Ken Follett – Jackdaws

Claude inserted a metal instrument into the wound and felt around for the slug. Michel cried out with pain.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Claude said solicitously.

Flick almost took pleasure in the sight of Michel in agony on the bed where he had formerly cried out with guilty pleasure. She hoped he would always remember Gilberte’s bedroom this way.

Michel said, “Just get it over with.”

Flick’s vengeful feeling passed quickly, and she felt sorry for Michel. She moved the pillow closer to his face, saying, “Bite on this, it will help.”

Michel stuffed the pillow into his mouth.

Claude probed again, and this time got the bullet out. Blood flowed freely for a few seconds, then slowed, and Claude put a dressing on.

“Keep as still as you can for a few days,” he advised Michel. That meant Michel would have to stay at Gilberte’s place. However, he would be too sore for sex, Flick thought with grim satisfaction.

“Thank you, Claude,” she said.

“Glad to be able to help.”

“I have another request.”

Claude looked scared. “What?”

“I’m meeting a plane at a quarter to midnight. I need you to drive me to Chatelle.”

“Why can’t Gilberte take you, in the car she used to come to my place?”

“Because of the curfew. But we’ll be safe with you, you’re a doctor.”

“Why would I have two people with me?”

“Three. We need Michel to hold a torch.” There was an unvarying procedure for pickups: four Resistance people held flashlights in the shape of a giant letter “L,” indicating the direction of the wind and where the plane should come down. The small battery-operated torches needed to be directed at the aircraft to make sure the pilot saw them. They could simply be placed in position on the ground, but that was less sure, and if the pilot did not see what he expected he might suspect a trap and decide not to land. It was better to have four people if at all possible.

Claude said, “How would I explain you all to the police? A doctor on emergency call doesn’t travel with three people in his car.”

“We’ll think of some story.”

“It’s too dangerous!”

“It will take only a few minutes, at this time of night.”

“Marie-Jeanne will kill me. She says I have to think of the children.”

“You don’t have any.”

“She’s pregnant.”

Flick nodded. That would explain why he had become so jumpy.

Michel rolled over and sat upright. He reached out and grasped Claude’s arm. “Claude, I’m begging you, this is really important. Do it for me, will you?”

It was hard to say no to Michel. Claude sighed. “When?”

Flick looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. “Now.”

Claude looked at Michel. “His wound may reopen.”

“I know,” Flick said. “Let it bleed.”

THE VILLAGE OF Chatelle consisted of a few buildings clustered around a crossroads: three farmhouses, a strip of laborers’ cottages, and a bakery that served the surrounding farms and hamlets. Flick stood in a cow pasture a mile from the crossroads, holding in her hand a flashlight about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

She had been on a weeklong course, run by the pilots of 161 Squadron, to train her for the task of guiding an aircraft in. This location fitted the specifications they had given her. The field was almost a kilometer long-a Lysander needed six hundred meters to land and take off The ground beneath her feet was firm, and there was no slope. A nearby pond was clearly visible from the air in the moonlight, providing a useful landmark for pilots.

Michel and Gilberte stood upwind of Flick in a straight line, also holding flashlights, and Claude stood a few yards to one side of Gilberte, making a flare path in the shape of an upside-down “L” to guide the pilot. In remote areas, bonfires could be used instead of electric lights, but here, close to a village, it was too dangerous to leave the telltale burn mark on the ground.

The four people formed what the agents called a reception committee. Flick’s were always silent and disciplined, but less-well-organized groups sometimes turned the landing into a party, with groups of men shouting jokes and smoking cigarettes, and spectators from nearby villages turning up to watch. This was dangerous. If the pilot suspected that the landing had been betrayed to the Germans, and thought the Gestapo might be lying in wait, he had to react quickly. The instructions to reception committees warned that anyone approaching the plane from the wrong angle was liable to be shot by the pilot. This had never actually happened, but on one occasion a spectator had been run over by a Hudson bomber and killed.

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