Mme Thibideaux was slightly breathless; firstly, because she was une femme d’un certain âge and, secondly, because the May afternoon was a warm one and the taxi had deposited her at a discreet distance from her ultimate destination.  Also to be factored was the pleasurable anticipation of the afternoon that caused her to glow and, while she thought that the enjoyment of such pleasures restored her youth, she did realise in some corner of her heart that this was in part an illusion, for the difference in their ages that on one hand made her feel young, also served, in a different frame of mind, to merely emphasise the gap.  It was not like this with Maurice, of course; he was very old and although she had loved him dearly for all these years and she admired his mind– as did the whole of Europe– she had to frequently remind herself at those times when she found his tiny, doll-like frame less than a match for a women, like herself, who was ripe with passion and, after all, still young and firm of flesh… that, well… it was an unsatisfactory price to pay for the grim satisfaction of being younger than her lover.

Then there was the cheese.  This was terribly exciting and made her mouth water and her heart race.  It was a cheese of the first order; a veritable prince of cheeses and one which the gourmands of Paris would pay almost any price to obtain and might well be moved to acts of violence on respectable and elegantly dressed courtesans such as herself.  The cheese, a rare one scented with nutty truffles and possessing a tang that, for some reason, she associated with the armpits of the ardent young men of her youth, was from her own village deep in the heart of rural France and had been sent up to her, carefully wrapped in straw and the cool leaves of the giant dock, just this morning and she now excitedly bore it through the streets of the 8th in a string bag, carefully shading it from the sun and thinking pleasurable thoughts about how it should be eaten with her lover, so causing her to be early for their tryst as she hurried on such a warm afternoon.

The apartment was in a small but elegant hôtel particulier that stood back discreetly from the street.  The mistress of General Gamelin knocked on the door but called out cheerfully: “J’ai ma clé!” as she put it in the lock and she continued in a rapid voice: “I have a fromage most wonderful, chéri, from my village and I need to stand it in a cool place.”  She opened the door and stepped in but looked first into her string bag.  “I’m sorry that I am early, chéri, but do you have a slab of marble or perhaps a saucer…”  She looked up and there stood Stephen.  He was bare-chested and bare footed and wearing just his well-tailored officer’s trousers.  “I know I am early but…” Mme Thibideaux froze.  There, behind Stephen, wearing the most beautiful silk and lace undergarments she had to painfully admit, and being some years her junior she must concede, was Mlle Guidry.

Mme Thibideaux was on the back foot and she instantly blamed herself, for she had committed that most grave and unforgivable of all Gallic sins: she had arrived early and, worse, made herself de trop.  However, she was a sophisticated woman, perhaps a leader of the demimonde, and General Gamelin was merely the last in a long line of lovers from the most illustrious families in all France as her jewels bore testament, and a lesser woman might not have recovered from her gaucherie.

“Bonjour Etienne,” she said in an even voice looking at Stephen who said nothing.  “Bonjour Inez,” she said to Mlle Guidry.  “And how is General Georges?”

“Alphonse is well but tearful, Celestine, and is at Montry this afternoon.  And yours?”

“Since Weygand, Maurice is in despair and I rarely see him.  I think he is at the Meuse, but I expect him back at Vincennes soon.”

There was silence in the room as each of the three contemplated the catastrophic course that the war had taken since the beginning of May.  General Gamelin was sixty-eight and his reputation for great genius now seemed to be ill founded as the German breakthrough at the Ardennes Forest had exposed, causing Premier Reynaud also to break down into tears.

The Major-Général des Armées, Alphonse Georges, whose mistress was Mlle Guidry, was a stripling of sixty-five and commander of the armies of the north-east and was also inclined to blub— a weakness which would never have been tolerated by the boys at his school, thought Stephen.  Georges intensely disliked Gamelin as well as Daladier and Reynaud and tried not to talk to him directly and to that end kept a separate headquarters some 35 miles from that of his superior that had no telephone connection.  Despite having, with Gamelin, assured Daladier that France had the greatest army in Europe, he was now contemplating the futility of getting his bloated army to do anything at all to resist the triumphant Wehrmacht.

Stephen, who had been with Military Intelligence and posted to France since just before Churchill was made premier, was hoping that his gambit in becoming the lover of both women was not becoming undone.  Churchill still had great faith in his ‘gallant French allies’, despite what he must have seen with his own eyes on his visit the previous week, but Military Intelligence had always been less sanguine and so had authorized this unfriendly action— although that was hardly the appropriate adverb— against their erstwhile allies and one for which Stephen’s unique talents were quickly recognised. 

All three in the room hated General Weygand who had displaced General Gamelain and Stephen himself was driven to tears of rage at the plodding and ham fisted tactics of the man and his wilful penchant for reporting successes where there were none was positively dangerous.  Stephen frequently thought these days of his late friend, General Monash, who taught him the importance of gathering hard evidence and of thorough planning, without the emotion, arrogance, pious hopes or the laziness of these French generals.  He remembered how Monash had, for the first time, incorporated tanks with the infantry and now the Germans, with their Panzer brigades, had taken this strategy further with astounding results; the French had good tanks and plenty of them, but they were held back and dispersed uselessly throughout the army.  In particular, Stephen had seen that the objective of these German Panzers was not Paris but the Channel coast.  He said this on the 16^th of May and hoped that Churchill would listen.  He said it again on the 18^th when Weygand was appointed.  They would not believe him.  Now the Germans were consolidating on that coast.

“Well,” said Mlle Guidry, breaking the silence in the room, “It is still early in the afternoon.”

“Yes, quite early,” replied Mme Thibideaux,

“And did you say that you have a cheese?”

“Oui. It is a septmoncel from Saint-Claude.”

“Then a Beaujolais from Chiroubles would be ideal.”

“Is that back in fashion?” asked Mme Thibideaux, trying to regain some ground.

“I have made it so,” replied the younger woman.

“Will there be enough for us all, Inez?”

“I think that you ought to know there should be, Celestine,” she replied with a sly smile, pushing Stephen back onto the bed, “but we might need more wine and cheese.”

Martin was also in uniform— he had resumed his honorary rank of colonel even though his personal militia—the Earl of  Holdenhurst’s Yeomanry— a bicycle regiment which had seen service in Ireland in the last war— was no more and had, thankfully, been subsumed into the Territorials.  Martin himself was back with the Foreign Office and he had had no difficulty in getting Stephen a position too.

In fact he was almost glad to be back in uniform and given some purpose.  It had been a dreadful year and Martin felt he would never look at the world again with the same blithe eyes and his happiness of just a short time ago was now lost forever.  His lovely wife, dear, gentle Mata had been killed by a motorcar in Piccadilly Circus right before his eyes.  Only the police saw it as an accident, but Martin knew that she had been killed by Albanian or Italian agents but this was difficult to prove and the FO were not particularly interested.  The black Mercedes that had struck Mata was, of course, found to be stolen and there were no finger prints or any witnesses to add more than what Martin and Stephen had seen for themselves and so the world merely recorded it as being a tragic accident and notable only for the noble birth of those involved.

There was a terrible period of grief and a big funeral at Branksome-le-Bourne, but larger events seemed to swiftly overtake them and one death was just one death when the nation was at war.  Martin sometimes thought that this diminished the value of her life and he found that he had greatly loved her in his own way.

It hit Erna the hardest as might have been expected.  Erna was numb with grief and retreated into herself, with perhaps only The Plunger able to touch her and Erna’s occasional turns of humour were no more.  She threw herself into the care of the children—her daughter Charlotte and Will, Martin’s son.  They cried for their Mata for many weeks, and Martin was sure his heart would break, but being young children with three surviving parents, they slowly came to adjust to Mata’s absence but the adults wondered what damage had been done to them and prayed that their lives would be untroubled.

Erna slowly resumed her interests and spent a good deal of time at the house in St Aubin on Jersey, usually taking the children.  Martin greatly feared that she would leave his household, taking Charlotte with her and he lay awake at night in dread of this eventuality.  He wanted to tell Erna that this was still her home, but he did not dare voice it, for fear of opening a wound.  Instead he tried to show how dependant Charlotte and Will were on each other and how they must never be parted and he made sure that Erna was included in everything associated with their life at Croome. 

Martin now wondered where Erna was and how things were at home.  A large number of evacuated children had arrived at Croome from Birmingham, as the house was initially a centre for their distribution for rehousing in that part of the county.  The War Office was also interested in the house for other purposes, none of which were disclosed to Martin, and it was quite likely, if he ever got back to England, that he would find himself evicted from his own home.

Almost at once the servants at both houses vanished.  Chilvers and Mrs Capstick remained at their posts, but cook and all the male servants, the gardeners and most of the maids had left.  The great rooms were shrouded in dustsheets and the blinds were drawn.  Martin wondered if he would ever see them raised again.  In London, Glass (who was exempt from call-up because he was crippled from the accident which had killed Martin’s father) remained with Lily Beck, the housekeeper, and together they placed gummed paper over the once-elegant windows and installed blackout curtains like every other Londoner.  Rationing had quickly been instituted and M. Lefaux, their prized chef, was again in danger of being taken from them.

The thought of Lefaux returned Martin to his present mission, which was also to do with a difficult Frenchman.  He was liaising with the staff of de Gaulle who had just today been made a brigadier general and was now on his way to Abbeville in an attempt to push through to where the BEF were cut off in their retreat.  De Gaulle was a difficult man as his staff would attest, but he had used tanks successfully at Montcornet and almost alone had forced the Germans to retreat at Caumont, which Martin had witnessed with his own eyes before returning to Paris to await further orders.

Martin and Stephen had rooms and messed together in a large mansion near the École Militaire in the fashionable 7^th.  This home of a former German industrialist was now occupied by several branches of British Military Intelligence and tight-lipped men in uniform or in expensive suits were seen frequently scurrying in and out through the handsome doors on the Avenue de Saxe.  When they were in Paris, Carlo, their indefatigable batman, made sure that they could share a bedroom and they mostly chose to dine out to avoid their fellow officers who seemed unattractively British when herded together in such great numbers in a foreign land. 

Martin now sat down at a desk and Carlo took off his boots and replaced them with monogrammed slippers and Martin commenced to write his final report on General de Gaulle and the 4e Division cuirassée, noting that this armored division might be useful in breaking through to join up with Generals Gort and Brooke if coordinated with some air support which had been sorely lacking in previous actions.

The afternoon had passed pleasantly for Stephen and his two companions.  In fact it was now beyond l’ heure bleue when they all should have decently departed for their homes in order to dress for dinner or the theatre, but this was not so in the discreet hotel room with its expensive furnishings.  Stephen had satisfied both women and they had worked separately and together to bring Stephen to new heights.  If only Generals Gamelin and Georges could operate so harmoniously as their mistresses did, thought Stephen as Mme Thibideaux knelt on a cushion before him and Mlle Guidry was feasting somewhere in his rear.

While Mlle Guidry was perhaps the younger and more lithe, she was possessed of small breasts while Mme Thibideaux was proud of her large ones of Belle Époque proportions and whose flesh was such that she required almost no concealing powder.  She was able to pleasure Stephen between them with the joyful result that she was soon covered in Stephen’s seed which Mlle Guidry greedily licked clean while Stephen watched on.  Mlle Guidry was particularly adroit with her small pink tongue and Mme Thibideaux wondered if she used it in pleasuring General Georges as she was now using it to lewdly clean out Mme Thibideaux’s own sopping cunt, while Stephen watched on, and sending the most electric thrills through her body and reminding her of days long ago in her native town and the girls of her convent school.

Stephen had also been between their legs— he was a most satisfactory lover— and now Mme Thibideaux was urging Stephen, perhaps from malicious motives, to take Mlle Guidry in another fashion and was indeed guiding Stephen’s hard worked member in that direction when Mlle Guidry demurred— if that word could be used for so alarmed a refusal.  Mme Thibideaux felt slightly triumphant and promised that she would accommodate Stephen that way after she had had a little rest and the remainder of the cheese.  Thus they were stretched out and panting side by side in the large bed.

“Etienne, I have something I want to give to you.  Please accept it,” said Mme Thibideaux.  The other two were curious and exchanged looks as she reached for her elegant purse and fished about in it for a small box. 

“You cannot be going to propose marriage, Celestine,” laughed Mlle Guidry sarcastically.

“Alas no,” replied Mme Thibideaux with a straight bat.  “Thibideaux is still alive.”

The box was opened and the tissue paper was removed.  Inside glittered the most wonderful piece of jewellery.  It was in the form of a finely chased gold wreath— in the Empire style—and behind a watch glass was a lock of hair set against a miniature painted backdrop.  It was exquisite.

“I can’t take this, Celestine…” began Stephen.

“Take it, I want you to.  It is Napoleon’s hair and he gave it to Marshal Soult after the great victory at Austerlitz.  Perhaps France does not deserve it.”  Stephen was greatly moved and showed it to Mlle Guidry and then put it safely aside.

“This has proved to be an arrangement most satisfactory,” began Mme Thibideaux generously, looking around at the dishevelled room.  The others agreed that this was so and Mlle Guidry ventured that it must be one that continues.  Stephen said that he had no objection and would, in future, supply the refreshments. 

“But you already do!” giggled Mlle Guidry and added that she would bring a most delicious terrine of wild rabbit with almonds from the Restaurant Buré.

“But that is in Tours, Inez, on the Place Beaune— I’ve been there,” said Stephen.

“Then you will know it is good.”

“Yes and the goat cheeses are the best in the Loire,” said Mme Thibideaux, her mouth-watering.  “We will be very happy there.”

“But I’m not going to Tours,” said Stephen in puzzlement.

“Chéri,” said Mlle Guidry looking at him, “you surely know we will all be moving there?  They are going to declare Paris an open city.”

Stephen was astounded and did not know this at all and was quite certain that the BEF were not aware of it either nor that the French were not even going to defend their own capital.  He sat up.  “How soon?”

“In ten days or a fortnight, perhaps,” replied Mme Thibideaux with a shrug.  “Weygand says that if the Belgians surrender it is all over.”

“But Britain and France will fight on.  If we could just organise better…”

“Maybe so, Etienne,” said Mlle Guidry in a serious voice, taking his hand for emphasis, “but I know Alphonse will join with Admiral Darlan and Charles Baudoin and the Maréchal himself,” she added referring to Pétain, “and seek an armistice with Germany.  He wants to preserve something of his forces.”

“But they can’t make a separate peace with Hitler!” cried Stephen.

“Chéri…” began Mme Thibideaux in a cooing voice.  “All will be well and we will have fun in Tours and we will soon be back in Paris when the Boche make peace.”

But Stephen knew that all would not be well and as soon as was decently possible (which was in less than an hour-and-a-half) he returned to the Avenue de Saxe to write an urgent report.

“You have lipstick on your collar, Derbs,” whispered Martin as he sat next to him in the newsreel theatre “Have you been letting French ladies kiss you?”

“You know I can’t talk about it, Mala— Official Secrets Act, but I do have something terrible to tell you.”  He broke the rules and whispered into Marin’s ear what he had been told, without disclosing the manner of his learning it— to protect the virtue of two ladies as well as his own.  The Pathé-Journal was very noisy and so it was a few minutes before he could continue.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTi7A7Fgulk

“So I think we had better make our private arrangements for leaving the city and for leaving France as soon as our orders permit.”

Martin was stunned as they regained the street.  It had not occurred to him that the reverses since the 10^th of May were so serious and irrevocable.  “When will the Germans get here?”

“Early in June, perhaps,” said Stephen. “The Channel Ports will be closed and we will have to find a way home.”

The last week of May passed in swift horror.  The linking up of the armies of the south with the quarter of a million of the BEF trapped on the coast at Dunkirk was a failure and the hastily organised but brilliant evacuation of the British Army began.  The Belgians capitulated and Reynaud who had been in London was incandescent.  “But what could they do?” said Martin to Stephen when he learned of this.  Miraculously the Germans held back from Dunkirk itself and the French troops there were gallant in protecting the evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force.  They held their breath.

Things were frantic in Paris and they were busy destroying files.  The bonfire in the courtyard of the house on the Avenue de Saxe burned for days.  Carlo spent his time obtaining tins of petrol, which he stored with Martin’s Bentley (which he had brought over in 1939) in the garage he rented while Martin and Stephen went backwards and forwards to their bank and made various prudent arrangements.  Stephen drew out a large sum of money in notes and gold causing Martin to fret about its and his safety.

June came and the lovely weather was in tragic contrast to the dire situation about them. Dunkirk fell and on the same day Reynaud took Weygand and de Gaulle into his government whose temper was, however, increasingly defeatist.  It decamped in a shameful rout to Tours and almost immediately moved again to Bordeaux.

Martin and Stephen received new orders.  Martin was to press de Gaulle to continue to fight and was to follow him to Bordeaux   Stephen’s orders were a great surprise and he dared to share them with Martin.

“Mala, I can’t believe this!  They want me to find my way south to Antibes where I am to escort a certain person back to England.  They believe that Italy will declare war and will advance along the coast to Toulon to secure the French fleet or maybe get as far as Marseille.”

“Don’t tell me: it’s the Duke of Windsor.  I know he was renting Sir William Burton’s Chateau de la Croë.”

“No, not at all; it’s Mrs Chadwick!”

And so it was.  To their astonishment, Mrs Chadwick, whose late husband in the far off days of King Edward had been the British Resident in Menton had, in retirement, carved out a position for herself as an informal agent of British Intelligence and had, presumably, quietly gathered valuable information on the population of the Riviera over several decades.  And she was in a perfect position to do so, the boys conceded, for she knew everybody and travelled frequently between Italy and France and, therefore, would have been quite capable of photographing or sketching fortifications and airfields and to report on political developments of the sort that did not get into the newspapers and the woman they knew so well—or had thought they had— was surely privy to a great many secrets.

The Germans were advancing south and west.  Paris was emptying and Martin and Stephen decided to act together.  They would head first to Bordeaux and then east to Antibes.  “I’m worried about Erna, Mala,” said Stephen.  “I think she might be in Jersey and the Germans might reach the French coast there.  She should evacuate.”

Martin hadn’t thought of that.  He sent off a cable, to St Helier firstly, but communications were problematic so he sent another to England asking Myles to try to reach Erna from that direction.  He was worried.

The flight from Paris was something never to be forgotten.  It was chaotic and inglorious.  They left on the 8^th of June with the Bentley weighed down with supplies of food and tins of petrol.  Almost immediately streams of refugees blocked the roads south and west and they were forced to slow to a crawl.  There were vehicles of every description: old trucks, camions, vans, farm wagons, motor bicycles, and private motors.  Those that did not have transport walked, usually carrying pathetic bundles or pushing barrows that contained their family treasures. Most dreadful of all were the children—they were not tearful, but sullen and tired.  All the trappings of civilization had been stripped away with alarming rapidity and the sights and smells around them in this slow moving stream of humanity were primitive.

“It is like the end of the world, Derbs,” cried Martin in deepening horror as he looked through the windscreen.  All around him he could see the collapse of the world he had known; all that had existed in his own lifetime was now tumbling about his ears in one undignified rout.

At Rambouillet they encountered many French troops being ferried in vans bearing the names of fashionable Parisian milliners.  The soldiers occasionally smiled and waved, cigarettes in their mouths, but they were generally glum and they were headed in the wrong direction.

They slept a few hours in the car at the side of the road, taking it in turns to keep watch, armed with a revolver.  Occasionally faces would press against the windows of the opulent motorcar and the weary refugees must have gazed with envy at the comparative lightness of their sufferings.

Outside Blois they came upon a terrible sight:  over the crest of a hill, the long straight road bordered by poplars that ran down to a bridge across a river was littered with wrecked vehicles.  Some were still burning and as they drew closer others were seen to be pocked mark by machine gun fire.  The people were either sitting huddled and numb on the edge of the road or were carrying bodies into the ploughed fields for burial.  They stopped and rendered what assistance they could.  Apparently a German fighter had swooped low and strafed them with deadly results– it was an act of sheer barbarism.

A man who seemed to act as their leader, directed Stephen’s attention to a young woman with a crying baby.  “She has seen her husband die, monsieur, and she is ill.  Could you please take them as far as Tours where she has a married sister.”

The boys went across to the ditch where the woman sat holding her baby.  At first she did not even acknowledge the presence of the Englishmen, merely staring into space.  Stephen spoke gently to her until, at last, she turned her head. “Ouimet,” she said quietly and Stephen introduced himself to Mme Ouimet and gallantly introduced Martin.  She struggled to pronounce their names or comprehend Martin’s title, so she made do with their first names.

“Mon mari est mort,” she said quietly, rocking slightly as much for her own comfort as for the baby’s and she pointed out to the field where he was evidently laid.

“We know,” said Stephen as gently as he could. “Quel est le nom de votre bébé?”

The woman unfolded the blanket so that they might see.  “Charlotte. Charlotte Oceané.”

“That is a beautiful name; she is a beautiful girl,” said Stephen.

“I met my husband by the sea— at Dieppe,” she volunteered in French, holding her little girl tightly at the pain of the remembrance.”

“I also have a daughter named Charlotte.  Charlotte Mary.”

“Où est-elle maintenant?” she asked in a soft voice, but looking up into Stephen’s eyes for the first time.

That was a good question.  Stephen hoped that she was safe on Jersey, or perhaps even evacuated to England.  He hoped there were no bombs falling on England, but he could not be certain. “Je ne sais pas.”

Mme Ouimet reached out and took his hand and squeezed it for a brief moment in a gesture of comfort.  Stephen was touched and fought back his tears.

Carlo arrived at the roadside with an embarrassingly luxurious picnic hamper that was a feature of Martin’s motorcar.  From it he took some bread and cheese.  Mme Ouimet said she was not hungry, but Carlo insisted that she eat a little.  Martin produced some aspirin and hoped they would help with Mme Ouimet’s fever.  He also removed a silver spirit kettle and boiled some water.  This was used to make tea for the adults and when the water cooled it was fed to Charlotte by her mother.  The remains were used to dampen the expensive linen napkins and thus Charlotte was washed—Stephen helping in this—and a further napkin was pressed into service to gird the baby, all the while the woman thanking them in French and her few words of English

“We must go, Mme Ouimet,” said Martin at one point.  “We must keep ahead of the Germans.”  Mme Ouimet nodded in understanding and she took one last look around at the place where her husband was so cruelly taken from her and was now buried and rose from the ground and was helped to the Bentley.  There was some rearrangement of luggage and provisions, but room was found for mother and baby and the car pulled out into the endless stream of refugees who were picking their way through the wreckage of blackened vehicles and dead horses.

They could only proceed slowly and the sounding of the horn was futile and smacked of arrogance.  They were silent until at last Martin spoke.  “How far have you come, Mme Ouimet?”

The young woman did not look at him but spoke into space: “We are from Évraux on the Iton River and we left two days ago.”  Martin digested what this meant in terms of suffering.  “I have a sister in Tours and we were heading there.  Our town has already been bombed and my husband is…was…a compositor and a member of the SFIO and the Germans would surely come for him, so we left.”

“And your sister?”

“She is married to a garage proprietor and she will be pleased to see me, although she was très inamicale towards Henri because of his politics.”

Although it was only 70 kilometres to Tours it took them four hours.  They stopped and Carlo filled the Bentley with some of their precious petrol.  They obtained some milk in a village, but they paid dearly for it.  Mme Ouimet was given more aspirin and dozed, trusting Charlotte to Stephen.

At last they came to Tours and painfully recalled their visits to the lovely town in days long vanished.  The government of the Republic had already decamped for Bordeaux and Stephen wondered if Mme Thibideaux and Mlle Guidry were among the camp followers.  Here they learned that Italy had declared war on France and that an assault through the alpine passes was likely.  They wondered if they would reach Antibes in time to rescue Mrs Chadwick.

The garage of Mme Ouimet’s brother-in-law was found and that lady was safely delivered into the arms of her family, after breaking down and disclosing the news of her husband’s death.  It was a dreadful moment.  While she was being helped inside, Stephen said that he would change the baby.  Although he had the big hands and thick fingers of a man, he was gentle and skilful in his task, getting the safety pin just right and having concealed in the folds of the material a very generous sum in gold coins.

“Perhaps Mme Oumet will think that Charlotte laid them like the goose,” laughed Martin when they had returned to the car and Stephen told him of what he had done.  He kissed him, despite their being in uniform.  “You are a good man Major Knight-Poole.”

Beyond Tours the roads were clear and the war seemed to draw back with each mile traversed.  The beauty of the countryside in Angouinois made it almost possible to imagine that they were on holiday and instead of spending an uncomfortable night in the Bentley they found a room at the Hotel de France in Ruffec where the food was excellent.  The hotel provided garaging for motors and a heavy bribe was paid to the proprietor to protect their vehicle and its petrol, Stephen keeping the gold and notes on his person.

Although he volunteered to sleep with the ‘other ranks’ on the couch in the hotel room, Carlo was permitted to sleep in the bed with the two officers.  Martin and Carlo had worried that Stephen might explode with the enforced celibacy of their journey and several times they had offered to relieve Stephen while one of them drove— and even, on more than one occasion, while Stephen was at the wheel, but Stephen thought that this was too dangerous and said that he was not troubled by abstinence.  However in the hotel room Stephen was less constrained and almost choked them to death and then made them terribly sore as he took them repeatedly through the evening and into the night.  In fact they had had very little sleep before they regained the Route Nationale at first light.

By nightfall they were in the City of Bordeaux and it took them some time to find someone to report to.  All around the talk was of la débâcle.  Stephen was angered.  “They are already talking about the defeat of France as if it were some natural disaster; it is a way the damn French have of absolving anyone of blame.”

Martin learned that on the following day Churchill was to speak to the French cabinet, but instead, to his annoyance, Reynaud alone saw him.  It was a lost opportunity, thought Martin and he missed his own opportunity to speak to Churchill, his old friend from before the last war.  He learnt that the wealthy banker, Paul Baudouin, along with Pétain, was advising an immediate armistice and garnering support for this position from among those who feared the British more than the Germans.  General Weygand told the cabinet any number of fanciful things, including that the Communists had seized Paris and their leader was even now sleeping in the Élysée Palace.  Martin was not in Paris, but he felt that this claim was simply ludicrous and concluded that Weygand was unhinged.  Other cabinet ministers challenged the General and he stamped his foot and left the room, saying that a coup was imminent.

Martin was thus very tense when he went to see General de Gaulle’s staff.  They were of a different mind at his headquarters and freely said that the General would fight on— from North Africa if necessary.  Martin got to work and tried to encourage them in this and suggested that de Gaulle, as Reynaud’s Under Secretary of State for Defence and responsible for coordination with the British forces, should, at the earliest opportunity, travel to England to personally see Churchill and the British cabinet—something he had been denied here in Bordeaux.  Martin also raised the spectre of de Gaulle himself being arrested in France if he stayed.  He feared that he had exceeded his authority, and that if it all went horribly wrong he would certainly be out of Military Intelligence and probably out of the Army as well.

He did what he could and then left for his hotel.  He was very tired.  He was no sooner there than he was called to the telephone.  It was de Gaulle’s adjutant.  Yes, he would be honoured to receive the General, said Martin.

He found Stephen who was pouring over maps and told him of the imminent arrival.  In half an hour de Gaulle appeared.  He knew Martin as a liaison officer and was introduced to Stephen.  De Gaulle was very tall and imposing, with a long nose and disdainful look that reminded Stephen of The Plunger.  Stephen impressed him immediately by saying that he had read, in French, his book Vers l'Armée de Métier in which the then Major had advanced a theory of tank warfare that had been taken up, so devastatingly, by the Germans. 

De Gaulle talked discreetly around the obvious course of action that he and Reynaud and some of the others in the military and the government might take if there was to be any move to surrender, but quite frankly said that he would, with or without permission, fly to London to endeavour to reach some new understanding with the British government.  Martin ventured to say that he knew that Churchill admired him above all the other leaders of the French army and de Gaulle accepted this obvious flattery as his due.  Martin shot a look to Stephen, but dared not smile.  He then offered Branksome House and M. Lefaux, his chef, to the General and his entourage if he should care to accept.  De Gaulle said nothing.

Then Stephen spoke.  “Monsieur le Général,” he began in French, “if your ’plane is to land at Jersey, could your staff please rescue my daughter and my son if they have not already left for England.”   He wrote Erna’s name and address on his card and handed it to him.

“This woman is your wife?”

“No, sir, she is not my wife but she is the mother of my children.”

“The boy is the Earl of Holdenhurst and bears my name,” said Martin, “but Major Knight-Poole is his father.”

De Gaulle’s hitherto impassive face betrayed his shock at this development.  “Très sophistiqué!  Les Anglais: l’habit ne fait pas le moine” he said, with just the suggestion of a smile playing about his lips.”  Neither Martin nor Stephen could admit to being monks.

Stephen reached into his pocket and drew out the little box.  He handed it to de Gaulle with some appropriate and flowery words about the greatness of France’s generals as de Gaulle looked at the lock of Napoleon’s hair.  He touched his lips to it.

“Je vais honorer cette relique sacrée,” said the General with such theatricality that Martin wanted to laugh.  He then kissed Stephen on both cheeks and stood back and saluted him.  Stephen returned the salute and de Gaulle swivelled to Martin who saluted also.  Fortunately Carlo was not in the room or he may have been saluted too.

Stephen was now ‘Mon Brave’ and Martin was now ‘Monsieur le Marquis’ and then de Gaulle abruptly left, presumably to arrange a hasty flight to London, but with the promise to collect Erna and the children if the Channel Islands were not already in German hands and his ’plane was able to land.

The boys left Bordeaux on the 15^th of June just as they heard the fateful news that Paris had been occupied by the Germans and that there had been no fighting.  They drove southeast to Agen where they heard in a cafe with a wireless set the news that Reynaud had resigned and that President Lebrun had called on Pétain to form a government.  The reaction of the patrons of the cafe was pathetic; men wept and recalled the hero of Verdun and assured each other that France was in safe hands.  Martin and Stephen knew otherwise and their British uniforms were already coming under suspicion so they left quickly.

At Montpellier they learned the terrible news that Pétain had approached the German ambassador in Spain to request an armistice.  “We are alone,” said Carlo.  “Who will stand up against Hitler now?  The Americans won’t fight, the Russians won’t fight and now the French have caved in.  They’re all a pack of cowards,” he said hotly.  It was hard for Martin and Stephen to disagree and the thought of it was a black one indeed.  At Arles they slept in the Bentley once again, and sent a telegram to Mrs Chadwick from the post office.  It said little for fear of betraying her to the French authorities, which they had come to see as hostile, and they wondered what sort of reception they would receive in Antibes.

It was the 19^th of June 1940, when they at last rolled in to the picturesque old resort town on the sparkling Mediterranean coast.  The Italians had not yet moved and Mrs Chadwick, whom they saw directly, said she didn’t think they would be ready to do so until at least the 21^st.  Mrs Chadwick sat down with Stephen and they bent their heads over maps.  Martin had never seen Mrs Chadwick like this and expected, when he caught what she was saying, for her to be denouncing the bumptiousness of some rich foreigners down on the Cape or to hear her appealing for funds for the Little Sisters.  Instead, as he drank his tea that Cloutilde had brought in, he heard:

“Now sectors 1 and 5 are under XV Corps while 2, 3 and 4 are under II Corps…they have 73 divisions, but I know only 19 are ready to fight as General di Savoia was openly trying to purchase Alpine tent flies here in France!  They’re short of vehicles and their tanks, Stephen, are little more than armoured cars and quite unsuitable for fighting in Alpine passes, which my sources say will be their primary strategy.  Menton has already been evacuated, but they have not advanced along the coast yet, but I’m suspecting they will when the armistice is signed.”

“They are the model L3/35?”

“That is correct, just one machine gun.”

“What is the relative strength of the two armies, Mrs Chadwick?” asked Martin, strolling over with his tea.

“Under Orly, the French have just 85,000, but they are well equipped.  It is hard to tell with the Italians as they have been calling up and standing down their men, but about 300,000 I should guess.”

Mrs Chadwick was a gold mine of information and from her little book she had, in code, information on the Italian Air Force:  “…now the Savoia-Marchetti 79s have troubles with their engines icing in the Alps and I have learnt that they are short of anti-freeze— that is something that is added to the lubricating oil, Lord Branksome,” she said turning to him, “while the Fiat BR20s are better ’planes but have been deployed to attack Malta and Corsica….”

They next went to Stephen’s house and, as usual, were confronted almost immediately by the Patron and his wife from the Bistro de Blazon.  They were old and confused and looked to Martin and Stephen for assurances that all would be well.  These they could not give.

“But France will never surrender…” began the Patron.

“But if there is an armistice, surely that will be a good thing?” ventured his wife.

Martin and Stephen did not reply directly, but told them that the Italians or the Germans were likely to be here in just a few days.  The old couple simply could not comprehend it.  “But the English are our friends!” cried M. de Blazon in despair.

“I’m proud that at least you think so, monsieur,” said Martin, laying a hand on his shoulder, “and as for me, I think of France as my second home, but I’m afraid we must leave France and I cannot say when we will return.”

“When will you leave?” cried the Patronne.

“Tomorrow morning.” 

She burst into tears and hugged them.  “My poor, poor beautiful boys.  And you a widower with a baby boy, your lordship.”  She gave Martin a wet hug.  “And what will become of us?  What will happen to France?” she cried in anguish.  Then she became practical.  “Tonight you must dine with us— as our guests.  We love England, don’t we Fauquet?” she added referring to her husband.  “And I will refuse to serve any Germans who dare to set foot in this place.  I will charge them double and spit in their soup,” she added with venom and contradicting herself.

It was a hot and humid night.  Martin and Stephen lay in the purple darkness on the feather mattress in their beloved bedroom in Stephen’s old house that had once been the shop of the maker of coffins.  Martin could not help feeling they were there for the last time— it seemed a time for last times and who knew when, if ever, they would see Antibes again.  It was dreadful.  His mind went back to the day when they first came to Antibes.  They were still schoolboys then and his father had invited them both to spend the holidays at the villa he had taken in Cannes with his mistress, La Belle Otero.  He idly wondered where that woman and her daughter were now—she was still alive he believed.  He thought with pleasure of how Stephen had been so thrilled with the gift of the house and how they had fixed it up together like a newly married couple.  He smiled at the remembrance, both sweet and painful.

Carlo also must have been unable to sleep for he could hear the wireless playing softly from the big room downstairs.  It was a dance band being broadcast from a Paris hotel—a hotel no doubt now filled with Nazis— and it was a sad and lovely tune.  Then he recognised it; it was by Cole Porter and this made him think of his wedding and poor Mata.  He fought back the tears.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxNg5LSdW0c

Stephen must have sensed his feelings for he stretched out his naked, muscular arm and pulled Martin to him.  With his thumb he wiped away Martin’s tears.  “I love you very much, Mala,” he said quietly.

“I know you do, Derbs,” he replied in a voice quaking with emotion.  “This is the end, isn’t it Derbs?”

“Yes it is— a kind of ending,” he said gently, pulling Martin onto his broad chest.  Martin drew what comfort he could from Stephen’s strength.  He wondered what Stephen himself was thinking and what he drew on for succour; it surely wasn’t him.

“Make love to me, Derbs.”

In the morning they listened to the news.  The BBC reported General de Gaulle’s appeal to the French nation.  It was a good speech, short and stirring, but the boys wondered if many Frenchmen listened to the BBC or even knew of the Brigadier General who had gone to London. 

Stephen busied himself about the house, removing the paintings done by The Plunger and Martin’s brother— these he had decided were the most precious things he owned.  Carlo helped him carry them across the street to where he sought out Mme and M. de Blazon, their oldest friends in the town.  They looked distraught and bewildered.  He begged them to take care of the paintings and of the house, if they could.  He brought across the wireless set, for the de Blazon’s did not own one and theirs was a powerful receiver that could get the signal from the BBC.  “Take this and hide it.  If the Italians come or the Boche, they will hunt wirelesses down, but with it you will hear …”

“La vérité?”

“Well something like the truth, monsieur.”

Stephen then gave the Patron a leather pouch containing a large sum of money in notes and gold.  “Hide this money and use it to protect my house, monsieur, and to protect yourselves.  We do not know what the future will bring.”  The old man took the money gravely and tried to speak, but was overcome with emotion.  Addresses were written out, both for England and for the bank in Switzerland that managed Mata’s money.  “Remember, Monsieur de Blazon, any letters you write may be read by the police, so do not say anything to compromise yourself and write only in an emergency.”  The patron nodded and promised to be careful.

Martin returned from his errands at the post office and the bank.  There was little more to do but to say farewell and the Bentley was now loaded up with food from Mme de Blazon and petrol from one of her nephews who could supply it in quantity, with Mme de Blazon offering to take the payment herself to save Martin the trouble of dealing with the fellow.  They then rolled out of the familiar narrow street, perhaps for the last time, perhaps forever.

Mrs Chadwick was ready, Cloutilde handing a small suitcase to Stephen who stowed it in the boot.  “Be sure to hide the radio ondes courtes, Cloutilde,” she cautioned.  The faithful maid nodded and wiped her eyes. Then they were off and turned the vehicle in the direction of the Atlantic coast.

It was more than 300 kilometres to Montpellier, but they made good time, skirting Toulon and Marseille in favour of the more picturesque towns of Aix-en-Provence and Arles where they stopped for a meal.  There was no news.  They continued to drive.

Apparently Mrs Chadwick had started her work as a spy (although she never used that term) at the time of the Agadir crisis in 1911, when French, German and British interests clashed in Morocco.  Friends of her late husband had asked her to report on the activities of German nationals on the Riviera and the likelihood that the French would steam from Toulon to confront the German Navy’s Panther.  From this she found it easy to keep a diary of the doings of prominent foreigners on the coast and on both sides of the frontier the natives freely volunteered all sorts of seemingly innocent information that could be construed quite differently by the FO or indeed by an elderly widow with a sharp mind.

“For example, I have a pork butcher in San Remo,” she began, reminiscing, “and one day in 1937 he told Cloutilde that could not send me my favourite air-cured Salame d’la duja because an important customer had purchased all he had.  I knew that this must mean that Admiral Iachino (an odious man) was in Porto Maurizio and not in Brindisi with the fleet, for he is a native of San Remo and my butcher had frequently boasted that he demanded his Salame d’la duja whenever he was in Liguria.  From this piece of information it was easy to conclude that the Regia Marina would be sending light cruisers and submarines to aid the Germans in Spain in Operation Ursula.”

Martin thought this was a marvellous piece of deduction and said that Mrs Chadwick was a rival for Sherlock Holmes.  She was pleased to be recognised and then went on to tell a complicated story about how an increase in syphilis among the girls led her to conclude that the Italians were strengthening the concrete of their coastal fortifications and that this must mean they had knowledge of the new French marine guns.

At Montpellier they stopped for the night and found a hotel.  Again Stephen used bribery to ensure their motorcar was safe.  Even so, he found that the British were less welcome there than they had been just a few days before and Mrs Chadwick pointed out the plainclothes policeman who was watching them and who was even now questioning the hotel manager as they made their way to their rooms.

“Stephen,” said Mrs Chadwick.  “I would like to entrust this to you.”  From her handbag she drew a small address book.  “This contains the names of our Italian and German friends all along the Riviera and the FO would find it quite useful.  If anything were…I mean, I shouldn’t like…well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t like to lose it.”

Stephen glanced at it.  It was full of Mrs Chadwick’s tiny, tight handwriting.  He said nothing, but merely nodded and put it in his pocket with the money.

The next morning they heard the dreadful news that the French had signed an armistice.  Hitler had been there personally.  The talk in the cafes was then of their own town being in the unoccupied zone, under control of Pétain’s ‘French State’.  What this meant for British soldiers and lady civilians was unclear.  They then heard that the war would continue with Italy and that the French had held them off in the Alps and they had advanced no further along the coast than Nice.  The Frenchmen in their cafe roared with laughter.

Then Martin brought the most terrible news:  It was said that the Germans were advancing   down the Atlantic coast and that Bordeaux and other ports were closed.  “It is only a rumour, of course,” added Martin, hopefully.

“I don’t think we can take the chance, Mala,” said Stephen.  “If we are trapped there in the occupied zone we may end up in a camp.  I think we should try to make for Spain.”

“The border crossings might well be closed too,” said Mrs Chadwick, “but…” The others looked at her hopefully.  “But we might try crossing through Andorra.”

“Where’s Andorra?” asked Carlo as he packed their bags.

“It is a small principality up in the Pyrenees.  There is only one road and the crossings to France and Spain are often not manned.”

“Is it far out of our way?” asked Martin.

“Somewhat and the roads are poor, but I believe it is our best chance.”

It was a plan and they clung to it.  It took Carlo valuable hours to find petrol and he had to pay a staggering £5 to fill their cans.

At last they set off across their corner of Languedoc and into the quiet and remote province of Roussillon.  The road hugged the coastal plain as far as Perpignan where they stopped for lunch.  Here the food and the people were distinctly Catalan and they dined on Sardines and the local red wine.  They found less hostility to Britishers and, more importantly, plenty of petrol and Carlo came back to the cafe with this good news.  Martin was just congratulating him when he froze.  There, behind a newspaper in a cafe on the other side of the street, sat Count Osmochescu.  Mrs Chadwick turned when she saw Martin staring and the Count, probably hearing English voices looked up in surprise.  He clearly hadn’t been expecting them.  He folded his newspaper and strolled across the street.  At the same moment, Martin gathered up his group and hurried to the Bentley.  Osomochescu called out something but they were in the car and pulling away before he could reach them.

“Oh my God!” groaned Martin.  “Him of all people.  It’s like a bad novel.”  He then explained to Mrs Chadwick something of his history.  “And I am sure it was Osmochescu who killed Mata.”

Carlo was driving and depressed the accelerator.  The big car shot ahead and sped down the narrow valley road that threaded its way between the forested mountain peaks on each side.  At Prades they were able to look back to see that a Citroen was following them.  For some reason they were certain that it was Osmochescu.  Carlo went faster— at a dangerous pace through the scattered villages.

“Should we turn off and wait for him to pass?” asked Martin.  “We might lose him that way.”

“No, Mala.  He might stop and tell the authorities to stop us at the frontier.  This way we at least know where he is.”

The road started to rise and there were sharp curves.  The forested mountains were now backed by the giant peaks of the Pyrenees proper and the upper reaches could be seen dusted with snow, even in summer.  Hours passed and the road wound tortuously, with hairpin bends that required Carlo to slow and take great care for just beyond the edges there were dizzying drops to the lonely valleys below.   Martin felt proud that his British motorcar performed so flawlessly where others surely would have boiled and left them stranded.

The timber had thinned and the ground now appeared stony and useless for agriculture, with only the neat patterns of vineyards way below in the fertile valleys to indicate human habitation.  There was something else below; a small black beetle could be seen on the winding road.  It was Count Osmochescu.

“Stephen,” said Mrs Chadwick at one point.  “Make sure that if we are prevented from crossing the frontier, that my book is destroyed.  I’m sure Pétain’s government would hand it straight over to Berlin.”  Stephen promised.

At Puigcerda they had to make a swift decision.  “If we go that way we can cross directly into Spain, but it is a main crossing point and we are sure to be stopped and examined,” said Martin who was holding the map.  “Also the Count might assume we have gone that way.  If we take the road to Lívia and Porté-Puymorens and cross through Andorra I’m sure it will be easier.”

The others agreed in view of not knowing what the policy of the new French government was and so the car immediately swung to the right.  The road was rougher— unformed in many parts— and they could not proceed quickly.  They passed through the Spanish exclave of Lívia but it was merely a village with no borders and they were through it and back into French territory in minutes.  The air was now noticeably thinner at this altitude too and the tension added to their breathlessness.  It was eerily quiet and deserted here, with not even a farmer’s wagon to be encountered.  Then on a bend, disaster struck.  “We have a puncture,” cried Carlo who felt the steering wheel vibrate uncharacteristically.

There was nothing to do but halt at the side of the narrow road.  It was the front passenger-side tyre and the boot had to be unpacked to get at the jack and the spare wheel.  They were all hard at work when a column of dust announced another vehicle.  They straightened up and waited.  Their hearts sank for it was the Citroen.  It pulled up and Count Osmochescu alighted.  He was alone.

“I must say, Lord Branksome, that I find your abrupt departure most unfriendly.”  Martin wondered if he had rehearsed this speech.  “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to return with me to the French authorities?”

“No chance, Osmochescu.”

“Then the soldiers at the frontier just may find cause to detain you.”

“Why should they?” said Stephen.  “You haven’t had time to telegraph ahead and we will take our chances.”

“Well then, the Spanish government might be problematic.  I have friends in Madrid.”

“You’re a disloyal and murdering swine, Osmochescu.  You killed my wife and I don’t see why I shouldn’t kill you right here.”

“I am hurt, Lord Branksome.  I did not kill your wife.  I was in Bucharest at the time, ask Friedrich’s mother.  I was sorry to hear of the accident and I know that a gentleman like you would never kill an unarmed man.  I am merely a Romanian patriot.  Now I don’t know if I have met this delightful lady, but if I am not mistaken it is the famous Mrs Chadwick from Antibes who…”

A shot rang out.  The Count staggered backwards and toppled theatrically over the edge.  “I’m sorry Martin,” said Mrs Chadwick who was holding the revolver, “but he was not unarmed.”  She stepped forward in front of the stunned boys and pointed with her shoe.  There glinted the mussel of a Mauser C96 that the Count had dropped when he was struck.  “I have never fired a gun before.  It was quite easy, really, and I thought it would be much harder to squeeze the trigger.”  She looked down at the weapon as if she were seeing it for the first time and Stephen stepped up to her and relived her of it.  They walked over to the edge of the cliff.  It was a long way down and among the rocky ledges and the tenacious wiry bushes that had somehow found footholds in he crevices they searched a body, but they could not see one, but presumably the Count had perished.

“What do we do now?” asked Carlo.  It was decided swiftly.  The Count’s Citroen was searched, but disclosed little and then it was pushed over the edge of the cliff where it banged and clunked until it was at last silent and lost from view.  The tyre was changed and just as they climbed aboard Stephen handed the revolver to Martin who was a good shot.  Martin squeezed one out (as they say in Chicago) and the ceramic insulator shattered and the telegraph wire coiled to the ground.  Finally they were away.

They were perspiring freely but were too stunned to talk.  They tried to gather themselves and prepare their passports, for the frontier was nigh, and soon they were upon it on the outskirts of the village of El Pas del la Casa.  To their astonishment there was a wooden sign and a stone hut but there was not a soul in sight.  In a moment they had left France behind and were now in the little nation of Andorra.

There was a terrible climb up the sides of a mountain on winding roads to the roof of the world where the snow lay in bright, white patches and then followed several hard kilometres of twisting descent into a river valley.  Farms and buildings reappeared.

“Should we stop here and rest or make for Andorra la Vella?” asked Stephen who was now driving.

“Keep going; I’m alright,” said Mrs Chadwick who had just killed a man.

“The road is much better and it’s only about 30 kilometres more and it is still light.  There will be proper hotels there I should think,” said Martin who had the map.

So they pressed on in this curious little land.  Carlo pointed out the blue, yellow and red Andorran flag flying from a building.  They entered a valley in which sprawled the Andorra la Vella, the capital.  It was a town of old stone buildings, built for strength rather than beauty, and the streets were picturesque and twisted, most too narrow for the Bentley.  They proceeded into the heart of the town, judging this by the importance of the appearance of the churches and the official buildings.  There, in the Plaça Príncep Benlloch, they came upon a stone building, more modern than the rest and with bay windows that jutted out above the pavement and guessed correctly that this was a hotel.  The manager, in French, asked to see their papers, but offered no criticism and gave a little bow to his lordship and to the lady whom he took to be his mother and showed them to rooms on the first floor.  Carlo was sent to find a safe place for the motor and they rested on their respective beds, quite exhausted, until they at last unlocked their doors and ventured out in search of some dinner.

They went for a walk after eating and admired the quaint old town in the fading light.  “You know, Mala, I think we should change into civilian clothes now that we are out of the war zone.”

“You don’t think we could be shot as spies?”

“I don’t think so, we are not at war with Spain—not yet at any rate.  It might make our passage simpler if we weren’t foreign soldiers.”

This was agreed to and soon they sought their beds.  It had been a dreadful day.

The trip to the Spanish frontier was only about twelve kilometres along the valley road and so they came upon it quite quickly.  This time their hearts sank for there was an army post with a boom gate.  The pair of soldiers were swaggering young civil guards in tight riding trousers tucked into high boots.  Their shirts were open at the neck and they wore the extraordinary tricorno— a hat made of patent leather.

They took their time strolling over to the Bentley and ordered them out of the car.  The first soldier examined their passports carefully and then their visas.  “Are you intending to seek refuge in Spain?” he asked in accented French.

“No, of course not were are transiting through.  We were on holiday when we were trapped by the war and we are heading home to England,” said Martin haughtily.

“I wish I could head home,” said the first soldier to the second.  “I have been here for six months.

“I wish I could have a holiday,” said the other as he bent over their documents.

“We have many refugees that we must support, Monsieur.  Spain is a poor country.”

“We will hardly be a burden to the state,” said Martin.

“Where is your permit for your motorcar?”

Carlo handed over some documents.

“This is a French permit.  Where is your one for Spain?”

“We don’t have one,” said Stephen.  The two soldiers looked at him closely.  “Where can we get one? 

“You can return to France and apply through the Spanish consulate…” began the soldier slowly.

“Or?”

“Or you can pay a fine and have one backdated.”

“200 francs or in Spanish currency…”

“That is outrageous,” said Stephen, as he felt for his wallet.

“Each” said the second soldier who looked on.

“Each! But there is only one vehicle.”

“Each, monsieur or you can return to France with the other refugees.”

“And the border is closing at noon, threatened the first soldier.

The money was handed over without even the pretence of a form being filled out.

“May we go now?” said Martin in exasperation.

The two soldiers did not respond.  Instead they walked around the Bentley suspiciously and looked the four Britishers up and down.  “Andorra is a haven for smugglers,” said the first soldier.

“Diamonds, perfume, cigarettes,” said the second one in support.

“I will ask you to step over to the guard post,” said the first soldier to Stephen.  “We need to conduct a thorough search.”

Mrs Chadwick’s heart was in her mouth as she thought of her address book and Martin thought of the fortune in gold and bank notes.  However Stephen did not demure but walked with the two soldiers over to the crouching stone building at the side of the road, crunching the gravel purposefully.

The minutes ticked by.  The three walked up and down and sat in the Bentley and got out again.  Stephen hadn’t returned.  They sauntered a little way along the road.  Mrs Chadwick confessed her fears.  They looked back into Andorra.  The boom was lowered and there was a small line of vehicles and a gaggle of peasants waiting to cross the frontier.

It was now half an hour and still there was no sign of Stephen and the soldiers.  At a quarter past ten Stephen emerged from the stone building and he waved to the others and told them to get into the motor.  The two soldiers were a little way behind him but said nothing and did not even look at them.  They drove on in relief.

“Goodness, what happened, Stephen?” asked Mrs Chadwick, looking back through the rear window.   “Did they get the book?”

“No,” said Stephen, “they didn’t find it.

“And the money?” asked Martin.

“All safe and I got some of the permit money returned, Mala.”

“Well they couldn’t have been very thorough, Stephen,” opined Mrs Chadwick.

“Oh they were thorough.  Very thorough, I assure you.”

Martin and Carlo exchanged looks and were just glad that it was Stephen who had been with them.

La Farga de Moles was the first village on the Spanish side.  They felt only relief.  It was decided then and there to make for Gibraltar rather than Lisbon.  Their trip through Spain was wonderful, but uneventful.  Everywhere there were signs of the dreadful civil war.  The people looked tired; only the clergy looked fat and contented.  They stopped only when they must, for Martin feared that at any moment General Franco would throw his hand in with the Axis and their escape route would be cut off.  However this did not eventuate and while they were eyed with suspicion, they reached the frontier at Gibraltar unmolested after spending the first night in Madrid and the second in Seville.

The rock loomed ahead as the Bentley approached the border crossing.  People, wagons and motors formed a queue.  There was no trouble about leaving Spain, but the soldiers were being difficult with allowing people in to the British outpost.  “Civilians are being evacuated to Morocco,” said a sergeant crossly and was about to deny them entry.  Martin was going to have none of that and pulled rank and further swatted him with his title—it was not a moment for being democratic.  The man almost apologised and waved them through with a salute.

Gibraltar proved to be a hive of industry; the locals had gone, but everywhere were soldiers, sailors and workmen who, they learned later, were busy completing a runway on the old racecourse and excavating tunnels into the rock itself.  “We are expecting to be attacked by the Italian air force at any minute,” said the Governor, Sir Clive Liddell, when Martin and Stephen sought an audience.  He was a hard-pressed man and he did not know them and was little interested in their mission or their problems of accommodation.  There seemed to be no way that they could get back to England.

They found two tiny rooms in a private house.  Mrs Chadwick was marvellous and didn’t complain.  They had to wait about for endless days.  Then Martin came across the new Deputy Governor, Lt General Mason-MacFarlane, who was the same Military Intelligence officer that had expedited Martin’s documents in Berlin at the time of his marriage.  He was quickly apprised of their position and the valuable intelligence that Mrs Chadwick had smuggled in, and on the day that the French government settled in Vichy, Mason-MacFarlane arranged for her to meet with some junior MI officers who also swiftly recognised its value and the reason why Martin and Stephen had been sent south to secure it.  “I fully expect that there will be a ‘resistance’ organised underground in all the occupied countries,” he told them “and I dare say they will be receiving support from us.  It will be invaluable to know who are our friends and who are our enemies all along the Mediterranean coast.”

They tried to keep themselves occupied in the tiny colony, but they knew they were in the way and unwelcome.  They watched the fortification of the stronghold with interest and as a distraction from the grim thought that they may never get home.  Martin knew that they were now but four small cogs in the giant war machine.

Martin obtained permission to send a cable to Teddy at the Foreign Office and hoped that he would tell all those at Croome and Branksome House that they were safe.  No reply came.

On the third of July came the awful news that Admiral Darlan had rejected Churchill’s offer to secure the French fleet from the Germans and that the British had sunk their ships at Mers-el-Kébir in Algeria.  Presumably this would now mean war with France, with Spain probably joining in.  “I know it is terrible, Mala,” said Stephen, “but at least now there can be no mistake; we will fight on even if we are alone.” Indeed on the 18^th there was a French air raid on Gibraltar, but little damage was inflicted and a declaration of war never came.

Suddenly, as if some mechanism had finally clicked and levers had fallen into slots, came the news that they were to be evacuated with Mrs Chadwick and that they were required at Whitehall.  They had very little time to get ready.  Martin was almost in tears that his beautiful Bentley— the motor that had seen them safely across France and Spain and had effortlessly climbed the Pyrenees would have to be left behind.  He eventually found someone who would store it up on blocks until ‘after the war’— that well-worked phrase of the time.

Almost before they knew it, they were climbing aboard a Wellington Bomber.  Mason-MacFarlane, came to see them off and, nervously, they climbed into the dangerous skies.  It was far from a comfortable flight, but no one dared to voice complaint- it would have been unpatriotic and in poor taste to have done so.  It was a time to be British, Martin kept reminding himself as he vibrated like a piano string on the hard seat, although such attitudes came more unaffectedly to Stephen, he thought.  They landed at Lisbon for refuelling and many hours later, having crossed the grey Atlantic, they bumped down at a military airfield to the north of London where a fine motorcar and driver had been sent to meet them. 

They had been away for nine months and were now greeted by a city at war.  There had been no air raids (as yet) but the great city, with its roofs and chimneys and its bridges, domes and spires, lay before them in utter darkness.  In the moonlight could be seen the unearthly forms of the barrage balloons that floated above all.  They were too shocked and weary to say much.  In the dim light Martin could see that Mrs Chadwick’s eyes were moist.

Then, as they came to the highpoint near Hampstead Heath, an amazing sight greeted them.  One by one, powerful searchlights were switched on in various parts of the sleeping metropolis.  Rods of white light lazily swept the clouds and caught the undersides of the balloons.  “It is only practice, your lordship,” said their driver.  Martin was now remembering the first war and the night that he had watched a zeppelin burn.  It was a different world now; a world of grey and khaki and of blackout and rationing and making do and waiting it out and keeping your spirits up.  Yet it could be sadly beautiful too.  Martin hadn’t considered this.  He continued to watch those yearning beams and wondered, like everybody, what the future would bring and he reached for Stephen’s hand as they listened to the wireless that the driver had switched on.

http://youtu.be/cDYrXcQj4JI

They alighted at Branksome House in Piccadilly and someone inside threw open the front door.  There was no light in the hall, but as the boys mounted the steps they saw the most wonderful sight of all: there stood the silhouette of three figures; the masculine form of a woman and in each hand she was holding that of a little boy and a little girl.

The End. 

Henry and I would like to thank all of you for reading our story, and we hope you have enjoyed it as much as we have writing.  There will be an epilogue (or two) to follow. 

Pete & Henry