Moon Squadron (15 page)

"How dare you
! Do I have to remind you that I outrank you?"

"You do,
technically. But if you persist in this sentimental tomfoolery, I warn you that I shall see to it that you are relieved of your command."

"Are you threatening me,
Captain?"

"I am warning you that you will hear more of this from Berlin."

"And I am informing you that if you utter one more insubordinate word, I will put you in close arrest." He rang a bell. A sergeant answered its ring.

"Bring the Frenchman in."

Xavier stood before him. Major von Klingen's eyes were steel blue.

"Your request is granted. Provided the
Cure
can make the necessary arrangements in time, the prisoner will be brought to the church under armed guard. I leave it to you to escort your daughter but she too will be guarded. That is all. I propose to attend the ceremony myself."

"I think," said Xavier slowly, "that
Monsieur
le Commandant
will have reason to be thankful for his decision."

"I seek no favours from you or from anybody else. I do my duty as I see it. I am an officer of the German Army and I wage no war against the unborn."

"It is usual," said Captain Greisenau silkily, "to conclude an interview with a spoken greeting to the Fuhrer." He flung up his hand in salute. "
Heil
Hitler
."

"
Vive
la
France
," said Xavier under his breath. "
Tout
va
bien
."

Pierre sat on a wooden chair in his cell in the prison of Fleuris. An armed German sentry paced up and down the stone corridor outside, stopping every now and then to slide back the little oval slat that covered the spy-hole and peer inside. Pierre was aware with impotent anger of the gaze of that single, solicitous eye. His thoughts were not of himself or of the fate that the dawn would bring. When he had first undertaken to operate a secret radio set, he had realised that discovery by the Germans would only bring one verdict.
Enfin
, many Frenchmen had died before him. Many would die after him so he would be one of a gallant company. Please God, he would go to join them with dignity. His thoughts were all on Nicole. How would she fare when he had gone? At his trial, he had told the Germans again and again that his wife knew nothing of what he was doing, nothing. He told them that, at the last moment when he thrust the wireless set into her bed, she didn't know what it was and that she had been too frightened to speak. The Gestapo captain, the
salaud
with the thin mouth, had grinned at this and whispered to the Major and the Major had shaken his head. There was no love lost between those two. Sometimes, when pregnant women had a shock, it induced a premature birth. It was even possible that the child was already born, born and alive and crying while he sat within these four dirty walls waiting to die. He stood up. He looked around him, reading but not realising the meaning of words scratched on the wall by others who had been here before him.
A
bas
les
Boches
;
adieu
Maman
;
au
revoir
chѐrie
; v
ive
la
France
... These were not the words of despair but of courage. He sat down again and buried his head in his hands. Oh, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole...

He heard the stamp of the sentry's boots and the sound of other footsteps on the stone. A key rat
tled sharply in the lock and he looked up as the door swung open. Major von Klingen stood by the doorway. One of the sentries spoke sharply:

"Stand up in the presence of the
Herr
Kommandant
."

Slowly Pierre rose to his feet. Major von Klingen frowned. He said:

"An hour ago, I had a visit from the father of Madame Nicole."

Pierre shook his head in bewilderment. What madness was this? The father of Nicole was dead. He had died under the interrogations of the Gestapo in the prison of Fresnes more than two years ago
-how in the name of God could this German officer have had a visit from one whose bones lay in Paris? He said confusedly:

"But what you say is impossible. The father of Nicole
-"

"Silence. You will neither interrupt nor contradict the
Herr
Kommandant
."

"But--"

"Hold your tongue."

Major von Klingen drew a deep breath. What he had to say he found distasteful in the extreme.

"The story told me by this gentleman reflects no credit on you. But there is still time to rectify the wrong you have done to an honourable woman. The sentence of death passed on you by the court must stand and you will be executed at dawn. In the meantime, Father Jean,
Curé
of this village, has consented to regularise the improper union that has existed between you and the woman whom I have always believed to be your wife. Arrangements have been made for the marriage service to be performed within the hour.''

Again Pierre shook his head. The German officer must
have taken leave of his senses, or had he, Pierre, already died and been cast into the hell of nameless nightmare? He began, stumbling over the words.

"But…
but there is no need for me to marry Nicole. None at all--"

Major von Klingen drew himself up. He said icily:

"I have no doubt that you will die like a gentleman. Try, in these your last hours, to live like one."

In the late afternoon in London, word was passed from the Headquarters of S.O.E. in Baker Street to the French Section of the B.B.C. There was one more code message to go out after the transmission of the news.
The words of the message were "A playmate for our Little Lord. I will repeat that at dictation speed. 'A – playmate –for –our - Little-Lord.'"

At Tempsford, Squadron-Leader Northcote was given his route. The earlier part was familiar to him and he could be reasonably sure of dodging the flak positions. Of course they might have moved overnight. But the last hour and a quarter would be over strange, hilly country wi
th scattered forests of pines, which was not so good. Pinpointed within those dark forests was the target area, a narrow south-sloping strip. Studying the map, the words ‘postage stamp’ came back and back into his mind. If the pines at the end of the runway were full-grown and tall, it would be quite a job to lift the Lizzie over them. On his last trip he had come back with large portions of a French forest trailing from his undercarriage and he didn't want that again. No fear. Two passengers to come back. He only hoped they didn't weigh much! Once he had carried a woman who could readily qualify for the job of Fat Lady in any circus. Not so funny at the time.

The Met. report was far from reassuring. Though the weather was fairly clear over England, he must expect gusty headwinds but the chance of down-drafts over the target area.

Taking the trip all round, he couldn't have a worse job.

Still, these ones that look god
awful had a way of turning out all right. It was the nice easy ones that went wrong. He tested his Lysander and was satisfied. Then he went into the Mess to read a dog-eared copy of
Men
Only
until the rising of the moon. A good hour passed before he was summoned.

"'Operation Playmate'?" "That's me."

"Time to push off."

"Right."

Squadron-Leader Northcote went out to his aircraft. The young moon was clear of the horizon and shining on the long levels of the beet and the kale, casting shadows from the Gannocks, the earthworks of the Vikings. Tempsford was a good place - it might be an idea to have a cottage somewhere near here after the war. That was, of course, if these was going to be an ‘after’ for him. He climbed into his Lysander and touched the little St. Christopher on the instrument panel with his fingertip. "Do your stuff, chum," he said, as he always did before take-off. He shouted down from the cockpit: "What's the latest Met. gen?"

"Wind's getting up from the south-west. Look out for gusts."

"O.K."

Squadron-Leader Northcote jerked up one thumb and pressed the self-starter. Bumping and swaying, he taxied to the end of the runway. The beat of his engine was confident and true. He took off dead on time into the rising moon and the flat fields of Tempsford flowed away darkly beneath his wings.

It was an extraordinary thing for Pierre to sit between two sentries in the front pew of the church that he knew so well and wait for Nicole, for his wife to come in so that they should be married. His mind was in a turmoil of confusion and he could see no purpose behind this macabre pantomime. Armed guards stood at the door of the church and half a dozen
Boches
had ranged themselves along the back pews. They squinted at the altar, shuffling their feet, embarrassed to be not only in the presence of God but also in the presence of one who would soon die at the impact of their bullets. There was silence except for the sound of the Germans' boots and the evening twittering of birds outside. Father Jean came into the sanctuary and lighted the candles. He went out again and Pierre gazed at the steady spear-points of orange flame. He had not looked at Pierre, not once. There was a clatter at the door and the sound of slow footsteps coming up the aisle. Pierre swung round and his heart leapt.

He saw Nicole, her head bent. She was heavy with child and faltering. But what drove the breath from Pierre's body was the sight of the man on whose arm she leaned. It was Xavier, thin-faced, sardonic, a flower in his buttonhole. The corners of his wolfish mouth
turned down, his darting eyes seeming to count the numbers of those who had come to witness this, this carbon copy of a marriage. Xavier would not come down from the hills other than for a purpose. God knows what plan lay in that audacious man's mind but that there was a plan was certain. He stood up. He took half a step towards Nicole, felt a strong hand on his arm, restraining him. She knelt in the front pew on the other side of the aisle and began to pray.

Father Jean entered the church and stood at the foot of the altar.

"
In
nomine
Patris
et
Filii
,
et
Spiritus
Sancti
.. .
introibo ad
altare
Dei
. . ."

Pierre moved towards the altar. The two sentries stood behind him. He was joined by Nicole, by his wife. So close was she to him that he could feel the warmth of her full body. He prayed as he had never prayed before, his heart thumping, his mind seething with the hope of salvation.

Father Jean's words were a low, hurried gabble...

Uxor
tua
sicut
vitis
abundans
in
lateribus
domus
tuae
... Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine on the sides of thy house...

The words of the Nuptial Mass were in rhythm with the beat of Squadron-Leader Northcote's engine;
peering down, he saw the first pines of the lower slopes of the Jura. In the moonlight they seemed to scurry like nuns hurrying to join the dark congregation of their sisters in the high hills. And from those same hills, the men of Xavier's Maquis moved silently down to throw a living loop around the silent streets of Fleuris.

  The Mass was over. Bride and bridegroom had been blessed. For the second time, names had been written in the ancient book in the vestry. Major von Klingen touched Pierre on the shoulder.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I must now command you to bid your wife farewell."

"Here,
in this place?" "Yes. Here."

Pierre gazed at Nicole. He had been buoyant with hope, believing that something would h
appen. But nothing had happened
, nothing.
She looked at him steadily, as if she were trying with all her strength to convey a message to him. He shook his head. He could find no word. He leaned forward and kissed her lips. They were cold as ice. Captain Greisenau gave his short, neighing laugh.

"It is obvious to all that the consummation of this marriage has already taken place nine months ago, we need delay no longer. March the prisoner back to the cells."

"It is I who give orders to members of the Wehrmacht, not you, Captain."

"When my report of this affair reaches Berlin, you will be in no pos
ition to give orders ever again, Major."

"That is as it may be." Major von Klingen turned to Nicole. "It would be hypocritical on my part to wish you future happiness, Madam. I find it in my heart to regret the grim necessities of war."

Xavier spoke softly.

"What you have done tonight will be remembered in your honour,
Monsieur
le
Commandant
. Nor will
your
words be forgotten, Captain." He glanced at his watch and grinned. "As for you, son-in-law,
au
revoir
.
A
bientôt
."