Colette
Copyright© 2022 by Iskander
Chapter 7
December 1941 – May 1942
In the morning the sky cleared, with rags of cloud from the previous day’s rain fleeing before the breeze. We made use of the privy and the pump in the yard, spending the morning in silence. About midday I heard the rattle of what I suspected was a bicycle. Both of us grabbed our pistols and Colonel Rémy slipped out of the door. I waited by the bedroom window, watching through a crack in the shutters.
Marcel clambered off his bicycle with a large bag. As before, he brought a meal.
Colonel Rémy walked out to him. “Tell Jacques to meet us at the farm outside Fongueusemare by nine o’clock, with the landing lights.”
Marcel nodded, mounted the bicycle and waved. “Au revoir.”
The rest of the day passed in deep silence, each of us with our own thoughts. Idle talk could reveal personal details of other people that might assist the Boche if interrogated. As dusk fell, Colonel Rémy roused me and we ate the remaining food.
“We’ll leave here in an hour. There’s a half-hour walk and then we’ll meet my crew and head to the landing site.”
At the appointed time we set off across the fields carrying my cases and met Colonel Rémy’s crew waiting in a car. The combination of farm tracks at night without any lights and this driver was a wild experience I don’t want to repeat. On one occasion we skidded along the edge of a ditch for several metres.
Once we arrived, Colonel Rémy walked the field to find the driest line and directed his crew to set up the lights in the usual L-shaped pattern, without turning them on.
“Shall I leave the radio case on the back seat?” I asked Colonel Rémy.
He nodded.
We waited in the hedgerow until we heard the faint sound of an aeroengine. The sound grew and Colonel Rémy flashed his torch in the recognition signal. The plane flashed back. Colonel Rémy turned on the landing light at this end and then directed his torch down the landing line, flashing his crew there to turn on their lights.
From there things went as planned: once landed, the Lysander taxied back to where we waited and we offloaded several inbound cases. I hoisted my case up and clambered in after them. The pilot opened the throttle as I settled into my seat. We bounced down the field as I struggled with my straps, just getting them fastened as we lifted over the trees.
I found and fitted my headset. “Good morning, thanks for the lift.”
I saw the pilot’s quick smile lit by the dim red glow from the instruments before he returned to scanning ahead, where the treetops flew past just below the nose.
My headset crackled. “Good morning to you, ma’am. I think I saw a night fighter above me when I crossed the coast, so we’ll stay low and lost in the weeds.”
I nodded: they had no chance of picking us up in the clutter of ground returns. “What about the coastal flak?”
“That’s not a problem. We’ll slip out through a gap,” In the dim, red light, I watched his finger following a track line on his map.
Minutes later I caught a glimpse of the channel ahead of us and we sped across some dunes with a finger of tracer groping for us across the sky.
I heard the smile in the pilot’s voice. “They’re awake.”
“I thought we were going through a gap?”
The pilot risked a quick glance in my direction. “There are bunkers dotted all up and down the coast. Sometimes they’re sufficiently awake to fire wildly in my direction – but all they hit is empty sky.”
The rest of the trip passed in silence and we landed safely at Tempsford.
We taxied in and the propeller jerked to a stop, the engine ticking as it cooled. I lifted off my headset and smiled at the pilot. “Thanks for the ride.”
“A pleasure ma’am.”
I chuckled, noticing the flight lieutenant bars on his shoulders. “I’m not a ma’am, sir – I’m just a corporal.”
The pilot turned from his door, admiration on his face. “Ma’am, what you’ve been doing in France makes you “ma’am” in my book.” He held my gaze for a second and then climbed down.
I found an LAC waiting for me. “Hand down the bags, ma’am.”
I let that go and lifted my radio and case from behind me, passing it to the LAC.
He picked it up. “Follow me. Please ma’am.”
He led me to a black staff car with blacked out windows waiting on the concrete, depositing my cases in the boot. As we approached, the rear door swung open towards me and I climbed in – to find Maurice Buckmaster sitting there.
“Welcome back, Miss Roberts,” he said with a nod of acknowledgement. “We’re heading back to London so relax. We’ll debrief back at HQ later today.” He passed me a thermos and a pack of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. “Breakfast.”
Does he meet all returning agents?
The hot, sweet tea was welcome, if a trifle awkward in the back of a moving vehicle and I ate one of the inevitable meat-paste sandwiches. All the while Mr Buckmaster read through papers in the dim lamp light, pulling folder after folder from his case, occasionally scribbling a note. As I wedged myself into the corner trying to sleep, he glanced at me and then returned to his work.
Does he ever sleep?
I woke as we negotiated the streets into London, pulling up in front of a building I recognised in Montagu Square.
Mr Buckmaster leaned across with a smile. “Here’s the keys. Your usual room awaits. Report back to HQ by twelve hundred hours.”
“Yes, sir.” I stifled a yawn.
I climbed out and the driver handed me my case. “Thank you.”
I watched him climb back in and the car depart, then turned wearily, climbed the steps and turned the key in the front door. When I arrived at flat 2, Claire greeted me, dressed for work.
“Welcome back. The same room’s ready and I expect you’d like a bath?”
“Yes, please.”
She nodded. “There’s a bag in your room with all your stuff. I’ll see you at HQ later today.”
I smiled my thanks and headed to the bedroom. Thirty minutes later I set my alarm for eleven and dropped into bed.
I found my ID card and pass in my bag when the alarm woke me. I had no uniform so I dressed in civvies but my ID card and pass made my arrival at HQ simple. I needed no escort through to section F where they told me Mr Buckmaster wanted to speak to me shortly, so I took a seat.
He appeared, a briefcase swinging from one hand. “Come with me please Miss Roberts. We’re off to a meeting in the War Office.”
I jumped to my feet. “Sir.”
He led me to the back of the building and a waiting car. Once seated, he turned to me. “There will be senior officers at this meeting and I don’t want you browbeaten by anyone.” He frowned. “You’re the person with recent experience of Bruneval. If people ask you things that you don’t know, say so. If you state an opinion, explain your reasons for it.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
The guard outside the offices inspected our passes and waved us through the sandbagged entrance into an imposing building of Portland stone. As we entered, a naval lieutenant turned from chatting with the female receptionist, also in naval uniform.
“Mr Buckmaster?”
“Yes – and my assistant.”
“Come with me.”
We followed him up the polished stairs of this Victorian edifice, where only the cross-hatched tape on the windows nodded towards the war. He gestured us into a conference room where half a dozen officers from the three services sat. I smothered a gasp – there were a Group Captain, a Rear Admiral and a Brigadier General at the table – a daunting collection of brass – along with a sprinkling of junior officers. My stomach lurched and I tried to swallow the inevitable butterflies.
The Rear Admiral remained seated as we entered. “Ah, Mr Buckmaster, I presume.”
“Sir.”
“Well, sit down, sit down – and please introduce us to your assistant.”
Mr Buckmaster remained standing. “I’m sorry, sir, but I understood that my assistant would remain anonymous, for security reasons.”
The senior officers leaned back in their chairs, spreading a distinctly frosty silence, unused to refusal.
The Rear Admiral frowned and Mr Buckmaster returned his gaze without wavering. A long second of silence passed before the Rear Admiral dropped his eyes and nodded. “Very well.” He turned to me. “Welcome, er ... Miss.” He nodded at a naval lieutenant who removed a cloth covering from the wall, revealing the photomosaic I had seen at RAF Tempsford.
“Miss ... er ... Miss, please walk us through the troop dispositions around Bruneval.”
I glanced at Mr Buckmaster who sent me on my way with an encouraging nod. I walked round the table to the photomosaic, trying to summon some saliva into my dry mouth. I stared at the map, bringing my thoughts into an organised stream.
“The troops in the area are garrison troops – conscripts from the Baltic states overrun by the Nazis.” I stopped and half turned to my audience – I’d been speaking to the map. I swallowed the sudden excess of saliva. “They have some regular Wehrmacht NCOs and the officers are Wehrmacht. They man the shore defences at Bruneval all the time – at least six troops armed with machine guns in each of the three bunkers, including the command bunker, which has a flak cannon as well as a machine gun.” I tapped each of the bunkers on the photomosaic with a trembling finger. “They can take up to thirty minutes to muster.” I saw the Brigadier General sniff at that news. “Their barracks are here,” I stiffened my hand to suppress the trembling before I tapped the map. “And this is the path from their barracks down to the village.” I turned from the mosaic. “The Maquis provided this information. I did not go into the village myself.”
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