Operation Kingfisher (16 page)

‘Oh, come off it! Not all girls are that feeble,’ she said, but she smiled at him and nudged his arm in a gesture of affection.

The time passed slowly. Darkness fell, but the sky was clear and the moon was just past full.

Perfect conditions, according to Gregoire.

Christine lay down, pillowing her head on her arm, and Luke stretched out beside her. A low murmur came from the groups around the unlit fires, but apart from that, the only sound was the wind in the trees and a distant owl hooting. She was very tired but she knew there was no chance of sleep; she was too keyed-up for that. However, she must have dozed, for she was suddenly aware that Gregoire was on his feet, his flashlight ready in his hand.

‘Is it time?’ she asked.

‘Ssh! Listen!’

She strained her ears and became aware of a low, distant drone. Others had heard it too, and all round the area, men scrambled to their feet exchanging brief, tense snatches of conversation. The sound came closer.

‘Ours, or theirs?’ Luke asked.

‘Ours,’ Gregoire replied.

The plane appeared quite suddenly, seeming to rise up from behind the surrounding trees, and the low hum became a roar as it swept overhead. Gregoire was clicking his flashlight on and off, sending a repeated letter in Morse, and for a moment it seemed there was no response. Then, the plane banked and a light blinked from the cockpit.

Gregoire struck a match and his torch flamed into life. He waved it and all round the area, other flames pricked the darkness. Then, Gregoire thrust his torch into the heart of the nearest fire and almost simultaneously four others burst into life.

The plane’s engine had faded into the distance and Christine had to suppress a cry of, ‘Too late. He’s gone!’ Then the sound swelled again, as the aircraft circled and swooped once more over the plateau.

Suddenly shapes like dark flowers blossomed against the stars and floated down towards them. The plane circled once more, then, with a waggle of its wing tips, set course for home.

Gregoire was counting, ‘Two, three, five – six! Terrific! Grab them, boys!’

The men scattered, chasing down the falling parachutes. Three dropped neatly into the clearing, but the others fell among the trees and had to be dragged out. One caught in the upper branches of an oak and one of the men had to scramble up to cut it loose; but within minutes, all six containers were laid out close to the only fire which still burned.

‘OK,’ said Gregoire. ‘Let’s see what Santa Claus has brought us.’

Xavier and his men clustered round eagerly as he opened the first one. As the contents were revealed, a sound went up which combined fury and disappointment.

Xavier grabbed something and held it up.

‘Boots! What do they want me to do? Kick the
Boche
to death?’

‘Some of your men might be glad of them when the weather gets worse,’ Gregoire said reasonably, but it was clear from his face that he was disappointed too. ‘Let’s see what’s in the others.’

The contents of the second container were greeted with similar dismay and this time it was Gregoire’s turn to give vent to his feelings:

‘Chocolate and cigarettes! What do they think I am doing here, running a NAAFI?’

The third container made up for the first two.

‘Rifles!’ Xavier exclaimed. ‘That’s more like it!’

Gregoire extracted one and examined it.

‘Lee Enfield Mark III. Not the latest model, but a good serviceable weapon. Excellent.’

Containers four and five held more welcome supplies; there was ammunition for the rifles, new batteries for Cyrano’s radio set, grenades and something wrapped in oilskin which Gregoire pounced on with delight.

‘An S-phone. Great!’

‘What’s an S-phone?’ Luke asked.

‘It’s a radio transceiver. This is the ground set. The airborne end is carried in a plane so I can actually talk to the pilot. It has a range of up to thirty miles. Now, what else have we got?’ He
unwrapped another package. ‘
Plastique
! Now this is something we can do real damage with.’

‘Plastic what?’ Luke asked, wrinkling his nose. ‘It smells like marzipan.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Gregoire agreed. ‘That’s one of the drawbacks. It’s a giveaway for anyone who has handled it. But it’s useful stuff just the same. Plastic explosive. There should be detonators in here somewhere. Ah yes! Time pencils. Good.’

‘What do we need pencils for?’ Xavier said dismissively.

‘You’ll see. I’ll teach everyone how to use this stuff over the next few days. Now, what’s in the last box?’

It seemed fate had kept the best to the last. Xavier unpacked the contents with a cry of triumph.

‘A Bren gun! I have been begging for one of these for months.’

Gregoire straightened up.

‘Right. Let’s get this lot out of sight. Somebody douse that fire. The rest of you, scatter the ashes and cover the burnt areas with dead leaves or whatever you can find.’

It was dawn by the time the parachutes and containers had been buried and all traces of the fires obliterated. Then, the new equipment was distributed among the men to carry back to the camp.

Gregoire called Christine over and handed her a parcel.

‘This is personal stuff for Cyrano – letters from home and such like. Can you make sure he gets it?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He dug into his own pack.

‘Here, have a piece of chocolate.’

‘Oh,’ she hesitated, her mouth watering. ‘What about the others?’

‘They’ll get their share in due course. Go on. You deserve it.’

She took the proffered bar, unwrapped it and took a bite. Chocolate had never tasted so good. She had finished all her rations the night before and her stomach was rumbling. She stowed the parcel in her rucksack, glad that she had not been given anything heavier to carry.

The walk back to camp seemed very long and she began to regret her airy ‘twenty kilometres? That’s nothing!’ She looked at Luke, plodding ahead with a rifle on his shoulder and a bulging rucksack, and had to admit that she would have been hard pressed to carry that sort of weight after the exertions of the last 24 hours.

Cyrano and the other two who had remained behind greeted them eagerly as they tramped wearily into camp.

‘Well, was it a success?’ Cyrano demanded. ‘What have we got?’

Gregoire opened his rucksack to show him. Christine touched Cyrano’s arm shyly.

‘This came for you.’

He took the package. ‘Oh, great! Letters from home. Thanks.’ Then he turned back to Gregoire.

Jacques had fresh bread and coffee ready for them – or the concoction of roasted barley that passed for coffee – but before they could eat, Gregoire insisted that all the equipment was safely locked away in the truck that served as a storeroom.

‘Now, eat and then get some rest,’ he said when he was satisfied. ‘Later we’ll have some rifle practice.’

Christine swallowed her coffee, ate half her bread and fell asleep.

C
hristine woke abruptly to the sound of gunfire, and was on her feet almost before her eyes were open. Gazing round, she saw that the camp was almost deserted and the sound of firing was coming from somewhere beyond the trees.

For a moment, she imagined a German attack, then she remembered that Gregoire had promised rifle practice later in the day. She looked for Luke and realized that he had gone with the rest. Her first impulse was to head in the direction of the noise and ask to join in, but she remembered her brother’s irritation when she had insisted on going with him for the parachute drop and it occurred to her for the first time that he might find a kid sister an embarrassment when he was with the other men. Gloomily, she sat down again and wondered what to do next.

The only people remaining in camp were Jacques, who was stirring his everlasting soup over the fire, and Cyrano who was at his table poring over his code-books – encoding a message for his next transmission, she guessed. As if he sensed her eyes on him, he looked up, then stretched and got up and came over to where she was sitting.

‘Had a good sleep?’

‘Yes, thanks. Everyone else seems to be awake before me.’

‘Oh, well. Gregoire kicked most of them awake half an hour ago, to show them how to use the rifles.’

‘Yes, so I hear.’

‘How do you feel after last night? It was a pretty tough trek from what I gather.’

‘I’m OK. Except I’d do anything for a bath and a chance to wash my clothes.’

‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘I can see the difficulty. You can’t very well strip off and take a dip in the stream like the rest of us.’

‘Not very easily.’

He tilted his head and gave her a teasing smile. ‘I think I might have a solution.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘You’ll have to wait. I’ve got to OK it with Gregoire when he’s free. But I’m sure something can be arranged.’

‘Well, thanks. I’d really appreciate it.’

They were silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘You look as if you’re at a bit of a loose end. How do you fancy learning how to use the radio?’

‘Could I?’ she jumped to her feet. ‘Could I really?’

‘Well, it occurs to me that if anything … anything untoward … were to happen to me, it would be very useful if someone else knew how to send a message. Do you want to try?’

‘Yes, please!’

‘Right, come over here.’

She followed him to the tent where his table was.

He tidied away some papers and said, ‘It’s a funny thing, but my table seems to have got smaller. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

‘Me? Why should I?’

‘Just a thought.’ He took a fresh sheet of paper and sat down. ‘The first thing you need to do is learn the Morse alphabet. Or do you know it already?’

‘Only dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot,’ she said.

‘Well, it’s a start. SOS could come in useful one day. Now, I’ll write out the whole alphabet for you. When you have it by heart, so that it’s as natural as breathing, I’ll show you how to operate a Morse key. OK?’

‘OK. How soon do you want me to learn it by?’

‘That’s up to you. There’s no great hurry.’

His words recalled to Chris something he had said earlier.

‘You mentioned the possibility of something – untoward – happening to you.’

‘Oh, that was just a manner of speaking.’

She drew a breath. ‘Cyrano, Gregoire had another radio operator before you came, didn’t he? What happened to him?’ She saw his face change.

‘Look, if you’re worried about the security aspect, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ She could feel herself flushing. ‘I’m not thinking of myself. I just wondered, that’s all.’

He hesitated. Then he said, ‘Well, you’ve a right to know. He was caught by the
Boche
in the middle of a transmission and arrested. We don’t know any more than that.’

‘So that’s what you meant by “something untoward”.’

‘No! No, really. I don’t think there’s any chance of that happening to me. My predecessor was transmitting from an old mill quite close to the town. The German detector vans were able to triangulate his position. They aren’t likely to have detector vans up here, and if one did venture into the forest, we should soon get warning of it. And soon I shall make a point of not transmitting from the same place twice running. That’s the virtue of my cover story; I am working on developing a practice as a music teacher, so soon I shall have contacts in a number of houses around the area – all places where they know who I am working for and what I am really doing. And I have arranged to practise the organ in two local churches. Church towers make excellent places to transmit from. All I am really waiting for, is for this ankle to heal sufficiently for me to drive. At the moment, I’m far more likely to be thrown off the back of that motorbike, the way Fernand tears around these tracks. That’s all I meant. And I’m not suggesting that you should actually transmit, except in an emergency. But if you’d rather not.…’

‘No! I want to. Really. I’ll start learning these now.’

‘OK, if you’re sure. And don’t give up hope about that bath. You deserve a treat.’

Christine retired to her favourite log and started to commit the Morse letters to memory. At school, she had hated learning things by heart, but now she was determined to show how quickly she could do it. Too soon, in her new mood, Luke reappeared and dropped down on the grass beside her. His eyes were glowing.

‘At last, I feel I’m actually doing something useful. Gregoire says I’ve got the makings of a good shot.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

‘What have you got there?’

‘Oh nothing.’ She folded the paper and pushed it into the pocket of her dungarees. ‘Just doodling.’ She didn’t know why she was unwilling to tell him, but she felt she wanted it to be something private between herself and Cyrano. ‘Where’s Gregoire?’

‘Gone to the other camp. He said he’d be back later.’

He stretched out on the grass and fell asleep. Christine made an effort to concentrate on the Morse letters, but her eyelids began to droop and before long, she slid off the log and lay down beside her brother.

They woke to the sound of Jacques banging a spoon against a tin plate, the usual summons to eat. They were just finishing the meal when Gregoire returned and Cyrano went over to talk to him. Christine, watching, saw Gregoire look in her direction; then he smiled and nodded and Cyrano beckoned to her.

‘What does he want?’ asked Luke, following her.

‘Don’t know.’

Gregoire said, ‘Cyrano has suggested a little trip. Hop in, both of you. I think we all deserve a bit of what our American friends call R&R. Xavier, are you coming?’

They piled into the old Mercedes and Christine found herself sandwiched between Luke and Cyrano on the back seat. The pressure of Cyrano’s shoulder against her own gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. With the two regular bodyguards perched on the running boards, the car bounced along the forest track until they came out on a proper road beside a large lake.

Gregoire swung the car through an open gateway and pulled
up. Peering through the window, Christine saw that they were outside a hotel called the
Beau Rivage
.

‘Is this safe?’ Luke asked nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ Gregoire responded. ‘The proprietress is a supporter – or at least, shall we say she knows which side her bread will be buttered after the war is over. We come here quite often.’

The hotel lounge was elegantly furnished, in a somewhat old-fashioned style, and several tables were already occupied by well-dressed men and women. It was a scene more suited to the pre-war era than the present day.

‘Who are all these people?’ Christine whispered to Cyrano.

‘Refugees from Paris mainly. This used to be a popular holiday spot before the war and some people have seen it as a good place to sit it out until peace comes again.’

Gregoire led them over to the bar, where a well-upholstered lady presided.

‘Madame, we have two new recruits. May I present Luke Beauchamps and his sister Christine?’

‘
Enchanté
,’ she responded. Then, ‘His sister you say?
Zut alors
! You poor child! What has happened to you?’

Christine felt herself blushing furiously.

‘Nothing’s happened to me, Madame. I’ve just been travelling for quite a long time.’

Cyrano said, ‘Madame, this is a very brave young lady, but she is much in need of a bath and a change of clothes. Can you help?’

‘But of course!’ The woman turned to a door behind the bar and called, ‘Jeanette! Come here,
chérie
.’

A girl appeared at her summons. She was, Christine guessed, about her own age, but there any resemblance ended. Jeanette was taller and full-figured; buxom was the word that came to mind, with dark auburn hair swept back in a fashionable wave. She was wearing a pale-green spotted dress with a sash and a low-cut ‘sweetheart’ neckline. What was more, she was wearing lipstick and, Christine was almost sure, face powder.

‘Yes, Maman?’

‘This young lady is Christine. Take her upstairs and show her where she can have a bath, and find her something nice to wear.’

The expression on Jeanette’s face left no doubt about her reaction, but she lifted the section of the bar that gave access to the area beyond and said, ‘Come with me.’

Cheeks burning, Christine followed.

Jeanette led her into the residential part of the hotel and opened a door. ‘I’ll run you a bath. There’s a clean towel on the rail.’ She looked her up and down doubtfully. ‘I don’t know about clothes. I’m much taller than you. I might be able to find a skirt I’ve grown out of.’

‘No, thanks,’ Christine responded. ‘I’ll stick to my dungarees. A skirt wouldn’t be really suitable where I’m staying at the moment.’

‘You’re living up there in the woods, with the
maquisards
?’

‘Yes.’

Jeanette nodded judiciously. ‘I can see it wouldn’t be a good idea to make yourself look too attractive.’

There was some sense in what she said, but the words stung nevertheless.

‘What about undies?’

‘I’ve got a change in my rucksack, thanks. I’ll just wash out the ones I’m wearing.’ She hesitated a moment, unwilling to ask anything from this girl, but common sense prevailed. She had only expected to spend a couple of nights with the
Maquis
and her ‘good’ clothes were still on the
Madeleine
. ‘If you’ve got a shirt you can spare, I’d be grateful. I don’t have another one with me.’

‘I’ll see what I can find.’

Christine was in the bath when she came back, with a navy blue blouse over her arm.

‘I don’t know if this will look right under dungarees, but it’s the best I can do.’

‘Thanks. I’m sure it will be fine.’ She sat with her knees modestly drawn up to her chest until the other girl left. Then she stretched out luxuriously in the hot water. Jeanette had thrown in
a handful of lavender scented bath salts and for the first time she understood fully how unsavoury she must have smelt before. She found some shampoo on a shelf above the bath and washed her hair and pulled her discarded underwear into the water with her to wash that too. It was tempting to go on lying in the scented water, but she was aware of the men downstairs and was not sure if they were waiting for her.

She hauled herself out unwillingly and dried herself, but there was no way she could dry her clothes. She rolled them in the towel to squeeze out as much of the water as possible and shoved them back into her rucksack. Then, she pulled on clean underwear and the navy shirt, which fitted her quite well. Picking up the dungarees, she wrinkled her nose. They were patched with mud from last night’s scramble, and oil from her session instructing the men in the rudiments of motor maintenance and they smelt of sweat. But there was nothing else for it. The only alternative was to eat humble pie and ask Jeanette for some of her cast-offs, and she was not even sure where the other girl had gone. She put on the dungarees, combed her hair, and went down to the bar.

The men were sitting round a table on the far side of the bar from the residents, drinking beer. It was clear that they were determined to ignore each other. Cyrano pulled out a chair for her.

‘Feeling better? What would you like to drink? A glass of wine, lemonade?’

‘I’d like a beer, please.’

‘Excellent! Madame, a
blonde
for the young lady.’

Luke leaned closer to her. ‘Sorry, Sis. I should have thought. You OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just wish I had my other slacks.’

Jeanette brought over the beers, all demurely downcast eyes and fluttering eyelashes, and Christine was shocked to see how all the men responded with little pleasantries that made her blush and giggle. Even Cyrano joined in!

At that moment, a door opened on the far side of the room and a woman came in; all the men at the table stopped looking at
Jeanette and fell silent. The newcomer was probably in her late twenties, Christine guessed, tall and slender with shining blonde hair framing perfectly regular features. She was exquisitely made-up and she was dressed in a full-length crimson evening gown. She greeted the other residents with easy familiarity and Christine was amused by their reactions. The men all got up and two of them kissed her hand. The women’s reception was distinctly less welcoming. She looked around to share her observation with her brother, but he was staring at the new arrival like a man hypnotised.

‘Who is that?’ she whispered to Cyrano.

‘Madame de Montfort – Adrienne,’ he murmured. ‘Though I suspect that is not her real name. A widow, by her own account, and before that an actress. The ex-mistress of some minor aristocrat, according to others.’

The lady turned away from her admirers and came across the room to where they sat and all the men rose.

‘Our gallant
Maquisards
! Good evening, gentlemen. I’m delighted to see you all well.’

She offered her hand to each of them in turn. Xavier kissed it, murmuring some fulsome flattery; Gregoire and Cyrano contented themselves with shaking it, though they both gave a little formal bow as they did so. ‘And who is this young Adonis?’