Assignment in Brittany (2 page)

At last he found his hiding-place under a small, unimportant-looking tree, with a tangle of bramble bushes behind him and a screen of bracken in front. When he lay stretched out under the tall curling fronds of the fern, he felt safe. Barring accidents, such as a rabbit-hunting farmer and his dog, there would be little chance of anyone stumbling across him. And a farmer wouldn’t be surprised to find a dishevelled
poilu
waiting for the daylight to fade. There were many of them, this summer of 1940.

It was cold and damp, but the discomfort sharpened his mind. He thought of Corlay in his white hospital bed in England, and smiled wryly as he felt the heavy dew soak efficiently through his clothes, as he watched the black insects clinging to the underleaves of the bracken. Well, if Corlay’s hip-bone hadn’t been shattered on the way out of Dunkirk, he might have been doing this job himself. And if Matthews hadn’t been examining a boat-load of French and Belgian wounded after it had arrived at Folkestone; if he hadn’t seen the unconscious Corlay, believed he was Hearne, and then notified Military Intelligence that one of their men had just got back in an uncomfortably original way, then this scheme would never have been born in Matthews’ fertile brain. That was like Matthews. He must have mulled it all over in his mind for a couple of days, and out of his sardonic amusement had grown the germ of an idea.

“Well, I’m damned,” he would say. “Well, I’m damned.” And then he’d begin to think of a use for such an extraordinary likeness, especially when he learned more about the Frenchman and where he came from. That was like Matthews. He never wasted an opportunity. Two days after he had seen Corlay, he had not only the idea shaping nicely, but also the go-ahead signal from his own department.

Strange bird, Matthews, thought Hearne, and rolled over on his side to ease a hip-bone. He took some deep breaths, tautened his muscles to warm himself. His clothes would dry when the sun really got into this glade. He’d be warm enough then. Strange bird, Matthews; he sort of sensed things coming. He’d cook up some plan, keep it simmering until the right moment arrived, and then dish it up piping hot. The right moment in this case had been a week before the Franco-German armistice. It was then that he sent for Hearne.

“Glad you got back in time,” he had begun, and smiled quietly. Hearne knew that smile. He waited, wondering what was coming this time.

“How would you like to spend a summer in France?”

That meant he was going to spend a summer in France. He allowed himself one objection—not that Matthews would show that he had ever noticed it.

“But I’ve just come back from there.” Thirty-six hours ago, Hearne added under his breath.

“Brittany, this time.” Matthews gave his imitation of a benevolent Santa Claus. “That should interest you, Hearne.”

It did, in spite of the fact that for the last month he hadn’t slept in a clean bed, or seen anything which might be remotely called a bathroom. Hearne saw his leave and the quiet comfort of his flat evaporating as quickly as August rain on a hot London pavement.

“When do I go?” he asked. Brittany...well, that was something.

“In about two or three weeks. That is, if things go the way they are shaping. Looks bad, at the moment. If there’s a separate armistice, then we shall use you, because every Frenchman who can get back to his home will then make a bee-line for it. A lot
of them won’t get back; and there will be some with guts to fight on. But you are to be one of the Frenchmen who do get back, and stay there.”

“Home?” Hearne was incredulous. Home meant relatives, and complications. He had never tackled anything so domestic as that.

And then Matthews explained about Corlay.

“Here’s all the official knowledge about him,” he ended, pushing a folder across his desk to Hearne. “All checked and amplified by a French Intelligence chap—Fournier, he’s called— who will be one of those who fight on, so there’s no danger of the wrong people learning about our interest in Corlay. You’ll find that Fournier has done a pretty good job. He included a detailed map and description of the district. Saint-Déodat is the name of the village. Know it?”

Hearne shook his head. He had no idea where it was. He searched his memory in annoyance. Hell, he thought, Brittany is supposed to be my pigeon.

“North or South Brittany?” he asked at last.

“North. Just south-west of the town of Dol. Within walking distance of the railway-line from Rennes to Saint-Malo. Near enough Dinan to admire the canal. Close enough to the main north road from Rennes.” Matthews was speaking slowly, underlining the importance of the towns with the inflexion of his voice. “And also,” he added, “not so very far from Mont Saint-Michel, and our old friends Duclos and Pléhec, if you must send us news about your health.”

Hearne smothered a smile. Matthews was at his old trick again of coating the pill lavishly with sugar. He liked to make his assignments sound like a Cook’s tour.

“Duclos is still there?” Hearne asked.

“Yes, and very useful he will be from now on. I am rather afraid his archæological researches are going to be disturbed. Then, for emergency use only, you will find another friend outside Saint-Malo. Fournier guarantees him. You’d better talk to him about this man of his before you leave.”

Hearne nodded. “And I’ve to take moonlight strolls round the railway-line and road and canal?” he asked.

There was almost a smile on Matthews’ face. “You are being sent to this farm so that, within a patch of about two hundred square miles, you can find information which will fit neatly into the reports which we hope to get from all the other patches of two hundred square miles. Then, when all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle are fitted together, we shall have a working idea of German intentions. Now, here are the particular pieces of information which we need. First, we want to know if North Brittany is being fortified and garrisoned for defence; or is it being prepared as a base for an attack on the British Isles? If so, then just in what way are the Germans preparing to attack? If airfields are being constructed, then they are aiming for our southern ports and our shipping lanes. If huge masses of troops and boats are being prepared, then our south-west flank is in danger.” Matthews stabbed at the map on the desk in front of him. “The Devon Coast, the Bristol Channel, Southern Ireland. Brittany is just the right position to try for these places. So look for airfields, troop movements, types of supplies being sent by road and rail and canal, new construction works, underground dumps, gun installations. You may not see much sense in what you observe, but your report will fit neatly into the other reports we’ll receive. When
we fit them together, they will make a pretty pattern. So don’t even let the little things escape you. Work at night. I think you’ll find plenty of material for your usual precise reports. Anything you pick up will probably be useful.”

There was a note in Matthews’ voice which raised Hearne’s eyes from the map to the older man’s face.
Anything you pick up...
Was that inflexion on the
you
intended? If it were, then that was high praise.

Matthews was speaking again. “I don’t think you’ll find this a difficult job.” Again there was that hint of emphasis on the
you.
“I think,” he was saying, “I think we can depend on you only to follow your instructions, and not to suffer from any attacks of misplaced brilliance.”

Hearne’s elation faded, and then he saw the gleam in Matthews’ eye, and the repressed smile. He breathed again. So Matthews wasn’t displeased over his last attack of “misplaced brilliance,” after all. Hearne suddenly thought, perhaps he’s giving me this job just because I find it hard to be orthodox in my methods. Perhaps he isn’t so much against them as he always pretends to be.

Matthews seemed to guess Hearne’s thoughts. “Seriously,” he said, “you did a good job at Bordeaux. But I’d like you to restrain yourself on this trip. No good getting lost to us.” And then, as if he felt he had been too expansive, he added, “Not after all the trouble I’ve had in training you.”

“Yes, sir,” Hearne said.

Matthews’ voice was matter-of-fact once more. “I suggest you memorise the contents of that folder. You’ll find all the necessary data in it, including observations on Corlay by one of his officers and by a man who had known him as a student.
After you’ve got all that information memorised, you can start on Corlay himself. You’ll visit him each day in hospital, for two or three weeks. He can talk now. Find out everything you can to fill in the gaps. Study his voice, his expressions, all that sort of thing.”

“What if he won’t talk? The Bretons can be very reticent, you know.”

“I think he will. There is a certain amount of questioning which all strangers in Britain must go through at this time. We’ve never had so many aliens dumped so unexpectedly on our shores, and at rather a dangerous moment for us, too. There are rumours, even among the wounded, of what’s now called the Fifth Column. Fournier has seen Corlay, and dropped him that hint. He will talk, just to identify himself.”

“Well, that sounds more hopeful... You say he looks like me?”

“Looks? My dear Hearne, he’s the dead spit of you. If he could mislead me, you can mislead anyone who knows him.”

“But his mother and father?”

“Father killed in 1917. Mother bedridden. You’ll find it all in that folder. I investigated that sort of thing before I called you in. Now, if there had been a wife...” Matthews smiled, and shook his head slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was crisp and business-like. “I think you’re in luck this time, Hearne. You’ll learn more about your Celtic peoples in a month at Saint-Déodat than you did that year at Rennes University.” There was the sugar coating being spread on again. “What made you interested in the Bretons, anyway? Was it because you are a Cornishman yourself?”

Hearne nodded. “That, and the fact that I like them, and that my father spent all his time in between his sermons
writing about the early British saints. A lot of them ended up in Brittany, you know.”

“Déodat being one? Well, that makes one of these nice coincidences.”

“I can’t think of any Déodat except St. Augustine’s son,” Hearne said with a smile.

“St. Augustine?” Matthews looked startled. “Didn’t know he was married.”

“He wasn’t,” Hearne said, enjoying the shocked look on Matthews’ face. He added, “That was probably during Augustine’s ‘O God, make me pure but not yet,’ period.” For a strong Scots Presbyterian, Matthews was reacting in a very High Church manner. Hearne grinned amiably.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Matthews. “Well, I’ll be—”

“That’s about all, then?” Hearne asked tactfully.

“Yes,” said Matthews. “Yes. I’ll see you again before you leave.”

“How do I go?”

It was Matthews’ turn to smile. “Just drop in,” he said.

The sun had come out and with it a swarm of flies, fat black flies, inquisitive, persistent. But, at least, Hearne was beginning to feel dry and warm. He took the map out of his pocket to verify his position again. It was a detailed French map of Brittany with well-worn creases, stains and a jagged tear over the Atlantic corner for good measure. If he were questioned, he was to say that this map had been given him at Brest after he had arrived there by fishing-boat from Dunkirk. Better allow himself a slight case of shell-shock to account for the period
between Dunkirk and the armistice. Shell-shock might be useful later: it could explain any strangeness, any lapse of memory. So, with this map, he had found his way home to the North of Brittany. The food in his pocket could be explained away, too... friendly peasantry department.
Could be explained away.
He smiled grimly at the phrase. He would just have to take especial care tonight in his short journey to Saint-Déodat, and then no explanations would be necessary to any curious patrol.

He examined the map for the last time. He must be able to remember the details of the district to the north and west of this wood, to reach the toy railway which trailed the main road from Rennes to Saint-Malo. It would guide him part of the way. The rest would depend on his knowledge of these thin and thick red lines and winding black ones. He had looked at them so often in the past few days that they were etched on his memory as well as on this map. At last he admitted that he could do no more, that he must depend now on a combination of intelligence and intuition. There would be no moon tonight, but if the sky stayed clear the stars would be enough. Failing them, it would have to be by guess and by God.

He settled himself more comfortably in his bracken bed. The sweet smell of fern and grass, the warmth of the sun, the increasing hum of the innumerable insects, drowned him pleasantly. He felt himself slipping into light sleep. Tomorrow, he was thinking, tomorrow Bertrand Corlay would be home.

3

NIGHT JOURNEY

A cool breeze awakened him. The bright green of the bracken and trees was no longer bathed in sunlight. The glade had darkened, as if a shade had been pulled down over a window. The gentle hum of insects had gone, the birds had become silent. There was only the uneasy stirring of branches overhead, the anxious rustling of the leaves. Not a pleasant sound, Hearne thought, especially when a man was hungry and cold. As the dusk deepened, he made an effort to get up. He was much stiffer than he had even thought. He sat with his back against a tree, and ate half of his rations, such as they were. The other half he replaced stoically in his pocket. If he bungled tonight, there would be another day to provide for.

At last the darkness had thickened enough to let him reach the edge of the trees. He walked slowly, even painfully at first, but by the time the first stars began to show, he was ready.

He looked at the North Star, and got his bearings. The fields
ahead seemed horribly naked. In a way, he thought as he left the trees, this was something like taking a dive from a plane, except that he didn’t have to worry this time about the parachute opening.

The ground, becoming more tamed as it descended, sloped gently into a broad shallow valley. The clumps of gorse grew more sparsely, much to Hearne’s relief. It hadn’t been so easy to avoid them at first. By the time he had reached the first cultivated patch of land, he was moving more confidently. His stiffness was forgotten, and his eyes had become accustomed to the shapes and shadows within the darkness.