Operation Armageddon Page 16

  ‘Bosanquet, just look at the size of that oil patch. That’s no controlled release. The damn thing’s sunk and that’s that.’

  ‘It’s a lot of oil, I’ll give you that – but there’s no debris,’ said Bosanquet. ‘We’re in the middle of a damned sophisticated deception plan. For all we know, that oil is just one more attempt to persuade us to call off the chase. We can’t take the risk that the boat’s gone.’

  ‘Well, I can take the risk,’ said Travers. ‘Not that it is a risk. The boat’s sunk, and that’s all there is to it. It’s back to Gib now.’

  ‘Gib for you perhaps, Commander, but I need to get back to Cap d’Enfer. It’s the only place where I might get a new lead.’

  ‘I thought you said your man – your woman, I mean – was dead.’

  ‘I said she could be dead. Still, we have to grab any straw we can to stop Armageddon. Break any rules—’

  ‘And throw common sense to the wind? This ship needs urgent repairs. She was taken out of the hands of the fitters for this godforsaken decoy-searching job. And we’re down to ten depth charges. She needs to get back to the dockyard pronto—’

  ‘And Armageddon needs intelligence—’

  ‘Which you think you’ll get from a dead woman on a beach?’

  The two men argued like this for some time until Travers suggested a compromise.

  ‘Okay. I’ll stay on patrol until either I get orders to return to Gib or you get permission to land at Cap d’Enfer. But I warn you: I’ll put in my own protest alongside your request.’

  34

  The three soldiers on the beach had watched the dinghy disappear into the night. They spurred it on its way with a few rounds of ill-aimed firing.

  ‘Good riddance!’ shouted one of them into the darkness.

  His valediction faded on the light wind and under the mesmerising pounding of the waves on the gravelly shore.

  ‘What about him?’ said one of the men, pointing to Marie.

  ‘Leave him. Do the Frenchies good to see what happens to troublemakers.’

  ‘Know who he was?’

  ‘No idea. Come on! It’s cold, and I’m wet.’

  And so the three soldiers left Marie to her fate. The tide was coming in. In a few hours the sea would take her. Simone and Marie would be no more.

  ****

  Marie was fortunate that most of her fellow countrymen took the view that “life must go on” – occupation or no occupation. Body and soul had to be kept together. At least that was the view of Laurent Caron and Théo Picard. The two poachers were walking home along the clifftop shortly before the beach attack on Marie and Bosanquet.

  ‘Odd sort of night,’ said Théo.

  ‘Yer. Never seen so many Boche. What’s up?’

  ‘I haven’t clue. All I know is that the Boche will moan tomorrow when they see our pathetic haul.’

  Poaching was illegal, although the Germans normally tolerated it as long as they got their rewards. A good-sized hare was usually enough commission to permit the two men to roam the woods and fields in peace. But tonight – men, shouts, shots! And Lucien and Théo’s traps had offered no more than one skinny rabbit and a mangy-looking pheasant. Hardly enough, even at black market prices, for a few drinks in the bar.

  Laurent was the more annoyed of the two. Now in his 70s, he had never done a full day’s work in his life. He scratched and scrapped at his fields in the day and roamed the countryside at night. His fuel was gathered wood. His clothes were not much better than rags. He mainly lived by what he could find for his pot and he spurned company. An odd job here, an odd job there, sufficed for his few cash needs. The occupation had done little to disturb his way of life, so tonight was an unwelcome change. Théo, the younger (by a long way) had met Laurent in a wood one night. They had quarrelled and then fought over a particularly plump partridge. Then they laughed at their stupidity. A team was born.

  As they walked on, philosophising on the state of the poaching world, they heard shots from the beach below. They were used to the occasional sound of a rival poacher in the woods and fields. But a poacher with a gun in wartime? And at night? And on the beach?

  The two men stopped and listened. There were more shots. Then a scream. Then more shots.

  ‘Boche!’

  They flung themselves to the ground and struggled to hide in the low, windswept tussocks of reeds and grass on the clifftop. Soon they heard German voices. The voices climbed the cliff. As the unseen men hauled themselves up onto the footpath their talk became more voluble, a mixture of swearing and joviality, thought Théo, whose work as a technician on the base had given him some familiarity with the language. The voices drifted into the night in the direction of the road. A vehicle started. The grumbling of its engine faded into the darkness. The scene fell silent except for the swish of the sea, the rustle of the reeds and the anxious breathing of the two poachers.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Théo with a nod in the direction of the beach.

  Curiosity overcame their fear. Soon they were scrambling down the slithery path. At the beach, they paused before beginning their inspection. As they guardedly crossed the above-tide part of the beach their boots sank into the deep, gravelly sand. Then came the firm, wet beach. Suddenly their footsteps tinkled. Laurent bent down.

  ‘Théo, look.’

  He dropped several bullet cases into Théo’s hand.

  ‘Looks serious,’ he said.

  They often came across the odd German patrol in the dark. Never before had they encountered gunfire. Never before had they stepped over bullet cases. And few locals were better acquainted with the night-time activities of the German patrols than they were. They now moved with more caution. With fear.

  ‘Théo, come!’ called Laurent.

  Théo walked stealthily over to his friend who was pointing to something in the water. No words were needed for him to understand. Laurent was standing over a body. It was dressed from head to toe in black. The lower half was in the water. The waves were washing to and fro over the torso. The face was buried in the sand.

  ‘Dead?’ said Théo.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  The body could not have looked more lifeless. One arm rose and fell with the motion of the waves. A living form resisted movement, thought Théo. This was the relaxed rise and fall of flotsam.

  The two men edged forward to stand either side of their unwelcome find. They poked it with the sort of tentative jabs that they used when testing an underground bee’s nest. There was no reaction. They turned the body over.

  ‘My God! It’s a woman!’ said Laurent.

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Théo, as he knelt down to take a closer look.

  ‘What’s a nice young lady doing in a place like this?’ said Laurent.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Come on. Let’s go.’

  ‘What? And just leave her?’

  ‘Of course. This is dirty business. Let’s get out of here quick.’

  They retreated up the beach, their steps hurried by their anxiety. Before they reached the foot of the cliff a low moan came from the body. Leaving a dead body was one thing. Leaving an injured woman was another. They ran back to the water’s edge.

  Théo knelt down by the body and turned the face towards him. Momentarily the eyes opened and the woman made a stuttered attempt to speak.

  ‘It’s Marie – from the base.’

  ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘I doubt it. She keeps herself to herself. Not much of a mixer.’

  ‘What’s she doing here? A bit of … you know …’ winked Laurent.’

  ‘Her? You’re joking! Very prim and proper she is. Madame Rougier speaks highly of her. Anyway, I think she goes out with that Beaumier lad.’

  ‘And where’s he then?’

  ‘Beaten up by the Boche a few days ago.’

  ‘And now—’

  ‘Yes, and now Marie. I don’t like the look of this.’

  It was obvious that Marie had to be taken to
a doctor as soon as possible. When the two men discussed the idea of turning up on the doctor’s doorstep with a woman shot by the Germans, who had a boyfriend beaten up by them, they shrank from the thought.

  ‘You take her feet,’ said Théo as he bent down to pick up Marie by her armpits.

  ‘Good thing there’s not much to her,’ said the elderly Laurent as he laboured under Marie’s modest weight.

  Neither man spoke as they stumbled over the rough land, splashed through muddy puddles and heaved Marie over a couple of stiles. At the road they laid her gently down on the grass, with her back propped up against a gatepost.

  ‘What’s happened,’ she asked as the two men stood over her.

  ‘You’ve had an accident. Down on the beach.’

  ‘What accident?’

  Neither man replied.

  Théo knelt down and felt Marie’s pulse.

  ‘Strong enough. She’ll be okay.’

  And with that the two men walked off at a brisk pace. They were sure that Marie had not recognised them. It was best that way, they thought.

  Not far down the road was a small hamlet with a tiny bar run by an acquaintance of theirs. They woke Xavier, and asked to use his phone to report an injured poacher whom they had left down the road.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring him here?’ asked Xavier.

  ‘No questions, Xavier. There’s a war on, you know.’

  Xavier withdrew and returned to bed.

  An hour later Marie was being checked by a triage nurse in the casualty department of the local hospital.

  ‘What’s it look, nurse?’ said a doctor.

  ‘A minor flesh wound in her right arm and a nasty cut to the head from a fall on something hard.’

  ‘She’ll live,’ said the doctor.

  35

  Oberleutnant Franz Erhard had spent the afternoon in what appeared to be a relaxed tour of the historic centre of Enfer sur Mer. He had taken photos of the market cross, of ancient timber and brick houses, and of some interesting art deco shop fronts. At the church he had examined each wall plaque, each floor tomb and each devotional alcove with the apparent keen attention of a serious tourist. Satisfied that he had made a good enough display of his cultural interests, he sat at a table outside a bar in the market square, ordered a beer, and drank it in a slow, relaxed manner. The more people who saw him enjoying his innocent afternoon of relaxation, the better. Only when the market square was emptier did he disappear inside the bar, jetton already in hand, and discreetly pick up the phone.

  Madame Charrier was surprised to receive a call from an officer of whom she had no knowledge. His name sounded like Erd, although she couldn’t be sure since there was so much background chatter. She was intrigued since he sounded mysteriously different to her usual clientele.

  That evening a slim, fresh-faced young soldier came into Charrier’s salon. As he entered the room he placed a small case on a side table before crossing the room towards his hostess. His long oval face, sensuous lips and sad eyes were more the face of an artist than a stormtrooper. Charrier welcomed the mysterious stranger and was soon pouring a glass of wine and offering him a plate of olives. He held the glass with the refinement of an aristocrat as he stoned the olives with the fastidiousness of a dressmaker picking remnants of ticking from a finished garment.

  Aside from the formalities of his introduction, Madame Charrier’s visitor was at a loss for words.

  ‘And how can I help?’ asked Charrier.

  ‘I’m told that I can trust you …’

  ‘Herr Erhard, you are my guest. Like all my guests, I hope you will return many times. What more need I say?’

  ‘Of course, Madame.’

  ‘Were you wanting something special? I’ve got a girl for every taste.’

  ‘No … not at all … I mean—’

  ‘Something extra special?’

  ‘You misunderstand, Madame. I’m not here for the girls …’

  ‘For a man?’ asked Madame with an air of amused surprise.

  ‘No … not that … it’s difficult to know where to start. I’ve never done this before …’

  ‘We can help with that …’

  ‘… I mean … I’ve never betrayed my country before.’

  As he said this Erhard was holding back tears. Madame Charrier now knew that she was talking not to a potential client, but to a new and great opportunity to strike a blow at the enemy.

  ‘I see. We can help with that as well.’

  She paused. Then she asked ‘How do we know we can trust you?’

  ‘Tomorrow … just get someone to ask at the base “Where’s Erhard?”’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Erhard. How will that help?’

  ‘Because they will say: “The Eastern Front”. I’m being punished … for being too kind to the workers on the base. I’ll be dead in a few weeks. I want my last act to be one that will shorten the war.’

  ‘We all want that, Herr Erhard.’

  ‘It’s about …’

  Erhard was taking frequent sips of wine as he sought the courage to take a step from which he could never retreat.

  ‘I expect you know about the cargo U-boat?’

  Madame Charrier nodded assent. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the British sent a destroyer to sink it. They’ve radioed London to report it sunk.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It isn’t sunk. They got the decoy U-boat. The cargo boat is still heading for the Mediterranean and the destroyer is returning to its base. There’s a rumour on the base that the cargo U-boat will be devastating for the enemy in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I see,’ said Madame. ‘Indeed that is interesting.’

  ‘You will tell London, won’t you?’

  ‘Herr Erhard, how can a harmless old woman like me send messages to London? And how would I have the time? Just look how busy I am with all my nice clients from the base. Really, Herr Erhard, you do have some strange ideas.’

  Despite Charrier’s protestations, Erhard knew that her wink at the end of this denial meant that his visit had not been wasted. He could go to the Eastern Front and die with pride.

  ‘There’s one more thing, Madame. It’s a personal thing.’

  Erhard stood up and walked over to the side table by the door and picked up something. As he returned towards Madame Charrier she could see that he was holding a violin case.

  ‘My violin. I’ll never play it again. I’d like to think that, when this war is over, someone will take it out of its case and play it, and think of me …’

  As Madame Charrier looked into the tear-streaked face of her guest she knew with absolute certainty that tomorrow she would have no need to ask the whereabouts of Erhard.

  The lieutenant was half out of the door when Madame Charrier attempted to forestall the inevitable:

  ‘Herr Erhard, if there’s anything … anything that I can do, just send a message to me. You won’t forget, will you?’

  36

  The morning after the beach attack, Marie insisted on discharging herself from the hospital. The doctor pleaded: ‘We need to keep an eye on you. You’re not fit for work.’

  But it was not the base that was her destination that day.

  Her first call was at the Café Grégoire. Grégoire, not expecting any customers at that early hour, was moping the floor. Marie was greeted with a stream of dirty water gushing out onto the pavement. Grégoire shoved his mop into the pail and stood, sentinel-like, as Marie crossed the room. Ever slow to move his solid, stubby form, he waited until Marie had reached the bar. With a grunt that might have been an attempt at a reluctant ‘bonjour’, the club-footed bar owner hobbled and puffed his way across the wet floor to serve her. His habitually unbuttoned black waistcoat revealed a grubby white shirt – his normal state since the death of his wife.

  ‘An absinthe, please, Grégoire.’

  ‘At this time of day, Marie?’

  ‘Bit of a night,’ sighed Marie as she slumped over the bar.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh ho!’

  Marie made no attempt to correct Grégoire’s assumption as to the nature of her night’s activities. It was useful cover.

  Grégoire measured out the absinthe with the precision of a small tradesperson who looks after his margins. He wiped the counter, polished by the elbows of at least four generations of Enfer sur Mer patrons, and pushed the glass across to Marie.

  Only as Marie lifted the glass and tipped her head back, ready to drink, did Grégoire notice the bandage under her black wool hat.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fell off my bike in the dark. Silly, really.’

  ‘Off work today, then?’

  ‘Um. I’ll phone in shortly.’

  The conversation petered out, for which Marie was grateful. She was tired of inventing cover stories and alibies.

  Grégoire returned to his mopping, leaving Marie standing at the bar. She longed to sit down, but all the chairs were upside down on the table tops.

  When Grégoire had finished his floor-washing, he went round putting back the chairs and setting out the ash trays. As soon as he stepped outside, Marie went to the telephone and called the base. Her manager would have had no trouble believing her story about falling off her bike, had it not been that she had had too many absences recently.

  ‘We must talk about this when you come back, Marie,’ he warned.

  Dropping a coin on the counter for the phone call, Marie stepped out into the street. It was time to see Lucien.

  ****

  As Marie made her way towards the priory, she began to doubt whether the absinthe had been a good idea. Her head throbbed and her left arm ached from her bullet wound. Each pace was an effort. Each step up or down a kerb gave a painful jerk to her wound. Meanwhile, the dizziness that whirled around in her head increased.

  The priory was less than ten minutes’ walk from Grégoire’s. It was a small establishment of twenty-five or so nuns. A modest-sized chapel nestled amongst a warren of domestic buildings, with a large garden to one side. Even at this early hour a few nuns were bent over their collection of winter vegetables.

  Lucien’s days in the priory had passed slowly and he had had no news from outside. He knew nothing of the arrival of Bosanquet, the attempted sabotage and the ambush on the beach. Instead, his days had been punctuated by bells tolling the hours, occasional visits from caring nuns, and the ethereal echoes of singing in the chapel. Slowly, his fears subsided. He ceased to tremble at every knock on the door, although the sound of a vehicle halting outside the main door sent his weak pulse racing.