“I’m meeting a plane at a quarter to midnight. I need you to drive me to Chatelle.”
“Why can’t Gilberte take you, in the car she used to come to my place?”
“Because of the curfew. But we’ll be safe with you, you’re a doctor.”
“Why would I have two people with me?”
“Three. We need Michel to hold a torch.” There was an unvarying procedure for pickups: four Resistance people held flashlights in the shape of a giant letter “L,” indicating the direction of the wind and where the plane should come down. The small battery-operated torches needed to be directed at the aircraft to make sure the pilot saw them. They could simply be placed in position on the ground, but that was less sure, and if the pilot did not see what he expected he might suspect a trap and decide not to land. It was better to have four people if at all possible.
Claude said, “How would I explain you all to the police? A doctor on emergency call doesn’t travel with three people in his car.”
“We’ll think of some story.”
“It’s too dangerous!”
“It will take only a few minutes, at this time of night.”
“Marie-Jeanne will kill me. She says I have to think of the children.”
“You don’t have any.”
“She’s pregnant.”
Flick nodded. That would explain why he had become so jumpy.
Michel rolled over and sat upright. He reached out and grasped Claude’s arm. “Claude, I’m begging you, this is really important. Do it for me, will you?”
It was hard to say no to Michel. Claude sighed. “When?”
Flick looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. “Now.”
Claude looked at Michel. “His wound may reopen.”
“I know,” Flick said. “Let it bleed.”
THE VILLAGE OF Chatelle consisted of a few buildings clustered around a crossroads: three farmhouses, a strip of laborers’ cottages, and a bakery that served the surrounding farms and hamlets. Flick stood in a cow pasture a mile from the crossroads, holding in her hand a flashlight about the size of a pack of cigarettes.
She had been on a weeklong course, run by the pilots of 161 Squadron, to train her for the task of guiding an aircraft in. This location fitted the specifications they had given her. The field was almost a kilometer long-a Lysander needed six hundred meters to land and take off The ground beneath her feet was firm, and there was no slope. A nearby pond was clearly visible from the air in the moonlight, providing a useful landmark for pilots.
Michel and Gilberte stood upwind of Flick in a straight line, also holding flashlights, and Claude stood a few yards to one side of Gilberte, making a flare path in the shape of an upside-down “L” to guide the pilot. In remote areas, bonfires could be used instead of electric lights, but here, close to a village, it was too dangerous to leave the telltale burn mark on the ground.
The four people formed what the agents called a reception committee. Flick’s were always silent and disciplined, but less-well-organized groups sometimes turned the landing into a party, with groups of men shouting jokes and smoking cigarettes, and spectators from nearby villages turning up to watch. This was dangerous. If the pilot suspected that the landing had been betrayed to the Germans, and thought the Gestapo might be lying in wait, he had to react quickly. The instructions to reception committees warned that anyone approaching the plane from the wrong angle was liable to be shot by the pilot. This had never actually happened, but on one occasion a spectator had been run over by a Hudson bomber and killed.
Waiting for the plane was always hell. If it did not arrive, Flick would face another twenty-four hours of unremitting tension and danger before the next opportunity. But an agent never knew whether a plane would show up. This was not because the RAF was unreliable. Rather, as the pilots of 161 Squadron had explained to Flick, the task of navigating a plane by moonlight across hundreds of miles of country was monumentally difficult. The pilot used dead reckoning-calculating his position by direction, speed, and elapsed time-and tried to verify the result by landmarks such as rivers, towns, railway lines, and forests. The problem with dead reckoning was that it was impossible to make an exact adjustment for the drift caused by wind. And the trouble with landmarks was that one river looked very much like another by moonlight. Getting to roughly the right area was difficult enough, but these pilots had to find an individual field.
If there was a cloud hiding the moon it was impossible, and the plane would not even take oft
However, this was a fine night, and Flick was hopeful. Sure enough, a couple of minutes before midnight, she heard the unmistakable sound of a single-engined plane, faint at first, then rapidly growing louder, like a burst of applause, and she felt a home going thrill. She began to flash her light in the Morse letter “X.” If she flashed the wrong letter, the pilot would suspect a trap and go away without landing.
The plane circled once, then came down steeply. It touched down on Flick’s right, braked, turned between Michel and Claude, taxied back to Flick, and turned into the wind again, completing a long oval and finishing up ready for takeoff.
The aircraft was a Westland Lysander, a small, high-winged monoplane, painted matte black. It was flown by a crew of one. It had two seats for passengers, but Flick had known a “Lizzie” to carry four, one on the floor and one on the parcel shelf.
The pilot did not stop the engine. His aim was to remain on the ground no more than a few seconds.
Flick wanted to hug Michel and wish him well, but she also wanted to slap his face and tell him to keep his hands off other women. Perhaps it was just as well that she had no time for either.
With a brief wave, Flick scrambled up the metal ladder, threw open the hatch, and climbed aboard.
The pilot glanced behind, and Flick gave him the thumbs-up. The little plane jerked forward and picked up speed, then rose into the air and climbed steeply.
Flick could see one or two lights in the village: country people were careless about the blackout. When Flick had flown in, perilously late at four in the morning, she had been able to see from the air the red glare of the baker’s oven, and driving through the village she had smelled the new bread, the essence of France.
The plane banked to turn, and Flick saw the moonlit faces of Michel, Gilberte, and Claude as three white smears on the black background of the pasture. As the plane leveled and headed for England, she realized with a sudden surge of grief that she might never see them again.
THE SECOND DAY
Monday, May 29, 1944
CHAPTER 6
DIETER FRANCK DROVE through the night in the big Hispano-Suiza, accompanied by his young assistant, Lieutenant Hans Hesse. The car was ten years old, but its massive eleven-liter engine was tireless. Yesterday evening, Dieter had found a neat row of bullet holes stitched in the generous curve of its offside fender, a souvenir of the skirmish in the square at Sainte-Cecile, but there was no mechanical damage, and he felt the holes added to the car’s glamour, like a dueling scar on the cheek of a Prussian officer.
Lieutenant Hesse masked the headlights to drive through the blacked-out streets of Paris, then removed the covers when they got on the road to Normandy. They took turns at the wheel, two hours each, though Hesse, who adored the car and hero-worshiped its owner, would gladly have driven the whole way.
Half asleep in the passenger seat, mesmerized by the country roads unwinding in the headlights, Dieter tried to picture his future. Would the Allies reconquer France, driving the occupying forces out? The thought of Germany defeated was dismal. Perhaps there would be some kind of peace settlement, with Germany surrendering France and Poland but keeping Austria and Czechoslovakia. That seemed not much better. He found it hard to imagine
