Assignment in Brittany (3 page)

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?”