Ormerod's Landing (23 page)

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sound and, standing up, put her fingers beneath the material and released it from the inside.

'Thanks,' he said. 'My mother was always having to do that.'

She considered his whole body, touched his arms and the
middle of his chest and then his throat. When she leaned against
him her short hair was just below his chin. 'It is so cold in here,'
she said. 'Keep me from being cold.'

He stood with his arms warming her, letting her do the next
thing. She did, unbuckling his belt and deftly undoing his front buttons. The slim flats of her hands went down the hair of his
loins and the thick tops of his legs. He leaned to her and let
his hands caress her back, rubbing her infinitesimally, gently scratching her backbone, letting his fingers run along the tight
skin cleft between her buttocks. She became at once limp and drowsy and encouraged him to the floor. He bent with her and
almost fell on top of her. Regaining his balance he lowered her
to the rough mattress. Lying there, fragile with his large body arched on hands and knees above her, she looked up and,
reaching out for his neck, pulled him carefully down on top of
her. He pulled the second blanket over them.

'You are a very considerate lover, Dodo,' she said eventually,
when they were quiet afterwards.

'It's my nature,' he smiled at her in the half-light. There were
dark circles round the notable eyes.

'I think it is,' she said. 'You will never achieve anything.' She kissed him goodnight. 'We must sleep. Pull the blankets across
us. Tomorrow there are things of importance for us to do.'

In the early summer of 1940 the Normandy spa of Bagnoles de
l'Orne was declared an Open Town, a Red Cross centre for the
wounded of all armies from the fighting in Northern France, and, since all sides acknowledged this, it remained untouched by either troops or bombers. French, German and British
wounded were taken there from the last dying battles of France
and were treated by Germans and French doctors.

The town had long been a delectable situation, in the embrace of a large forest, with a lake at its centre and the famed thermal springs along the road going towards the twin resort
of Tesse la Madeleine. Before the war it was a place of invalid

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carriages, some of then steam-propelled, hotels of the upmost gentility, a demure racecourse, a casino, and widespread parks and lawns where those who had come to take the cure could sit or walk as well as they were able.

The thermal bathhouse was closed in 1940, one of the more unusual casualties of the war, and as the armies fought, advanced, retreated, won and lost, so the wounded and the maimed were brought into Bagnoles. For them the healing spa waters would have been to say the least, inadequate. But all the hotels were requisitioned and turned into hospitals or quarters for medical staff. The six storey Grand Hotel in the Avenue Phillipe du Rozier, facing the central lake, became a hospital for officers, all belligerents agreeing that commissioned wounded men were distinct from non-commissioned wounded.

At Tesse la Madeleine an ambitious mock-Renaissance chateau, towered and turreted and set amid some of the most imposing trees in Europe, became the headquarters of the German medical staff. The chateau, built on a shoulder of rising ground, was approached by two wide, circling roads, with lawns descending through the strong trees and flowering shrubs.

It was at this place, on the first Thursday of October 1940, that General Wolfgang Groemann, the military commander of the district and the man who had bought the bells at Villedieu, arrived at ten o'clock in the morning at the start of a visit to the medical establishment, where he was to meet French and German doctors and talk to the wounded of all nationalities in the hospitals.

Three hours before the general's car arrived at Tesse, before it was light, Ormerod was woken in the organ loft of the church by a touch on his cheek. He sat up to see Marie-Thérèse crouching a yard away clicking pieces of the sub-machine gun together. 'It is time, Dodo,' she whispered through the chill, leaden light. 'We must be on our way.'

'You haven't been doing that jigsaw puzzle all night have you?' he yawned, pulling a face at the gun. She permitted herself a smile but she did not look at him. Eventually the trapdoor opened and the Frenchman who always delivered the food came in. He had coffee and rolls. 'Room service,' said Ormerod.

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They drank the coffee silently and Ormerod put one of the rough rolls in his pocket, thinking he might need it later. They descended the wooden stairs into the vestry of the church. Even as they went down Ormerod saw the white, bare head of Jean Le Blanc almost illuminated in the half dawn. The ponderous eyes came up to meet him. In them he saw disdain and trouble. 'Morning,' said Ormerod politely.

'It is important,' said the big, pallid man, ignoring the greeting, 'that you today get into the Grand Hotel, which is now, of course, a hospital. There are some wounded British in there so it is possible that you will find the man you are looking for.' He glanced up, looking for the interest in Ormerod's eyes. He saw it. 'But most important is that you get into the room - the ward you call it - on the top floor of the building, the sixth floor, and that you remain there until members of our group arrive.'

Ormerod looked at him suspiciously 'What's going to happen? Am I allowed to know?'

'Later you will know,' said Marie-Thérèse at his elbow. 'It is important that the way to the ward is kept open. That there is no one who would stop us getting in there.'

'How do I get in?'

'We have a French doctor who has agreed to help. It was difficult,' said Le Blanc, 'but we were able to get him to assist us in the end. He will meet you and he will see you get to the ward. It may be that you are disguised as a casualty.' He smiled thinly. 'You will be able to spend the day in bed. Leave your gun here with us.'

Ormerod felt the doubts filling him. He glanced at Marie-Thérèse. 'There need be no worry on your conscience,' she said, knowing the meaning of the look. 'The Boche have no conscience when they take people to their concentration camps. They have already started doing that to people in Paris. The Jews in Paris now wear a yellow star.'

Ormerod nodded. 'I'm here to do what you say anyway,' he shrugged. 'Is it possible to know what the plan is? What you are going to do?'

Jean Le Blanc shook his large head. 'You will see in time,
Monsieur l'Anglais,'
he remarked in his mocking way. 'Until

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then you will have to imagine.
We
know what we are doing and that is the important matter, you understand.'

'All right, I understand,' said Ormerod, who did not. He
stood waiting for them. There was still no light over the streets
although the thin echo of a cock crow could be heard from what seemed like miles away. They were waiting for something, apparently listening.

'I heard a cock crow,' he said helpfully. 'That wasn't a signal
was it?'

Marie-Thérèse looked at him impatiently. 'A cock crow is
not a good signal at this time of the day,' she said. 'Many cocks
crow. It would be confusing.'

Whatever the signal was, Ormerod never heard it. Perhaps they were waiting for a set time. They stood like people deep in thought or prayer. Then Jean Le Blanc raised his eyes and
nodded. 'It is time now,' he said. 'There is a man outside with a
bicycle for you. He will take you to the Grand Hotel where
our comrade the doctor is waiting. He will know what to do.'

Not much surprised Ormerod now. He touched the side of
Marie-Thérèse's hand with his thumb and said: 'Good luck.'

'Good luck, Dodo,' she answered soberly. 'For all of us.'

He went out into the stiff morning air. Just outside the door was a man who looked like a farm labourer or a road digger, his rough coat tied round his middle with string, his head covered by a beret like a black mushroom. Ormerod felt he ought to give the man a nod, which he did although it was
wasted because there was no response. Instead the man pushed
a bicycle towards him, a skeletal machine, the like of the one he had himself.

'Forgot my clips,' apologized Ormerod, tucking his trousers
into his socks. 'Hang on, will you.'

He took the bicycle from the man and mounted it uneasily. He could feel the rust coming off on his hands. Fortunately it
took his weight and he wobbled off down the grey and vacant
street, the wheels bumping irritably on the cobbles. The man rode a yard ahead, his machine emitting a low rheumy squeak
as he pedalled. The journey was less than a mile. They saw no
movement except a dog scratching itself by the chilly lake.
There were some weary, early lights showing from intermittent

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windows in the hospital buildings all around. Eventually the Frenchman's bicycle trembled as he slowed down and turned into a tight alley behind a building that Ormerod could see was the Grand Hotel. The neglected lettering above the curved doorway showed in the illumination of a central lamp over the yellow brickwork. The rest of the building was oblong and institutional, facing the main road and with its back looking out across the lake upon which the initial glimmer of the October day was feeling its way with exaggerated caution.

The Frenchman muttered
'La',
the only word he ever spoke to Ormerod, as an indication that they had arrived. Ormerod found the brake on his machine reluctant to work and he had to stop it with his feet. They had arrived at a doorway, squares of anaemic yellow light showing through the panes. A man in a white coat was waiting inside and as soon as the bicycles had arrived he came hurriedly but furtively out of the door. He looked at the two men, decided which one was Ormerod and said: 'Please.' He turned and walked back into the building. Ormerod lifted a half wave in the direction of his previous escort but the man was already pedalling away.

Inside the door it was much warmer. The white-coated man gave him a smile like death itself and nodded towards a side door. Ormerod went in. It was a bare room except for three wooden chairs, a cupboard and a pyramid of grim plasma bottles. Deciding it was too early in the day to study them Ormerod turned towards the nervous doctor and said: 'Well?'

The Frenchman had a filed down face, with two little rabbit teeth jutting over the lower lip. His head was a route of ashen skin from forehead to crown. Ormerod had never seen anyone's eyes appear to tremble before but this man's did.

I speak English a little,' he muttered. I am frightened very much. What I have to do I wish to do
toute suite,
you see?'

'Right,' said Ormerod, feeling sympathy for the frightened man. 'Let's get on with it. What do I have to do?'

The doctor rummaged in the cupboard in the corner and brought out a drab dressing gown and a pair of creased flannel pyjamas. "They are unclean,' he said apologetically. 'A little blood. But it is not possible to get clean things. They count

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each one. And it is better that you should be a patient who has been here for some time.'

Ormerod looked disgustedly at the garments. 'What happened to the last bloke?' he said.

'Gone away,' muttered the doctor, holding out the pyjamas impatiently.

Ormerod caught the look in those shaking eyes. 'Dead, eh?' he said.

'He was bad,' shrugged the doctor. 'Please hurry.'

'Looks like he could have died of septic poisoning wearing these,' muttered Ormerod, looking at the dirty garments. The pyjamas made him angry. He took them from the thin anxious fingers, and began to take off his clothes. 'Turn your back please,' he said ill-humouredly to the doctor. The doctor almost spat at him in his hurry. Ormerod rolled his clothes up under his arm. He wanted to have them near when he needed them. The pyjamas stank of disinfectant. He could hardly bear the touch of them on his skin. He took the robe, only marginally less repellent, and put it on. By the time he had done this the Frenchman was already urging him from the door.

'All right, I'm coming,' grumbled the Englishman under his breath. He followed the man down a yellow-brick corridor, then into a noisy lift. To his horror there was a dead man lying on a stretcher in the lift, his face taut with the nastiness of his going. The doctor took no more notice than he would have taken of a bag of laundry. Ormerod grimaced and wondered which army the man had died for. He had a sudden, outlandish feeling that the cadaver might be Smales. That would be poetic. But not even death could diminish the muscles of Smales that much. He decided it was not. They went to the top of the building and the Frenchman opened the gates with increasing nervousness. 'Please,' he kept whispering. 'Please,
s'il vous plait.'
¹

They reached what was obviously the door to a ward and the doctor put a cautious hand out to slow him down. He had to look like a casualty. The man's hand shook so violently on the muscle of his arm that Ormerod had to put his other hand on it to steady it. He thought a brief moment of gratefulness appeared in the Frenchman's eyes.

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Now they were at the paned door of the ward. Looking through Ormerod saw the double line of beds, the wan day
light coming through the big windows and lighting the room as
it might light a graveyard. The Frenchman pushed at the doors and attempted to guide Ormerod in. There was a male nurse
at one end of the ward in a yolk of yellow light. He saw them coming and obviously expected them although whether he was
part of the conspiracy or not Ormerod never discovered. He came down between the beds and nodded towards a vacant
iron bedstead where the sheets were already drawn back. Or
merod was relieved to see that they were apparently clean for they were straight and sharp on the mattress.