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Miles became aware of the smell first. It was a smell he recognized, but caught in the throes of a hazy state of semi-consciousness, he couldn’t quite remember why. Where did he remember it from? Was it at Oxford? On the farm in York, perhaps? No. This smell had nothing to do with the country. It was from somewhere else. Somewhere busy and crowded. What was it?
The haziness was dissipating now, and he slowly became aware of something dripping down his face. He lifted his arm to wipe it away, frowning when his arm wouldn’t move.
All at once, the darkness disappeared as a shock went through his body. He saw the beach again, coming towards him much too fast. His propellers sputtered and then stopped.
Good Lord, he had crashed!
His heart started pounding and his skin went hot, then cold, with the recollection. Pain flooded his body with the memory, throbbing in every muscle and making him inhale sharply. Miles forced his eyes open, squinting against the blinding sunlight. He was still in the cockpit, buckled into his seat. His head had fallen forward and hit the instrument panel, trapping one arm between his body and the door. His other arm seemed to be hanging at an odd angle and Miles frowned, lifting his head. Blood was smeared across the instrument panel, but that wasn’t what made him suck in his breath again. It was the excruciating pain shooting down his arm and, as he sat up, he realized that it was hanging at an odd angle because he couldn’t move it at all. The muscles weren’t working; they were screaming with pain instead. Lifting his left arm, he gingerly felt his right wrist, then started working his way up the arm. He must have broken it in the crash. Well, if I walk away from this with no more than a broken arm, I’ll call that a perfect landing.
He reached his shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as fire shot through his shoulder and neck. His arm wasn’t broken. His shoulder was dislocated. Gasping in pain, he reached for the buckles to unstrap himself with his left hand. He had to try to get his shoulder back in, but he had no idea how. The only other time this had happened, he’d been fourteen and playing rugby at Eaton. One of the coaches had done it on the sideline and he’d gone back into the game. He was a long way from Eaton now.
Miles had just finished unbuckling himself when he suddenly recognized the smell that had been filling his nostrils since he woke up. His eyes flew to the right wing, a wave of fear crashing over him. Gasoline! The smell was burning gasoline! Smoke was still pouring out of the engine and he looked at his gauges. They were all in the red, and the temperature needle had buried itself.
“Bugger!”
Miles fumbled with the canopy, trying to get it open with only one hand. As he did, the smell in the cockpit suddenly changed, turning almost acrid. Flames appeared on the wing, and Miles swore, pushing on the canopy with all his strength, his eyes on the orange flames licking around the wing and towards the cockpit.
Sheer panic gave him strength and the cracked canopy suddenly gave way, sliding back. A rush of salt air and heavy smoke surged into the cockpit, making his eyes burn and water. The smoke filled his lungs, making him choke and cough, but Miles ignored it and opened the half door next to him, standing to climb out. His limp arm hung useless as he scrambled onto the wing just as the flames reached the other side of the cockpit.
He leapt off the wing to land in the sand heavily, stumbling as he did so. Behind him, he heard a loud pop and then an ungodly creak that sounded as if the entire Spitfire was breaking in half. Miles spun around to see that the flames had already engulfed the entire cockpit, spreading faster than he would have ever dreamt possible.
Holding his useless arm against his stomach with his good one, Miles turned and ran, willing his flying boots to not get stuck in the sand. Hearing a small explosion behind him, he forced himself to go faster, putting as much distance between himself and the burning airplane as possible. Suddenly, a deafening explosion caused him to stumble forward. Turning, he watched as a ball of flame shot towards the sky before settling back to consume the entire aircraft.
He stared at the burning wreckage of his Spitfire through streaming eyes, his heart thumping against his chest and his blood pounding in his ears. Numbness stole over him and Miles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. He had just barely got out. Another few seconds, and he would be charred along with his plane. A few precious seconds was all that had saved his life.
“Hallo!! Hallo!! Jij daar!”
The sound of yelling made it through the noise of the roaring fire and Miles turned around in confusion to see two soldiers running towards him, their rifles pointed at him. He held up his good arm, his bad one hanging at an impossible angle at his side. He recognized the language as Dutch, but he had no idea what they were yelling as they ran towards him.
“I’m English,” he called in French, hoping they could understand him. “Do you speak French?”
“Oui,” one of them said, drawing up before him, panting. “We speak French.”
“I’m an English pilot,” Miles said, eyeing the rifles, then the uniforms. They were Belgian soldiers. “I just crashed on the beach.”
“We saw you come down,” the other soldier said, lowering his weapon. “Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder. I think it’s dislocated.”
The soldier nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Come. I can put it back in.”
“What?” Miles stared at him in apprehension. “How?”
The other man laughed at the look on his face. “It is all right. He is a medic. But let’s get away from the fire and off the beach. I do not trust the Germans. That will draw their attention.”
He turned to lead them across the sand to the dunes.
“Germans? There are troops nearby?” Miles asked in alarm, following. He looked at the medic walking beside him. “Where are we?”
“This is Saint-Idesbald. You are south of Ostend,” he said. “There are German troops everywhere, but what my friend meant is that they are bombing everywhere. If they see the burning, they will come and bomb here. We must move away from it.” He frowned. “Your head is also hurt, not just your shoulder.”
Miles lifted his hand to touch the blood on his face. “I’d forgotten. I hit my head when I landed.”
“I will do what I can, but my supplies are limited. My name is Antoine.”
“Miles.” Miles held out his good hand to have it gripped in a surprisingly firm shake.
“That is Raf,” Antoine added, nodding to the man ahead of them.
Raf waved a hand in acknowledgement, never turning his head.
“There is a port in Ostend, isn’t there?” Miles asked as they made their way over the dune. “How long will it take to get there?”
“To Ostend?” Antoine stared at him. “No. You do not want to go to Ostend. The Germans have overrun the city. You don’t want to go that way.”
“South,” Raf said over his shoulder. “You want to go south.”
They reached the top of the dune and Miles saw a road below. He grit his teeth in pain, holding his arm as they half slid, half jogged down the side of the dune until they reached the solid ground.
“What’s south?” he asked, short of breath from the pain.
“France,” came the dry answer. “You are about seven kilometers from the border. If you go to France, you can try for Dunkirk.”
Miles couldn’t stop himself from letting out a laugh.
“This is funny?”
“I was flying over Dunkirk when I was shot,” he explained. “We’re trying to keep the bombers and fighters away from the beach.”
Both soldiers nodded knowingly.
“Then you already know that is your only chance of getting back to your squadron,” Raf said, stopping and turning to look at him. “Belgium is lost, and France will fall soon as well. That is your only hope.”
Miles nodded and looked down the road. “This way?” he asked, pointing.
Raf nodded. “This road goes along the coast to the border. Once there, just follow the other soldiers.”
“But first, let me fix your shoulder,” Antoine said. “And I will clean the gash on your head.”
“Be quick,” Raf warned. “We must catch up with the others.”
Antoine nodded, waving away the warning. “Yes, yes. I will be quick.”
Miles swallowed and allowed the man to ease his Mae West over his head, gritting his teeth as his shoulder was jarred in the process.
“Thank you. I do appreciate this.”
“We must take your flight jacket off. Here. I will help. It will hurt.”
Antoine helped ease the heavy leather coat off Miles’ shoulders. He was as careful as possible, but Miles sucked in his breath and felt dizzy with the pain just the same.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, drawing a short laugh from the medic.
“You’re doing much better than the last man I had with a dislocation. He was screaming bloody murder and fainted dead away,” he informed him, laying the jacket over the Mae West on the ground. He eyed Miles’ uniform jacket and shook his head. “That has to go as well. Do you need a minute, or shall we continue?”
Miles grit his teeth and shook his head. “Let’s get it over with.”
Antoine helped him off with his uniform jacket, then nodded.
“I can do it now. You are very lucky these are your only injuries,” Antoine said, moving in front of him and lifting his forearm until it was parallel to the ground. “Try to relax.”
Despite his gentle touch, pain was already streaking down Miles’ arm when the medic rotated his forearm away from his body. Keeping one hand on his arm, Antoine moved his other to his bicep and began to rotate his upper arm away from his torso. Without warning, the joint popped back into place. Miles let out an exclamation before clamping his teeth shut just in time to stop from screaming in pain.
“There. It is done. That was not so bad, right?” Antoine moved in front of him again and produced a cloth from his pouch at his side. He began dabbing at Miles’ forehead while Miles sucked in his breath, pain still throbbing through his arm and shoulder. “This looks worse than it is. It’s not deep. I will clean it. I have no more bandages, but perhaps we can use your tie?”
“My tie?” Miles repeated, appalled. “I’d rather bleed to death, thank you very much.”
Antoine shrugged, undisturbed. “You’re not likely to bleed to death. Have it your way.”
He pulled out a small bottle and doused the cloth with the liquid, then cleaned the gash. The alcohol burned like the devil, but next to the pain in his shoulder, Miles barely felt it. When Antoine was finished, he put away his bottle and handed Miles the cloth.
“You can use that to staunch the bleeding until it stops,” he said. “I’ll help you back on with your jackets, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
Antoine held the uniform jacket and Miles gingerly angled his bad arm into the sleeve before sliding his other arm in and settling it over his shoulders. His shoulder still hurt like hell, but at least his arm was moving now. The flight jacket was heavier and more awkward, but it went on much easier than he had been expecting.
“Thank you again. I appreciate all your help.”
“You’re welcome. Now you go to Dunkirk.” Antoine held out his hand. “God speed, my friend. I pray you get back in the air soon.”
Miles shook his hand and nodded. “And you? Where are you going?”
“We are going to surrender,” Antoine said, smiling sadly. “We have our orders.”
Miles swallowed and looked from one to the other. Both men seemed resigned. He knew there was nothing he could say. It was no use asking them to come to Dunkirk with him. Orders were orders, and they would be offended if he suggested anything otherwise.
“I wish you the best of luck,” he said, holding out his hand to Raf.
He took it with a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you. God speed to you.”
Miles nodded and picked up his Mae West, turning to start walking. A moment later, he glanced over his shoulder to see the two men crossing into the trees on the other side of the road. They were going to rejoin their unit, and then to surrender to the German army. They would spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp. He turned his eyes forward along the road, a heavy sense of sadness rolling over him. While he had a chance at escaping back to England, they were out of chances.
Miles lifted the cloth to his forehead when he felt wetness start to roll alongside his eye again. He had about seven kilometers until he reached France. He was going to have to walk faster than this if he was to have any chance at making it off that beach.
He lifted the Mae West and settled it over his shoulders again, wincing at the pain. Realizing that he had used his arm without thinking, Miles moved his right arm again, testing it gingerly. It hurt like hell, but he had the use of his arm back.
If only he still had his airplane!
London
Bill finished pouring himself a fresh cup of tea and picked two biscuits off the plate, setting them in the saucer. He picked up the cup and saucer, turning to carry it over to his desk with a stifled yawn. It was mid-morning and he’d already been to two meetings, one of which was with Jasper. He was waiting for Wesley to bring him the second batch of messages from the radio room, hoping that today would be the day that brought word that Evelyn had finally reached Bordeaux. He was beginning to get worried about the amount of time it had been since he last heard from her.
He carefully set his tea down and then sank into the chair behind his desk. He’d heard reports of Luftwaffe pilots strafing the lines of refugees on the roads in France. He couldn’t imagine a world where military pilots were permitted to fire on innocent civilians, yet by all accounts, that was exactly what was happening in France. He prayed Evelyn hadn’t been caught in such an attack. It was one thing to contemplate losing her in the execution of her duty, but quite another to consider that she might be shot with other civilians simply moving from one place to another.
He was just lifting his cup of tea to his lips when the telephone on his desk rang shrilly. With a sigh, he set the cup down and reached for the handset. It never failed. Just as he was about to enjoy a nice cuppa, the phone always rang.
“Yes?”
“Sir William?”
“Yes?”
“This is Martin from the radio room, sir. I’ve just sent Wesley up with a few messages that came through. You asked to be notified as soon as one came in from Bordeaux.”
“Yes. Has it?”
“Yes, sir. Wesley has it now.”
“Thank you, Martin. Please stand by. I’ll be sending one back.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll notify them to expect a transmission.”
“Thank you.”
Bill hung up and rubbed his hands together. Good! She’d arrived safely. Now he just had to figure out how to get her home. He reached for his tea again. Every available boat, ship, sloop, trawler, launch, and bloody pontoon had been commandeered for the evacuation effort. Everything short of kayaks had been sent over to France, leaving nothing for him to send to pick up Jian and Oscar. Unless something became available, which was highly unlikely, they were going to have to stay in Bordeaux, at least until Operation Dynamo was complete.
Sipping his tea, he shook head. There was nothing else he could do. Sam was the only pilot crazy enough to fly into France right now, but he was unable to fly until his airplane was serviced. It had developed mechanical issues on his way to Spain, resulting in a forced landing just over the border. The repairs were expected to take at least a week, maybe longer. No. Jian and Oscar would have to remain in Bordeaux until he could send a boat.
A light knock fell on his door and then Wesley entered, carrying a handful of messages from the radio room.
“There’s a message, sir, from—”
“Bordeaux,” Bill finished with a smile, setting his cup down and holding out his hand. “Yes. Martin rang up to tell me.”
Wesley grinned and fished the message in question out from the stack, handing it to him. He laid the rest on the desk next to the teacup.
“Shall I wait, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll be sending a reply.”
Bill opened the message and scanned it. His smile turned to a frown, then he sighed.
“It’s not what I was hoping for,” he said, laying the paper down.
“It’s not from Leon?”
“It is, but Jian hasn’t arrived yet. This is to tell me that Romeo is out of action.”
Wesley frowned. “Romeo, sir?”
“Our agent in Rouen.”
“Ah. And what does that mean, out of action?”
Bill glanced up at him. “It means he’s either dead or captured. We’re losing them at an alarming rate, and we didn’t have many to begin with.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, exhaling. “Since we have Leon waiting, I will send a message. Just give me a moment to write it out.”
“Of course, sir.”
Wesley moved to stand a little further away, his hands clasped behind his back. Bill glanced at him as he pulled a sheet of paper towards himself.
“By the way, I found out some news about your brother,” he said, picking up a pencil. “His unit was ordered to pull back to the port cities when General Gort gave the order. By all accounts, they should be part of the lot at Dunkirk. So, keep your chin up, boy. He may just make it back yet.”
The beaming look of relief on Wesley’s face made Bill smile.
“Thank you, sir. That’s a relief!”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
Bill turned his attention to the blank piece of paper before him. After thinking for a moment, he wrote out a message to send back to Bordeaux. It was longer than he liked, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a lot of information to include, and none of it was familiar to Leon. When he was finished, he folded the paper and tucked it into an envelope, sealing it.
“Have Martin encode and send it immediately, and then tell him to continue to monitor the messages for any from Bordeaux,” he said, holding the envelope out to his assistant. “She still may arrive today. I want to know as soon as she does. The rest of these can wait until you return.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wesley took the message and left the office, closing the door softly. Bill reached for his tea again. His meeting with Jasper that morning had been to receive approval to recruit two new agents in France. At first, Montclair had thought he was insane. The Germans were advancing, they were losing people all over France, leading them to believe that the Germans had discovered the new agents’ identities, and he wanted to add two more? Bill chuckled, remembering the acid comment that had been thrown his way at his proposal.
That was before Jasper found out their identities.
Bill sat back in his chair, cradling his teacup in his hands thoughtfully as he stared across the office. When he and Marguerite went to dinner last night with Madeleine Ainsworth, he had been expecting a light evening filled with the kind of trivial niceties that allowed him to forget his work, forget the agents disappearing and dying on the continent, forget the whole bloody war, if only for an hour or so. Instead, Madeleine had unknowingly handed him the perfect pair of spies.
He’d met Gisele and Nicolas in Paris many times. He’d watched them grow from mischievous and reckless teenagers into lively and fun-loving young adults. He’d laughed at Nicolas’ caricatures of political figures, and watched as Gisele had cut a swath through Paris society with her cousin Evelyn at her side. They were popular, loved by everyone, invited to all the best houses and parties, and undisputed leaders of society. They were the perfect spies.
And they had chosen to remain in France rather than come to England with their parents.
As soon as Madeleine had told them, he had lost interest in the rest of the conversation and been distracted for the rest of the evening. His wife had laughingly teased him for not paying attention, then explained to Madeleine and Agatha that he was constantly working now. Thankfully, Madeleine was such an old friend that no offense was taken, and he had been allowed to retreat into his thoughts for the rest of their dinner.
That morning, he had gone into Jasper’s office with a daring proposition, and one that Montclair had reluctantly approved. If Zell and Nicki were staying in France anyway, it would be foolish of him not to approach them. With their money and connections, they would be welcomed as part of the elite when the Germans came. They were everything the German High Command aspired to be: rich, well-bred, well-educated, and they came from a long and impeccable lineage. They would be invited to every dinner, welcomed into association with the German officers, and befriended by their wives. They would be in a position unlike anyone MI6 currently had in France.
And Leon was the only agent in the south of France. He was the only one who might be able to reach them.
If they agreed, there was a risk involved, but not just for them. There would be a large risk involved for Jian. Gisele and Nicolas could never know Evelyn was working in France, or for MI6. While Bill had every confidence in their ability to rub shoulders with the German High Command and not give themselves away, he was not as sure that they would not reveal Evelyn’s identity under pressure. And the Germans were very good at applying pressure.
No. The two could never know that their cousin was also an agent.
Just as Evelyn could never know that her beloved cousins were working for him as well.
