Love at war, p.25
Love at War, page 25
“I command you to stop.” The soldier was young with dark hair and a small, compact body. He looked strong under that uniform. He was obviously an enlisted man, not an officer, but his French was passable.
“What’s the problem, sir?” George peered from the window. The truck containing Werner and his parents came to an abrupt halt. Werner and Uncle Pieter stepped out of the vehicle.
“What’s the problem, sir?” Werner addressed the man in French. He wasn’t as fluent as George or Nuala, but it was obvious that the young man was too drunk to notice.
“I lost my unit.” His speech was slurred. He’d had way too much to drink. He spoke as petulantly as a child, “They left me. My friends played a trick on me.”
“Where are you headed? Where is your unit?” George tried to keep his voice light, but a delay wasn’t something they could afford. Nuala saw her brother’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. She glanced nervously behind her as Werner reached inside his coat.
The young man approached the side of the car and leered at Nuala as he insolently addressed George. “You’ll go wherever I tell you to, Frenchman.” His hand lightly caressed Nuala’s face. She stiffened. A chill ran down her spine.
A frown suddenly creased the man’s face. His gaze fixed on her hair. “What’s this? It looks like—”
Before Nuala could interject or deflect his interest, Keith had swept aside the blanket and aimed the Lugar at the stunned German. The man’s mouth fell open as Keith expertly emptied a bullet into his face. There was no sound from the silencer. The German pitched backward. Nuala sprang from the Nash and stood over the dead man. Her heart raced. She prayed to God no one saw anything. The road was deserted, no military vehicles, no civilian vehicles. Luckily the bullet left only a small hole at the point of entry. It was the back of his head that would be crushed like a battered eggshell. No blood was on the car because of point of entry. Nuala’s rapid breathing subsided a tad.
Suddenly Keith was by her side. He’d moved to her with remarkable speed but now staggered against the car. A pool of blood was settling around the German’s body. Gray matter mingled with the dark red liquid. Werner raced to them.
Keith met her wide stare. “I knew I wouldn’t hit you.”
“I know. You’re a marksman.” Nuala took a deep breath. Her heart threatened to explode inside her chest.
“Get the fuck inside the car!” George’s voice was a hoarse, deadly whisper. “Everybody! Werner, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chiye swung their door open as Nuala helped Keith inside. Nuala leaned heavily against Keith as he readied the gun for another round and then holstered it. George looked in the rearview mirror as if he wanted to make an angry comment, thought better of it, and sped away. The man’s body lay in the road. Chiye looked straight ahead, saying nothing. Werner and his father hurried to the truck and followed, spreading dust as they pulled from the scene.
“I wasn’t going to let another man touch you, and I couldn’t risk his figuring out where those plans were.” Keith lay an arm around her shoulders and stared out the window.
Nuala sighed heavily. “Will you ever tell me what they did to you?” When he shot a puzzled glance in her direction, she said softly, “You wanted to kill that man. What did they do to you?” Keith stared ahead. If George or Chiye heard anything, neither of them commented. They were all silent until they came to the town.
Calais stretched out before them. They drove through the town at midday. A cold drizzle forced residents to produce umbrellas as they made their way along slippery streets. The sky loomed gray overhead. People scurried to and from market in Calais Nord with parcels. Nuala noted how frayed the clothing looked. War and embargo had taken its toll. The people looked weary and suspicious, walking with downcast and averted eyes as their fellow citizens passed them. It was the dead of winter, and few people sat outside by the cafes that had once bustled with al fresco dining. Nuala didn’t think she would breathe until the port came into view, and even then, her eyes searched frantically for the vessel that would take them to England. The ferries had sat idling during the war. No sanctioned travel took place between England and France, but Jacques Roux kept his fishing business afloat by selling cod and sole to the Nazis at very cheap prices. Luckily, they rarely checked his boat for any contraband, so happy were they to benefit from his largesse. What they didn’t know was that he had been supplying the British with information on Nazi movements for several years.
Nuala’s gaze took in this quaint and beautiful town. They passed a factory where lace was manufactured. She’d always dreamed of visiting Germany and France, the land of her ancestors. Now, Nuala wondered if she would ever come back to these shores in peacetime or if the land would ever be the same.
Jacques was a small but compact man with a black beard and bald head. He extended a hand to George and said loudly, “I’m glad to have you on this journey. I expect a big haul.”
Nuala prayed the Germans didn’t notice how unsteady Keith was on his feet or become curious about why women were in the company. Of course, Jacques could argue that he needed female workers because there was a shortage of men since the fighting had broken out, but he probably would have a harder time explaining the presence of a Japanese woman and a man who could barely stand. Nuala only hoped the Germans were preoccupied with their own vessels at port and wouldn’t look too closely at their party. Uncle Pieter helped Aunt Olga aboard. Werner jumped on deck like a true sailor while George clasped Chiye’s arm. The small Japanese woman cast a glance at George and colored, but she didn’t pull away from him. Nuala cast her gaze at the channel and saw the choppy water. Her stomach heaved at the sight, and she worried about Keith’s condition. How much could he stand physically? Emotionally? There was much he hadn’t told her. He leaned against her as they boarded. Nuala slipped an arm around him and instinctively touched the scarf covering her head. They couldn’t afford to attract undue attention. Her legs shook under her as they made their way onto the boat and below deck.
Jacques came below and whispered, “I’ll have you to Dover soon. My Maidou cousins have communicated with them already, and your friends will be waiting for you. Captain Welbourne—” He stopped suddenly at the sound of boots on deck and added hurriedly. “The Oriental lady and the wounded soldier must hide.” With that, he ran up the steps.
Keith and Chiye lay on makeshift cots while Nuala and Aunt Olga covered them with blankets. Nuala could hear the German speaking to Jacques in bad French and Jacques’ calm answers. She heard the calm little Frenchman finally say, “Please come below. I’m sure my crew would like to meet you, sir.”
Nuala swallowed. An anvil pounded in her brain while the blood in her veins raced like the winds of a hurricane. She knew what she had to do if the man showed any inclination to peer into those blankets. George would likely kill him, but too many soldiers were at dockside. Their comrade would be missed, and Jaques Roux was a vital asset. His mission could not be compromised.
The man descended slowly, pistol drawn. Jacques followed behind. The Nazi wasn’t a young man. By the insignia on his uniform, Nuala saw that he was a major. She’d seen many such medals in her time with Blenk. His gaze swept over them all and then settled on Nuala. “Roux, do you expect me to believe that this woman is capable of being a member of your crew? She’s far too delicate, too fragile.” He spat and then glanced at Aunt Olga. “You bring old women on board, too? What game are you playing?” He rounded on Jacques. “Where are the others I saw board?”
Nuala saw George and Werner discreetly feel for pistols, but she made her move in time. The blood ran cold in her veins as she frantically raced to the man and grasped hold of his uniform. She addressed him in French, adopting the dialect she’d often heard in Maidou. “Sir, please help us. My husband was a soldier fighting in Africa. He was proud to serve the Vichy government, but he needs help. The English have good doctors, and Jacques wanted to help us—”
“Then let me see him, Madame.” The man answered her in French and glanced at her with more than casual interest. He was obviously moved by her youth and beauty. Nuala averted her eyes, feigning modesty. She could feel everyone around her holding a collective breath. The German gazed at her with dark eyes and said firmly but not so harshly as before, “Besides, two people are on those cots. Are they both ill? What is wrong?”
Nuala looked away and then at her feet. She had to make him believe she was reluctant to say what she must. “My husband—”
“Well, Madame?” The German looked at her curiously and began to approach the prone figures.
Nuala grasped him with desperation. Her fingers and knuckles were white against his jacket. Her lips quivered. She didn’t have to feign fear. If the German didn’t buy this ploy, they were all dead. Secret troop movements lay embedded in her braided hair. Her brother had killed many German soldiers. Werner was a traitor to the Reich. Chiye was a spy and widow of an English nobleman. Keith was the sniper sent to kill Field Marshall Kesselring, and she, his wife, had murdered a decorated officer while she lay in his bed. Their deaths would be gruesome. The words erupted from her lips. She suddenly knew how to explain Chiye’s presence as well. The woman was small. “My husband has leprosy, sir. The young girl is my daughter. Please let Jacque help us. Let us go to England.”
The man’s gentler gaze turned to horror. He recoiled from her as if she were a rattlesnake and pushed her hands away. “Go, for Christ sakes! Get the hell away from here.” He turned to Jacques. “Send them to England. Just leave with them. Fumigate your whole crew while you’re there.” With that, he hastily turned to go and headed up the steps.
Jacques followed behind, saying, “I apologize, Major. I thought you would not approve if I told the truth.”
“Just go, for God’s sake man.”
“Oh yes, sir. Yes. One has to help one’s friends and blood, don’t you think?” Jacques uttered profuse thanks. “I’ll bring you back some delicious cod for your table.”
The sound of the German’s boots faded. Jacques stuck his head into the hold and said with good humor, “Madame, you deserve an Oscar from your country. Not even the lovely Ingrid Bergman could have done better.”
The atmosphere lightened. George roared with laughter and embraced Chiye as she cast off her blankets and rose from her cot. Aunt Olga hugged her husband and then her son. Keith came behind Nuala and slipped his arms around her shoulders and waist. He buried his lips in her neck. “What inspired you to say Chiye was our daughter?”
Nuala turned and smiled up at him. “She’s small. She could pass for a child. We’d already worked out the story for you. I knew that man wouldn’t want to get near us once I’d said the word leprosy.”
Keith’s lips lingered along Nuala’s lips and neck for a long time. Then he stared past her, out of the window, at the churning water. Nuala buried her face in his chest. He still loved her. She could feel it, but something held him back. What secret did he have that kept him from giving her the full force of his passion? The secret that held Nuala back grated at her soul, and she had no idea how she could utter the words she knew she must.
The passage to Dover was uneventful, but they were all sick into the sea before their arrival on shore. To Nuala’s surprise, Keith held up the best. He was violently ill for close to five minutes, grasping the railing, but then stood tall. He then held her during her numerous trips to the deck. The heartiest was Jacques Roux. He good-naturedly handed each ill passenger his whiskey flask and told them when land was in sight. The only thing that settled Nuala’s nerves and her stomach was his flask.
As promised, Charles Welbourne was dockside, waiting in a Humber utility car. To Nuala’s surprise, Lord and Lady Welbourne were with him. They both rushed from the car and embraced Chiye, who looked far more shocked than Nuala.
“My dear girl, we’re so glad you’re home.” Lady Welbourne held Chiye at arm’s length and surveyed her. “You need a good meal. When we get you home, you can have some warm soup. Emma made some special when I told her you were coming.”
Chiye surveyed her mother-in-law with wide eyes. “Will I be staying at the estate?”
“Where else, my dear?” It was the first time Lord Welbourne had spoken. “You’ve done more than most for king and country. You’re our daughter.”
Nuala noticed that Chiye looked away and then down before she spoke. Her voice quavered. “I did it for John.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Lord Welbourne kissed her forehead and then said abruptly. “Come along then.”
Lady Welbourne laughed lightly. “What the old soldier is saying dear, is that patriotism is part of loving those dear to us. We don’t really fight for abstract ideas.”
Lord Welbourne offered Chiye his arm and then turned to Nuala. “Welcome back, Lieutenant. I see you’ll have your young man for Christmas.” He extended his hand to Keith. “Glad to meet you, Captain. Your wife talked about you endlessly while she was here. We’re glad to see you survived.” Patting George's arm, he said gravely, “I’m very sorry about your brother, sir. Will was a wonderful man and officer.”
Will. Nuala bit her lip and fought back tears. So much loss. Over a year since she’d communicated with her parents. Over a year since she had any contact with Sandy, with Rose. Were they all alive and well? Mama and Papa probably didn’t know about Will yet. Would they ever find his body or would Violet and Peter have to settle for a memorial erected to the dead in some foreign land? Uncle Hans and his family were undoubtedly dead in some camp. A sick hollowness engulfed Nuala’s insides. Christmas. It was only a few weeks away. December 4, 1943. A few short weeks. Sandy would be celebrating without her or Keith. She hoped Mama and Papa could afford a tree and at least some small present for Sandy. The ocean separating them was vast, and the hole expanding inside Nuala’s breast felt just as large. She leaned against Keith. He drew her close and stroked her face. Her gaze met his. Somehow, they had to traverse the gulf of hurt and loss to come together as family, but always at holidays, they would feel the absence of those lost to guns and mass murder. In school, Nuala had read of people who suffered through political upheavals, devastating natural disasters, and bloody carnage. Those people and their suffering had been remote before, but now Nuala understood them in ways she never could. Suffering was no longer an abstraction. It was real. She forced the memories of Will and her dead relatives to the back of her mind. Thinking of them would only paralyze her.
Charlie’s voice brought her back to the present. “Where are the documents, Nuala of the rebel name?” He nodded to Keith and extended his hand. “I helped your wife parachute into France, Captain. That’s an amazing woman you have there.”
Keith studied this bold RAF pilot for a long time. “I know.”
Nuala looked from one to the other. She felt the scarf on her head. “Oh God, Werner has some of it, but the most sensitive stuff is in my hair.”
Charlie grinned broadly. “A true Irish rebel. I knew it.” He indicated the car, and the whole company huddled inside. By that night, the staff on the estate had pieced together sensitive troop movements vital to Allied interests. Nuala lay in her husband’s arms, staring at the ceiling. Keith grasped her tightly but made no attempt at intimacy. Nuala sensed that his reticence had little to do with his weakened physical condition. He’d suffered some trauma he couldn’t yet reveal to her.
Chapter 12
“What else was in the safe?” Nuala approached Charlie the next day in the kitchen. She poured a cup of tea for herself and Keith. She would bring Keith’s up to him. Exhausted, he’d slept through the night.
Charlie paused, a piece of toast to his mouth. He appeared surprised by her question. “Why do you ask?”
“I risked my head, literally, to bring them here. I didn’t have a chance to look at them. Don’t I have a right to know?” Nuala stared at him as she poured honey into the cups.
“Let’s just say a huge invasion is planned for the coming year. Your help was vital. You may get your country’s highest military honors.” Charlie bit into the bread and then spread more butter on another piece of toast.
“Did that man write anything about what they did to prisoners?” Nuala averted her eyes as she took a cup in each hand.
Charlie looked away and then at the table before meeting her gaze. “You’d have to ask your husband that, Nuala.”
“Did the bastard write about the whip?” A scalding rage poured through her body like hot grease oozing from a skillet. She remembered the marks along Keith’s back.
“Among other things.” Charlie stared into his cup. “He did write about you.”
“Good God, what did he say?” Nuala’s blood ran cold in her veins. She laughed bitterly. “I don’t relish being part of his lewd fantasies.”
“Not so lewd.” Charlie took a sip from the cup. “He’d fallen hard for you. Dreamed of taking you back to Bavaria.”
Nuala swallowed the bile rising to her throat. “I pray he rots in hell. I only wish he’d suffered longer. What I did was too quick.”
