Silence in the Desert, page 10
‘You can tell her that I have recently arrived from Algiers, and have some useful information about the political situation there.’
He waited over in a corner of the room where there were copies of American newspapers lying on a table. The latest he could find was about two weeks old, and he was scanning the pages when a frosted glass door behind Reception opened and a woman came out into the waiting area. His first impression was of a business-like, almost stern manner. She was small in height and very thin, with full features and sleek black hair cut short above the neck.
‘I’m Noelle Mercure,’ she said, as she came over to him. ‘You wanted to see me?’ The voice was soft but inquiring, in best French diction. He noticed her eyes, large and dark as they took him in.
Henri introduced himself. He didn’t feel hesitant but was on guard, conscious of a woman at least ten years older than he was. And, he suspected, a lot more sophisticated and socially aware.
‘I arrived the other day from Beirut, but have been in Algiers until recently. I thought you might be interested to hear about what’s going on there. Perhaps we could talk over lunch? He paused. ‘Today, if you could spare the time.’
She looked at him in a very direct way, almost a stare. The dark eyes expressive, and yet giving away nothing of her thoughts. Just a hint of surprise. He was in plain clothes, looking like any other European in Cairo. But he’d been careful, for this occasion, to wear in his lapel a small Cross of Lorraine. The symbol of the Free French, a signal to her of what side he was on.
‘Give me half an hour to complete a filing with New York, and I’ll join you. Would the restaurant terrace at Shepheard’s be okay? It’s nearby and I’ve work to do afterwards.’
‘Perfect,’ said Henri. ‘See you there, shortly.’
Reading a Tribune he’d brought with him from the UPI office, Henri wasn’t conscious she’d arrived until he realized she was standing there by his table. Jumping to his feet, he knocked his head on the parasol above. She actually laughed, as he gathered himself together and pulled out a chair for her. The waiter appeared at once, and they ordered chilled lemonade.
The conversation was soon on Algiers and the Vichy regime under Admiral Darlan. He explained that the Americans, although neutral, were regarded as pro the British. The British, in their turn, were thought to be operating undercover agents and saboteurs. The Free French sympathizers were being watched, and kept their powder dry. In general, the population was very anti-British, the memory of Mers-el-Kébir still fresh in everyone’s mind.
They helped themselves to lunch from the cold buffet, and he answered most of her questions adequately, he felt, pleased he’d paid full attention to the briefing by Robertson and his friends. Coffee arrived. He was looking into those amazing dark eyes as he spoke, trying to detect any real interest towards him. She seemed the epitome of the sophisticated Parisienne.
‘Mademoiselle.’
‘Yes?’ she said in an expectant way, or was it his imagination?
‘Let’s meet again. How about dinner in a couple of days’ time? We could continue our discussions, and perhaps you could tell me a little of what you’ve learnt about Egypt.’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘Yes, I’d enjoy that.’
He sensed just a flicker of excitement in the way she said it.
He saw the maître d’ first, heading for his table. She walked a little behind, aside of him. Purposefully, a confident woman, yet at the same time restrained and elegant. So different in appearance from their lunchtime meeting a couple of days before. A short red dress, white jacket over the shoulders.
Henri rose and they shook hands, rather formally, but there was just the suggestion of a smile on her beautifully made-up but otherwise serious face. Again, he was amazed by her eyes, pools of darkness. She sank down into the banquette which curved around part of the table, facing him obliquely. The wine waiter was there right away. ‘A glass of champagne, Madame, Monsieur?’ and they both nodded their assent.
‘Blind date in Cairo’ was her opening remark, before he’d said anything. ‘I suppose anything goes in a city like this in the middle of a war.’
‘I’m sorry to be so forward,’ said Henri.
She actually smiled properly, showing off the fullness of her features. ‘Thanks for coming up with the idea. Dinner here at Kit Kat is a treat, and the chance to dance.’
Henri felt a little inadequate, up against this older and sophisticated woman. ‘My excuse is that I have an inquisitive mind. I’m meant to be a soldier, but I’ve an interest in people of all sorts. When I heard you were a journalist, I realized we might have something to offer one another.’
‘Great idea, Henri,’ she said.
‘Let’s order. We should try some of the fish perhaps.’
‘I agree. Pan-fried Nile perch is an obvious choice, and I see there’s a dorade.’ She leant towards him to point out the dish in the fish section.
He was aware at once of the scent she used, almost erotic to his starved senses. The waiter brought him back to earth, and they decided on the dorade, with a Sancerre.
‘I was told by an Egyptian friend that you were writing an article on how de Gaulle has developed his political influence in Africa,’ said Henri. ‘You might like to hear where my unit has been in the past year. It rather reflects the story of the General and the Free French since June 1940.’
‘Go ahead, right up my street.’ Her long fingers lifted the wine glass. ‘Mm, delicious.’
While they ate, he took her through the exploits of 13 DBLE, from the disaster of Dakar to Doula and meeting with Leclerc. From Keren in Eritrea to Damascus. She pulled out a notebook and silver pencil from her evening bag, and made notes. He noticed again the slender long fingers, a pianist’s fingers.
‘You went straight to London when Pétain signed the Armistice, didn’t you,’ said Henri. ‘Must have been a dangerous trip. Brave thing to do. I found myself there already, at Trentham Park after Norway.’
‘Thanks. The choice came easily for me. The Vichy people were shits, and still are. They’ve revoked my French nationality. And I’m the daughter of a French Nobel Prize winner.’
‘I know your mother was famous for her work, and probably died from the effects of it.’
She gave him a long look, seeming to accept him more. The conversation moved the way he’d been hoping, to Egypt and its peoples. From there, it was an easy step into politics.
She sat back, and said suddenly ‘We’re both French, so it’s easier for us to understand the aspirations of the young educated Egyptians, students and professionals. They want their country to play its part as an independent nation, at least when the war in Africa’s over. Easier for us to understand, than for the British to accept, I mean.’
‘Are they a threat to the British?’ he asked.
‘Yes, although only in the undercover sense at the moment. You know, I’ve met certain characters, even young Egyptian Army officers, who would subvert the Allied war effort given half the chance.’
‘You mean, by passing information, spying?’
‘Certainly. Rommel is a real threat, he could advance across Egypt if he receives the supplies and equipment he needs. These people see him as their chance. Many of them admire the Germans. Where that country has come from since the chaos following the 1914 War.’
‘Do they have leaders? The King and the rich pashas seem to toe the line with Britain. Would I know their names?’
‘I don’t know. One is Anwar Sadat, a young Egyptian Army officer. He’s formed an inner circle of like-minded army people. If they could be harnessed by the Germans as Rommel advances, they could pass a lot of critical information to the enemy.’
The dancing was beginning, a few couples on the small floor. Noelle looked across at the band as it swung into a Gershwin favourite, and the singer sang ‘Oh Sweet and Lovely, Lady be Good.’ She touched him on the arm as she slowly removed her jacket, revealing the curve of her beautiful shoulders. They made towards the dancers without saying anything. She turned towards him, that dark look in her eyes as he put his arm around her narrow waist. When he pulled her slightly to him, she pressed her body gently against his, her sleek black hair touching his cheek. She felt as light as she looked.
Out on the water, some time later, they leant back against the cushions as the small boat glided along the banks of the Nile. A whisky bottle and soda syphon rested nearby. The club attendant served as barman as well as skipper.
‘Kit Kat’s an odd name for a night club,’ said Henri. ‘Hope this chap knows where he’s going.’
‘I like travelling, Henri. You know something? I’ve Polish blood in me. In this war the Poles are always on the move, kicked out of their country by the Germans and the Russians.’
‘Yes, I heard about the thousands who made their way to Iran, with their families. Many of the chaps are already trained soldiers and are joining 8th Army.’
He felt her hand over his, the pressure of her long fingers as they moved in his. ‘I’m on a sort of world tour, you know. In Egypt for a couple of months, filing my articles back to the States. Then on to India to do the same. After that, Singapore.’
Henri leant towards her. ‘Oh, I’d hoped this was the beginning of a long friendship.’
‘Nobody makes plans in the world we live in.’
Was there a finality in the way she said that? No doubt he’d find out.
‘Would you take me back home?’ she said suddenly. ‘If your friend puts us ashore here, there should be a taxi.’
‘Of course,’ said Henri, leaning across to the attendant and giving him the instruction.
He wasn’t expecting to be asked in. Nor was he. Noelle went straight to the door of the bungalow and unlocked it, standing aside for him to walk in.
‘I’ll fix us a drink,’ she said as she went over to a glass cabinet. Handing the drink to him, she led the way into the sitting room and slid back the screen opening onto a veranda. The cool night air was on his face as he followed her out. When she turned round he saw in the semi-darkness that the thin straps of her dress were now down resting on her arms, and the top of the red cotton garment was sagging and revealing the mounds of her breasts. They were not large but the impact on him of their beauty made him want her suddenly. His pulse was racing, excitement flooding through him.
‘Come and hold me, darling,’ she said.
Henri moved towards her as she took a couple of steps to him, and he took her in his arms. He kissed her gently, touching her tongue with his, feeling the warm softness of her body press against him under the dress.
A few moments after, she pulled back slightly and took his arm, guiding him back indoors and through to the room beyond. To the left was a bed surrounded by mosquito netting which she swept aside. Opposite were the windows which in daylight would look out towards the river.
Noelle turned round to face him. She put both her arms down her sides and began to lift slowly the hem of her dress. Henri took the hem in his hands and lifted the garment up and over her head. The short petticoat underneath slipped down to her waist, uncovering her breasts. He felt her fingers unbutton his shirt and then his trousers. The petticoat slipped down around her ankles and she stepped out of it, her body now entirely naked. His hands were either side of her thighs, and he helped her up onto the bed. He now wanted her desperately. The attraction of her body was overwhelming all his other senses, as he moved over her. The climax when it came for him was not just the intense pleasure of love, but also release from the punishment and fears of two years of warfare.
Noelle lay back, seemingly luxuriating in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He watched her stretch her arms above her head, her breasts rising as her tight tummy pushed away towards her legs.
‘You are truly beautiful, my darling,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead.
‘And you have a soldier’s body,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Scars and bone. You make love with gentleness and restraint.’
They talked about themselves, not about war and politics. At least until Henri asked whether he could meet some of her politically minded friends, particularly the Egyptian ones. He wasn’t sure what she would think his motives were, but too bad, she’d say and do what she wanted.
‘There’s a group that meets each week,’ she said. ‘They might be suspicious of you. I could take you, we could try. It’s all talk and no action most of the time. But since Rommel arrived on the doorstep, the tone has changed. Some of the military types talk privately amongst themselves.’
‘Any indication whether they’re working on something specific?’
‘Well, one thing they talk about is SALAM. I think that’s code for an Abwehr spy who goes by the name of Hussein Gaffar. They don’t think much of him. Seems he spends a lot of time with a belly dancer they don’t trust, known to have links with the Egyptian royal family and the British.’
‘I’d like to give it a go. Can we go together? You could say I’m from the Tribune’s Paris office.’
She was quiet. After some hesitation, she replied ‘I’m not sure. If they’re suspicious of you, they’re going to cut both of us out, and I’ll lose an important source of information. Better you leave it to me. I’ll feed back to you what I learn.’ She turned towards him. ‘I wonder who you’re working for?’
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘We’re on the same side.’
12
Western Mediterranean, November 1941
Bill looked forward from the bridge of the Catapult Aircraft Merchant ship, towards the ramp protruding beyond the bows. In between was the Hurricane, resting on a trolley forming the rocket-powered catapult. He remembered the prototype of the device on his first day at Speke, where he reported after volunteering for the Merchant Ship Fighter Unit, MSFU for short. That was soon after John Smith’s court martial. When they met a few days later for a beer, John was still badly shaken from his part in the accident on the cricket fields of St Gregory’s. Bill was asking how he felt about his future in the Fleet Air Arm.
‘Frankly, after pleading guilty and being dismissed my ship, I don’t think I have a future,’ said John.
‘Well, I wondered whether you’d be interested in what I’m now up to,’ said Bill.
John looked surprised. ‘So, what’s that?’
‘I volunteered to train pilots for the launch of Hurricanes by catapult from merchant ships, CAM ships they call them.’
‘Good God. How are they going to organize that?’ John looked sceptical.
‘It was an Admiralty idea, and a few Fleet Air Arm Sea Hurricane pilots like you are involved. But most of them will be RAF. They’ll only fly two or three combat missions from CAM ships, before the pilots return to normal flying duties. It’s thought that a longer gap than that runs the risk of pilots losing their skills.’
John was looking less gloomy now, his interest clearly stimulated by what Bill was saying.
‘Training is at Speke, just outside Liverpool. You could say it’s tantamount to suicide. You’re fired by a rocket-propelled catapult mounted on a merchantman far out at sea. You shoot down what you can, and when your fuel is used up you bail out or ditch in the drink, and hope you’ll be picked up. It’s mainly about solving the Condor problem.’
‘Oh, what’s the Condor problem?’ asked John.
‘It’s the area of ocean too far out for our land-based aircraft to reach. The Condor’s a very long-range Luftwaffe aircraft operating from Bordeaux-Mérignac, which seeks out the convoys when they enter that space. They’re part of the Kriegsmarine’s signals intelligence network, reporting convoy movements to the U-boats. We don’t have the escort carriers yet to enable our fighters to go after them.’
John appeared to be thinking hard, head in hands as he stared into space. ‘So, one would stand by day after day on the CAM ship until a Condor was sighted or found on a radar track. Then it would be up into the Hurricane, blast off, and start the climb up towards the enemy.’
‘Who is armed,’ said Bill. ‘If it’s a Condor, with three machine guns and forward cannon.’
‘Okay. So, after shooting down the Condor, one would bail out or ditch, and hope someone notices.’
‘You’ve got it, John. Depending how much fuel remains in the tanks, you would look around for any other target to take out.
‘As far as I’m concerned, I’d volunteer if that persuaded the Admiralty to lift its ban on me flying.’
‘Great. Just make a written application to be considered. There’s always a shortage of pilots. I think you’d stand a good chance. You can mention me, and I’ll help if I can.’
Bill’s attention went back to the convoy, now two days after forming up in the Atlantic, and passing Gibraltar into the Med. He was with John, the two being the Hurricane pilots on a CAM ship assigned to a Force H Malta convoy. Their cargo was food and fuel. John would pilot the Hurricane, Bill acting both as back-up and Fighter Direction Officer. Both were surprised when ordered to join an MSFU mission in the Mediterranean. Most CAM ships operated out in the North Atlantic. They weren’t told much, but everyone assumed the destination was Malta. That usually meant carriers providing the convoy with air cover. Yet, Bill heard from a more senior RAF contact that part of the convoy’s mission was to fly off Hurricanes to bolster the island’s meagre air defences. Presumably, he reasoned, all the carrying capacity of a carrier would be taken up by the Hurricanes to be flown off when they were close enough to Malta.
Suddenly, the door onto the bridge opened and the signals officer entered in a hurry. ‘We’ve received an RDF message from the cruiser, sir. Bearing 035, range 30 miles, altitude 10,000 feet. Probably a Ju 88 spying on us,’ he added. Not having radar themselves, they relied on the closest cruiser to pass on the sighting.
Bill moved fast. ‘Pilot to aircraft,’ he ordered down the speaker tube. Conditions were fine, little wave height, light swell, wind speed no more than Force 2. ‘Okay,’ he snapped to the signals officer. He knew the mechanics would have fired up the Hurricane’s engine at least once that morning, and that John would be climbing into the aircraft. ‘I’ll vector him to the target,’ he said as he went over to the Bigsworth board, ready to track the incoming plane. The attached parallel pantograph arm was to compute speed of the enemy, and then the heading and speed required for the fighter to intercept.
He waited over in a corner of the room where there were copies of American newspapers lying on a table. The latest he could find was about two weeks old, and he was scanning the pages when a frosted glass door behind Reception opened and a woman came out into the waiting area. His first impression was of a business-like, almost stern manner. She was small in height and very thin, with full features and sleek black hair cut short above the neck.
‘I’m Noelle Mercure,’ she said, as she came over to him. ‘You wanted to see me?’ The voice was soft but inquiring, in best French diction. He noticed her eyes, large and dark as they took him in.
Henri introduced himself. He didn’t feel hesitant but was on guard, conscious of a woman at least ten years older than he was. And, he suspected, a lot more sophisticated and socially aware.
‘I arrived the other day from Beirut, but have been in Algiers until recently. I thought you might be interested to hear about what’s going on there. Perhaps we could talk over lunch? He paused. ‘Today, if you could spare the time.’
She looked at him in a very direct way, almost a stare. The dark eyes expressive, and yet giving away nothing of her thoughts. Just a hint of surprise. He was in plain clothes, looking like any other European in Cairo. But he’d been careful, for this occasion, to wear in his lapel a small Cross of Lorraine. The symbol of the Free French, a signal to her of what side he was on.
‘Give me half an hour to complete a filing with New York, and I’ll join you. Would the restaurant terrace at Shepheard’s be okay? It’s nearby and I’ve work to do afterwards.’
‘Perfect,’ said Henri. ‘See you there, shortly.’
Reading a Tribune he’d brought with him from the UPI office, Henri wasn’t conscious she’d arrived until he realized she was standing there by his table. Jumping to his feet, he knocked his head on the parasol above. She actually laughed, as he gathered himself together and pulled out a chair for her. The waiter appeared at once, and they ordered chilled lemonade.
The conversation was soon on Algiers and the Vichy regime under Admiral Darlan. He explained that the Americans, although neutral, were regarded as pro the British. The British, in their turn, were thought to be operating undercover agents and saboteurs. The Free French sympathizers were being watched, and kept their powder dry. In general, the population was very anti-British, the memory of Mers-el-Kébir still fresh in everyone’s mind.
They helped themselves to lunch from the cold buffet, and he answered most of her questions adequately, he felt, pleased he’d paid full attention to the briefing by Robertson and his friends. Coffee arrived. He was looking into those amazing dark eyes as he spoke, trying to detect any real interest towards him. She seemed the epitome of the sophisticated Parisienne.
‘Mademoiselle.’
‘Yes?’ she said in an expectant way, or was it his imagination?
‘Let’s meet again. How about dinner in a couple of days’ time? We could continue our discussions, and perhaps you could tell me a little of what you’ve learnt about Egypt.’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘Yes, I’d enjoy that.’
He sensed just a flicker of excitement in the way she said it.
He saw the maître d’ first, heading for his table. She walked a little behind, aside of him. Purposefully, a confident woman, yet at the same time restrained and elegant. So different in appearance from their lunchtime meeting a couple of days before. A short red dress, white jacket over the shoulders.
Henri rose and they shook hands, rather formally, but there was just the suggestion of a smile on her beautifully made-up but otherwise serious face. Again, he was amazed by her eyes, pools of darkness. She sank down into the banquette which curved around part of the table, facing him obliquely. The wine waiter was there right away. ‘A glass of champagne, Madame, Monsieur?’ and they both nodded their assent.
‘Blind date in Cairo’ was her opening remark, before he’d said anything. ‘I suppose anything goes in a city like this in the middle of a war.’
‘I’m sorry to be so forward,’ said Henri.
She actually smiled properly, showing off the fullness of her features. ‘Thanks for coming up with the idea. Dinner here at Kit Kat is a treat, and the chance to dance.’
Henri felt a little inadequate, up against this older and sophisticated woman. ‘My excuse is that I have an inquisitive mind. I’m meant to be a soldier, but I’ve an interest in people of all sorts. When I heard you were a journalist, I realized we might have something to offer one another.’
‘Great idea, Henri,’ she said.
‘Let’s order. We should try some of the fish perhaps.’
‘I agree. Pan-fried Nile perch is an obvious choice, and I see there’s a dorade.’ She leant towards him to point out the dish in the fish section.
He was aware at once of the scent she used, almost erotic to his starved senses. The waiter brought him back to earth, and they decided on the dorade, with a Sancerre.
‘I was told by an Egyptian friend that you were writing an article on how de Gaulle has developed his political influence in Africa,’ said Henri. ‘You might like to hear where my unit has been in the past year. It rather reflects the story of the General and the Free French since June 1940.’
‘Go ahead, right up my street.’ Her long fingers lifted the wine glass. ‘Mm, delicious.’
While they ate, he took her through the exploits of 13 DBLE, from the disaster of Dakar to Doula and meeting with Leclerc. From Keren in Eritrea to Damascus. She pulled out a notebook and silver pencil from her evening bag, and made notes. He noticed again the slender long fingers, a pianist’s fingers.
‘You went straight to London when Pétain signed the Armistice, didn’t you,’ said Henri. ‘Must have been a dangerous trip. Brave thing to do. I found myself there already, at Trentham Park after Norway.’
‘Thanks. The choice came easily for me. The Vichy people were shits, and still are. They’ve revoked my French nationality. And I’m the daughter of a French Nobel Prize winner.’
‘I know your mother was famous for her work, and probably died from the effects of it.’
She gave him a long look, seeming to accept him more. The conversation moved the way he’d been hoping, to Egypt and its peoples. From there, it was an easy step into politics.
She sat back, and said suddenly ‘We’re both French, so it’s easier for us to understand the aspirations of the young educated Egyptians, students and professionals. They want their country to play its part as an independent nation, at least when the war in Africa’s over. Easier for us to understand, than for the British to accept, I mean.’
‘Are they a threat to the British?’ he asked.
‘Yes, although only in the undercover sense at the moment. You know, I’ve met certain characters, even young Egyptian Army officers, who would subvert the Allied war effort given half the chance.’
‘You mean, by passing information, spying?’
‘Certainly. Rommel is a real threat, he could advance across Egypt if he receives the supplies and equipment he needs. These people see him as their chance. Many of them admire the Germans. Where that country has come from since the chaos following the 1914 War.’
‘Do they have leaders? The King and the rich pashas seem to toe the line with Britain. Would I know their names?’
‘I don’t know. One is Anwar Sadat, a young Egyptian Army officer. He’s formed an inner circle of like-minded army people. If they could be harnessed by the Germans as Rommel advances, they could pass a lot of critical information to the enemy.’
The dancing was beginning, a few couples on the small floor. Noelle looked across at the band as it swung into a Gershwin favourite, and the singer sang ‘Oh Sweet and Lovely, Lady be Good.’ She touched him on the arm as she slowly removed her jacket, revealing the curve of her beautiful shoulders. They made towards the dancers without saying anything. She turned towards him, that dark look in her eyes as he put his arm around her narrow waist. When he pulled her slightly to him, she pressed her body gently against his, her sleek black hair touching his cheek. She felt as light as she looked.
Out on the water, some time later, they leant back against the cushions as the small boat glided along the banks of the Nile. A whisky bottle and soda syphon rested nearby. The club attendant served as barman as well as skipper.
‘Kit Kat’s an odd name for a night club,’ said Henri. ‘Hope this chap knows where he’s going.’
‘I like travelling, Henri. You know something? I’ve Polish blood in me. In this war the Poles are always on the move, kicked out of their country by the Germans and the Russians.’
‘Yes, I heard about the thousands who made their way to Iran, with their families. Many of the chaps are already trained soldiers and are joining 8th Army.’
He felt her hand over his, the pressure of her long fingers as they moved in his. ‘I’m on a sort of world tour, you know. In Egypt for a couple of months, filing my articles back to the States. Then on to India to do the same. After that, Singapore.’
Henri leant towards her. ‘Oh, I’d hoped this was the beginning of a long friendship.’
‘Nobody makes plans in the world we live in.’
Was there a finality in the way she said that? No doubt he’d find out.
‘Would you take me back home?’ she said suddenly. ‘If your friend puts us ashore here, there should be a taxi.’
‘Of course,’ said Henri, leaning across to the attendant and giving him the instruction.
He wasn’t expecting to be asked in. Nor was he. Noelle went straight to the door of the bungalow and unlocked it, standing aside for him to walk in.
‘I’ll fix us a drink,’ she said as she went over to a glass cabinet. Handing the drink to him, she led the way into the sitting room and slid back the screen opening onto a veranda. The cool night air was on his face as he followed her out. When she turned round he saw in the semi-darkness that the thin straps of her dress were now down resting on her arms, and the top of the red cotton garment was sagging and revealing the mounds of her breasts. They were not large but the impact on him of their beauty made him want her suddenly. His pulse was racing, excitement flooding through him.
‘Come and hold me, darling,’ she said.
Henri moved towards her as she took a couple of steps to him, and he took her in his arms. He kissed her gently, touching her tongue with his, feeling the warm softness of her body press against him under the dress.
A few moments after, she pulled back slightly and took his arm, guiding him back indoors and through to the room beyond. To the left was a bed surrounded by mosquito netting which she swept aside. Opposite were the windows which in daylight would look out towards the river.
Noelle turned round to face him. She put both her arms down her sides and began to lift slowly the hem of her dress. Henri took the hem in his hands and lifted the garment up and over her head. The short petticoat underneath slipped down to her waist, uncovering her breasts. He felt her fingers unbutton his shirt and then his trousers. The petticoat slipped down around her ankles and she stepped out of it, her body now entirely naked. His hands were either side of her thighs, and he helped her up onto the bed. He now wanted her desperately. The attraction of her body was overwhelming all his other senses, as he moved over her. The climax when it came for him was not just the intense pleasure of love, but also release from the punishment and fears of two years of warfare.
Noelle lay back, seemingly luxuriating in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He watched her stretch her arms above her head, her breasts rising as her tight tummy pushed away towards her legs.
‘You are truly beautiful, my darling,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead.
‘And you have a soldier’s body,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Scars and bone. You make love with gentleness and restraint.’
They talked about themselves, not about war and politics. At least until Henri asked whether he could meet some of her politically minded friends, particularly the Egyptian ones. He wasn’t sure what she would think his motives were, but too bad, she’d say and do what she wanted.
‘There’s a group that meets each week,’ she said. ‘They might be suspicious of you. I could take you, we could try. It’s all talk and no action most of the time. But since Rommel arrived on the doorstep, the tone has changed. Some of the military types talk privately amongst themselves.’
‘Any indication whether they’re working on something specific?’
‘Well, one thing they talk about is SALAM. I think that’s code for an Abwehr spy who goes by the name of Hussein Gaffar. They don’t think much of him. Seems he spends a lot of time with a belly dancer they don’t trust, known to have links with the Egyptian royal family and the British.’
‘I’d like to give it a go. Can we go together? You could say I’m from the Tribune’s Paris office.’
She was quiet. After some hesitation, she replied ‘I’m not sure. If they’re suspicious of you, they’re going to cut both of us out, and I’ll lose an important source of information. Better you leave it to me. I’ll feed back to you what I learn.’ She turned towards him. ‘I wonder who you’re working for?’
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘We’re on the same side.’
12
Western Mediterranean, November 1941
Bill looked forward from the bridge of the Catapult Aircraft Merchant ship, towards the ramp protruding beyond the bows. In between was the Hurricane, resting on a trolley forming the rocket-powered catapult. He remembered the prototype of the device on his first day at Speke, where he reported after volunteering for the Merchant Ship Fighter Unit, MSFU for short. That was soon after John Smith’s court martial. When they met a few days later for a beer, John was still badly shaken from his part in the accident on the cricket fields of St Gregory’s. Bill was asking how he felt about his future in the Fleet Air Arm.
‘Frankly, after pleading guilty and being dismissed my ship, I don’t think I have a future,’ said John.
‘Well, I wondered whether you’d be interested in what I’m now up to,’ said Bill.
John looked surprised. ‘So, what’s that?’
‘I volunteered to train pilots for the launch of Hurricanes by catapult from merchant ships, CAM ships they call them.’
‘Good God. How are they going to organize that?’ John looked sceptical.
‘It was an Admiralty idea, and a few Fleet Air Arm Sea Hurricane pilots like you are involved. But most of them will be RAF. They’ll only fly two or three combat missions from CAM ships, before the pilots return to normal flying duties. It’s thought that a longer gap than that runs the risk of pilots losing their skills.’
John was looking less gloomy now, his interest clearly stimulated by what Bill was saying.
‘Training is at Speke, just outside Liverpool. You could say it’s tantamount to suicide. You’re fired by a rocket-propelled catapult mounted on a merchantman far out at sea. You shoot down what you can, and when your fuel is used up you bail out or ditch in the drink, and hope you’ll be picked up. It’s mainly about solving the Condor problem.’
‘Oh, what’s the Condor problem?’ asked John.
‘It’s the area of ocean too far out for our land-based aircraft to reach. The Condor’s a very long-range Luftwaffe aircraft operating from Bordeaux-Mérignac, which seeks out the convoys when they enter that space. They’re part of the Kriegsmarine’s signals intelligence network, reporting convoy movements to the U-boats. We don’t have the escort carriers yet to enable our fighters to go after them.’
John appeared to be thinking hard, head in hands as he stared into space. ‘So, one would stand by day after day on the CAM ship until a Condor was sighted or found on a radar track. Then it would be up into the Hurricane, blast off, and start the climb up towards the enemy.’
‘Who is armed,’ said Bill. ‘If it’s a Condor, with three machine guns and forward cannon.’
‘Okay. So, after shooting down the Condor, one would bail out or ditch, and hope someone notices.’
‘You’ve got it, John. Depending how much fuel remains in the tanks, you would look around for any other target to take out.
‘As far as I’m concerned, I’d volunteer if that persuaded the Admiralty to lift its ban on me flying.’
‘Great. Just make a written application to be considered. There’s always a shortage of pilots. I think you’d stand a good chance. You can mention me, and I’ll help if I can.’
Bill’s attention went back to the convoy, now two days after forming up in the Atlantic, and passing Gibraltar into the Med. He was with John, the two being the Hurricane pilots on a CAM ship assigned to a Force H Malta convoy. Their cargo was food and fuel. John would pilot the Hurricane, Bill acting both as back-up and Fighter Direction Officer. Both were surprised when ordered to join an MSFU mission in the Mediterranean. Most CAM ships operated out in the North Atlantic. They weren’t told much, but everyone assumed the destination was Malta. That usually meant carriers providing the convoy with air cover. Yet, Bill heard from a more senior RAF contact that part of the convoy’s mission was to fly off Hurricanes to bolster the island’s meagre air defences. Presumably, he reasoned, all the carrying capacity of a carrier would be taken up by the Hurricanes to be flown off when they were close enough to Malta.
Suddenly, the door onto the bridge opened and the signals officer entered in a hurry. ‘We’ve received an RDF message from the cruiser, sir. Bearing 035, range 30 miles, altitude 10,000 feet. Probably a Ju 88 spying on us,’ he added. Not having radar themselves, they relied on the closest cruiser to pass on the sighting.
Bill moved fast. ‘Pilot to aircraft,’ he ordered down the speaker tube. Conditions were fine, little wave height, light swell, wind speed no more than Force 2. ‘Okay,’ he snapped to the signals officer. He knew the mechanics would have fired up the Hurricane’s engine at least once that morning, and that John would be climbing into the aircraft. ‘I’ll vector him to the target,’ he said as he went over to the Bigsworth board, ready to track the incoming plane. The attached parallel pantograph arm was to compute speed of the enemy, and then the heading and speed required for the fighter to intercept.
