He looked around, gauging the distance.
‘Pretty impressive flying if they did.’
‘They’re a pretty impressive lot.’
I knew this from experience; a flak storm had buffeted my plane as we crossed the Channel. The old bomber that had carried us was badly damaged; smoke billowed from one of the engines, visible through the window. A shard had pierced the wall, narrowly missing the dispatcher’s head. If the rent in the hull allowed the stench of petrol and kerosene to escape, it did little to salve our fear.
My fingers curled into talons, digging into the bench. Across the aisle, one man genuflected in a continuous motion, pausing only to check his harness. The other, who didn’t have much of a neck to start with, retracted what little was left into the folds of his jump suit, like a large drab turtle.
The dispatcher yanked open the hatch.
‘Get out! NOW!’
As the only woman on board, I was first through the joe hole. Any drop was risky – the Germans were known to infiltrate and ambush the Resistance – but a blind drop bordered on suicide. We could have landed in an empty field, or the middle of a German platoon. Or on top of their offices. And still the option to drop was better than staying on the Lancaster.
Those were the longest fifteen seconds of my life.
It was December, and cold. The snowdrift I’d landed on was a scant cushion but at least it wasn’t a pond or a river. A small dark animal – maybe a fox or a cat, with yellow eyes that reflected the moon – stared at me for a few moments until it silently disappeared into the night. In the sky, three other ’chutes trailed from the plane, and with our weight gone, the bomber began to climb. I never found out if the pilot made it home.
Alex hunkered down next to me, touching the ruts.
‘The tracks look recent. Maybe a few days old. The Resistance?’
‘The Resistance don’t have their own planes.’
‘So the RAF then. D’ye think the Resistance are active here?’
‘So it would seem.’
The only question was how to find them.
*
The next village was small, with a single main street meandering through it. A post office and village shop sat on one end, on the other, a hotel and a restaurant. Some buildings had advertisements painted on them while others allowed vines to creep up the sides. On the whole, the town looked well maintained, if not prosperous. Possibly explained by the swastikas, flying from most buildings.
‘Why would the Resistance operate so close to a town like this?’ Alex asked. ‘What wi’ the town clearly supporting the Nazis?’
I had no ready answer. It was dangerous, maybe even foolhardy, but looks could be deceiving.
‘Perhaps they believe that by supporting the Nazis – at least on the surface – they’ll reduce the risk of any retaliation? Or maybe the Resistance has enough eyes and ears in town, maybe even with the police, to warn them of any action ahead of time?’ It wasn’t likely we’d ever find out, and I shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be my first choice, but we haven’t eaten since finishing off the bread and cheese for breakfast.’ I gestured to the restaurant’s entrance, under a neat green and white awning. ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’
‘Is that wise?’ Alex asked. ‘I cannae speak French or German.’
‘Hiding in plain sight. They wouldn’t expect anyone like us to stop here, so there might not be so many questions.’
It was a calculated risk, but given the more than fair chance that we had already been seen entering the town, it would seem only right that we stop to eat. It might reduce the question as to why an SS officer was walking anywhere.
‘If we stop for a newspaper,’ I thought out loud, ‘then you could hide behind it and leave the ordering – and the conversation – to me. All you need to do is grunt in the pauses and we’ll be fine.’
‘Ye’re married, aren’t you?’ he joked, but looked unconvinced. He ran his hand through his hair, his blunt fingers gingerly exploring the scab on his forehead. His stomach rumbled, sealing the deal. ‘Any paper in particular?’
‘There won’t be a lot of options. Point to something that looks like it’s written in German and hold out a note. You’ll be fine.’
Uncertainty flashed in his eyes before he nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening in grim determination. A faint smudge ran down the side of his face. I sighed. Reaching up to caress his cheek, I dusted it off.
‘I’ll wait for you over there,’ I said, indicating a low stone wall shielded by a cluster of trees.
His back was as straight as any officer’s, the swagger as authentic as it could be, as he made his way into the shop. I watched until the door closed behind him, and reached into my bag. Under the guise of brushing my hair, I studied the town. It had a strange feel to it, retaining its vigilance even after its neighbours had lapsed into a wary tranquillity. People bustled past in groups of two or three, under the watchful eye of the German soldiers.
Alex reappeared with the newspaper and a remote expression. I met him halfway across the street. Tucking my hand in the crook of his arm, I allowed him to escort me down the street and into the restaurant.
The restaurant was quaint. Murals decorated the walls, giving it the atmosphere of an establishment that was trying hard to be more than it was. Not unlike the short man in the pristine suit who swanned up to us.
With a smarmy grin and a not-so-discreet glance at my cleavage, he asked: ‘May I help you?’
‘A table for two.’ I took hold of Alex’s hand.
‘Do you have reservations?’
One chubby finger consulted a well-worn book with very few entries.
‘Thank you, the table there will do just fine.’
Twenty-five years of watching Lady Anne’s tactics hadn’t gone to waste. Without waiting for his answer, I swept past
