The Resistance men had loaded the cart with containers and were now hiding them under empty vegetable boxes. More containers were going into the back of the builder’s van. Directing the operation was Anton, a thin man of forty in a greasy cap and a short blue workman’s jacket, with a yellow French cigarette stuck to his lip. He stared in astonishment. “Six women?” he said. “Is this a sewing circle?”
Jokes about women were best ignored, Flick had found. She spoke solemnly to him. “This is the most important operation I’ve ever run, and I need your help.”
“Of course.”
“We have to catch a train to Paris.”
“I can get you to Chartres.” He glanced at the sky, calculating the time until daylight, then pointed across the field to a farmhouse, dimly visible. “You can hide in a barn for now. When we have disposed of these containers, we’ll come back for you.”
“Not good enough,” Flick said firmly. “We have to get going.”
“The first train to Pans leaves at ten. I can get you there by then.”
“Nonsense. No one knows when the trains will run.” It was true. The combination of Allied bombing, Resistance sabotage, and deliberate mistakes by anti-Nazi railway workers had wrecked all schedules, and the only thing to do was go to the station and wait until a train came. But it was best to get there early. “Put the containers in the barn and take us now.”
“Impossible,” he said. “I have to stash the supplies before daylight.”
The men stopped work to listen to the argument.
Flick sighed. The guns and ammunition in the containers were the most important thing in the world to Anton. They were the source of his power and prestige. She said, “This is more important, believe me.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Anton, listen to me. If you don’t do this for me, I promise you, you will never again receive a single container from England. You know I can do this, don’t you?”
There was a pause. Anton did not want to back down in front of his men. However, if the supply of arms dried up, the men would go elsewhere. This was the only leverage British officers had over the French Resistance.
But it worked. He glared at her. Slowly, he removed the stub of the cigarette from his mouth, pinched out the end, and threw it away. “Very well,” he said. “Get in the van.”
The women helped unload the containers, then clambered in. The floor was filthy with cement dust, mud, and oil, but they found some scraps of sacking and used them to keep the worst of the dirt off their clothes as they sat on the floor. Anton closed the door on them.
Chevalier got into the driving seat. “So, ladies,” he said in English. “Off we go!”
Flick replied coldly in French. “No jokes, please, and no English.”
He drove off.
Having flown five hundred miles on the metal floor of a bomber, the Jackdaws now drove twenty miles in the back of a builder’s van. Surprisingly it was Jelly- the oldest, the fattest, and the least fit of the six-who was most stoical, joking about the discomfort and laughing at herself when the van took a sharp bend and she rolled over helplessly.
But when the sun came up, and the van entered the small city of Chartres, their mood became somber again. Maude said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and Diana squeezed her hand.
Flick was planning ahead. “From now on, we split up into pairs,” she said. The teams had been decided back at the Finishing School. Flick had put Diana with Maude, for otherwise Diana would make a fuss Flick paired herself with Ruby, because she wanted to be able to discuss problems with someone, and Ruby was the cleverest Jackdaw. Unfortunately, that left Greta with Jelly. “I still don’t see why I have to go with the foreigner,” Jelly said.
“This isn’t a tea party,” Flick said, irritated. “You don’t get to sit by your best friend. It’s a military operation and you do what you’re told.”
Jelly shut up.
“We’ll have to modify our cover stories, to explain the train trip,” Flick went on. “Any ideas?”