The seventh of december, p.25
The Seventh of December, page 25
"Really, Tommy? What makes you think we haven't got an Opération Rongeur of our own?"
I could scarcely believe my ears. "Do our people know about that?" My voice was calm, but my mind was racing.
"Tommy, as close as we are, you know darned well there's things I just can't talk about. I've said enough already."
I took his statement as an admission that the Americans were indeed running an atomic research programme of their own. I thought the whole idea of being allies was to share information, not to keep it from each other. Despite myself, I let out a soft harrumph.
"I recognise that sound," he said.
"Oh, yes? As what?"
"You know what. I heard myself letting out the same noise when I learned about your 'Range and Direction Finding' stations. Thanks for sharing, Britain!" he said, to the air.
It was true, the Yanks had been furious when they had finally learned of our RADAR, as they now were calling it.
"Who was it who just said 'there's things that I just can't tell you'?"
He reached around and affectionately rubbed the back of my neck. "Well, it's just not only our countries that seem to be keeping secrets from each other. There's a lot they don't tell you at SOE, Tommy," he said.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that you should consider doing a private deal with MI6 'on the QT', now that you seem to be running your own show. There is a lot of important stuff going on that you lot at SOE know nothing about. Knowledge that the other agencies have, but which you don't have access to."
"Like what?"
He stared at the ground for a moment while biting his lower lip. I did the same thing when deciding whether to disclose something or not. "Okay, you didn't hear this from me… Station X, for example."
"No such thing, Steve."
"So they tell you."
"Are you going to tell me differently?"
How come Steve knew about a secret facility and I was in the dark about it? If it was true, then it was another example of the left hand hiding what the right hand was doing. I had been told when I first started at SOE, that the Roman numeral X was missing from the station list because it was a planned facility that had never eventuated, and then it had been too late to renumber all the others.
"No, I'm not going out on a limb to tell you that I've heard differently. I've been told to keep quiet about it. Stewart Menzies might tell you otherwise, though, if you let on that you've heard rumours. He's taking a group of Americans through your non-existent Station X in March."
"I'll keep that to myself until I speak with him, shall I?"
"Might be best, Tommy. Now, had any ideas about how we go about the whole Elizabeth thing?"
I had, of course, been sorting it out in the back of my mind ever since he'd said she needed rescuing - most musicians could concentrate on two things or more at the same time.
"My brother is the one who should go with you to Paris, Steve, not your nephew. Mikey's had lots of experience dealing with civilian and military matters in Germany and in Occupied France. Besides, I have an ulterior motive; that Kraut we packed on to the plane to go back to England had been heading to La Rochelle to interrogate three captured English pilots. If any one of them knows what might have happened to his Ffranc, I can't have Michael with us. I know it's a long shot, but you know what he's like - he could go running off by himself on a wild goose chase and put us all in danger."
"I suppose you're right, Tommy. It's not that I didn't want Michael along, it's just that… "
"What is it with you and Michael, Steve? You pussyfoot around each other all the time; it's very confusing when my own brother and my best friend hide personal stuff from me. "
He took a sip of his wine. "It's complicated," he said.
"Complicated as opposed to what?"
He stopped just as he was about to speak, as if someone had turned him off at the mains. I could see the struggle in his eyes as he searched for the right words. They came after what seemed like a very long time. "Michael and I had a … a thing," he said, almost inaudibly. "It was only once, and long before he met Ffranc. You were still in Munich."
This was something that I had not expected to hear. Steve did stuff with other men?
"Why didn't you tell me, of all people, Steve? You know you're my best friend. Haven't' we always shared our inner secrets? Didn't you trust me? You know that I don't make judgements about what people do."
"I was ashamed."
"Ashamed of my brother?"
"No, not that. I was ashamed of the way I treated him, Tommy. It was the first time I'd even tried anything along those lines and it confused me, so I pushed him away. Finally, when I'd mustered enough courage to talk to him about it, he'd met his Welshman, and… "
"Enough, Steve; no more 'ands', okay?"
He nodded.
"It explains a lot, actually. I guess seeing Michael pining over Ffranc must be hard on you."
"No, Tommy, you've got it all wrong… " I stopped whatever he was about to say by putting my arms around him.
"It's okay, Steve. I just wish you could have been open with me. How long have we known each other? Six years?"
"This isn't just about that one time with Michael. It's harder for some people to accept these things than others, Tommy. We aren't all lucky like you and Henry. Besides, I asked Michael not to say anything, and told him that I would talk to you when I felt the time was right."
"You know, Steve, another Michael will come along some day, if that's what you really want." Although I did my best to sound positive, this was something I hadn't really wanted to hear - my best friend carrying a torch for my brother, whose partner had gone missing.
"That's the part of the problem, Tommy. There will never be another Michael…"
I couldn't quite make sense of the expression on his face, or the odd rhythm of the words. I was about to ask him what he meant when we were interrupted by a soft whistle. Shorty was leaning against the back door, holding up an empty glass and a bottle of wine. I motioned for him to come and join us. He stopped a few paces away with a quizzical look on his face.
"No black eyes or broken bones; it's quite safe," Steve said.
"Just thought you guys could do with another bottle. Umm… was I interrupting?" he asked, knowing full well that he was.
"It was a timely interruption, Henry," his uncle replied.
"I hoped so; can't have my two favourite people in the world falling out, now, can I? So, what's the story, guys?"
"One of Édouard's old flames has unexpectedly turned up and is in a spot of bother. She needs rescuing," I explained to Shorty. "Once we're back inside, I'll fill everyone else in on what your uncle and I have been discussing."
"Should I take this bottle with me and go back inside and wait?" he asked.
I pulled him close to me by the belt on his trousers, and shook my head. "'Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Cutter, you ain't leaving this village without my permission. Give me that bottle,'" I said.
It was a quote from one of his favourite movies.
"Sure thing. Proceed with caution, Gunga Din!" he replied, handing me the bottle, his face wreathed in a broad grin. The memory of him and Gladys discussing the movie made me smile - far more than our situation warranted. His cheerful nature and the joke about Gunga Din had cleared something in the air; perhaps Steve and I had been more tense than I'd realised.
By the time we got back inside I had basically sorted out what I felt we should do, so I explained my plan to my friends. I gave them just enough information to clarify our situation, without giving away anything above their pay grades, as we sometimes said. Michael would have to be told about the Nazi documents, as he was to go with Steve to find Elizabeth. The others could safely be kept in the dark unless our situation warranted it.
I thought it best we get cracking as soon as possible. Steve and Michael should travel to Paris by train in the afternoon. They were to pose as American businessmen, and take a set of papers for Elizabeth who would masquerade as Steve's wife once they tracked her down. As finding refuge at the US Embassy in Paris was no longer an option I suggested that, once they had found Elizabeth, the three of them should travel directly to Berlin to meet with Leland Morris, the chargé d'affaires at the US Embassy there. Morris could not only arrange new identity cards but provide Embassy staff travel papers, so that they could go by train to Zürich. Once in Switzerland it would be easy to get air tickets to Lisbon and then on to London.
Édouard already had a good undercover network set up in Paris. I sent him, Michael and Steve into his study to start to work on the details of their trip, and to decide who to contact when they got to the capital so that they could start to look for Elizabeth. I followed them down the hallway, stopped Steve before he went into the office and quietly asked him to tell Michael and Édouard about the Nazi documents without actually disclosing what they were. I felt it best to keep Opération Rongeur between the two of us, if possible.
"Well, Tommy," Shorty asked, after I had returned to the kitchen, "how are we going to handle the other situation - the airmen in La Rochelle?"
"It's going to be a bit tricky," I said, "but I do have an idea - let's see what you think of it. How about we drop you off somewhere safe outside Granville before we pick up the captain that Alberbach was due to collect? Once we've collected him, we'll get rid of him - and, when that's done, you can take his place."
"I don't understand," he replied. "Why won't I be coming with you and Andrzej? Andrew won't have arrived - I could stand in for Alberbach's sergeant."
"Not only does your German sound too posh for a sergeant, but we also need time to fill you in on how German military protocol works - Andrzej and Andrew have been training at it for years now. It's for your own protection; by the time we get to La Rochelle we'll have taught you what do to and say, and when, and I don't want you inadvertently giving away our covers by not knowing what the correct behaviour is between ranks in the Wehrmacht and in the SS. We'll have the captain's body in the boot by the time we arrive to collect you and Andrew."
"I'll have a grave ready and waiting," Shorty said.
I noticed Andrzej's small smile of approval; he liked Shorty's matter-of-fact soldier voice and attitude. It was something in him that I admired too; he was as kind and gentle as the day was long, except when he was wearing his professional boots.
"Obviously, we can't make any plans about the airmen until we are actually in La Rochelle and get a chance to see the lie of the land," I added. "Other than that, does either of you have any other questions?"
"What are we going to do with 'you know who'?" Shorty asked in English. Luc was pretending nonchalantly to inspect his nails. I cursed myself - ever since we had returned to the kitchen we had been speaking in French.
"Luc," I said, "perhaps you should stay here with Édouard until we get news that your father's been released."
Luc crossed his arms and scowled at me. "I speak Breton and Normand; none of you can do that," he said. "… and I know who runs the Maquis in most places between here and La Rochelle; most of them are relatives in some way or another."
"No way, Luc, you can't come with us - it's far too dangerous, and besides, you don't speak German."
"And how much time do you think you're going to waste, trying to convince the locals to help you?"
"We've managed before," I said.
He shook his head. "Not this time with so many of you – and all travelling in German uniforms. If I went along I could send warning to the people who matter, so that some partisan with a flea in his arse doesn't blow your heads off on the open road."
Andrzej laughed.
"Besides, I'm the best and quickest radio operator you're ever going to find."
He had me there. He hadn't said it out of pride; it was a statement of fact. None of us, except Michael, was good enough at Morse to converse at the speed necessary for the quick reception and transmission of messages. The Germans were using interception vans to pinpoint Resistance radios, so it was of the utmost importance to keep outgoing messages brief and quick.
"I don't know... "
"My father is still in jail. Are you sending me back like some kid, to be captured by the Boches?" He stared at me; it was a challenge. Not more than a few hours ago, I had told him that he was a man, and now here I was, treating him like a child.
"Tommy… " Andrzej said, softly. He gave me a barely perceptible nod.
"All right, Luc," I said, "but you travel hidden under a blanket. There is no way of explaining a fifteen-year-old French boy in a Waffen SS colonel's staff car."
"Oh, yes, there is," he said, trying to look at me seductively.
Once we all stopped laughing, I gave him a long lecture about how he would be thrown over the nearest cliff if he put so much as a single foot wrong, and we left it there for the time being.
I rubbed the tips of my fingers slowly and softly across the broad expanse of Shorty's back, luxuriating in the sensuality of the situation. It was the first time we had been in a proper bed for three weeks.
"You know, I love where we are at the moment," he said, his voice wistful and happy. He lay on his tummy, his head nestled in the crook of his elbow.
"In bed, in a French château, in the middle of a war?"
"No, you smart-ass. The comfort of 'us'; how I feel about you - the fact that you don't fight me any more."
"I fought you?"
"You know you did," he replied, with a small laugh.
"That's only because I wasn't used to letting anyone in."
"And I was?"
"You know what I mean. We're so lucky, Shorty; think of the guys who spend their lives without someone special - or the men who feel compelled to get married but who really want to be with another man. We're surrounded by a whole lot of people who respect our privacy and who couldn't care less about what we do."
"It's because you attract those sorts of people," he said, rolling onto his side. He pressed a forefinger on the tip of my nose, and then smirked as I crossed my eyes to look at what he was doing.
"And you have nothing to do with it?"
He shook his head. "I was wondering about that on the flight over here, you know," he said. "I was thinking that our life in London was a bit like the community in Boston's North End, where all the Italians hang out."
"Explain, please."
"People stick together in groups because they have something in common, right? You must have Italian, or German, or whatever, suburbs where you come from?"
"Of course we do," I said.
"Think what it'd be like to be the only Italian in the street. You'd go looking for other people in the town who shared your language and your culture; people you could feel comfortable with, people who didn't point at you because you were different. You could go about your business and be happy if you knew you could find time to be among your fellow countrymen - to have time to top up your batteries, so to speak."
"So, what you're saying is guys like you and me tend to cluster together for that same reason."
"Of course," he replied. "It's not about sex, it's about our sexuality. What we have in common."
I'd been thinking the same thing on the night that we were dancing together at George's, before Christmas. All those military men, all having fun, being relaxed and without having to think about looking over their shoulders every five minutes. "Maybe, after the war… " I said, hopefully.
"Maybe, Tommy, maybe. But, whatever happens, we'll make our own circle of pals who won't give a hoot about anything but who we are as people. In the meantime, as I said to you before, we just keep our heads down and go about our business - what happens between you and me is no one's affair but our own."
I laughed softly, and then snuggled up against him. "No wonder I love you, Heinrich Reiter."
"You mean apart from my sparkling personality, devastating good looks and manly physique?"
I raised myself onto my elbow, and then tapped his nose with my forefinger. "Well, I'm happy to start with your manly physique… "
"Again?" he protested, playfully, and then pulled me into his arms once more.
The next thirty minutes disappeared into a haze.
I had always dreamed of seeing Mont Saint-Michel close up.
Once, years before, I had made out its shape from the beach at Genêts, near Avranche; but it was six kilometres from where I had stood then. It was so distant that all it did was make me feel empty and wanting more.
The five of us stood by the side of the road at La Caserne, leaning against the colonel's big black Mercedes, having a smoke and looking out over the causeway at the island monastery.
Shorty had been beside himself when he'd first seen the car, and even I had to admit that those bulky German staff-cars were impressive. We let him drive on the few long, straight stretches of road where we would be travelling too fast for anyone to really pick out the insignia of whoever was behind the wheel. Damn, we looked sinister, I thought, casting an eye over our collective SS, Gestapo and Wehrmacht uniforms.
We'd picked up Captain Hans Hofschreiber in Granville, and then, once we were out into the countryside, despatched him with no remorse. The man was a pompous moron, spouting propaganda-filled jargon at every opportunity, obviously trying to impress me. It got to a point when I could bear his odious ranting no longer so asked Andrzej to stop the car, told the man that I needed to talk to him privately, and asked him to accompany me while I had a piss.
He, of course, turned his back while I pretended to relieve myself. I shot him through the back of the head.
Luc's presence had been a blessing; he had cousins all up and down this stretch of coast, and knew which of them could be trusted. While we went to pick up the ill-fated captain we'd left him and Shorty just south of Granville in an abandoned goatherder's cottage that belonged to one of Luc's 'uncles'. When we got back, with Hofschreiber's corpse in the boot of the car, we stripped it and rolled it into the grave that Shorty had prepared. Luc's 'goatherd uncle' appeared just as we were finished covering the grave with leaves and branches. He was somewhat disappointed to find that we had buried the man, having intended on feeding the body to his pigs. Not one of us showed any revulsion, as we might have done during peacetime. We were at war; none of us could possibly know what catastrophes might have happened to the goatherder, his village, or his family when the Germans had invaded his homeland.
