Into the Iron Shadows, page 23
What was she doing here? She should be home with a husband and small children, not gallivanting across Europe in the middle of a war. But here she was, and there was nothing he could do about her fate, whatever it might be. Her life was in his hands, and his hands were bound by the Abwehr. If they gave the order, he would shoot her without thinking twice. If they didn’t, she would live to see another day. It was the way of it.
Turning, he retraced his steps to return to the car. At least he knew she was still there. That was all he needed to see to be able to rest easy. He hadn’t lost her again. She was right where she should be.
And when she left, he would be right there to follow her.
Evelyn made herself as comfortable as possible on the back seat of the Renault. She was surrounded by food. Her suitcase had been stowed in the storage compartment at the back, along with Josephine’s and Finn’s, in order to make room for the provisions around her. In addition to the basket of vegetables that she’d purchased the day before, there was an old wine crate filled with two loaves of bread, fresh out of the oven just before they left, three bottles of wine, and two large jugs filled with water. Yves had insisted on all of it, telling them that he didn’t want to think of them on their journey without the basic necessities. When Finn had laughingly questioned the wine as a necessity, he was met with exclamations of outrage. Evelyn smiled now, glancing at the wine. As the sun was just breaking over the horizon, turning the sky from black to gray, Finn had learned to never question a Frenchman’s wine.
“Are you comfortable?” Finn asked, glancing back at her. “There isn’t much room, is there?”
“I’m perfectly all right,” she assured him with a smile. “I wish Yves would have taken more for all of this. He would only allow me to pay him for the petrol.”
“I’m still wondering why he has a store of it in his cellar,” Josephine said. “It’s ridiculously expensive, and getting more and more scarce. Farmers don’t have it for their tractors, yet he has a cellar full of it.”
“He’s a smart man, Monsieur Michaud,” Finn said, turning his eyes back to the road in front of him. “He can sell it, as he did to us, or use it to bargain with for food and supplies.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Josephine said. “How horrible that it’s come to that!”
“Finn, when you get tired, I can drive for a while,” Evelyn said, shifting in her seat.
“You can drive?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes. I enjoy it.”
“Then I will be happy to share the driving with you.” He glanced at Josephine. “I know you can, but don’t like to.”
“No. I hate it, and I’m not very good. I’ll leave it to both of you,” she said cheerfully. “I’m a much better navigator. I’ll take charge of the map!”
Evelyn watched rolling fields speed by the window as Finn skirted around the city of Reims on his way to the road that would take them south. Before leaving Yves’ house, they had listened to the wireless receiver, trying to determine where the advancing troops were, and where they were going. By all accounts, the Germans were still heading west. They were converging on Calais, no doubt with an aim to make it impossible for Allied soldiers to move south. While that was bad news for the BEF, it was good news for them. It meant that once they were going towards Paris, they should be out of the range of any more German divisions. At least, for the time being.
“When you reach Bordeaux, what then?” Josephine asked, breaking the silence some time later. “Will there be a boat waiting for you?”
“I don’t think so.” Evelyn shifted her attention from the passing countryside. “I’m to go to a café and ask for a man there. Then I’m to contact London.”
“How?”
“I have absolutely no idea. I presume the man I’m to make contact with will have a way. If not, I can send an encoded telegram.” Evelyn shifted in her seat. “He didn’t give a time frame, so I assume transport will be sent when he receives word that we’ve arrived.”
“Is it always so vague?”
Evelyn chuckled. “No. I usually have my transportation waiting for me.”
“I suppose this isn’t the usual situation,” Josephine mused. “If you’re meeting a contact, I think I’ll leave you before you enter Bordeaux, if you don’t mind. I don’t want the risk of anyone involved seeing me with you. I hope it’s not offending you, but I will need to start a new life without any ties.”
“Of course I understand,” Evelyn assured her. “You need to be discreet now.”
Finn looked at Josephine. “You are not going to Marseilles?”
“No. I’ve decided Bordeaux will be better,” she said with a shrug. “It’s best to go where no one knows me as me, now that I am someone else.”
“Ah, of course.” Finn’s brow cleared in sudden understanding. “I understand.”
“It will be exciting,” Evelyn said after a minute. “You can start fresh. You have an open, blank page before you.”
“Yes, if we ever get there,” Josephine murmured, staring ahead.
Evelyn raised her eyebrow and leaned forward to look through the windshield. She stared at the traffic ahead of them. Cars, trucks, carts, bicycles: if it could move, it seemed as if it was on the road.
“What on earth?” she breathed. “Already? I thought we’d at least make it past Paris before we ran into this!”
“It looks like everyone and their mother is going south,” Finn said, slowing his speed as they approached the much slower-moving traffic. “This is worse than it was in Belgium!”
Evelyn sat back in her seat, suppressing a sigh. Finn was right. It looked as if most of northern France was on the road going south.
It was going to be a long drive.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry was eating dinner alone in the hotel restaurant when the maître d’ approached his table, an envelope in his gloved hand.
“I’m sorry to intrude, sir. A telegram for you,” he said, bowing apologetically and holding out the envelope.
“Thank you.”
Henry took the telegram and laid it next to his plate while he continued eating. Once the man had disappeared back to his post at the front of the restaurant, he laid down his knife and fork. He had left instructions at the front desk for them to bring any telegrams to the restaurant immediately. They had done as asked, and he was conscious of a sense of relief as he tore it open. He’d received a message from London this morning, instructing him to return the following day. Once he was back in England, it would be more difficult for his contact in Bern to reach him. Thankfully, he’d responded before that became necessary.
FARMER DID HAVE DAUGHTER. NAME ISABELLE. MARRIED FRENCHMAN. MOVED TO FRANCE TWO YEARS AGO. LIVES IN BORDEAUX.
He folded the message and tucked it into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket before picking up his utensils once more. She lived here in France. That settled it, then. It had to have been the daughter that got off the plane that morning. He’d missed her, but it didn’t matter now. He knew where she had gone.
A surge of satisfaction mixed with excitement went through him as he cut into his fish. All he had to do was go to Bordeaux and find her. He could pose as an old friend of her father’s. He had no doubt that he would learn everything he needed to know. He could be very charming and persuasive when he wanted to be.
A frown marred his forehead. He was supposed to leave for London in the morning, but that would have to be put off. He couldn’t use his work in Paris as an excuse; that was finished as of today. He also couldn’t use social engagements as an excuse, for those were scarce in Paris now. It would have to be something else. Something they wouldn’t question.
He had almost finished his dinner and was sipping his wine when the answer came to him. It was so simple, it was almost laughable that he hadn’t thought of it immediately. He would request a few days to spend in France before the Germans made travel impossible. He only needed a week, at most, to find the woman in Bordeaux and question her. It would take much longer than that for the German troops to turn their attention to Paris. They were too busy with the coast at the moment. There was no reason for London to deny him a few days to say goodbye to France. It was no secret that he had spent many summers here, or that he had family here. No, it wouldn’t be questioned. He would wire them as soon as he’d finished his dessert.
And in the morning he would set about locating the farmer’s daughter.
Somewhere over Calais
Miles looked to his right as Mother led them across the Channel towards Calais. The entire squadron was up today, flying support over the port city after German bombers had repeatedly dropped loads on them over the course of a couple of days. Miles had yet to see any of the blighters over the French coast, but today it was expected to be different. Two Spitfires from another squadron had been shot down this morning, and the presence of both 109s and Stukas had increased over the city. Ashmore, their CO, had informed them tersely in their briefing that there were English troops trapped in Calais. The Germans had them under heavy fire, and the fighters and Stukas had been called in by the Germans for air support. With the Luftwaffe wreaking havoc on the men below, they were bound to see some scraps at last. They had taken off from their forward base in the south of England in order to give them as much fuel over the target as possible, but even so they wouldn’t have very long. They had to try to get as many Jerries as they could in the short time they would have, and then hightail it home before they exhausted their fuel. As Ashmore had said, make every shot count.
“Blue Leader to Command. Approaching Vector 2-1-0.”
Mother’s voice came over his headset and he glanced to his left at his flight leader. They were flying in formation and Miles pressed his lips together, glancing back at the tail-end Charlie. It was the new pilot officer, Perry. He shook his head and turned his attention forward again. He was too far away. He had to get closer to the rest of them. Right now, he was ripe for the picking for some Jerry pilot. The tail-end Charlie, or last in line in formation, was the pilot most exposed and at risk for a surprise attack from above and behind. It didn’t matter if it was a new pilot or a veteran, it was the worst place to be in formation. There was no one to protect your flank, so unless you had eyes in the back of your head, your first hint that a fighter was behind you was when you were shot.
“Command to Blue Leader. Received. And good luck.”
The male officer replying from HQ sounded both very young and very eager. Miles shook his head again. He supposed he must have been like that once, but he honestly didn’t remember it.
“You heard the man, lads,” Mother said cheerfully. “We’re approaching vector, so keep your eyes peeled. Blue 5, close up, for God’s sake! You’re too far away!”
Miles looked back again and watched as Perry pulled closer to Chris. At least now he was closer to the formation, and not such a blatantly easy target. He turned his eyes to the skies above them, scanning constantly. If the 109s were there, they would be up in the sun. He’d learned that fast enough. The Messerschmitt fighters liked to dive down with the light behind them, making them almost invisible until it was too late.
“Tally ho!” Rob sang out. “There they are! Seven o’clock!”
Miles looked down and spotted a swarm of Junker 87s below them. Stukas. The small, deadly dive bombers that were causing such havoc on their troops were approaching the ports and preparing to begin their diving runs.
“Right. I see them. Let’s stop them before the—”
“Fighters!” Chris cried, cutting off Mother. “Coming in fast!”
Miles whipped his head around and broke formation, banking right and arching up to engage the one closest to him. Within seconds, he and Chris were in the middle of a swarm of 109s while the rest of their formation scattered to engage the rest of the fighters. Only Mother and Rob continued for the now-diving Stukas.
“Go get ‘em, boys!” Chris called out, drawing a grin from Miles despite the mess they were in. “We’ll keep these bastards off you!”
“You’ll have to get the one off your tail first,” Slippy said, his voice sounding breathless.
Conversation ended as the dogfight shifted into a twisting, writhing battle of wills. Miles had just got away from one, looping around behind it to get into firing range, when another shot into his peripheral vision and dodged behind him. With a grunt, Miles abandoned his target and banked left, leading the 109 into a tight upward spiral. A few seconds later, he was able to spin out of it and dive below the little fighter. Swinging around, he blinked against the glare of the sun and focused on the thick black cross painted on the gray underwing. He pressed the button on his control column and felt his aircraft shudder as bullets streamed out of the .303 Browning machine guns. His bullets soared past the fighter and he released the button, breaking away with a low curse. The fighter twisted around and Miles was forced to take evasive action, diving down to avoid a stream of return fire.
“Perry! On your tail!” Slippy called out, breaking the radio silence.
Miles glanced over to see two 109s behind the new pilot. Cursing again, he rolled to the left to avoid another stream of bullets from the fighter behind him, keeping one eye on Perry. If he could just get away from this bastard, he was in a perfect position to pick off that second fighter behind him!
Another stream of bullets went by his canopy and Miles sucked in his breath. That was too close! He twisted his head to find his opponent and saw that two were now behind him.
“Miles! You’ve got two!” Chris called.
“Never mind me, Yank. Help Perry!”
With those words, he led his two opponents into a steep climb, opening the throttle. As soon as they committed to the ascent, he broke right and dove, out-maneuvering them to come up behind them. This time when he held the button on his column, he had the satisfaction of watching his bullets tear into the wing of the one closest to him. He banked left as the wing came apart and the small aircraft spun out of control.
“Got you, you bastard.”
Turning, he dove down to try to help Perry. The fight had moved further away, the writhing bevy of fighters below and to the right of him. Chris was on the tail of the second fighter behind Perry, leaving only one for him to contend with, but the new pilot was no match for the German behind him. Miles watched helplessly as smoke began pouring from Perry’s Spit. The 109 broke away as Perry went into a dive, thick black clouds pouring out around the airplane.
“Bail out, you idiot,” Miles whispered, watching as the plane continued to plummet towards the Channel. Then, in a blast of black and orange, the Spitfire exploded.
Miles squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then turned his attention to the fighter who was responsible. He scowled. The fighter was gone. Twisting his head behind him, his scowl grew. The one behind him had disappeared as well.
“They’re all gone!” Slippy gasped.
And he was right. The swarm of German fighters had disappeared just as quickly as they had arrived.
“They’re out of fuel!” Miles exclaimed.
“And so am I,” Chris announced breathlessly. “Or I will be. Where are the others?”
Miles looked around but could see no sign of the Stukas, Mother, or Rob. Their fighting had moved them away from Calais and over the water.
“On their way home if they’re looking at their gauges,” Slippy said. “Miles?”
“I don’t see them. Let’s head home while we still have the fuel.” He looked at his gauges and turned his nose for England. “They’ll make it back.”
The other two fell into formation next to him and they opened their throttles, heading back over the Channel. Ten minutes later, the white cliffs came into view before them, rising up out of the choppy water in a long, pale and welcoming beacon. Relief mixed with sorrow went through Miles, and he lifted a hand to wipe sweat off his face. He was coming home, but young Perry would never see this beautiful sight again. He had flown his last hour in a Spitfire.
“God that’s a pretty sight,” Chris said as they approached.
“Yes, it is,” Miles replied, his chest tight. “It’s home.”
Evelyn rubbed her face and leaned forward to stare out of the windshield at the chaos around them. They had been able to make some progress south, but not much. The slower moving, horse-drawn carts and pedestrians tended to stay close to the sides of the roads, allowing room for them to pass, but they were still hampered by the never-ending line before them.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “Look at that truck! How is it even moving?”
She motioned to an old truck with a flatbed piled high with furniture. Balancing precariously atop the mound of chairs, tables, and what looked like a dresser, were huge bundles. They looked like sheets that had been filled with clothes and tied shut with rope. Staring at it, Evelyn shook her head. The pile was much higher than where the driver sat, and it swayed with each bump in the road.
“How is it staying upright?” she replied. “It’s top-heavy!”
“I’m going to try to get around it,” Finn said. “When that topples, I don’t want to be behind it.”
“How are you going to go around? There’s nowhere to go!” Josephine exclaimed. “There’s nothing but vehicles, carts, and people in front of it.”
“I can pull off the road and go along the grass, then pull back in further up.”
“You can’t do that! That’s cheating!”
Evelyn looked at Josephine and bit back a laugh. “Cheating?” she repeated. “Is there a Rules for Refugees manual I’m unaware of?”
Finn chuckled and Josephine glared at both of them.
“No, of course not. But we’re where we are in line, and we should stay here,” she said stubbornly. “What if someone came up from behind and then pulled in front of you? What would you think?”
“I’d think that now they’d be the ones to get hit with pieces of furniture when that disaster falls over,” Finn replied.
