Chapter 13
Chapter 13
The noise of the engine rumbling away would normally have thrilled Fitz, but she barely noticed it. She was only faintly aware of the vibration of the aircraft against her back. For the first time in her life, she found no comfort from being in the air.
Her mind was stuck on her conversation with Bob and what had happened to Sam. The thought that he was missing, possibly dead, was an utter nightmare. Despite the risks of being a pilot, Fitz had always thought of Sam as invincible but now the reality was hitting home hard.
A nudge to her shoulder brought Fitz from her thoughts. It was André.
He leaned in and raised his voice to be heard above the engine. ‘ ?a va? Tu es prête? ’
Fitz started and gave herself a mental shake. She needed to focus on the mission. If she messed up, she didn’t really care about herself but she knew the implications would be far-reaching and other people in the field were depending on her.
‘How long until we land?’ she called back to André in French.
‘Ten minutes.’
She gave him the thumbs-up before going through her final checks, ensuring she had all her documentation, her false identity, her papers, some French francs in her purse, an old shopping list and a hankie stuffed in her pocket. All little things to help with her cover to make her seem authentic, should she be stopped and questioned.
She could feel the aircraft banking to the left and guessed the pilot had spotted the landing lights and was lining the plane up for its descent.
Within a couple of minutes, the plane was landing on the makeshift airstrip – a field the resistance had identified as a good landing point. The Lysander bumped and lifted, bumped and lifted, before juddering its way along the field and coming to a halt. It would only be on the ground for a matter of seconds, enough time to get passengers off and then on for the return trip to England. Then it would taxi to the end of the field, turn and take off.
The door was yanked open and a hushed but distinctly French voice ordered them to disembark quickly.
‘ Dépêchez-vous .’ The man had a hunting rifle hooked on his shoulder and hurried Fitz and André off the plane. Two British pilots appeared from the darkness, both looking rather bedraggled.
In the light of the moon, Fitz searched their faces, hoping beyond hope that one of them was Sam. Neither of them were. They nodded briefly at Fitz as they started to climb aboard but no words were spoken.
Fitz knew she wasn’t supposed to say anything but she couldn’t let the opportunity pass. She grabbed the first pilot’s arm, forcing him to stop.
‘Flying Officer Sam Carter, American. Have you seen him?’
The pilot hesitated, surprised by the question but then shook his head. ‘No. Sorry.’ He climbed into the aircraft.
Before Fitz could even ask the second pilot, he was already shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Stop wasting time,’ ordered the Frenchman. He bundled Fitz out of the way, so he could close the door to the Lysander.
Next thing she knew, André had grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him.
‘You need to think about your mission and not about your boyfriend,’ he hissed. ‘You are a liability to us all otherwise. If you don’t think you can, then you need to get back on that plane now.’
‘I … I’m sorry,’ stuttered Fitz, as shame washed over her.
‘Are you going to be able to do this?’ demanded André.
‘Yes. I promise.’ Fitz knew she was blushing with embarrassment and was thankful it was dark.
‘Good. Let’s go.’ André bundled her towards the edge of the field, shoving her without any care.
Fitz hurried along, trying not to stumble on the uneven ground. She glanced behind as she heard the plane taxiing to the end of the field. She would not humiliate herself any more, she promised. Whatever had happened to Sam was out of her control. She couldn’t do anything to change that or anything to help him, but she could help herself and those around her.
They were in the surrounding woodland now and the resistance members had all left the field and joined them among the trees.
‘What happens now?’ asked Fitz.
‘You will come with us,’ said the man who had opened the door to the Lysander. He appeared to be the one in charge. ‘We will take you to Josselin, where you will make contact with another member of the group.’ He looked at Fitz’s suitcase. ‘What have you in there?’
‘Just a few items of clothing. I’ve come to Brittany from Paris to stay with my cousin, Philippe,’ she said, keeping to the cover story she had learned off by heart.
‘You have travel papers?’
‘Yes,’ replied Fitz, trying not to be irritated at the questioning. ‘Everything has been covered.’
The man looked like he didn’t necessarily trust her. ‘I hope so. Last time one of you came, they had been given the wrong papers,’ he said. ‘They were shot as spies on the spot.’
Fitz swallowed. Of course, she had heard of things like that happening, but it was a stark reminder of how dangerous their mission was.
‘We need to get moving,’ said one of the other men.
‘ Alors ,’ said the leader. ‘Follow me.’
Fitz and the two Frenchmen set off through the woods, while the rest of the welcoming party went in the other direction, their part of tonight’s mission complete.
Ten minutes of trekking through the woods, with the faintest of light from the moon to show the way, meant Fitz was relieved when they stepped out onto a track. They were staying off the main roads as much as possible to avoid any German patrols, but now needed to break cover from the trees in order to get to a safe house for the night.
They tramped along the unmade dirt track for several minutes until they finally reached a farmhouse surrounded by several outbuildings.
A dog barked to announce their arrival and darted out from the open doorway of a ramshackle-looking shed. Fitz went to jump back but the dog came to a sudden halt and continued its somewhat half-hearted barking. She realised it was tethered on a long rope to a post outside the shed.
The Frenchman practically barked back at the dog, telling it to be quiet. The dog gave a final bark before skulking back into the shed. Fitz felt sorry for the poor animal and wondered when was the last time it had been able to run free.
The door to the farmhouse opened and an elderly woman appeared, her silhouette lit by the light from inside the building.
She spoke in rapid Breton that Fitz found difficult to follow. She had been schooled in French by Parisian governesses, so the local patois of this region was alien to her.
The old woman gave a cursory glance in the direction of Fitz and André, then waggled her walking stick towards the outbuildings adjacent to her house.
The Frenchman, who for security reasons, hadn’t introduced himself or his comrade, thanked the woman who then went back indoors.
‘Follow me,’ he instructed as he and the other man strode off across the muddy courtyard and disappeared around the corner.
André followed the man as did Fitz, but she stumbled on the uneven cobbles.
‘My shoelace,’ she said, noticing it had come undone. She knelt to fasten it. André made a tutting noise, clearly not impressed, and proceeded to carry on walking. Gosh, he was going to be fun working with, mused Fitz as she hurried to tie her shoelace.
As she stood up, the sound of a German voice shouting cut through the air. Fitz froze.
Voices were coming from around the side of the barn. Then there was more shouting from the Germans, but this time in French.
Fitz darted across the courtyard on tiptoes so that no one could hear her heels on the cobbles. The sound of gunfire rang out, followed almost immediately by return fire.
Without thinking, she bolted into an open doorway, pushing herself back into the shadows, trying to control her breathing.
Then she heard the low rumble of a dog’s growl.
‘Damn it,’ she muttered. She’d only taken refuge in the dog’s shed. ‘Good boy,’ she whispered. ‘ Bon chien .’ It would be just her luck if she was mauled to death by a bloody dog.
The dog continued its low-level growling.
Fitz was debating whether to make a dash for it out of the shed in the hope of finding somewhere else to hide, when the sound of booted feet on the cobbles outside stopped her.
There was more shouting. Fitz tuned into the German language, listening to the commands being issued to the soldiers to search all the outbuildings. They were looking for another woman. She heard footsteps hurriedly approaching the shed.
The dog let out a fierce bark and Fitz nearly jumped out of her skin. She slapped her hand to her mouth, to stop herself from squealing in fright.
The dog was in full barking mode now, as if it knew the Germans were the enemy. One of the soldiers shouted at it to shut up and another called out that someone should shoot it.
‘It’s on a rope,’ called back the soldier. ‘I’m not killing it.’
‘Just leave it,’ came a third voice. ‘There’s no one in there, anyway, the dog would be going crazy.’
Fitz let out a slow shallow breath. The dog had stopped barking and had retreated back to the doorway where it was just offering the occasional growl now.
More shouting, and Fitz could hear the sound of a door being opened and closed.
‘I’m here on my own.’ It was the old woman’s voice.
‘Then who are these?’ asked a German.
The rumble of an engine as what sounded like a truck approaching drowned out the voices. Very slowly, Fitz edged her way along the inside of the shed towards the front, where there was a small crack between two planks of wood. All the time, she eyed the dog, who fortunately didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in her as it guarded the entrance to its territory.
The noise of the truck was louder now and as Fitz reached the gap in the wood, the vehicle pulled into the courtyard, the headlight beams sweeping across the building as it did so. She pushed herself back into the corner until the light passed over the shed.
Doors opened and slammed and the sound of more booted feet. Fitz watched from the crack as several soldiers jogged around to the front of the vehicle. She couldn’t see clearly but another soldier had climbed out from the cab of the truck. As he came to stand in front of the headlights, she could see he was a captain. The circle of soldiers in the courtyard parted and Fitz saw André, the old woman, and the two French resistance members all kneeling on the cobbles with their hands behind their heads.
She watched as the German officer inspected the papers, as one of the soldiers shone his torch onto the forged documents. The officer shoved them into the hand of the soldier and walked over to the group kneeling on the ground.
‘Where is she? Où est-elle?’ he asked. Fitz was unsurprised to hear him speaking French. Many of the German officers would have been taught French at school as their foreign language, often alongside English.
Fitz’s breath hitched in her chest.
There was silence from the group of four.
The officer prowled around them like a wolf stalking its prey. He stopped behind the old woman and leant down so his mouth was near her ear. Fitz couldn’t hear what he was saying, but guessed he was repeating his question.
The old woman shook her head.
The officer straightened up and removed his pistol from the holster and walked along the line, past André, past the Frenchman who had appeared to be in charge, before coming to a stop behind the other resistance member.
‘I will ask again,’ said the officer, his voice loud. ‘Where is the other woman?’
Fitz swallowed hard. They must have been betrayed. How would the officer know someone was missing and it was a woman otherwise?
Without warning a single shot rang out, making Fitz jump in fright. Her eyes felt like they were popping out of her head as she saw the Frenchman fall face-first onto the cobbles. Blood pooled out across the ground, seeping between the stones like water in a gutter.
She clamped her hand over her mouth once again but then immediately took her hand away, fearful that it would amplify her heavy breathing as she fought to remain calm. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to steady her breathing. She needed to stay in control.
‘I will ask once again,’ the German’s voice rang out. ‘Where is the other woman?’
Fitz opened her eyes and looked through the crack. The officer was pacing back and forth behind the remaining three. He stopped behind the woman, cocked his gun and held it to the back of her head.
‘I know you’re here!’ he shouted out. ‘Come out now and the woman will be spared.’
Fitz watched him look all around the courtyard, his eyes sweeping the buildings, coming to rest on the shed. She was sure he was staring right at her. She daren’t move. He couldn’t possibly see her, but he might notice a change in the shadows. For several horrifying seconds she stared straight into the eyes of the German officer.
Finally, his gaze moved on. Fitz could barely breathe. She felt lightheaded and her legs weak. But somehow she remained standing.
‘If you don’t come out in five seconds then the blood of this woman will be on your hands,’ announced the officer. Fitz was certain he didn’t know she was in the shed or that she was even there. She didn’t doubt that he meant what he threatened, though, whether she was there or not. If she stepped out, they would all be killed. If not immediately, then later, once they had been interrogated and tortured. But would he let the old woman go? She doubted it. And although she knew she wasn’t responsible for the woman’s death, it still felt like it.
‘One. Two. Three,’ the officer began counting. ‘Four. Five.’ Fitz remained where she was. ‘Very well.’
Another single shot rang out and the old woman slumped to the ground.
Fitz blinked hard. What would happen now? Would he execute André and the other man? And when she still didn’t come out, what then?
The dog gave a low rumbling growl and backed into the shed. Fitz remained perfectly still. She didn’t want the dog to suddenly remember she was there and then attack her.
She flicked her gaze back to the courtyard. The two Frenchmen were being dragged to their feet by several soldiers. She watched as they were shoved towards the truck. Fitz could hear orders being issued but couldn’t work out what was being said. She guessed they were being put in the back of the truck to be taken away for interrogation.
‘This is your last chance to come out,’ called the German officer. ‘I have been very patient but now it is at an end. It is your choice.’
Fitz didn’t move.
The officer issued some more orders and several soldiers hurried out of sight, returning shortly carrying petrol cans. Fitz watched as they began to douse the farmhouse doors and windows with the liquid. They worked their way around the courtyard. Soon they would be at the shed.
She had no choice but to back away from the spy hole otherwise she’d be smothered in petrol, too. The dog gave a growl but didn’t move. Fitz backed away some more. And then some more, until she had reached the rear of the shed.
It was dark in the shadows and she couldn’t make anything out. With her back to the wall, she felt with her hands and one step at a time, moved along, trying to feel for any way out of what was about to become an inferno.
As she moved along, to her surprise, she realised the back wall had ended. There was an opening into another room.
More orders from the courtyard were shouted and as Fitz edged through the opening, she glanced back to see the farmhouse was already ablaze. The flames lapped up the petrol, and the whole place was bathed in an orange glow from the fire.
Chickens squawked as they fled from one of the outbuildings and Fitz could hear the bleat of a goat. The dog began to bark and pull at his rope. This time not with fierceness but with fear. It retreated back into the shed.
The figure of a soldier appeared in the doorway at the front of the shed, silhouetted by the orange glow of flames behind him. Fitz ducked back from the opening and pushed herself against the wall of the back room she was now in. She could hear the soldier say something about getting the dog.
Another soldier’s voice came. ‘Leave the thing to burn,’ he snapped. Fitz could hear the slosh of petrol being splashed into the shed.
She crouched down and stole a glance around the opening. There was only one figure there now. He took out a box of matches and struck one. It broke and he swore in German, before taking another match from the box, and struck it on the side of the box. It fizzled into life. The soldier tilted the match a fraction so the flame crept up the stick. Then he took a step back and slung the lighted match into the shed.
There was a whooshing sound and the fuel ignited a second later.
All Fitz could do was watch the flames eagerly lick the wooden structure. She was going to die in a shed in the middle of the Breton countryside and no one would know what had happened to her. She didn’t feel sorry for herself but she felt sorry for her father.