Night of the Fox

4

Helen de Ville left the cart track which was the usual way down to the beach and took a shortcut, scrambling up the steep hillside through the pine trees. She was strong and wiry, not surprising after four years of enemy occupation and the food restrictions that had caused her to lose nearly thirty pounds in weight. She often joked that it had given her back the figure she’d enjoyed at eighteen, an unlooked-for bonus at forty-two. And like most people, the lack of a car and a public transport system meant she was used to walking many miles each week.

She stood at the edge of the trees and looked across at the house. De Ville Place was not one of the largest manors on the island. It had been once in days of family glory, but a disastrous fire at the end of the nineteenth century had destroyed one entire wing. It was very old, constructed of Jersey granite weathered by the years. There were rows of French windows at the front on either side of the entrance, a granite wall dividing the house from a courtyard at one side.

She paused, taking her time, for there was an old Morris sedan parked in the courtyard, one of those requisitioned by the enemy. For two years now she’d had German naval officers billeted on her. They came and went, of course, sometimes staying only a night or two when E-boats of the 5th Schnellboote Flotilla came over from Guernsey.

Mostly they were regulars, young officers serving with various naval units based in Jersey. The war took its toll. There were often engagements with British MTBs in the area of the Channel Islands, and the RAF frequently attacked convoys to Granville, St Malo and Cherbourg, even when they made a night run. Men died, but some survived. As she started across the lawn, the door opened and one of them came out.

He wore a white sweater, old reefer coat and seaboots and carried a duffel bag in one hand. The face beneath the salt-stained naval cap was good-humored and recklessly handsome. A bravo, this one, straight out of the sixteenth century, who wore a white top to his cap, usually an affectation of German U-boat commanders, but then Lieutenant Guido Orsini was a law unto himself, an Italian on secondment to the German Navy, trapped in the wrong place at entirely the wrong time when the Italian government had capitulated. Helen de Ville had long since given up pretending that she felt anything but considerable affection for him.

‘Morning, Guido.’

‘Helen, cara mia.’ He blew her a kiss. ‘I’m the last, as usual.’

‘Where to today?’

‘Granville. Should be fun in this fog. On the other hand, it keeps the Tommies at home. Back tomorrow. Do you want to go into St Helier? Can I give you a lift?’

‘No thanks. I’m looking for Sean.’

‘I saw the good General not ten minutes ago coming out of the south barn with a felling axe and walking down toward his cottage. See you tomorrow. I must fly. Ciao, cara.’

He went through the small gate to the courtyard. A moment later, she heard the Morris start up and drive away. She crossed the courtyard herself, went through a field gate and ran along the track through trees. Sean Gallagher’s cottage stood by a stream in a hollow. She could see him now in old corduroy pants and riding boots, the sleeves of the checked shirt rolled up above muscular arms as he split logs.

‘Sean!’ she called and stumbled almost falling.

He lowered the axe and turned, pushing a lock of reddish brown hair from his eyes as he looked toward her. He dropped the axe and reached out to catch her as she almost fell again.

Sean Martin Gallagher was fifty-two and, as an Irish citizen, officially neutral in this war. He had been born in Dublin in 1892, his father a professor of surgery at Trinity College, a man who had taken no interest in women until, in his fiftieth year during a professional visit to Jersey, he had met a young nurse called Ruth le Brocq. He’d married her within a month and taken her back to Dublin.

She’d died in childbirth the following year and the boy Sean grew up spending the long summers each year in Jersey with his grandparents, the rest of the time in Dublin with his father. Sean’s ambition was to be a writer, and he’d taken a degree in literature at his father’s university, Trinity College. The exigencies of life made him a soldier, for as he finished college the First World War started.

He’d joined the Irish Fusiliers, a regiment that many Jerseymen served in, and by 1918 was a very old twenty-six. A major, twice wounded, and with an MC for gallantry on the Somme. As he used to say, any real experience of war came after that, fighting with the IRA in Ireland under Michael Collins’ leadership, as commander of a flying column in County Mayo.

The treaty with the British government which had ended the conflict in 1922 had only proved a prelude to a bloody and vicious civil war between those elements of the IRA who refused to accept the treaty and those who chose to fight for the Irish Free State government under Collins. Sean Gallagher had chosen the Free State and found himself a general at the age of thirty, sweeping through the west of Ireland, ruthlessly hunting down old comrades.

Afterward, sick of killing, he’d traveled the world, living on money left to him by his father, writing the odd novel when he had a mind, finally settling in Jersey in 1930. Ralph de Ville had been a boyhood friend, and Helen he had loved desperately and hopelessly from the first moment they had met. His home in St Lawrence, deep in the country, had been requisitioned by the Germans in 1940. Helen, with Ralph away serving with the British Army, needed a strong right arm, which explained his presence at the dower cottage on the estate. And he still loved her, of course, and still quite hopelessly.

The old cart had seen better days and the horse was considerably leaner than it should have been as they negotiated the track down to the beach, Sean Gallagher leading the horse, Helen at his side.

‘If this goes wrong,’ he said gravely. ‘If they find out you’re helping this man, it won’t just be a prison sentence. It could mean a firing squad or one of those concentration camps they’re talking about.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Jesus, woman, I’m a neutral, don’t I keep telling you that?’ He smiled mischievously, the gray eyes full of humor. ‘If they want to keep that old bastard, de Valera, sweet back in Dublin, they’ve got to handle me with dress gloves. Mind you, after the way I chased the arse off him all over Ireland in the Civil War, he might welcome the news that they want to shoot me.’

She burst out laughing. ‘I love you, Sean Gallagher. You always make me feel good at the worst times.’ She put an arm around the small, lean man’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

‘As a brother,’ he said. ‘You love me as a brother, as you often remind me, so keep your mad passion in your pocket, woman, and concentrate. Colonel Hugh Kelso, he said, an American army officer torpedoed off Devon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what was all that about how the Germans mustn’t get their hands on him?’

‘I don’t know. He was half out of his mind and his leg’s in a terrible state, but at the suggestion he might have to go to hospital he went crazy. Said it would be better if I shot him.’

‘A fine old mess from the sound of it,’ Gallagher said, and led the horse down onto the fog-shrouded beach.

It was very quiet, the sea calm, so quiet that they could hear the whistle of the German military train from across the bay as it ran along the front from St Helier to Millbrook.

Hugh Kelso lay face-down on the sand unconscious. Sean Gallagher turned him over gently and examined the leg. He gave a low whistle. ‘He needs a surgeon, this lad. I’ll get him in the cart while he’s still out. You gather as much driftwood as you can and hurry.’

She ran along the beach and he lifted Kelso up, taking his weight easily, for he was surprisingly strong for a small man. Kelso groaned but stayed out, and the Irishman eased him onto the sacks in the cart and draped a few across him.

He turned as Helen came back with an armful of wood.

‘Cover him with that while I see to the life raft.’

It was still bumping around in the shallows, and he waded into the water and pulled it up on the sand. He looked inside, removed the emergency kit, then took out a spring-blade gutting knife and slashed at the skin of the life raft fiercely. As air rushed out, it crumpled and he rolled it up and carried it to the cart, shoving it onto the rack underneath.

Helen arrived with another armful of wood which she put in the back with the rest. ‘Will that do?’

‘I think so. I’ll stop by the paddock and we’ll put the life raft down the old well shaft. But let’s get moving.’

They started up the track, Helen sitting on the shaft of the cart, Sean leading the horse. Suddenly there was laughter up ahead and a dog barked. The Irishman paused and took his time over lighting one of the vile French cigarettes that he smoked. ‘Nothing to worry about, I’ll handle it,’ he told her.

The Alsatian arrived first, a splendid animal which barked once, then recognized Gallagher as an old friend, and licked his hand. Two German soldiers in field gray and helmets, rifles over their shoulders, came next. ‘Guten morgen, Herr General,’ they both called eagerly.

‘And good morning to you two daft buggers.’ Gallagher’s smile was his friendliest as he led the horse on.

‘Sean, you’re quite mad,’ she hissed.

‘Not at all. Neither of those two lads speak a word of English. It might have been fun if they’d looked under the cart though.’

‘Where are we going?’ she demanded. ‘There’s no one at the Place at the moment.’

It was always referred to in that way, never as a house.

‘Isn’t Mrs Vibert in?’

‘I gave her the day off. Remember that niece of hers had a new baby last week.’

‘Naughty girl,’ Gallagher said. ‘And her man away serving in the British Army. I wonder what he’ll think when he comes home and finds a bouncing boy with blue eyes and blond hair called Fritz.’

‘Don’t be cruel, Sean. She’s not a bad girl. A little weak perhaps. People get lonely.’

‘Do you tell me?’ Gallagher laughed. ‘I haven’t exactly noticed you chasing me around the barn this week.’

‘Be sensible,’ she said. ‘Now where do we take him? There’s the Chamber.’

During the English Civil War, Charles de Ville, the Seigneur of the manor at that time, had espoused the Royalist cause. He’d had a room constructed in the roof with a secret staircase from the master bedroom known to the family over the years as the Chamber. It had saved his life during the time of Cromwell’s rule when he was sought as a traitor.

‘No, too awkward at the moment. He needs help and quickly. We’ll take him to my cottage first.’

‘And what about a doctor?’

‘George Hamilton. Who else could you trust? Now hang on while I get this life raft down the well.’

He tugged it out and moved into the trees. She sat there, aware of her uneven breathing in the silence of the wood. Behind her, under the sacking and the driftwood, Hugh Kelso groaned and stirred.

At Slapton Sands just before noon, the tide turned and a few more bodies came in. Dougal Munro and Carter sat in the lee of a sand dune and had an early lunch of sandwiches and shared a bottle of beer. Soldiers tramped along the shoreline, occasionally venturing into the water at some officer’s command to pull in another body. There were already about thirty laid out on the beach.

Munro said, ‘Someone once said the first casualty when war comes is truth.’

‘I know exactly what you mean, sir,’ Carter said.

A young American officer approached and saluted. ‘The beach is cleared of new arrivals at the moment, sir. Thirty-three since dawn. No sign of Colonel Kelso.’ He hesitated. ‘Does the Brigadier wish to view the burial arrangements? It’s not too far.’

‘No thank you,’ Munro told him. ‘I think I can manage without that.’

The officer saluted and walked away. Munro got up and helped Carter to his feet. ‘Come on, Jack. Nothing we can do here.’

‘All right, sir.’

Carter balanced on his walking stick and Munro stood, hands in pockets, and looked out to sea. He shivered suddenly. ‘Anything wrong, sir?’ Carter asked.

‘Someone just walked over my grave, Jack. To be honest, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. Come on, let’s get back to London,’ and he turned and walked away along the beach.

‘So, Berger, you understand what I am saying to you?’ Konrad Hofer demanded.

Heini Baum stood rigidly at attention in front of the desk in the office which the CO had been happy to lend to the field marshal at Campeaux. He tried to ignore the fact that Rommel stood at the window looking out into the garden.

‘I’m not sure, Herr Major. I think so.’

Rommel turned. ‘Don’t be stupid, Berger. You’re an intelligent man, I can see that, and a brave one.’ He tapped the Iron Cross First Class with the tip of his crop and the band around the left sleeve with the Gothic lettering. ‘The Afrika Korps cuff-title, I see. So, we are old comrades. Were you at Alamein?’

‘No, Field Marshal. Wounded at Tobruk.’

‘Good. I’m a plain man so listen carefully. You did a wonderful impersonation of me last night, in both appearance and voice. Very professional.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now I require a second performance. On Friday, you will fly to Jersey for the weekend accompanied by Major Hofer. You think you could fool them in Jersey for that long, Berger? King for a day? Would you like that?’

Baum smiled. ‘Actually, I think I would, sir.’

Rommel said to Hofer. ‘There you are. Sensible and intelligent, just as I told you. Now make the arrangements, Konrad, and let’s get out of here.’

The cottage was built in the same kind of granite as the house. There was one large living room with a beamed ceiling and a dining table and half-a-dozen chairs in a window alcove. The kitchen was on the other side of the hall. Upstairs, there was one large bedroom, a storeroom and a bathroom.

Rather than negotiate the stairs, Gallagher had laid Kelso out on a long comfortable sofa in the living room. The American was still unconscious, and Gallagher found his wallet and opened it. There was his security card with photo, some snaps of a woman and two young girls, obviously his family, and a couple of letters which were so immediately personal that Gallagher folded them up again. He could hear Helen’s voice from the kitchen as she spoke on the telephone. Kelso opened his eyes, stared blankly at him and then noticed the wallet in Gallagher’s hand.

‘Who are you?’ He grabbed at it weakly. ‘Give it back to me.’

Helen came in and sat on the sofa and put a hand on his forehead. ‘It’s all right. Just be still. You’re burning up with fever. Remember me, Helen de Ville?’

He nodded slowly. ‘The woman on the beach.’

‘This is a friend, General Sean Gallagher.’

‘I was just checking his papers,’ Gallagher told her. ‘The identity card is a little damp. I’ll leave it out to dry.’

She said to Kelso. ‘Do you remember where you are?’

‘Jersey.’ He managed a ghastly smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not quite out of my mind yet. I can think straight if I concentrate.’

‘All right, then, listen to me,’ Sean Gallagher said. ‘Your leg is very bad indeed. You need hospital and a good surgeon.’

Kelso shook his head. ‘Not possible. As I told this lady earlier, no Germans. It would be better to shoot me than let them get their hands on me.’

‘Why?’ Sean Gallagher demanded bluntly.

‘She called you General. Is that true?’

‘I was once in the Irish Army and I served with the Brits in the last war. Does that make a difference?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘All right, what’s your unit?’

‘Engineers – assault engineers, to be precise. We lead the way in beach landings.’

Sean Gallagher saw it all. ‘Is this something to do with the invasion?’

Kelso nodded. ‘It’s coming soon.’

‘Sure and we all know that,’ Gallagher said.

‘Yes, but I know where and I know when. If the Germans could squeeze that out of me, can you imagine what it would mean? All their troops concentrated in the right place. We’d never get off the beach.’

He was extremely agitated, sweat on his forehead. Helen soothed him, easing him down. ‘It’s all right, I promise you.’

‘Is George Hamilton coming?’ Gallagher asked.

‘He was out. I left a message with his housekeeper that you wanted to see him urgently. I said you’d cut your leg and thought it needed a stitch or two.’

‘Who’s Hamilton?’ Kelso demanded.

‘A doctor,’ Helen said. ‘And a good friend. He’ll be here soon to see to that leg of yours.’

Kelso was shaking again as the fever took hold. ‘More important things to think of at the moment. You must speak to your resistance people here. Tell them to get on the radio as soon as possible and notify Intelligence in London that I’m here. They’ll have to try to get me out.’

‘But there is no resistance movement in Jersey,’ Helen said. ‘I mean, there’s a hell of a lot of people who don’t care to be occupied and make life as awkward for the enemy as they can, but we don’t have anything like the French Resistance, if that’s what you mean.’

Kelso stared at her in astonishment and Gallagher said, ‘This island is approximately ten miles by five. There are something like forty-five thousand civilians. A good-size market town, that’s all. How long do you think a resistance movement would last here? No mountains to run to, nowhere to take refuge. Nowhere to go, in fact.’

Kelso seemed to have difficulty in taking it in. ‘So, there’s no resistance movement. No radio?’

‘No links with London at all,’ Gallagher told him.

‘Then what about France?’ Kelso asked desperately. ‘Granville, St Malo. They’re only a few hours away across the water, aren’t they? There must be a local unit of the French Resistance in those places.’

There was a significant pause, then Helen turned to Gallagher. ‘Savary could speak to the right people in Granville. He knows who they are and so do you.’

‘True.’

‘Guido was leaving as I came up from the beach,’ she said. ‘He told me they were trying for Granville this afternoon. Taking advantage of the fog.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘They won’t have the tide until noon. You could take the van. There are those sacks of potatoes to go into St Helier for the troops’ supply depot and the market.’

‘All right, you’ve convinced me,’ Gallagher said. ‘But if I know Savary, he won’t want any of this, not in his head. That means writing it down, which is taking one hell of a chance.’

‘We don’t have any choice, Sean,’ she said simply.

‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ Gallagher laughed. ‘The things I do for England. Look after our friend here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

As he reached the door she called, ‘And Sean?’

He turned. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t forget to drive on the right-hand side of the road.’

It was an old joke, but not without a certain amount of truth. One of the first things the German forces had done on occupying Jersey was to change the traffic flow from the left- to the right-hand side of the road. After four years, Gallagher still couldn’t get used to it, not that he drove very often. They only had the old Ford van as a special dispensation because the de Ville farmlands supplied various crops for the use of the German forces. The size of the petrol ration meant the van could be used only two or three times a week anyway. Gallagher stretched it by coasting down the hills with the engine off, and there was always a little black-market petrol available if you knew the right people.

He drove down through the tiny picturesque town of St Aubin and followed the curve of the bay to Bel Royal, St Helier in the distance. He passed a number of gun emplacements with a few troops in evidence, but Victoria Avenue was deserted on the run into town. One of the French trains the Germans had brought over passed him on its way to Millbrook, the only sign of activity until he reached the Grand Hotel. He checked his watch. It was just before eleven. Plenty of time to catch Savary before the Victor Hugo left for Granville, so he turned left into Gloucester Street and made his way to the market.

There weren’t too many people about, mainly because of the weather. The scarlet and black Nazi flag with its swastika on the pole above the Town Hall entrance hung limply in the damp air. The German for Town Hall is Rathaus. It was, therefore, understandable that the place was now known as the Rat House by the local inhabitants.

He parked outside the market in Beresford Street. It was almost deserted, just a handful of shoppers and a sprinkling of German soldiers. The market itself was officially closed, open for only two hours on a Saturday afternoon. There would be enough people in evidence then, desperately hoping for fresh produce.

Gallagher got two sacks of potatoes from the van, kicked open the gate and went inside. Most of the stalls in the old Victorian Market were empty, but there were one or two people about. He made straight for a stall on the far side where a large genial man in heavy sweater and cloth cap was arranging turnips in neat rows under a sign D. Chevalier.