time to think but Berlin would surely hear of this fiasco soon enough. They had eyes everywhere. Tauber had to come up with a plausible story that would shift the fault elsewhere. The captain of the guard would not be enough to pacify Berlin and he had already decided to offer them Kornatzki’s head as well. Retribution was needed of course and he must pledge to hunt down the terrorists and show them no mercy. In the meantime, a hundred civilians executed by firing squad in the city centre would be the kind of gesture expected of him. That would be a start. But could he convince his superiors it was enough? Whatever would they do to him if he could not? Tauber needed time to think. He had to get away and think, damn it.

  Just then there was a soft knock at the door and a terrified subaltern entered the room. The young officer actually swallowed before he spoke. He looked as if he were about to break some truly terrible news but surely no family bereavement could possibly trouble Tauber more than the death of the professor.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Tauber demanded.

  ‘It’s Berlin…’ the youth struggled to complete his message, ‘… Reichsmarschall Goering asking to speak to you.’

  Tauber visibly slumped. He brought his hand up to his eyes then pressed his thumb and forefinger together to pinch the loose skin at the top of his nose between them. His head throbbed and his face flushed, making him feel simultaneously both faint and nauseous. He tried to compose himself in front of his subordinates but realised it probably didn’t matter anymore.

  ‘Get out,’ he said quietly, ‘both of you.’

  ‘But, Colonel… the call…’ protested the boy.

  ‘Tell him… tell him…’ Tauber sighed and there was a very long pause then, until, in a dead voice, he said, ‘… put it through.’

  They left Tauber alone in his misery. He knew he should be using the last remaining seconds before the call came through to compose an explanation that might in some way miraculously save his life and military career. Somehow though, all he could think of was the message Madame Dechabert had given him. The words went round and round in his head all morning, mocking him.

  ‘Harry Walsh says hello.’

  And Tauber wondered if the Englishman was laughing at him right now.

  43

  ‘When you go in search of honey you must expect to be stung by bees.’

  Joseph Joubert

  The guard on Gaerte’s door that night had compounded his sin by leaving the professor undisturbed until breakfast, giving them nine hours to make good an escape before the body was discovered.

  The Germans threw up roadblocks all over Normandy and beyond. They searched every vehicle, took countless civilians in for questioning and wasted hours delaying every young couple they found. At the same time, they halted all passenger trains travelling through the region and scrutinised the documents of everyone on board. They searched each load of freight to ensure there was no one stowing away in a consignment of coal but of Harry Walsh and Emma Stirling they found not a sign.

  As soon as they had said their goodbyes to Simone and Sam Cooper, Emma and Walsh made their way to Elbeuf where they holed up for the day in a warehouse by the river. That night, under cover of darkness they boarded a fishing boat. The captain of the vessel was one Pascal Montueil, cousin of the Maquis leader. He had been mooring overnight at Elbeuf for weeks, in between forays out into the Atlantic and trips back along the Seine to sell his catch in Rouen. If the crew were puzzled by their new routine, they knew better than to question Pascal Montueil. If the Captain wanted to sell his fish in Rouen instead of Le Havre that was his business.

  On the subject of the new hand who joined them late one night at Elbeuf, the crew were similarly mute. No one had actually seen him board but he was there in the morning, large as life, helping to repair the nets. The new man kept himself to himself, aside from one or two monosyllabic grunts directed at the men in his immediate vicinity but he seemed to know what he was doing so that was sufficient.

  Pascal Montueil had greeted Harry Walsh and Emma Stirling alone when they boarded the boat that night. The crew were all bedded down in Elbeuf by then for an early start the next morning, as Le Chapardeur would be away at first light. Pascal had commanded the change of routine weeks before to prevent any suspicion falling upon a new boat some eighty kilometres from its usual port. By now the presence of Le Chapardeur was known and accepted. Walsh and Philippe Montueil had met with the captain and agreed the Englishman’s passage out of France, along with Cooper, Valvert and Emma, should they all survive the mission.

  Walsh had returned to the captain to break the sad news of his cousin’s disappearance, Valvert’s death and Cooper’s incapacity, then he’d booked the illegal passage for Emma and himself for the night Gaerte was scheduled to die.

  Now Walsh worked hard on repairing the nets, a job he had been taught by Montueil years earlier on a very different trip when he was spirited away weeks after the collapse of Dunkirk. Emma hid herself away in the Captain’s locked cabin. Pascal had prepared a hiding place for her beneath his bunk with a false side that could be removed and replaced in a hurry should they be boarded by the Germans, though this would only withstand the most cursory of searches. One of Pascal’s usual hands had been persuaded to remain behind at Elbeuf, so Harry could pretend to be that man if questioned but they all prayed it would never come to that.

  Emma watched nervously from the tiny porthole in the captain’s cabin as Le Chapardeur pulled out from the riverbank and made its unhurried progress along the meandering Seine, keeping back so she would not be spotted from the shore or any passing vessel. To begin with, German patrol boats on the river allowed the fishing boat to go about its usual business and Emma had actually begun to half believe the unthinkable, that they might get away. It was then that she spied the dark, low shape of the E-boat. It was coming straight towards them and coming at speed.

  Walsh spotted the E-boat too and his mouth turned dry, because the deviation in its course sent the torpedo boat straight towards them. Why would it make such a detour unless the Germans were suspicious of Le Chapardeur and intent on boarding her? There was no hope of avoiding or outrunning the military craft, so their boat kept to its course at a slow and steady pace.

  The S-100 Schnellboot was aptly named, for it had a top speed of over forty knots and could overtake a fishing boat without even taxing its three Daimler Benz engines. Primarily intended to harass Allied shipping in the Channel, the Schnellboot operated mostly at sea but today it was making short work of the deep River Seine. As well as four torpedo tubes, it was armed with a single 20mm machine gun and a 40mm Bofors gun. The only weapon on board Le Chapardeur was the Luger. Walsh had time to get off the deck and out of sight but elected
to stay where he was. He knew binoculars would be trained on the deck of the fishing boat and did not want to increase suspicion with a sudden departure below deck.

  The Schnellboot was almost upon them now. Walsh could easily make out its four torpedo tubes and the twin machine guns, one of which had been manned by a uniformed sailor in case it was suddenly needed against the crew of Le Chapardeur. The captain of the vessel was standing on the deck surveying the fishing boat keenly. Walsh was just waiting for the barked command through a loudhailer to stand by for boarding and his mind raced as he tried to work out what he would say when he was questioned. Would Emma even have time to hide beneath the bunk? Her presence on the boat could not be explained. The Schnellboot drew within a few yards of their boat.

  Just then Pascal Montueil appeared at Walsh’s side and did something strange. He raised a hand towards the German manning the machine gun, smiled and gave a manly wave of greeting. The gesture seemed so innocuous and unassuming that Walsh thought it was probably the calmest thing he had ever witnessed. The German behind the gun did not respond but the Captain noticed the wave and turned to one of his men, speaking quietly. The Schnellboot first drew level with Le Chapardeur, passing within feet of its hull then it swept majestically past the fishing boat, sending a wash of water out from its side which gently nudged the Le Chapardeur as the two craft went their separate ways. Suddenly Walsh could breathe again.

  The Schnellboot was looking for something out of the ordinary that day, not a craft they had witnessed ploughing the same lonely furrow for weeks. The calm wave from a familiar figure had been enough to convince the E-boat captain that his time would be better served elsewhere.

  It was only when they finally emerged into open water at the mouth of the river, however, that Emma could dare to hope once more. She knew it wasn’t over. All the local fishing boats were routinely followed and scrutinised by German patrol boats while they were out at sea but Montueil’s cousin knew the way they operated and he was confident he could slip through the cordon to get enough miles out at sea until they could meet a British ship then signal it to take Walsh and Emma on board before slipping back home unnoticed. They had even kept a portion of the previous day’s catch back on the boat, packed in ice, so it would look as if they had been busy fishing all day.

  When she realised they were finally at sea, Emma immediately lay back on the Captain’s bunk. She needed to talk to Harry, had something important to tell him in fact, but that would have to wait for now. Was it all finally over? Maybe. Emma instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.

  44

  ‘I’m intact and I don’t give a damn.’

  Arthur Rimbaud

  ‘I’m to congratulate you, Walsh,’ said Price blandly, before adding, ‘apparently.’ The Major was seated at his shabby little desk in Baker Street, just as he had been on the day, a hundred or so years ago, when Gubbins had first summoned Walsh. Price was attempting a brave face that morning but Walsh was under no illusion. His survival was an inconvenience to the Major and he could easily imagine how galling Walsh’s recent elevation from F-Section-pariah to hero-of-the-hour must have been to his commanding officer.

  Price adopted a falsely cheerful tone, ‘You’re quite the blue-eyed boy all of a sudden. It seems we have discovered a whole new talent of yours. So, how did it go? Nice clean kill, was it?’

  The tiredness he’d held at bay for so long began to overcome Walsh just then. All of a sudden, he lacked the energy for the verbal sparring that characterised his debriefings with Price. ‘There’s rarely anything clean about killing,’ he offered flatly.

  ‘Quite,’ taking his lead from Walsh’s tone, Price decided against pressing him further, ‘doubtless I shall read the details in your report, as it seems I am now finally permitted to know what has been going on in my own section.’

  Gubbins had only revealed the true nature of Walsh’s mission to Price once it was over, and this clearly rankled with his commanding officer. Walsh would normally have taken pleasure from Price’s exasperation but he was far too weary to care.

  ‘You will spend this morning writing that report and you will have it on my desk this afternoon. Is that clear?’

  ‘No, sir,’ answered Walsh, his eyes burning with tiredness.

  ‘No, sir?’ Price could not quite believe the impertinence. ‘What on earth do you mean by “no sir”?’

  When Walsh spoke, his words were slow, measured and deliberate for he feared that, if they weren’t, he might finally explode, possibly beating the man in front of him to a pulp in the process. His eyes locked on to Price’s and never wavered for an instance. ‘I have not eaten hot food in days, I haven’t slept in forty hours and you may have noticed I am badly in need of a bath. So now I’m going to leave here, I’m going to take that bath, eat a large meal, drink a beer and then I’m going to sleep for a day.’ Price just gaped at him. ‘You can have my written report then and only then and if you don’t like it, you can take it up with Gubbins,’ then he finally added, ‘… sir.’

  Price’s face actually twitched then. He looked as if he was struggling to comprehend the words he had just heard. The Major opened his mouth, trying to find the right response to such open defiance and Walsh readied himself for the onslaught, the tirade about dumb insolence, insubordination, shoddy soldiering and general poor character that would surely follow. He was about to experience the full wrath of his superior and he didn’t give a damn.

  But the moment passed. Though red in the face and clearly seething, Price must have calculated that reporting Walsh’s rudeness to Gubbins would do him no favours. He knew how the CD would view that one. Gubbins would be astonished Price could not command a hero for one day on the peaceful side of the Channel without prompting an almighty row. Walsh was flavour of the month for now, and Price’s reputation would be harmed by an unseemly spat, not his. He might also have calculated that it was better to bide his time, wait until Walsh’s achievements had been forgotten, then strike.

  In the midst of his humiliation, Price eventually settled on an exasperated, ‘Do you have any ambitions beyond the rank of captain?’ and when no answer was immediately forthcoming, ‘well, do you, Walsh?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because it would be a waste of time.’

  ‘Well, at least you understand something about this man’s army!’ Price attempted to compose himself. ‘Now get out of my office before I completely lose my temper.’

  Walsh rose wearily to his feat. He neglected to salute his CO and instead turned his back on Price before walking out of the office and along the drab grey corridor. He had won and could actually get away with such behaviour for once. As for the future, no doubt it would prove to be a Pyrrhic victory but, for the moment, he wouldn’t dwell on that.

  Professor Gaerte was dead and the Komet project had been severely derailed. Improbably, he’d managed to get both Emma and himself out of France alive, running his commanding officer ragged in the process, but Walsh wasn’t thinking about that right now. As he walked, it was Emma’s words that came back to him. As soon as they were safely on English soil she had taken him to one side. ‘I don’t want them to know I did it,’ she said. Emma looked exhausted, all in. ‘I don’t want them to know I killed the professor.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because they will want me to do it again,’ she said flatly, ‘and I don’t think I can.’

  She was right. They had already turned Walsh into an assassin and, if she allowed it, they would do the same thing to her. ‘I’ll tell them I killed him,’ he offered.

  ‘How will you explain that?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ and she had nodded her acceptance.

  There was a silence between them for a while and, after a time, she asked him, ‘You’re not going to end it with me, are you, Harry? Not this time?’

  ‘No
, I’m not,’ he replied without hesitation, ‘not this time.’

  Emma nodded slowly, ‘I thought not.’ Then she looked past him, avoiding his eye, and said, ‘Then I must. I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t be your mistress. I could do it in France, when each day could have been our last but not back here, not in London. You understand that, don’t you?’

  And it was absolutely no consolation to Harry Walsh that he did.

  Walsh knew that it was no use brooding about Emma. That wouldn’t get him anywhere. He’d just have to take it and accept her decision to end things, which was entirely her prerogative. All he could do was try to put her out of his mind. There was work to be done after all; they’d give him another mission before too long, there was still a war to be fought and a traitor to find. Then he could finally avenge the deaths of so many good men.

  Every new day the world would continue to wake up around him, the people in it as hell-bent on destroying each other as ever. Next to that, Harry Walsh was forced to admit, his own problems didn’t count for very much at all.

  As Walsh reached the end of the corridor he heard a muted crashing noise from an office some way behind him. It was the sound of someone kicking out at a hard, metallic item, a waste paper bin perhaps, and sending it across the room in impotent fury.

  THE END

  ‘The life that I have is all that I have

  And the life that I have is yours.

  The love that I have of the life that I have

  Is yours and yours and yours

  A sleep I shall have

  A rest I shall have

  Yet death will be but a pause,

  For the peace of my years in the long green grass

  Will be yours and yours and yours.’