Wolf Stoller called him early in October, when Victor Henry had almost forgotten the strange weekend. “Your man is alive.”
“Who is?”
Stoller reeled off Gallard’s name, rank, and serial number. “He is in France, still in a hospital but in good condition. General Jagow invites you, as his personal guest, to visit Luftwaffe Headquarters close by. You are invited as a friend, not as an American attache. This telephone call is the only communication there will be. No reciprocity is necessary.”
After a moment Pug said, “Well, that’s good news. The general is mighty kind.”
“As I told you, you made a hit with him.”
“I’ll have to call you back.”
“Of course.”
The charge d’affaires, when Pug told him about this, drooped his eyes almost shut, leaned back in his chair, and ran his thumb back and forth on his moustache. “The Luftwaffe man wants something of you.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, you have my approval. Why not jump at it? You might learn something, and you’ll see this flier. Who is he?”
“Well — he’s engaged to the daughter of a friend of mine.” The charge’s eyes opened a little wider and he stroked his moustache. Pug felt pressed to add something. “Alistair Tudsbury’s daughter, in fact.”
“Oh, he’s Pam’s fiance, is he? Lucky boy. Well, by all means go ahead and see how Pam Tudsbury’s fiance is,” said the charge, with a wisp of irony that did not escape, and that irritated, Victory Henry.
The weather was bad. Pug went to Lille by train. Rail travel was surprisingly back to normal in German-ruled Europe. The train left on time and roared through tranquil rainy autumn landscapes. Germany, Belgium, and northern France looked all alike in October mist and drizzle, one large flat plain of farms, evergreens, and yellowing trees. The cities looked alike too, hodgepodges of ornate venerable buildings at the center, rimmed by severe modern structures; some were untouched by the war, some were scarred and blotched with rubble. In the crowded restaurant car, amiably chatting Germans, Dutchmen, Frenchmen, Belgians, a few with wives, wined and dined amid rich good smells and a cheery clatter. Uniformed Wehrmacht officers, at a table apart, glanced with contempt at the civilians and gave the scurrying waiters curt commands. Otherwise it was business as usual under the New Order, except for the absence of Jews. The Jews had been the busiest travellers in Europe, but on this train none were to be seen. In the Berlin-Lille express, the Third Reich looked a good bet to last a thousand years, by right of natural superiority and the ability to run things. Trains headed the other way, jammed with cheerful young troops, gave Victor Henry his first solid hint that the invasion — if it had ever been on — might be off.
An emissary of General Jagow, a rigid thin lieutenant with extra gold braid on a shoulder, a splotch of ribbons, and a twitching eye muscle, met the American naval officer at the station, drove him to a grimy stone building with a facade of wet statues in the middle of Lille, and left him in a cheerless, windowless little office containing an ink-stained desk and two chairs. The dusty yellow walls had clean squares and oblongs where pictures of French officials had been removed. Behind the desk was a bright new red, white, and black swastika flag, and the popular picture of Hitler in his soldier’s coat, cowlick falling over one eye, a photo crudely touched up to make him look younger. The room had the loudest-ticking pendulum wall clock Pug had ever heard; its face was green and faded with age.
The door opened. A helmeted German soldier with a submachine gun tramped in, wheeled at the desk, and crashed his boots to stiff attention. Gallard followed him, his right arm in a sling, his face puffy, discolored, and bandaged, and behind him came the lieutenant with the twitching eye. The pilot wore his flying suit, in which large rips were crudely patched up.
“Hello, Ted,” said Victor Henry.
Gallard said, with a look of extreme surprise, “Hello there!” A dressing on his lower lip and chin muffled his speech.
In quick precise German, the lieutenant told Captain Henry that, since British airmen were honor bound by their orders to seize every chance to escape, General Jagow could not — to his regret — omit the precaution of an armed guard. There was no time limit. The soldier would not interfere. He had no knowledge of English. He was instructed to shoot at the first move to escape, so the lieutenant begged the gentlemen to avoid any gestures that might confuse him. As to the content of the interview, the general left it wholly to the honor of Captain Henry. If there were no questions, he would now withdraw.
“How do I let you know when we’re through?” Pug jerked a thumb at the blank-faced soldier. “If I get up and walk toward the door, for instance, that might confuse him.”
“Very true.” The lieutenant inclined his head and his eye twitched. “Then kindly raise the telephone for a few moments and replace it in the cradle. I will then return. Permit me to mention that the general hopes you will join him for lunch at advance headquarters, a drive of forty kilometers from here.”
As the door closed, Pug pulled out his cigarettes, and lit one for the pilot.
“Ah! God bless you.” Gallard inhaled the smoke as a man emerging from under water gulps air. “Does Pam know? Did anybody see me parachute?”
“One of your mates claimed he had. She’s sure you’re alive.”
“Good. Now you can tell her.”
“That’ll be a rare pleasure.”
The wall clock ticked very loudly. Flicking the cigarette clumsily with his left hand, Gallard glanced at the guard, who stood like a post, machine gun slanted in his white-knuckled hands. The beetling line of the German helmet gave the farm-boy face a stern, statuesque look.
“Puts a bit of a chill on the small talk, eh?”
“He’s rather a ripe one.” Pug said.
The guard, staring straight ahead, was giving off a corrupt unwashed smell in the close little room, though his face was clean enough.
“Rather. I say, this is the surprise of my life. I thought I was in for a rough grilling, or maybe for getting whisked to Germany. They never told me a thing, except that I’d get shot if I misbehaved. You must have good friends in the Luftwaffe.”
“What do you want me to tell Pamela?”
“Will you be seeing her?”
“I don’t think so. I’m going back to Washington shortly. I can wire or write her.”
“There’s so much to tell. First of all, I’m all right, more or less. Some burns around the face and neck.” He lifted the slung arm. “Luckily the bullet only broke the bone, didn’t shatter it. I can’t fault the medical attention. The food’s been bloody awful — moldy black bread, vile margarine with a petroleum aftertaste, soup full of rotten potatoes. The other day it mysteriously improved. Just in my ward. Last night we had a really passable stew, though it might have been Lille cats and dogs. Tasted good. I suppose all that was apropos of your little visit. I’m terribly grateful to you. Really, it’s splendid that you’ve managed to do this, Captain Henry. How is Pam? Tell me about her. When did you last see her? How did she look?”
“I saw her several times after you disappeared. She’d come down to London, and I’d take her to dinner and to cheerful places. For a while she was peaky and wouldn’t eat. But she was coming around. Practically the last thing she told me was that she expected you back. That she was going to wait for you and marry you.”
The pilot’s eyes grew moist. “She’s a marvellous girl, Pamela.” He looked around at the guard. “Say, he does smell bad, doesn’t he?” Watching the soldier’s dull unchanging face, he said in an offhand tone, “Will you look at that face? Explains a lot, doesn’t it? Eighty million docile dangerous swine like this fellow. No wonder Hitler’s their leader.” There was not a flicker in the soldier’s eyes. “I really don’t think he understands English.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Pug, dry and fast.
“Well, tell her I admit she was right. When I get back I’ll take the headquarters job. That’s where I belong.” He shook his head. “Silly clot that I am. These Jerries were ahead of me and below, Me-110’s, three sitters — a great chance. But I missed my shot, didn’t pull up in time, dove right down between them, and next thing I knew I felt a slam on the shoulder, just like a very hard punch. My engine caught fire. I pulled back hard on my stick and by God it was loose as a broken neck. I looked around and saw I had no tail section. Shot clean off. Well, I released the hood and the harness pin, and crawled out of there. I don’t even remember getting burned, but the flames got to my face, mostly around the mouth. I only felt it when the salt water stung. Gallard sighed and glanced around
