Assignment in Brittany E-Book

Helen MacInnes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Three hours ago he had stood on English earth. Three hours ago he had been Martin Hearne... Now he was Bertrand Corlay. Martin Hearn had been summoned by Military Intelligence and given an important mission - enter Nazi-occupied France to gather information about German activities in the area. But to do so Hearn must impersonate a Frenchman to whom he bears an uncanny resemblance, and that includes having to fool the women in Corlay's life. When it becomes clear that Corlay was not simply an innocent French civilian, Hearn finds himself playing an increasingly dangerous game to outwit his Nazi enemies.

Leseprobe

ASSIGNMENT IN BRITTANY

ALSO BY HELEN MacINNES AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Pray for a Brave Heart

Above Suspicion

North From Rome (August 2012)

Decision at Delphi (September 2012)

The Venetian Affair (October 2012)

The Salzburg Connection (November 2012)

Helen

MacINNES

ASSIGNMENT IN BRITTANY

TITAN BOOKS

Assignment in Brittany

Print edition ISBN: 9781781161517

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161586

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

© 1942, 2012 by the Estate of Helen MacInnes. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group Ltd.

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Contents

1. Leap Into Darkness

2. Gone To Ground

3. Night Journey

4. The Sleeping Village

5. The Farm

6. Anne

7. Stranger On The Hillside

8. Elise

9. Pages From The Life Of Bertrand Corlay

10. Poems For E.

11. Visit Of Inspection

12. Rendezvous

13. Warning For Saint-Déodat

14. Collaboration

15. The Golden Star

16. Trial For A Traitor

17. First Blood

18. St. Michael’s Mountain

19. Contact

20. Quicksand

21. The Awakening Of Saint-Déodat

22. Captain Riedel Takes Charge

23. At The Hotel Perro

24. One More Day

25. Sanctuary

26. “White In The Moon The Long Road Lies”

27. The Dark Wood

28. Fishermen’s Rest

29. End Of A Mission

1

LEAP INTO DARKNESS

It was almost daylight. Ahead of them the cold darkness of the early morning sky waited for the first pale fingers of light.

It should be almost time now. Hearne glanced again at the watch on his wrist, and fingered his kit. Everything was ready. Underneath his flying suit, in the inside pocket of the torn, shabby jacket, were the tattered letters and photograph and the identification papers. He felt for them once again, and caught a sympathetic smile from the gunner who had moved up close beside him. So he was to be helped safely off the premises...He grinned back to the boy, and nodded reassuringly. He wouldn’t need much helping—not after the last three weeks and the practising he had been through. What had worried him most had been the thought of interception by enemy aircraft, or of being spotted after he had left the plane. That wouldn’t be at all pleasant, dangling between heaven and earth with some blighter grinning as he got you fair and square in his gun-sight.

But the twenty-two minute journey was almost over: only one more minute to go. The engine was suddenly silent, and the pilot waved a bulky glove.

“That is when you get ready,” he had told Hearne cheerily, over their last cup of hot chocolate. “Second time I wave is goodbye and good luck.”

Hearne rose and stood as he had learned during the past three weeks. The boy at his elbow steadied him for a moment. Hearne cursed his own clumsiness. These fellows seemed to move about as easily as if they were in their mess-room. The gunner’s fingers tapped sharply on his forearm. “All set?” they spelled quickly in Morse.

Hearne nodded again. His eyes hadn’t left the pilot, silhouetted black and shapeless against the lightening eastern sky. How long, Hearne was wondering, how long did it take to glide from twenty thousand feet to six? He was answered by the movement of the padded arm. Goodbye and good luck. Well, here it was at last. The gunner had enough sense to stand clear, thank heavens: he could choose his own split second.

“Good luck, yourselves!” Hearne called over his shoulder. He saw the gunner begin to crack that warm grin of his, and the thumb go up. And then he was diving through bleak grey air. He started to count.

“Not too soon, not too late,” he reminded himself. “Take it easy and don’t think about what happens if the damned thing doesn’t work.” But what if it didn’t? His sudden fear was as cold as the air through which he hurtled. However much he practised, he never got rid of these moments of panic. He restrained himself in time from pulling the rip-cord. Not yet: the longer he fell, the quicker, the safer. Perhaps. He pulled the rip-cord. It wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t going to—then the sudden jolt to his plunging body, the feeling of being pulled up backward into the sky again, the abrupt change from the hurtling drop to slow-motion floating, contradicted him. He took his first breath since he had left the plane.

Drifting down to the colourless, formless land, he strained his eyes towards the sky. In the east the heavy black curtain was slowly rising to show a steadily broadening river of light. Its edge which touched the darkness flowed greyish-green; and even as he watched a streak of flame lined the horizon, and the earth and clouds took shape. Then from the west he heard the sound of the plane’s motors. They must have glided round to get well over in that direction before they had started climbing again. They had given him every chance, anyway.

He looked down at the fields, swaying gently beneath him. They were no longer formless. Dimly he could see the triangular outline of a wood on a small ridge just to the south. That was what he had hoped for, that was what they had aimed at. Cheery lot of coots, he thought gratefully, remembering the gunner’s grin. Pity they couldn’t be here to see how neatly they had landed him almost on the doorstep.

He pulled on the ropes so that he would keep clear of the trees. And then the last few feet suddenly shortened, and the ground seemed to rise up to meet him. It was unexpectedly rough: from above it had looked so smooth and simple. As he landed, his right arm reached high above his head to grasp the control rope and the clip on his belt automatically released the parachute as it pulled him forward. He was thoroughly jarred. That was all.

From above, he had thought at one moment that he was on top of the trees, but actually he had landed almost a hundred yards from them. He must have pulled on the ropes too much. Still, you couldn’t expect everything to be perfect, and a hundred yards was better than being noosed up in high branches. Around him were fields which were half moorland. No house was in sight. He looked up again at the eastern sky. It was a uniform pale grey, bleaching slowly but dangerously. Now there was light enough to see: very soon there would be light enough to be seen.

Hearne rose to his feet from where he had fallen, and started to pull the parachute folds loose from the clump of gorse bushes against which they had blown. It was slow work, and, seemed all the slower because every minute was precious. He must reach the trees before the light strengthened, and he couldn’t leave the parachute billowing here as a landmark. He pulled savagely, gathering the flapping silk into a rough, cumbersome bundle. Holding it in front of him, his arms filled with its softness, he half ran, half stumbled, towards the wood. The ground was rough but not treacherous, and the gorse bushes in their sparse clumps were now useful. He ducked down behind them, gathering the parachute more tightly as its folds slipped from his arms, cursing its maliciousness. It seemed to take a pleasure in thwarting him. Its weight had doubled.

He finished the last twenty yards in a despairing spurt...The trees closed in around him, and he fell grotesquely on top of his burden. He buried his face in its folds to smother the gasps which shook his body, and then, as he felt himself stifle, he rolled stiffly over on to his back. Burning liquid welled up suddenly in his dry throat. And then at last he could breathe normally again, and the cold air was drying the sweat on his face. He lay, waiting for the heavy heart-beats to quieten, watching the leaves above him suddenly waken at the touch of the morning breeze. In the world outside a lark was singing.

2

GONE TO GROUND

Hearne waited until the pounding of his blood had stopped. Then, gathering the parachute once more in his arms, he dragged it farther into the wood. He moved quietly and capably, like a man who had so often imagined this moment that his movements were almost mechanical. When the undergrowth was thick enough to please him, he halted and eyed the ground round the bush he had chosen. He went to work with his clasp-knife, cutting the turf into neat squares, stacking them methodically at his side. The loam under them he scooped out with his hands. It took time, but in the end he was satisfied. He had packed the parachute into the hole he had scraped, thrusting it tightly down under the thin straggling roots of the bush. On top of the parachute lay his flying suit and helmet, and over them all were spread the thick rich soil and the sods, fitted together as neatly as the bulging earth would allow. He had worked lying uncomfortably flat on his stomach. Now he crawled out from the thickness of the bush to find some twigs and leaves and with luck, some stones. These he scattered over the parachute’s grave, covering the gaping cuts between the sods. After two such journeys, he had finished. The evidence was well buried.

He looked at the unfamiliar watch on his wrist. Three hours ago he had joked with the red-haired pilot over a last cup of hot chocolate. Three hours ago he had stood on English earth. Three hours ago he had been Martin Hearne with twenty-seven years of his own life behind him. Now he was Bertrand Corlay, with twenty-six years of another man’s life reduced to headings and sub-headings in his memory. He looked down the faded uniform which had been Corlay’s, felt once more for the papers in the inside pocket.

“All set?” the gunner had asked.

Well, that would be the last time he would listen to English for some weeks. All set... He patted the pocket of the tunic with his earth-stained hand, and smiled grimly. From now on, he would not only have to speak, but think, in French.

He moved slowly westward along the wood, keeping parallel to the open stretch of fields, so that he would not wander too far into the maze of trees. He still moved carefully and quietly, but he was less worried. He had plenty of time, now that he had got rid of the parachute and flying suit. Once he got far enough away from where he had buried them, he would find some place to lie hidden until night came again. Fourteen hours ahead of him for thought; for sleep, if he felt safe enough. Yes, there was plenty of time, and plenty to think about. He would review all the details he had learned by heart, all the movements and expressions he had memorised. Nothing which he had discovered in the past three weeks must be neglected.

At last he found his hiding-place under a small, unimportant-looking tree, with a tangle of bramble bushes behind him and a screen of bracken in front. When he lay stretched out under the tall curling fronds of the fern, he felt safe. Barring accidents, such as a rabbit-hunting farmer and his dog, there would be little chance of anyone stumbling across him. And a farmer wouldn’t be surprised to find a dishevelled poilu waiting for the daylight to fade. There were many of them, this summer of 1940.

It was cold and damp, but the discomfort sharpened his mind. He thought of Corlay in his white hospital bed in England, and smiled wryly as he felt the heavy dew soak efficiently through his clothes, as he watched the black insects clinging to the underleaves of the bracken. Well, if Corlay’s hip-bone hadn’t been shattered on the way out of Dunkirk, he might have been doing this job himself. And if Matthews hadn’t been examining a boat-load of French and Belgian wounded after it had arrived at Folkestone; if he hadn’t seen the unconscious Corlay, believed he was Hearne, and then notified Military Intelligence that one of their men had just got back in an uncomfortably original way, then this scheme would never have been born in Matthews’ fertile brain. That was like Matthews. He must have mulled it all over in his mind for a couple of days, and out of his sardonic amusement had grown the germ of an idea.

“Well, I’m damned,” he would say. “Well, I’m damned.” And then he’d begin to think of a use for such an extraordinary likeness, especially when he learned more about the Frenchman and where he came from. That was like Matthews. He never wasted an opportunity. Two days after he had seen Corlay, he had not only the idea shaping nicely, but also the go-ahead signal from his own department.

Strange bird, Matthews, thought Hearne, and rolled over on his side to ease a hip-bone. He took some deep breaths, tautened his muscles to warm himself. His clothes would dry when the sun really got into this glade. He’d be warm enough then. Strange bird, Matthews; he sort of sensed things coming. He’d cook up some plan, keep it simmering until the right moment arrived, and then dish it up piping hot. The right moment in this case had been a week before the Franco-German armistice. It was then that he sent for Hearne.

“Glad you got back in time,” he had begun, and smiled quietly. Hearne knew that smile. He waited, wondering what was coming this time.

“How would you like to spend a summer in France?”

That meant he was going to spend a summer in France. He allowed himself one objection—not that Matthews would show that he had ever noticed it.

“But I’ve just come back from there.” Thirty-six hours ago, Hearne added under his breath.

“Brittany, this time.” Matthews gave his imitation of a benevolent Santa Claus. “That should interest you, Hearne.”

It did, in spite of the fact that for the last month he hadn’t slept in a clean bed, or seen anything which might be remotely called a bathroom. Hearne saw his leave and the quiet comfort of his flat evaporating as quickly as August rain on a hot London pavement.

“When do I go?” he asked. Brittany...well, that was something.

“In about two or three weeks. That is, if things go the way they are shaping. Looks bad, at the moment. If there’s a separate armistice, then we shall use you, because every Frenchman who can get back to his home will then make a bee-line for it. A lot of them won’t get back; and there will be some with guts to fight on. But you are to be one of the Frenchmen who do get back, and stay there.”

“Home?” Hearne was incredulous. Home meant relatives, and complications. He had never tackled anything so domestic as that.

And then Matthews explained about Corlay.

“Here’s all the official knowledge about him,” he ended, pushing a folder across his desk to Hearne. “All checked and amplified by a French Intelligence chap—Fournier, he’s called— who will be one of those who fight on, so there’s no danger of the wrong people learning about our interest in Corlay. You’ll find that Fournier has done a pretty good job. He included a detailed map and description of the district. Saint-Déodat is the name of the village. Know it?”

Hearne shook his head. He had no idea where it was. He searched his memory in annoyance. Hell, he thought, Brittany is supposed to be my pigeon.

“North or South Brittany?” he asked at last.

“North. Just south-west of the town of Dol. Within walking distance of the railway-line from Rennes to Saint-Malo. Near enough Dinan to admire the canal. Close enough to the main north road from Rennes.” Matthews was speaking slowly, underlining the importance of the towns with the inflexion of his voice. “And also,” he added, “not so very far from Mont Saint-Michel, and our old friends Duclos and Pléhec, if you must send us news about your health.”

Hearne smothered a smile. Matthews was at his old trick again of coating the pill lavishly with sugar. He liked to make his assignments sound like a Cook’s tour.

“Duclos is still there?” Hearne asked.

“Yes, and very useful he will be from now on. I am rather afraid his archæological researches are going to be disturbed. Then, for emergency use only, you will find another friend outside Saint-Malo. Fournier guarantees him. You’d better talk to him about this man of his before you leave.”

Hearne nodded. “And I’ve to take moonlight strolls round the railway-line and road and canal?” he asked.

There was almost a smile on Matthews’ face. “You are being sent to this farm so that, within a patch of about two hundred square miles, you can find information which will fit neatly into the reports which we hope to get from all the other patches of two hundred square miles. Then, when all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle are fitted together, we shall have a working idea of German intentions. Now, here are the particular pieces of information which we need. First, we want to know if North Brittany is being fortified and garrisoned for defence; or is it being prepared as a base for an attack on the British Isles? If so, then just in what way are the Germans preparing to attack? If airfields are being constructed, then they are aiming for our southern ports and our shipping lanes. If huge masses of troops and boats are being prepared, then our south-west flank is in danger.” Matthews stabbed at the map on the desk in front of him. “The Devon Coast, the Bristol Channel, Southern Ireland. Brittany is just the right position to try for these places. So look for airfields, troop movements, types of supplies being sent by road and rail and canal, new construction works, underground dumps, gun installations. You may not see much sense in what you observe, but your report will fit neatly into the other reports we’ll receive. When we fit them together, they will make a pretty pattern. So don’t even let the little things escape you. Work at night. I think you’ll find plenty of material for your usual precise reports. Anything you pick up will probably be useful.”

There was a note in Matthews’ voice which raised Hearne’s eyes from the map to the older man’s face. Anything you pick up... Was that inflexion on the you intended? If it were, then that was high praise.

Matthews was speaking again. “I don’t think you’ll find this a difficult job.” Again there was that hint of emphasis on the you. “I think,” he was saying, “I think we can depend on you only to follow your instructions, and not to suffer from any attacks of misplaced brilliance.”

Hearne’s elation faded, and then he saw the gleam in Matthews’ eye, and the repressed smile. He breathed again. So Matthews wasn’t displeased over his last attack of “misplaced brilliance,” after all. Hearne suddenly thought, perhaps he’s giving me this job just because I find it hard to be orthodox in my methods. Perhaps he isn’t so much against them as he always pretends to be.

Matthews seemed to guess Hearne’s thoughts. “Seriously,” he said, “you did a good job at Bordeaux. But I’d like you to restrain yourself on this trip. No good getting lost to us.” And then, as if he felt he had been too expansive, he added, “Not after all the trouble I’ve had in training you.”

“Yes, sir,” Hearne said.

Matthews’ voice was matter-of-fact once more. “I suggest you memorise the contents of that folder. You’ll find all the necessary data in it, including observations on Corlay by one of his officers and by a man who had known him as a student. After you’ve got all that information memorised, you can start on Corlay himself. You’ll visit him each day in hospital, for two or three weeks. He can talk now. Find out everything you can to fill in the gaps. Study his voice, his expressions, all that sort of thing.”

“What if he won’t talk? The Bretons can be very reticent, you know.”

“I think he will. There is a certain amount of questioning which all strangers in Britain must go through at this time. We’ve never had so many aliens dumped so unexpectedly on our shores, and at rather a dangerous moment for us, too. There are rumours, even among the wounded, of what’s now called the Fifth Column. Fournier has seen Corlay, and dropped him that hint. He will talk, just to identify himself.”

“Well, that sounds more hopeful... You say he looks like me?”

“Looks? My dear Hearne, he’s the dead spit of you. If he could mislead me, you can mislead anyone who knows him.”

“But his mother and father?”

“Father killed in 1917. Mother bedridden. You’ll find it all in that folder. I investigated that sort of thing before I called you in. Now, if there had been a wife...” Matthews smiled, and shook his head slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was crisp and business-like. “I think you’re in luck this time, Hearne. You’ll learn more about your Celtic peoples in a month at Saint-Déodat than you did that year at Rennes University.” There was the sugar coating being spread on again. “What made you interested in the Bretons, anyway? Was it because you are a Cornishman yourself?”

Hearne nodded. “That, and the fact that I like them, and that my father spent all his time in between his sermons writing about the early British saints. A lot of them ended up in Brittany, you know.”

“Déodat being one? Well, that makes one of these nice coincidences.”

“I can’t think of any Déodat except St. Augustine’s son,” Hearne said with a smile.

“St. Augustine?” Matthews looked startled. “Didn’t know he was married.”

“He wasn’t,” Hearne said, enjoying the shocked look on Matthews’ face. He added, “That was probably during Augustine’s ‘O God, make me pure but not yet,’ period.” For a strong Scots Presbyterian, Matthews was reacting in a very High Church manner. Hearne grinned amiably.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Matthews. “Well, I’ll be—”

“That’s about all, then?” Hearne asked tactfully.

“Yes,” said Matthews. “Yes. I’ll see you again before you leave.”

“How do I go?”

It was Matthews’ turn to smile. “Just drop in,” he said.

The sun had come out and with it a swarm of flies, fat black flies, inquisitive, persistent. But, at least, Hearne was beginning to feel dry and warm. He took the map out of his pocket to verify his position again. It was a detailed French map of Brittany with well-worn creases, stains and a jagged tear over the Atlantic corner for good measure. If he were questioned, he was to say that this map had been given him at Brest after he had arrived there by fishing-boat from Dunkirk. Better allow himself a slight case of shell-shock to account for the period between Dunkirk and the armistice. Shell-shock might be useful later: it could explain any strangeness, any lapse of memory. So, with this map, he had found his way home to the North of Brittany. The food in his pocket could be explained away, too... friendly peasantry department. Could be explained away. He smiled grimly at the phrase. He would just have to take especial care tonight in his short journey to Saint-Déodat, and then no explanations would be necessary to any curious patrol.

He examined the map for the last time. He must be able to remember the details of the district to the north and west of this wood, to reach the toy railway which trailed the main road from Rennes to Saint-Malo. It would guide him part of the way. The rest would depend on his knowledge of these thin and thick red lines and winding black ones. He had looked at them so often in the past few days that they were etched on his memory as well as on this map. At last he admitted that he could do no more, that he must depend now on a combination of intelligence and intuition. There would be no moon tonight, but if the sky stayed clear the stars would be enough. Failing them, it would have to be by guess and by God.

He settled himself more comfortably in his bracken bed. The sweet smell of fern and grass, the warmth of the sun, the increasing hum of the innumerable insects, drowned him pleasantly. He felt himself slipping into light sleep. Tomorrow, he was thinking, tomorrow Bertrand Corlay would be home.

3

NIGHT JOURNEY

A cool breeze awakened him. The bright green of the bracken and trees was no longer bathed in sunlight. The glade had darkened, as if a shade had been pulled down over a window. The gentle hum of insects had gone, the birds had become silent. There was only the uneasy stirring of branches overhead, the anxious rustling of the leaves. Not a pleasant sound, Hearne thought, especially when a man was hungry and cold. As the dusk deepened, he made an effort to get up. He was much stiffer than he had even thought. He sat with his back against a tree, and ate half of his rations, such as they were. The other half he replaced stoically in his pocket. If he bungled tonight, there would be another day to provide for.

At last the darkness had thickened enough to let him reach the edge of the trees. He walked slowly, even painfully at first, but by the time the first stars began to show, he was ready.

He looked at the North Star, and got his bearings. The fields ahead seemed horribly naked. In a way, he thought as he left the trees, this was something like taking a dive from a plane, except that he didn’t have to worry this time about the parachute opening.

The ground, becoming more tamed as it descended, sloped gently into a broad shallow valley. The clumps of gorse grew more sparsely, much to Hearne’s relief. It hadn’t been so easy to avoid them at first. By the time he had reached the first cultivated patch of land, he was moving more confidently. His stiffness was forgotten, and his eyes had become accustomed to the shapes and shadows within the darkness.

He passed a house, hidden unexpectedly behind some trees. A dog barked, and he saw a dull yellow light fill one of the windows as a lamp was lit. He felt an extraordinary compulsion to stay and watch. The glow from the small square window reached out into the coldness of the night and held him there, standing irresolute. Then the dog barked again, and the spell was broken. He moved swiftly away. Behind him the light still shone, but there was no sound of men’s voices or of following feet. Then other trees and a twist in the path blocked out the house, and he was alone in a field of straggling corn, hedged with gnarled fruit-trees.

It was strange how you could be trapped by a moment like that, when your control over your movements was suspended, when nothing seemed to matter anyway. Strange, and dangerous. He couldn’t allow himself any off-guard moments, he reminded himself grimly. He thought again of that light. No footsteps, no men’s voices. When the dog had barked, the light had appeared so quickly, as if someone were lying awake, listening, waiting. A woman, perhaps, hoping against hope. This summer, there would be plenty of women, waiting and hoping. And he couldn’t allow himself any sentiment, either: that was another luxury he couldn’t afford this trip. He concentrated on the fields.

The faintly luminous hands on Corlay’s watch told him it was fully an hour since he had stepped out of the woods. He was late. Either he had gone too carefully, or he had missed his direction. The discouraging idea that he had landed in another part of the Breton countryside, after all, began to take root. One minute he was calling himself a damned fool; and then the next, he was imagining what he’d use for transit if he found himself on the steep banks of the River Rance. It should be well behind him. If it weren’t, he’d have a nice cold swim ahead of him. He remembered Matthews’ old consolation; blessed is he who expects the worst, for he shall not be disappointed. He walked gloomily on. If he came to a village, he could scout out its name. Of course the villages hereabouts would all have gold-plated neon signs and—and at that moment, he almost tripped over the miniature railway-line. Not that it was noticeable, wandering so lightheartedly through the grass and flowers, along the hedgerows, and across the winding country roads without so much as a by-your-leave. He advanced cautiously along it, moving quietly through the shadows. The new moon was not yet born. Only the stars lighted the clear sky.

He passed occasional farm-houses, darkened and asleep in the curves of their fields. Now and again there would be a village to avoid. Once he came to an unexpected road and a small wooden shed which was probably a station—nameless, in the best railway tradition. Twenty yards away was a hidden village, a dozen little stone houses round the inevitable church. German notices were posted here on the wall beside which he sheltered. But no one stirred. Reassured, he crossed the treacherous road, his eyes searching the sleeping village. “Café de France et de Chateaubriand,” he noted. That cheered him up, somehow, in spite of a large white proclamation with giant black letters shouting after him Bekanntmachung!

He had reached the protection of some trees. And then a shadow moved—just there, about fifty yards ahead, in that unfortunate patch of open ground. He drew back against a tree. Another shadow moved, close behind the first one. His eyes followed their careful progress as his mind raced quickly from one plan to another. If he kept behind these two men, they would slow up his pace. He must circle to his left (for to the right lay the main roadway to the coast, and he had better keep well clear of that), increasing his speed, so that he would pass the two men and come back to the railway-line well ahead of them.

And then the noise of heavy trucks rumbled across the quiet fields. When they were about a quarter of a mile distant, Hearne glanced at the watch on his wrist. It pointed to 10.58. The trucks were travelling slowly, probably half blacked out. About fifteen miles an hour, he guessed. He strained his eyes, but the trees which were spaced along the roadway broke his line of vision. Here and there, where the edge of the road was clear, he could see black lumbering shapes, like a herd of elephants stringing out towards a water-hole. Yes, fifteen miles an hour was about right. He listened patiently, his eye on his watch. When the last of the column had reached about a quarter of a mile away, and the hum of engines was fading towards the coast, the time on the watch was 11.01. They had taken three minutes to pass through half a mile, roughly at about fifteen miles an hour. That would give him almost a quarter of a mile of trucks. And many of them had been carrying oil: there was no mistaking the noise of the chains trailing on the paved roadway, clattering above the hum of the powerful engines.

Ahead of Hearne, the two men had fallen flat on the ground. When the sound of motors had died away, they moved quickly towards the nearest cover. They didn’t want to attract any German interest, either. But even if they wanted to avoid the Nazis, that didn’t mean he wanted to meet them. He moved quickly to his left up the sloping hill, working round the edge of the patch of open ground in front of him. He set off impatiently: he was losing time having to make this detour to avoid these two blighters. But his temper improved with the easiness of the ground. He could no longer see the men, but he would allow himself half a mile before he turned back towards the toy railway again. He made it in good enough time, for he found plenty of cover. He blessed the Breton habit of never clearing their fields completely of trees. He had often wondered why the farmers should have taken the trouble, year after year, to plough and reap all round every small tree. Now he felt grateful to them.

The half-mile was covered. Time now, he told himself, to swerve to his right, down through that small wood. Beyond it he would find the railway-line again. It was strange, he thought, to slip so quietly and cautiously through this peaceful countryside, past the small stone houses with their black windows staring at him like sightless eyes, past the sleeping people and the brooding church towers, while down in the valley the Nazi trucks lumbered along with their death-bringing loads.

He had entered the wood, and, for the second time that night, almost fell over the narrow tracks of the railway.

“What the hell—” he thought, and then cursed silently as he realised that he must have been working his way gradually down towards the railway all the time he had thought he was keeping parallel.

And then suddenly a weight hit his knees, two arms were tightly locked round his legs, and he pitched forward on to his face with a grunt as the wind was knocked out of him. When he got back his breath, he found he was pinned to the ground. The larger of the two men was sitting astride him with a firm grasp on the back of his neck, with a strong knee-hold on his arms.

“He’s French.” The boy who was squatting in front of him, watching him gravely, pronounced the verdict in a low whisper. “At least,” the whispered voice went on, “he’s wearing a French uniform. But he may be a Jerry. Never can tell, these days.”

“You should have let me fetch him one, lad,” whispered back the weight across Hearne’s shoulders. The slow drawl and flat overtones were unmistakably Yorkshire.

Hearne thought quickly: maintain he was French and. speak with a bogus English accent, and he’d still lose time in explanations; or he could just speak French, and they’d still argue whether he was friend or foe. He decided to risk it.

“You tackle too high,” he said in English to the big Yorkshireman. The weight on his back shifted.

“Eh, what’s that?”

“You tackle too high. And for Jesus’ sake, don’t raise that voice of yours. Do you want to bring a pack of Nazis down on us, you bloody fool?”

The Yorkshireman dropped his voice again, but there was an angry vehemence in his whisper. “I never tackled high in my whole life.”

“Well, that’s no reason to flatten me now, you blithering idiot.”

“Sounds as if he might be English,” the boy remarked. He was feeling Hearne’s pockets gently. He removed the revolver and slipped it info his own pocket. “Get off, Sam,” he said then.

“Not me,” said Sam, and settled his weight more squarely. “I’m fine as I am.”

Hearne addressed himself to the thin-faced, anxious boy. “Go on, pick up his moosket for him, Wellington. Do you want us all to be caught?”

“What’s your regiment?” the boy asked suddenly.

“Liaison officer,” parried Hearne. “Ninth French Army. Sedan and points west, ever since.”

“Where did you get these clothes?”

“Where did you get yours?” Hearne grinned as he looked at their blue peasant blouses, ill-fitting jackets and ragged corduroy trousers. “Look here, I could talk much better with Sam off my back, and it’s about time we were moving on. I’m in a hurry, if you aren’t. And you might remember that I’d have used my revolver at once if I had been a Jerry.”

“One wrong move from you, me lad, and I’ll flatten you proper,” Sam said placidly, and rose to his feet. He thrust one large red fist under Hearne’s nose for emphasis. “See?”

“I see,” Hearne said with a smile. “And even if it was high, it was a damned good tackle.” Sam only grunted in reply, but an answering grin spread slowly over his large face. Strange couple, thought Hearne: the serious, fair-haired boy, thin and haggard, who spoke such precise clipped English, and the plain Yorkshireman with his broad back and vowels.

“Which way are you heading?” the boy asked. He might have been twenty, but he looked more like seventeen.

“North.”

“Then we can go on together.” His tone was very definite. That would have been his answer if Hearne had said “South.”

“I don’t want to lose that gun,” Hearne said.

The boy smiled. “I’ll look after it very well.” He nodded to Sam, who took his place behind Hearne, and set off without another word.

They covered the next three miles in Indian file, first the boy, then Hearne, with the Yorkshireman bringing up the rear. The pace was surprisingly good. They only had to slow down twice: once when they circumvented a village, once when they struck a broad stretch of completely open ground. Then the choice was either a wide detour up a hillside, or a ten-minute wait for the cotton-wool clouds to spread themselves over the hard, bright stars. The boy, to Hearne’s surprise, chose to wait. It amused Hearne to see how calmly the younger man had taken the command from the start; and he had taken it well. This was the first time that Hearne disagreed with him. And then he remembered that compared to these two men he was fresh and rested. He could only make a guess at how far they had travelled and under what conditions. Even then, like all guesses, his would be short: guesses didn’t tell the half of it. He noticed that the boy’s jacket was too thin: he was shuddering in spite of himself. Sam had noticed that shivering, too. He looked up at the sky and the slow clouds.

“Blast you and blast you and blast you,” he muttered with surprising venom.

Then the light dimmed at last, and they had a few minutes’ grace to cross the open ground. They ran silently with a grim desperation. Ahead of them were some trees, beautiful trees, lovely, trees, gracious trees, noble trees. Hearne sank breathless beside Sam on the cool, shadowed ground.

“I’m a tree-lover for life,” he said, but the others weren’t listening to him. The boy, standing so rigid, suddenly groaned and moved away.

“He’s ill,” said Hearne in alarm, although his voice was no higher than a whisper.

“Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll be all right.” But Sam was anxiously watching the trees behind which his friend had staggered. Hearne started to move, but Sam’s hand stopped him. “He wouldn’t have you near him. Sort of worries him for anyone to hang about him. He has these attacks regular as the clock every hour. Ate something which turns him inside out, even when he hasn’t anything left inside him to turn out.”

They lay and waited. “Pretty bad attack,” Hearne whispered.

“Aye.” Sam was more worried than he had pretended. “Plucky lad all right. Come all the way from a prison camp across the Rhine.” He was talking now for the sake of talking. Hearne welcomed that too.

“Were you with him?”

“No. Met him half-way. I was in Belgium.”

“How the devil did you get as far south as this?”

“There was some of us got lost, and we thought we’d fight our way back to the French. Funny, come to think of it. We landed in a French part of the line all right, and there we were, moving back and moving back, just moving back without ever a stand. It was right discouraging, I can tell you. Then they told us the fight was off, and there we were slap in t’ middle of France. An officer said we were to get a train to where the last English were getting off in boats. But the blasted engine-driver just spat and said the war was over. Then one of the Poles—”

“Poles?”

“Aye, Poles and Belgians and some Czechs and us. A proper tower of Babel, I can tell you. Well, this Pole, he had been an engine-driver, and we threw the Parley-voo off his cab—we were all raving mad, that we were, what with fighting our way south and then being left high and dry—and we started the train.” He paused and listened. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go and see how his nibs is now.” He slipped noiselessly into the further darkness of the trees. Hearne grinned to himself. And what had happened to the train, he wondered. It hadn’t got very far, obviously. He saw the two dim shapes returning to his tree. Sam barked his shin on a stump, and grunted.

“Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,” he said angrily.

“Sorry.” It was the boy. He sat down weakly beside Hearne. “Sorry. Tummy all skew-wiff.” He was wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. Hearne nodded. Cold sweat it would be, and the twisting pains would still be clutching at his stomach and bowels. What he needed was a rest for a couple of days and a starchy diet to cement him up.

“Do you know where you are going?” Hearne asked.

The boy nodded. “Got a man’s name at Dinan. He will take us in his boat down that river towards the coast.”

“Down the Rance? That sounds okay. But can you depend on him?”

“Others have, and managed it. Well, I’m all right now for a while. Let’s move.”

And then once more came the roar of a huge fleet of trucks. Hearne motioned silence, and kept his eyes fixed on his watch. When he had finished, he noted that the boy was looking at him curiously.

“Let’s move,” he said again, and his tone was friendlier. “Can you lend us a map, by any chance? I lost mine while I was having a spot of trouble with a river, and I’m doing this sort of out of my head. We are fairly near Dinan now, aren’t we?”

Hearne hesitated for a moment. “I’ll put you on the road for Dinan. You’ll reach it by dawn,” he said. “And I can give you some stodgy food.” He fished in his pocket and handed over what was left of his rations. “Rest up for a couple of days when you get there,” he added. “Keep warm. Don’t let them feed you shell-fish, or cheese, or butter, or heated wine. The Bretons believe in a wine toddy. It cures a lot of things, but not your trouble. Herbal tea is good, and plain unseasoned macaroni or potatoes. It all tastes rotten, though.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“And you’d better listen to me. You’ve a long sail ahead of you. Now come on.”

This time Hearne led the way.

There were still more roads to cross now, little straggling roads which twisted and turned from village to village. And there was a German patrol to be avoided. They managed that by throwing themselves flat into a ditch beside the road which they had been on the point of crossing. It was unpleasant but effective. The motor-cycles swept past them, and they could breathe again in spite of the mud. When they crawled out of their hiding-place, Hearne looked anxiously at the boy. But the haggard young face gave an attempt at a smile.

“All right for another half-hour, I think,” he said. “Come on, Sam; breakfast in bed tomorrow.” Sam only gave that slow grin of his. And then they were moving silently again: walking, slipping, crouching, crawling, but always moving forward.

They had passed the village Hearne had been expecting. There was no mistaking that church tower. Norman-Gothic, English influence, interesting, the guide-books would say. It was interesting all right. This was where they’d branch off, and he could make up for the time he had lost. Matthews would have been apoplectic if he could have seen him in these last two hours. “Well, I’m damned,” he would say. “Of all the infernal stupidity...”

Hearne halted. He pointed to a line of trees. “There’s your road,” he said. “When you reach it, turn left and that will take you west to Dinan in six miles or so. I’ll leave you here, now that we are getting towards the towns. Three’s a crowd in this game, too.”

They saw reason in that. “By the way, what would have happened if I had put up a real fight or tried to dodge you?” he asked, as they parted.

“Our suspicions would have been aroused,” the boy said. He handed over the revolver to Hearne. He was beginning to shiver again. His eyes were looking towards the line of trees.

“In plain English, I’d’ve twisted, your damned neck with my two bare hands,” Sam said amiably, and then he noticed the shivering too. “Time to be off, lad,” he added, and taking the boy’s arm, pulled him quickly away. Hearne watched them go—two shadows as he had first seen them, merging cautiously into the blackness of the trees.

“With my two bare hands,” he repeated to himself. Then, “See, Matthews?” as if to the stars overhead.

I wonder, he was thinking, just what did happen to that train. Well, he wouldn’t know now. Good chap, that Sam. Hearne remembered how carefully he had listened to his advice about the diet for the boy. Sam would see that young man did rest up. Yes, they were a strange couple all right, each of them thinking he was responsible for the other. That way, even with the odds against them, they might have a chance. For a minute Hearne envied them. The worst of his job was that he was always so completely alone. But, he reminded himself, that could also be the best thing about it, too. He looked at his watch, and smiled to himself as he noted he now called it his quite naturally. He had about four hours left and twelve miles or so to go. If the ground was easy and patrols not too frequent, the distance could be lessened. He should manage it all right.

As he turned eastward, he felt more confident. In these last two hours, he had felt all the old tricks and instincts coming back to him. He was covering the ground more quickly now, decisions were easier, movements were surer. The footling pessimism and nervousness which had attacked him at the beginning of this night were gone. When dawn came he would be home.

4

THE SLEEPING VILLAGE

The last obstinate stars were fading in the sky when Hearne came to Saint-Déodat. His arrival at this hour solved some minor problems for him, for even the early-rising villagers would not yet be stirring. He paused on the path which had brought him so quickly round the curves of these last gentle hills, past the endless slate-roofed farm-houses, past the orchards and well-tilled fields. And right there, just below where he stood, lay Saint-Déodat: fifty, or less, stone houses clustered near the church and its soaring towers. Nothing moved. There was no sound. It seemed a deserted village, asleep in its sheltered hollow.

Hearne repressed his excitement. He had better see how far wrong he had been in his idea of the place, before he started congratulating himself. He had two choices: either he could keep to this path on the hill, rising to the west of the village, until he reached the Corlay farm, or he could cut down to the road and enter the village at the north end. He chose the second course. It was safe enough with the village still asleep. Even if some early bird did see him it would be noted that be came from the north, which fitted in very nicely with his story of walking from the coast. Also, he would feel surer of reaching the Corlay farm if he followed the road through the village, for there were many small farms all remarkably alike scattered over the hillside. It would take some explaining if he were to approach the wrong house and claim it as his. Slight shell-shock would hardly be an adequate excuse. Finally—and this was the chief reason, he admitted to himself quite cheerfully—he just wanted to see Saint-Déodat. He had thought of it constantly in the last three weeks; he had examined drawings, memorised descriptions, made his own sketches. He knew it forwards, backwards, sideways—on paper. Now he had the chance to walk quietly, slowly, through Saint-Déodat, and in the greying light he would see it as it really stood.

It was a compact little village. First, there had been the church, built in the tenth or eleventh century: the two Romanesque towers bore testimony to that. Then, gradually, houses had grouped themselves round it; and a narrow road found its way up between the little hills, from the flat plains of the north-east. By the fourteenth century, Saint-Déodat was a flourishing community. It had a proud castle on the western hill, and feudal overlords to bring it relics from the Holy Land. In the market-place which had formed itself opposite the church, the country people from miles around came to buy and sell. That was when the Gothic part of the church had been added by the prosperous, and grateful, villagers.

“Nothing changes” had been the proud motto of the castle. Saint-Déodat kept faith with it, although the castle now lay in ruins since its last overlord had abandoned the village for the richer graces of Versailles. Hearne wondered if he had still said “Nothing changes” when he had mounted to the guillotine. If he were a true Breton he probably did, just to spite the howling mob. Even as the blade descended, and the unchanging Comte had change thrust upon him, his village asserted itself for the last time in its history. Its people joined the desperate Vendée revolt against the Revolution, and were rewarded by the despoiling of their castle, the burning of their houses, the slaughter of their young men in the market-place. Yet their church, although bruised and crippled, still stood.

The people took courage from it, and when they came back from their hiding-places they rebuilt enough of the destroyed houses to suit their diminished numbers. The market-place once more heard weekly gossip. But after that bloody 1793, the inhabitants of Saint-Déodat avoided trouble by strictly minding their own business. And they had succeeded, at the price of becoming a forgotten village.

Hearne stopped thinking of Saint-Déodat’s past as he reached the narrow road which entered the village. Now he was concentrating on its present. He passed fourteen houses, five of them empty (not only a forgotten village, he amended then, but a dying one; and a deserted one, in years to come, unless something were to happen to rouse Saint-Déodat from self-destruction), and he named them as he went. He could no longer repress his excitement. There was no doubt about it: he could recognise this village.

That was the house of Trouin, carpenter and candlestick-maker. And that belonged to Guézennec, the retired schoolmaster. One small school, Hearne remembered parenthetically, tucked away behind the trees beyond the houses round the marketplace, despised because it was the usurper of the education which the Church should have been allowed to continue. It hadn’t been so bad when Guézennec had been appointed, for he was one of them, and he had been half a priest before he became a schoolteacher. But now there was a young foreigner in the school, a man from Lorient in South Brittany who had studied in Paris. Kerénor was his name. He limped badly. He lived in the little hotel on the market square.

Hearne reached the church. On the far side of the marketplace facing it were grouped the grain dealer, and baker, Guérin; the butcher and veterinary surgeon (kill or cure), Picrel; and Picrel’s mother, the widow who kept the very small, very general store. On the north side of the square was the Town Hall. On the south was the hotel, where the new schoolteacher, Kerénor, lodged. It really was a glorified pub, Hearne decided with a few rooms to let upstairs for occasional commercial travellers and stray summer visitors. It was called quite logically the Hôtel Perro: Madame Perro owned it. She came from somewhere in the east of France, had married a Saint-Déodat man stationed in Lyons during the last war. But her late husband and her twenty-one years’ residence in the village were extenuating circumstances. Now she was only half a foreigner.

Beyond the church, the road passed the curé’s house. Hearne heard the sound of running water. That would be the stream from the western hillside, flowing under the road into the curé’s garden (and there, on either side of the road ahead of him, were the two short stretches of stone wall to prove his guess and give the effect of a bridge). But he wouldn’t have time now to explore the meadows below the church, with their little lake in which the stream ended. The sky was changing to a greenish-grey. He increased his pace to pass the last row of houses. Another Trouin lived there; and there, another Picrel; and some “negligibles.” The word had been Corlay’s. Seemingly the Corlays didn’t know the “negligibles.” And then he was across the piece of road which formed the bridge, and he had reached the path which led west from the road to the Corlay farm.

He paused there for a moment to look back. So that was Saint-Déodat or at least the main part of it. There were also the small farms scattered around the village. He had a feeling that he would know the fields better than the village before the end of his stay. It was through them that his business lay.

The path led him up through a thin wood. And then he was walking over Pinot’s land. He could see the blue, slate roof of its farm-house glinting in the first rays of the morning sun. He hurried. He was glad of the soft white mist which was rising from the grass.

When the Pinot farm had been safely passed, he let himself admit that he hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic about crossing these fields. He looked back over his shoulder. Only the last edge of the farm-house roof was visible. And under that was Anne Pinot... Anne Pinot; just another of the minor headaches on this job. “And, by heaven, I’ll keep her minor,” he said savagely to himself. After all, it wasn’t the first time that a man had come back from a war, and had seemed changed. It would be better to seem cold rather than to assume affection that was false; it would be kinder in the long run, for when the war was over the real Corlay would return. Not that Corlay had displayed marked sentiment when he had mentioned her name. “Arranged,” he had said. “Practical and suitable. The farm is next to ours. If they were joined, they would form the biggest farm in Saint-Déodat, and my mother and old Pinot would stop quarrelling about the dovecote.”

The farm is next to... Why, of course, he must be now on Corlay ground. To prove it, he saw the dovecote rising out of the mist on his right, a round tower of grey stone with a pointed cap of blue slate, marking the border of the two farms. He should soon see the Corlay house. He couldn’t miss it, not on this path. “Stop it, you fool,” he told himself. “You’re too anxious again. That won’t do.” He could look tired, ill, unkempt—and he probably did—but not anxious. He, Bertrand Corlay, was reaching home at last, weary and bitter, impatient of foolish questions and futile answers. He only wanted to be left in peace, to brood in his room, to take solitary walks over the fields. It would only be natural if he couldn’t bear the sight of a German. And all that could be convincingly managed if he didn’t start worrying; if, he grimly reminded himself, he managed to get through the next half-hour. He could almost hear Matthews saying, “Worry before, and you’ll be prepared. Worry afterwards, and you’ll keep your feet on the ground. But don’t worry during action; that’s fatal.” Well, he had worried plenty in the last three weeks over the smallest detail. Even Matthews would have been almost satisfied with his preparations. And he might have some memories, before he finished this job, which would worry him afterwards. But now...well, now the Corlay farm-house was just fifty paces away. Hearne braced himself.

There was a short path of rough stones, patched together in the rich black earth. On one side of the two-storeyed house were apple-trees; on the other, a hayfield almost ripe for cutting. The narrow windows were tightly shut and screened. But smoke was thickening above the chimney, as if someone had just thrown more wood on the night embers. He skirted the corner of the building, following the path into the back courtyard of the farm. The door ahead of him lay open.

5

THE FARM

The woman, stooping in front of the enormous stone fireplace, half turned as she heard the footsteps on the path. The man halted in the doorway and leaned against its heavy wooden post. His black hair was dishevelled, falling over his high forehead to shadow the melancholy brown eyes. His high cheek-bones added to the gauntness of his face, grey in the cold early-morning light. A heavy growth of short black hair shaded the outline of his jaw. His blue jacket was faded and torn. His heavy boots were so encrusted with mud that his feet looked swollen.