Malloy smiled. “My old man explodes when people call him that.” Malloy shrugged. “We’re just Americans.”
“Sorry. But tell me about your lot—or whatever they call themselves—what are they—some kind of private army?”
“No way. Our remit is much the same as SOE’s. But we cover intelligence gathering—not just sabotage.”
Parish smiled and said nothing.
“Does any other network have a radio operator to spare?”
“If they have they won’t let on. Radio operators are like gold-dust.”
“Shall I contact London and see if they’ve got anyone?”
“Waste of time, pal. If they’d had one they’d have sent him with you. They know the problems.”
“And I’m OSS not SOE.”
“Makes no difference. I think you’re being over-suspicious. Let me think about it overnight. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” He smiled. “How do you get on with the reverend?”
“He’s fine. No problems there.”
Parish stood up. “I’ve got to see some of my people. I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry. We’ll solve it some way.”
It was mid-afternoon when Parish came back but he wasted no time.
“I’ve been on to London. They haven’t got an operator to spare. Neither have your people. But what I have squeezed out of them is a radio.” He grinned. “I think I made them feel guilty, they’re giving us a Mark III suitcase transceiver. Dropping it next full moon in five days’ time. Including spares and operating instructions.” He smiled. “They show you how to use one?”
“No. I wasn’t allowed to go to Thame. Just Beaulieu, and a brief look at all the SOE sets.”
“This one’s the best so far. Weighs less than fifteen pounds. And Yank “lock-in” valves.” He laughed as he saw the disappointment on Malloy’s face. “And I think I’ve got you a man who can operate the radio for you.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s French, but speaks enough English to get by. He has contacts all over France. Excellent Resistance history. Right in it from the start of the Occupation. Very clued-up chap. Name’s Pascal, everybody calls him Jo-jo, God knows why. Good Morse, good technical knowledge of radios but hasn’t worked on an SOE network. I’m not sure but I think he’s probably a Commie. A lot of them are.”
“You mean you allow communists to join the Resistance?”
Parish laughed. “It’s their Resistance, not ours. And it’s their country. We’re only here to help.”
“Do OSS know that we’re using Commies?”
“I’ve no idea. Who cares anyway?”
“When can I talk to him?”
“Tomorrow. But remember—we don’t talk politics with anybody. It’s not our business. Talk politics and you’ll be in dead trouble—so will I.”
Parish brought the man to Malloy the next morning, introducing them briefly and then leaving them.
Malloy said, “Do sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
Pascal smiled and nodded. “He told you already my English is not good.”
Malloy smiled back, “We can speak both languages and get by. I’ll be back in a moment.”
In the small kitchen as he waited for the water to boil he thought of the man in the other room. He wasn’t at all Malloy’s idea of a communist and Malloy realised that he had no real idea of what he expected a communist to look like. He was slim and fair-haired and he smiled easily and spoke quite softly. A bit older than he’d expected but he looked fit and wiry enough.
As he put the coffee cups on the table he said, “Did they tell you what I’m here to do?”
“Just an outline. Checking on how the boche use the railway and getting together a network of informants. You’ve got a radio coming and you don’t know how to work it, yes?”
“Yes. Can you work it?”
“If it’s got instructions I can work any radio.”
“And you can read and send Morse?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“That’s my business, comrade.”
“I’m sorry.” He paused. “Is it OK to leave what you’ve been doing?”
“Yes. What you are doing is more important.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It will take more than the Resistance to beat the Fascists. It will need an invasion. You only need the kind of information that you want if you’re going to invade. Others can do what I was doing.”
“And you don’t mind working with an American instead of an Englishman?”
“The captain wouldn’t like that. He’s very proud of being a Scot.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me who you are if you’re working against the Fascists.”
Malloy went with Parish and four of his men to the dropping zone on the edge of the woods at Epernon. The flares had been placed but not lit and they sat in silence looking up at the clear sky, straining their ears for the drone of the Hudson aircraft. Malloy had turned to look quickly at Parish when he heard a bark in the woods behind them. But Parish smiled and said softly, “It’s only a fox.”
It was one of the Frenchmen who first heard the plane, pointing up at the sky, his arm slowly following the sound of the distant plane. Three men scrambled forward and lit the flares. It was five minutes before the plane came in over the woods. It made a second circuit and then Malloy saw the parachutes drifting down silently as the plane headed back to base. There were three parachutes for Parish’s network and one with Malloy’s radio in its two special airtight containers.
As usual the parachutes had been buried in the woods for recovering later and their loads concealed under leafy branches piled on top of them. They
