Peter sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen of a large farmhouse, just outside Caen, that had been taken over by a small group of maquisards, a rural band of fighters in the French Resistance. The Tempest circuit, which Peter headed, had moved to the new base at the beginning of the year. He had managed to keep intact his circuit of a radio operator, whose job it was to intercept and decode messages, a liaison officer, who met with local resistance fighters, and a courier, who relayed messages and information. No mean feat, as many réseaux had been infiltrated and their members captured or killed: a treacherous situation, much like his former circuit White Light. Peter worried, though, that their luck was running out and prayed it would last just that little bit longer, as the next couple of months were going to be the most dangerous – as well as the most important – of their time behind enemy lines.
That evening Peter had suggested to his men that now might be a good time to write letters to their loved ones in the event of their death. It was not widely known, but it was common practice in wartime for soldiers to write a ‘last letter’, especially before going into battle. The hope being that a final few words from a loved one might ease the burden of their loss, or at least gift them something to remember them by.
For Peter and his circuit, there was no sugar-coating the issue. They were planning a number of clandestine operations, mainly the sabotage of primary targets, but also the reconnaissance of strategic areas, having been sent colour-coded messages from London. ‘Green’, ‘Black’, ‘Violet’ and ‘Blue’ were orders to derail French train tracks, blow up fuel depots and take out phone and power lines in the vicinity.
Peter looked at his watch. It was gone eleven. He was glad he had the kitchen to himself. Arron, his radio operator, was in a small room at the back of the house waiting for a message from headquarters. Phillip, the courier, who had been on the move for the past two days, was already in bed, exhausted, having had very little sleep. And Francis, the liaison officer, was in his room, no doubt doing the same as Peter.
Putting pen to paper, Peter consciously put all thoughts of war aside and instead focused on those of love – on what he wanted to say to the woman he adored – the words that might be his last to her.
Taking a sip of strong French coffee, which he was now accustomed to drinking from a small bowl, he looked into the dying embers of the fire and pictured Rosie asleep in their bed. He looked at the blank sheet of paper. There was so much he wanted to ask her. What was she thinking? Feeling? How was Charlotte? Work? Lily’s? Toby had sent the occasional message when he could, simply relaying that Rosie was well – and at the end of last year he’d sent a brief, coded communication that Charlotte was back living at home. That must have opened up a can of worms. How he wished he’d been there to help Rosie. Had Charlie found out about her sister’s ‘other life’? About Lily’s? Her uncle Raymond? So many questions.
He’d been told his identity would most likely be compromised after this latest operation, which meant that if he made it out alive, he was heading home. Suddenly, the thought of being with Rosie in the bed in which he had imagined her sleeping flashed across his mind’s eye; it was so real that he could almost feel their bodies next to each other, holding each other; he was breathing in her smell, feeling her blonde hair against his face. The last time they had been together they had made love; afterwards, neither had been able to sleep, their time together too precious.
Peter looked at the blank sheet of paper again and as he let his mind wander, he imagined himself waking Rosie up, kissing her softly and talking to her. As he did so, he wrote exactly what he would say to her if she were, in fact, there, sitting up in their bed, looking at him and listening.
He continued writing for the next hour, his make-believe world only broken once, when Arron came in and relayed a decoded message explaining that when the first three lines of Verlaine’s ‘Chanson d’automne’ were read out on Radio Londres, it meant that the invasion of the north coast would take place within two weeks. There had been rumours that the attack was to happen at Easter, in just over a week’s time, but those had been scorched, and now it seemed more than likely it would be May, possibly the beginning of June. No one knew for sure. Even those giving the orders weren’t a hundred percent. Much was dependent on the weather and the tides.
By the time he had finished writing, Peter was missing Rosie more than he had ever done before. What he wouldn’t give to be with her now – especially if it was to be his last time. He refused to castigate himself for thinking such thoughts for he had to be practical and face up to the reality that he and his men might not make it back to their homeland. But if they didn’t, there was no doubt in his mind that the sacrifice would have been worth it, for the next few months would decide the fate of the war – and thereby, the fate of humanity.