Operation Kingfisher (4 page)

‘It’s all right. You’ll be all right. I’m here.’

‘What?’ he muttered. ‘What’s happened? Where am I?’

‘We had to jump out of the train, remember? You must have hit your head.’

‘Train?’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Fetch Maman, will you? I think I’m going to be sick.’

He twisted away from her and vomited onto the ground.

She choked back a moan of despair. She recognized the symptoms of concussion; she drew him towards her and cradled his head on her lap.

‘I can’t fetch Maman,
chéri
. We’re on our way to Montbéliard, to see Uncle Marcel. You lost your papers and we had to jump off the train. Try to remember.’

He squinted up at her and she saw him struggling to clear his mind. After a moment, he nodded faintly and mumbled something that sounded like assent. It was still raining and she could feel that he was beginning to shiver. One thing was abundantly clear: somehow they must find shelter.

She peered along the tow-path but with the blackout there was no way of telling if there was any kind of habitation ahead. She bent her head to Luke’s.

‘Are you hurt anywhere else, except your head? Do you think you can walk?’

‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled.

‘You have to try,’ she said. ‘We have to get out of this rain somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you.’

With difficulty, she dragged him to his feet. He swayed, but it seemed he could stand, with her help. She pulled his arm across her shoulders and they began to stagger along the path.

After a couple of hundred yards, Christine was exhausted and Luke was hanging ever more heavily on her shoulders. She began to despair of ever finding shelter; but then, a dark shape loomed up ahead. Some kind of boat was moored against the bank.

She lowered Luke onto one of the bollards to which it was tied, and felt in her pocket for her torch. A brief examination showed her that it was a barge with a long cargo hold covered with a tarpaulin and a cabin aft. The cabin windows showed no crack of light and when she leaned her head close, she could hear no sound from inside, but a gang plank led up from the bank. She reasoned that the owners had probably gone into the nearest town, which must therefore be fairly close; but one look at Luke slumped on the bollard assured her that however near it was, there was no chance that he could walk that far.

She climbed the gang plank and knocked on the door of the
cabin. There was no response and, with her heart in her mouth, she tried the door. It was locked.

Christine turned her attention to the hold. If they could find space under the tarpaulin, they would, at least, be out of the rain. It was lashed down securely and the knots had swollen with the rain and refused to give. She heard herself whimper with frustration and weariness and gritted her teeth. She had always thought of herself as brave and resourceful and now was the moment to prove it. She delved into her pocket again and found her most prized possession: a penknife with multiple attachments. She opened the screwdriver and used it to prize the knots loose, until she was able to lift an edge of the tarpaulin and peer underneath. A smell rose from the cargo that swamped her with a sudden wave of homesickness. The barge was loaded with casks of wine.

Christine wriggled her head and shoulders under the cover and shone her torch into the space; most of it was taken up by the barrels, but she reckoned that there was just enough room for her and Luke to lie down between them. She climbed down and, with difficulty, persuaded her brother to make a final effort. It was a struggle, but at last they were both inside and she pulled the tarpaulin closed over their heads.

It was pitch dark, and the smell of the wine was almost overpowering, but at least it was dry. She struggled out of her coat and rolled it up to make a pillow for Luke, who was still only semiconscious, and shivering violently. She remembered something her father had told her on one of the expeditions into the mountains he used to take them on before the war: ‘If you are ever caught out in the open in bad weather, hypothermia is your worst enemy. Use your body heat to keep each other warm.’

She undid Luke’s coat and snuggled against him, with her head on his shoulder. It felt strange at first. When they were small she often used to climb into bed with him and he would tell her stories until she fell asleep, but that had stopped years ago. She had forgotten how comforting the closeness of another body could feel. As if he felt it too, he muttered something and put his arm
round her. Slowly she became aware of their mutual warmth spreading through her body.

Luke stopped shivering and began to snore faintly. Christine’s stomach rumbled and she remembered regretfully the bread and cheese her mother had given them, and which had disappeared along with Luke’s satchel. Damn Duhamel! They had had nothing to eat since an early lunch and now it was almost midnight. But that, she reflected, was the least of their troubles. She closed her eyes and let the exhaustion of the day wash over her.

C
hristine woke with a start.

A man’s voice called something, a woman’s answered; there were heavy footsteps and then the unmistakable thud of a diesel engine. The barge was moving!

For a moment she lay paralysed with the shock. How could she have let herself sleep so long? And what was she going to do now? She rolled over and looked at Luke in the faint light that now filtered in around the edges of the tarpaulin. He was still asleep but his face was deadly pale and the left side of it was discoloured by a dark bruise and so swollen that his left eye was almost invisible. She touched his cheek; it felt cold and slightly clammy – so cold that she laid her cheek against his chest and was relieved to hear his heart beating. She tried to sit up and was prevented by the tarpaulin. Crouched uncomfortably, she tried to think what to do next.

Her first instinct was to stay hidden and hope that, before too long, the barge would moor up again and the owners would go away, so that she and Luke could sneak out. That idea was dismissed as soon as it entered her head. It was quite likely, she reasoned, that the boat would not stop again until nightfall and there was no possibility of waiting until then. Luke needed dry clothes and a proper bed, and probably the attention of a doctor. Even if that could be delayed, there were other more urgent requirements. Apart from anything else, she was painfully aware that very soon she would have to pass water and the thought of doing so in this confined space was abhorrent. Equally pressing,
was the need to drink; her throat was parched and she knew that even though they could survive a long time without food, they must have water. Staying hidden was not an option.

So the next question was, what should she say to the boat owners to explain their presence and how would they react to the discovery of two stowaways?

She considered making up a story about running away from home, with details of ill-treatment to explain their motives; but she sensed that, in spite of Luke’s current condition, they both looked too well fed and healthy to make such a tale credible. Besides which, the likelihood was that their unsuspecting hosts would feel it their duty to hand them over to the police.

After a long internal debate she decided that on balance the best thing to do would be to tell the truth and appeal to the owners’ sense of patriotism. To hand two runaways to the police was one thing; but surely, to hand two fugitives over to the Nazis would be unthinkable? To do so would make them collaborators with the hated enemy, and what could they hope to gain? Anyway, there seemed to be no alternative.

Luke stirred and groaned. She leaned over him and murmured, ‘It’s all right,
chéri
. I’m here.’

‘Water!’ he mumbled. ‘Water, please!’

‘Yes, soon. Lie still. I’ll get you some as soon as I can.’

She sat up and pushed at the tarpaulin cover, only to discover to her horror that the ropes that held it down had been lashed tight again. For a moment she had to fight down a wave of claustrophobia. Then she began to bang her hands against the stiff fabric and shout.

‘Help, please! I’m in here! Let me out! Please let me out!’

There was no response for what felt like a long time. Then she heard footsteps, and the man’s voice said, ‘
Mon Dieu
! There’s someone in here!’

She heard the ropes being tugged and then the tarpaulin was folded back, letting in a flood of sunlight. A man with a broad, weather-beaten face stared down at her.

‘Mother of God, what are you doing in there?’

‘Please, Monsieur, we don’t mean any harm. My brother is hurt and we had to find shelter somewhere. Can you help him, please?’

‘Hurt?’ The man leaned closer and peered at Luke. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He fell and hit his head. I think he needs a doctor.’

The man looked from Luke to her and seemed to make up his mind.

‘Come on, let’s have you out of there. Give me your hand.’

A strong arm hauled her up and she saw that the rain had stopped and instead it was a morning of spring sunshine and light wind. The boatman pulled the cover back further, climbed down into the hold, and lifted Luke bodily and laid him gently on the deck.

‘Well, that’s a nasty bump all right,’ he commented. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Last night.’

The woman’s voice called, ‘What’s going on? Who are they, Bernard?’

Looking aft into the wheelhouse, Christine saw a small woman, with a brightly coloured shawl around her shoulders crossed over at her chest, gripping the wheel with surprisingly muscular arms.

‘Give me chance!’ the man called back. ‘I haven’t had time to ask yet.’ He turned his gaze to Christine. ‘So, I am Bernard. And your name, Mademoiselle?’

‘I’m Christine,’ she responded. Surnames seemed unnecessary. ‘And this is my brother, Luke.’

‘Ah yes. Your brother?’ He gave her a searching look and she realized that he had jumped to a completely wrong interpretation of the situation.

‘Yes, really. I know we don’t look alike. He takes after our father and I take after mother.’

He accepted the explanation with a grunt.

‘Right. Let’s get him somewhere more comfortable.’

He lifted Luke again, with no more effort than if he had been a child, and carried him into the spotlessly neat cabin and through to the sleeping area at the stern, where he laid him on a bed. Then he opened a door leading to the wheelhouse.

‘This is my wife, Marie. Marie, this young lady is Christine and this is her brother, Luke. You’d better come down and have a look at his head. You’re better at this sort of thing than I am. I’ll take over the steering.’

The two exchanged places and Marie bent over Luke and examined his head.

‘It’s a nasty gash, but not as bad as it looks. It should heal without stitches.’

‘I think he’s been concussed,’ Christine said.

‘Very likely,’ the woman agreed. ‘But if we keep him warm and let him rest he should be all right.’

She opened a cupboard and produced a tin containing lint and bandages, poured water from a jug and cleaned the wound, then covered it with a bandage.

Luke opened his eyes and gazed up at her.

‘Where are we?’

‘On board the
Bourdon
. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.’

‘Water?’ he begged.

Marie looked at Christine.

‘In the other cabin. You’ll find a bottle of Badoit in the cupboard above the stove and mugs next to it.’

Christine filled two mugs and carried one through to Luke, who drank thirstily and seemed to revive.

‘Let’s get you out of those damp clothes,’ Marie said. ‘Can you sit up?’

Christine drank some water and was reminded of her other most pressing need.

‘Madame, I need … I have to.…’

Marie, busy pulling Luke’s shirt over his head, as if stripping a strange young man was no more unusual than plucking a chicken, nodded towards the bed.

‘Under the bunk. Empty it into the canal when you’ve finished.’

Christine pulled the chamber pot out and took it through to the outer cabin. When she had relieved herself and emptied the pot as instructed, she found Luke tucked up under a bright patchwork quilt and wearing what looked like an old-fashioned nightshirt.

‘I’ll hang these up on deck to dry,’ Marie said. ‘With a good brush they should come clean.’ She looked at Christine. ‘You’d better get out of those damp clothes, too. But anything of mine will be far too big. I should think two like you could fit into one of my skirts.’ She opened a locker. ‘Here, it’s just an old overall but it’ll keep you decent until your own stuff dries. Now, when did you last eat?’

‘Yesterday, midday.’

‘Right! We haven’t had breakfast yet. How do you fancy an omelette? Friend in Roanne who keeps chickens gave me some eggs, off the ration.’

‘That would be wonderful!’

While Marie cooked, Bernard drew the barge alongside the canal bank and moored it. Very soon they were sitting down to omelettes and ersatz coffee. Marie sliced bread into four pieces and shared it round. Christine handed hers back.

‘We can’t eat your rations, Madame. The omelette on its own will be enough.’

‘Eat it!’ the woman said. ‘God knows, it doesn’t taste like bread should. I don’t know what they are mixing with the flour these days. But you are more than welcome to share.’

Christine did not argue further. She took a plate to Luke and, to her relief, he heaved himself into a sitting position and cleared it.

It was not until the meal was over that Bernard said, ‘Now, tell us how you came to be hiding among our cargo. What are you running away from?’

Christine took a deep breath. She had felt from the start that she had nothing to fear from these kind strangers, but this was the
crucial test. In as few words as possible she explained the situation, concluding with their final jump from the train.

Marie clicked her tongue. ‘
Bon Dieu
! It’s a miracle you weren’t both killed.’

‘You were lucky to get away without broken legs, at least,’ Bernard agreed. ‘So, what are your plans now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Christine said and felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. She had been so caught up in the needs of the moment that she had not thought ahead.

Bernard looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You say your father is English. What is his name?’

‘Beecham – Roger Beecham.’

‘And you were born – where? In England or in France?’

‘In England.’

‘So what brought you to live in France?’

‘My grandfather, my mother’s father, owns a vineyard. He had a stroke and can’t do anything for himself, so we came here to look after him, and the vineyard.’

‘A vineyard, you say.’ Marie leaned towards her. ‘What is the name?’

‘It’s called Cave des Volcans.’

‘And your mother’s maiden name was Thierry, no?’

‘Yes! How did you know?’

Marie sat back and exchanged looks with her husband.

‘You forget, we have connections in the wine trade. You have seen our cargo. And when we moor for the night and go to the local
estaminet
, we meet others in the same line and people talk – gossip perhaps I should say. It was a good many years ago now, but I still remember the scandal when your mother decided to marry an Englishman. People were horrified at the idea of the Cave des Volcans going out of French hands.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Christine said. ‘But you understand now? You believe me?’

Marie smiled. ‘Yes, I believe you. So, Bernard, what can we do to help these two youngsters?’

‘You need to get to Montbéliard, you say?’

‘Well, somewhere near there.’

‘Have you considered the possibility of travelling by boat, instead of on the train?’

‘By boat?’ she repeated.

He reached into a drawer and spread a map out on the table.

‘Look. We are heading for Digoin. That is the junction with the Canal du Centre, which joins the Saône at Chalon-sur-Saône. From there, it is a short distance up the Saône to Saint-Jean-de-Losne, where it links with the Canal du Rhône au Rhin, which goes to Montbéliard and on to Mulhouse on the border, where it joins the Rhine. It would take longer, of course, but there is less chance of being stopped and asked for papers.’

Christine gazed from the map to his face.

‘And that would be possible? Can you take us that far?’

He shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not. We are bound for Nevers on the Canal Latéral à la Loire.’

‘Oh,’ Christine felt the hope that had sprung up dissipating again.

‘Wait.’

She saw Bernard and Marie look at each other and the woman nodded as if in silent agreement.

‘We may still be able to help you. You see, there are ways – people who are willing to take a risk to help people like you – though usually they are heading the other way.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t need to know the details. It won’t surprise you to know that there are people who need to be got out of the country, so they can continue the fight.’

‘You mean POWs, people like that?’

‘And airmen who have crash landed or been forced to bale out.’

‘And you help them?’

‘When we can. We’re not the only ones.’

‘Who are the others?’

‘I couldn’t tell you that, even if I wanted to. All I know is that
the code name for the
réseau
is “The Kingfisher Line”. Sometimes there are “packages” left for us to collect, in certain places, and we pass them on to the next collection point. That’s why we were away from the boat last night. We had a “parcel” to deliver in Roanne.’

‘How wonderful!’ Christine exclaimed. ‘But it must be very dangerous. I think you’re very brave.’

Bernard shrugged.

‘We do what we can. Others risk their lives everyday, for our benefit.’

Christine pondered for a moment. ‘So, do you mean there might be someone else who would take us on to Montbéliard?’

‘I don’t know about that. Our
réseau
, the chain of people we work with, brings men from the north or the centre of the country. But I’m sure there must be others who do the same from the east. At least we can get you to Digoin and then we can make some enquiries.’

‘We should be so grateful!’ Christine said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

Marie smiled at her. ‘We’re glad to help. We have good reason to hate the
Boche
, so anything we can do.…’ She left the sentence unfinished and added, ‘Now, all you need to do for now is take it easy. You’ve been through a bad time. We shan’t get to Digoin, where the canals divide, before tomorrow at the earliest, so you can relax. Why don’t you go and lie down on the other bed?’

Gratefully, Christine accepted the suggestion. Luke was sleeping, his breathing regular and natural, and soon she dozed off too. When she woke, the sun was high and she could hear Marie clattering plates in the kitchen. She got up stiffly and went to see if she could help. A few minutes later Luke appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m feeling a lot better. Can I have my clothes, please?’

‘They won’t be dry yet,’ Marie said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while.’