Operation Kingfisher (2 page)

Christine was back in half an hour, flushed from riding fast up the hill. Her mother and Luke were sitting at the kitchen table, eating a belated breakfast.

‘They’re staying. They’ve taken over the
château
. The officers are billeted in there and the men are camping in the grounds.’

‘That settles it,’ Isabelle said, and there was a new note of resolution in her voice. ‘You must both leave. It’s not safe for you here.’

‘Leave?’ Christine repeated. ‘What do you mean? Luke has to go. We said that yesterday. But we can’t both go.’

‘Yes you can. And you must. It’s obvious that there is someone around who wishes us ill. They only have to drop a hint to the officer in charge. I won’t see you dragged off to a concentration camp.’

‘But what about you?’ Luke said. ‘You must come with us.’

‘How can I? I can’t leave your grandfather and it’s impossible to take him with us.’

‘But we can’t leave you to cope on your own,’ Christine said.

‘Listen. I shall be fine. I can manage your grandfather without help and Robert will have to see to the vines on his own. There isn’t much to do at this time of year and, who knows, by the time of the
vendange
the war may be over. Now the Americans are with us, it can’t go on much longer.’

‘But it isn’t safe for you here,’ Luke said. ‘Suppose this person, whoever it is, who wants the vineyard, tells the
Boche
that you are married to an Englishman.…’

‘That is not a crime. I am French. I have French papers and, whatever anyone says, I am not a spy. But it is a crime to harbour enemy citizens, so the longer you are here, the more danger we are all in. Without you, I shall be safer. So, you see, it is vital for you to go back to England.’

‘That’s easy to say,’ Luke said. ‘But how are we supposed to get there? Over the border to Spain?’

‘No. I’ve been thinking. The Spanish border is nearer, granted, but you would need a guide to take you over the Pyrenees. And I have heard that the Spanish will intern anyone they catch. No, you must go north, to Montbéliard and to Marcel Lemaître; he is your godfather after all, and one of your father’s oldest friends. They used to go mountaineering together before the war. He is a qualified Alpine guide and he knows every path through the mountains round his home. If anyone can get you over the border to Switzerland, he can.’

‘That makes sense,’ Luke said slowly. ‘But how do we get to Montbéliard?’

‘I don’t see that that should be a problem. The trains are still running.’

‘But the Germans check everyone’s papers before you get on, don’t they?’ Christine said.

‘They can’t have guards at every tiny station, surely,’ Luke objected.

‘I’ll speak to Jacques Dutoit,’ Isabelle said. ‘As mayor, he has the ability to issue identity papers. He wouldn’t do it if you were staying here. There are too many people who know who you are and he must have enemies, like us, who would denounce him. But I’m sure I can persuade him to produce something that will get you onto a train.’

Luke gazed at her in silence for a moment, torn between a sense of guilt at leaving her and a sudden sense of excitement. If they could make it over the border and get back to England, he would be able to join up, like his father. At last there would be an opportunity to prove that he was not a coward.

He said, ‘You really mean this, Maman? You really think it’s best, for all of us?’

She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘I do, my darling. God knows, I shall miss you both. But at least I shan’t have to live with the fear that you may be arrested at any moment. Don’t let’s argue about it. It’s decided. You must leave as soon as possible.’

W
hile Luke was tossing and turning in his bed at Domaine des Volcans, on an airfield in Hertfordshire a car with masked headlights drew up outside a hangar and two men got out.

The buildings were in darkness, but the moon was almost full and in its light the outline of a Whitley bomber was just visible on the tarmac. Roger Beecham pulled a small suitcase from the boot of the car and shook hands with the pretty FANY driver. Then, he and his companion went into the hangar. Inside, he was met by the man who had been his conducting officer all through his training and taken through to a small office, made stuffy by the heat of an oil stove. Here, both men were required to turn out their pockets and remove their outer clothing. Every article, down to their underwear was carefully checked; no letters or photographs, no English cigarettes, no souvenirs of home could be carried – a forgotten bus ticket in the corner of a pocket could be fatal. Everything had either been made in France, or produced in England by French tailors and given the label of a French manufacturer. Here, Roger was fortunate; most of the clothes were his own, bought while he was living in the Auvergne. Even his teeth had passed the inspection of the SOE dentist, as the only fillings had been carried out in France.

Once he was dressed again, he was given a packet of Gauloise cigarettes, the wrappers from a couple of French boiled sweets, and a crumpled receipt from a chain of French department stores. His French identity card and ration card were already safely stowed in his pack. As he distributed the items around his pockets,
his conducting officer held out a small jewel case. Inside was a pair of gold cuff-links.

‘These could come in handy if you find yourself in need of funds,’ he said. ‘But otherwise they are yours to keep, with the grateful thanks of HM Government. There is one more thing: see, here?’ He pressed a tiny catch on one link, which opened to show a small cavity in which rested a little yellow capsule. ‘You know about these. Bitten, death occurs within seconds. Swallowed whole, you’ve got a few hours. There is no obligation to make use of it, of course. That is entirely up to you, depending on the circumstances. Now, is there anything else? Any questions?’

Roger shook his head. At that moment, he felt he was not in total command of his voice.

‘Better get your ’chute on, then,’ the officer said.

Ten minutes later, swaddled in a thick flying suit and with the parachute banging into the backs of his legs as he walked, Roger followed his companion out to the waiting aircraft. A brief handshake, a wish of ‘good luck’, and he climbed aboard. The engines roared, the plane taxied onto the runway, gathered speed and took off, circling to gain altitude, and set a course for France.

Isabelle Beecham, or Isabelle Thierry as her neighbours still preferred to call her, sat in the office of Jacques Dutoit, mayor of St Amand. Dutoit was a corpulent man with heavy jowls that made him look like a bloodhound, or so Isabelle thought. And at that moment, the jowls were shaking.

‘But,
chére madame
, it is impossible. You don’t know what you are asking.’

‘I know perfectly well,’ Isabelle replied. ‘And I know you can do it. We both know the price I paid for you to provide Luke and Christine with ration cards. Now it is my turn to name my price. Either you produce identity cards for both of them or Jeanne gets to hear all about what we – what you – got up to that evening, here in your office.’

The jowls shook more violently. ‘Very well, very well. I will do my best.’

‘It had better be better than your best,’ Isabelle said. ‘If the documents were not to pass muster, Jeanne would not be the only person hearing my story. I have no doubt the
milice
would be very interested in the various little “favours” you have done for people in the village – at a price of course. Here, I’ve brought you two recent photographs. Just make sure everything is perfectly correct.’

‘Of course, of course. Don’t worry. Everything will be in order. When do you need the documents?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? Madame, please …’

‘Tomorrow.’ Isabelle rose. ‘I will collect them tomorrow afternoon.’

Later, when the evening meal had been eaten and grandfather had been put to bed, Isabelle sat at the big kitchen table with her two children.

‘I have spoken to Dutoit. Your new documents will be ready tomorrow.’

‘
Mon Dieu, Maman
!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘How did you manage that? Old Dutoit would rather see the whole village go up in flames than put himself at risk.’

Isabelle gave him a small, grim smile. ‘Oh, I have my ways. Jacques and I have known each other for a long time. Now, listen. I checked on the trains as well. You can catch one from Clermont-Ferrand to Lyons. You change there for Montbéliard.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a long, roundabout journey and I’m afraid it will take more than 24 hours, the way the trains are these days, but there’s no better route.’

Both Luke and Christine were silent for a moment, absorbing all this, then Luke said, ‘What do we tell people if they ask why we’re going halfway across the country to see Marcel? People don’t travel for pleasure these days.’

‘I know,’ his sister responded. ‘We’ll say he’s been taken ill, like
granddad, and we’re going to look after him. He’s got a shop, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he sells clothes and equipment for mountaineering and skiing – at least he did before the war. He was called up, of course, but I know he went back to Montbéliard when he was demobbed after the capitulation. I haven’t heard from him lately but I have no reason to think he’s gone anywhere else. Though I don’t suppose there’s much demand for the stuff he sells these days.’

‘Well, he must be earning a living somehow,’ Christine said. ‘We can say Luke is going to mind the shop and I’m going to look after him.’

‘Well done,
chérie
,’ her mother said. ‘That should be enough to satisfy any enquiries.’

‘There’s another point,’ Luke said. ‘How do we get to Clermont? There’s no fuel for the car.’

‘We could cycle,’ Christine suggested, ‘but then we’d have to abandon the bikes at the station.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ her mother responded. ‘The day after tomorrow, Gaspard Duhamel will be coming to collect the next consignment of wine for Bussy. He can give you a lift on his way back.’

Bussy was the name of the wine merchant in Clermont-Ferrand who sold most of the produce of Cave des Volcans, now that the English market was closed to them.

‘The day after tomorrow?’ Luke stared at his mother.

‘So soon?’ Christine said, in the same breath.

They looked at each other, both suddenly aware that their departure, which had seemed a matter of theory and conjecture, had become an imminent reality.

‘The sooner the better,’ Isabelle said. She reached across the table and took hold of a hand of each of them. ‘My darlings, I know it’s a terrible wrench. I feel dreadful at the prospect of sending you off into the unknown like this, and I shall miss you more than words can say. But it is the only way I can keep us all safe. You do see that, don’t you?’

Christine squeezed her hand.

‘Of course we do, Maman. You don’t need to worry about us. Once we get to Montbéliard we shall be fine. Even if Uncle Marcel can’t get us over the border, we can stay with him. No one knows us there, so there’s no reason for them to doubt what our new identity cards say. What worries us is going away and leaving you on your own.’

‘I shan’t be on my own. There’s your grandfather to look after, and I can rely on Robert and his family. They have worked in the vineyard for generations and they’re all old friends.’

Luke said nothing. In all his dreams of joining the Maquis, he had always assumed that his home and his family would still be there, in the background, for him to return to when the battle was won – or when he had need of them. This was different; this meant a complete severance. They would not even be able to telephone or exchange letters. With any luck, he would see his father again, and fulfil his ambition of joining him in the RAF, but he was beginning to have a more realistic view of that, too. The war showed no sign of ending, and there was a good chance that he would not survive. He might never see his mother, or Cave des Volcans, again.

‘There’s one more thing,’ Isabelle said. ‘I shall be on tenterhooks until I know you are safe in England. Marcel can write to let me know you have arrived safely in Montbéliard but after that there will be no way of keeping in touch, except for via the BBC. We’ve listened to the
messages personelles
which are broadcast every evening but they mean nothing unless you understand the code. As soon as you get to England you must apply to the BBC and ask them to broadcast a message for me, but we need to decide on the wording. It needs to be something that could only come from you, but not so specific that the
Boche
could trace it back to me. Any ideas?’

They wrestled with the problem in silence for a moment. Then Luke said, ‘You mean something like “The ducklings are safely back in the pond?”’

‘Too vague,’ his sister objected. ‘That could come from anyone.’

‘True.’ He pondered again. ‘I know! Remember our old dog, Michou? How about “Michou’s pups are safe in the kennel?”’

‘Excellent!’ his mother exclaimed. ‘Don’t forget it, will you? I shall be listening to every broadcast.’

‘Be careful,’ Luke said. ‘You know what the penalties are for having a clandestine radio.’

‘Don’t worry. I shall take all the usual precautions. Now, let us be practical. You must pack. One suitcase only. You don’t want to burden yourself with too much. But it must look as though you really intend to stay in Montbéliard, in case your cases are searched, so put in what you would expect to need for a couple of weeks, at least. But nothing to suggest that you don’t expect to be back – in the short term, I mean.’

By the following evening, their new identity cards were ready, as promised, bearing the names of Luc and Christine Beauchamps. As they compared the photographs on them, Christine remarked, ‘The trouble is, you don’t even look French. You take after Dad – tall, fair-haired, blue eyes. You’d pass for a German any day. I’m much more like Maman, little and dark.’

‘
Petite chérie
,’ Isabelle said. ‘Don’t make us sound like gnomes. Anyway, you’ve shot up in the last few months. You could look quite elegant if you took the trouble to dress properly.’

‘Oh, don’t start that again, please!’ her daughter responded wearily. ‘Just be glad I’m not like the girls in the village, constantly complaining about clothes rationing and re-making old dresses to try to make them look new and painting their lips with beetroot juice. Anyway, think of it this way: no one is likely to try to seduce me on the journey tomorrow.’

Isabelle sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right, under the circumstances.’

Duhamel arrived the following morning, as expected. He was a small man with a surprisingly chubby face and two little dark eyes that looked as if they had been pushed into its folds like currants in a bun. As usual, when the wine had been loaded into his van, Isabelle gave him lunch. She knew from experience that he was
fond of a drink and that day, instead of the
vin ordinaire
which she usually gave him, she opened a bottle of one of the vineyard’s better vintages.

When he was halfway down it, she said, ‘Monsieur Duhamel, I want to ask you a favour.’

The little eyes swivelled from his glass to her face suspiciously. ‘And what might that be, Madame?’

‘Luke and Christine are going to visit their godfather. He has been taken ill and needs their help. Could you give them a lift into Clermont? It will hardly be out of your way to drop them at the station.’

The eyes dodged hers as if seeking a hiding place.

‘Madame, I regret, there is very little room in the van. That horrible gazogène burner I have had to put in to get round the petrol shortage takes up so much space.…’

‘Oh, I’m sure you could squeeze them in somewhere,’ Isabelle persisted. ‘After all, it’s not a long journey.’

‘But I am not going back directly.’ He looked delighted to have found a way of escape. ‘I have to go first to Vic-le-Comte to pick up some wine from a
cave
near there.’

‘Well, they can come for the round trip, then.’

‘But, Madame!’ He was beginning to sweat. ‘Suppose we are stopped at a checkpoint? I came through one on my way here. They searched the van.’

‘So what? It’s not a crime to give a couple of people a lift.’

The little eyes were almost revolving in their sockets in terror. ‘But everyone knows that your children are not French. It is a crime to assist enemy nationals.’

Isabelle smiled at him and refilled his glass.

‘You don’t need to worry. They have new papers. If you should happen to be stopped there is no reason for the
Boche
to suspect anything.’

‘But suppose there are
miliciens
there? They are local men. They know everyone.’

‘The chances of there being a member of the
milice
who knows
my family at a German checkpoint kilometres away are so remote, that I think we can safely discount them.’ Isabelle reached out and removed the bottle from Duhamel’s reach. ‘The fact is, Gaspard, that I really need this favour. I don’t know anyone else with transport and a good reason for going between here and Clermont. I’m not asking you to take any real risks. And if you oblige me, a couple of cases of the vintage you are drinking now might find their way into your van, without M. Bussy being any the wiser. I’m sure there are plenty of people who are prepared to pay over the odds on the black market to get hold of some decent wine.’

Greed and fear wrestled in Duhamel’s fat face for a moment. At length he muttered, ‘Very well, Madame. I have only tried to point out to you the possible risks involved … but if you insist.…’

Isabelle pushed the bottle back to him. ‘I do. Now, finish your wine and get ready. The two cases are just inside the cellar door.’

Luke and Christine had listened silently to all this. Their mother turned to them.