The man shook his head. “Caught!”
“Get aboard.”
He tried weakly to climb in and Buckley put a big hand under his rump and hoisted him inboard where he collapsed by Smith and said, “In a minute- all right. I ran a long way. But in a minute —” He nodded.
Buckley shoved off, leapt aboard and now it was crowded in the bow. Smith was going to move aft but first he asked: “What happened? Who are you?”
The man lifted his head, smiled shakily. “Now, I am Josef. I worked in a hotel in London before the war and I am Belgian and that is enough for now. You understand?” And when Smith nodded, “We got through the wire about an hour ago.”
“What wire?” Smith interrupted.
Josef jerked a thumb to the north. “All around the wood. We were to find out what was in there. It seemed the only way was to break through the wire.”
Smith stared at him. The wood at De Haan. Where the fighters patrolled.
But Josef was going on, “I think the wire had an alarm. Yes? A wire with electric to a bell somewhere, you know? I think so. A patrol came up. We had to run, broke apart, I got away.” He was breathing easier now but his manner was abstracted, remembering, reliving the experience.
Smith asked, “Was your friend hurt?”
A shake of the head, but, “It was a waste of time. We learnt nothing.”
So his friend had been taken prisoner. Smith thought it might have been as well if the patrol had shot him. A civilian caught trying to break into a prohibited zone? They would try him as a spy and shoot him anyway. The rain still fell but the night was still, only the faintest creak as the men tugged at the oars, the sound of their breathing. He and Josef had spoken normally. He was aware the men were listening eagerly, intently to every word and so was Lorimer. That was not surprising.
The Belgian’s head came up. He said, “I fell in a ditch and crawled along it. I looked back for her but she had fallen. I saw them take her. I went on along the ditch and then ran again. I had to run a long way to get around them.” His hands moved in a gesture sweeping a wide curve.
But Smith said, “She?” And saw the men’s heads turning.
Josef nodded. “We posed as man and wife. A couple attracts less attention than a man alone. We had papers and a letter supposed to be from her sick mother in Clemskerke, asking us to visit her.”
Smith remembered that Jack Curtis had tried to tell him something, “one of the people is —” A woman.
There was silence in the boat, then Buckley ventured, “They won’t shoot a woman. Will they, sir?”
Smith thought they had before and they might again. And looked at with cold logic, as a spy a woman could wreak as much havoc as a man. He wondered how Buckley would feel if a woman betrayed his country, or his ship? If she was the cause of the destruction of Sparrow and all aboard her? But the crew of the whaler felt as Buckley did. A low mutter ran through them that was deep-throated like a growl.
Josef said bitterly, “They will shoot her.”
That brought the growl again and then McGraw spoke up and gave it frustrated, baffled voice. “Somebody ought to do somethin’!”
Smith snapped, “Shut up!” He stared over their heads towards the shore that was lost to sight now. “Oars!” The men rested on their oars and the boat drifted. “Flask!” Lorimer passed it forward and it came from hand to hand up the boat to Smith who unscrewed the cap and handed the flask to the Belgian. He drank and sighed, rubbed his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. Smith had come prepared: the flask held navy rum and water, one to two.
Josef said, “They will take her to the guard-post and hold her there until transport comes from Ostende to fetch her. The Major will want to have first go at her, you see. He does not like the headquarters at Ostende so he will question her until he is sure he knows all there is to know. Then he will send her to Ostende. He will be able to —” He stopped, snapping his fingers for the phrase.
Smith supplied, “Crow over them.”
Josef nodded. “Yes. He is that sort of man. Very efficient but old for a Major. He believes he should have been promoted.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“Soldiers talk among themselves and the people listen.” Josef shrugged. “Also, this he did before when he caught a Belgian spying.”
Smith looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed since the whaler ran in towards the light. A rescue attempt was out of the question. Madness. He would not risk the lives of this handful of men on an unplanned adventure into enemy-held country on the chance of saving this woman. The Belgian might be right about the Major but he might also be wrong and the woman already on her way to Ostende.
And even if she was not, what chance was there of setting her free? None.
He asked, “Where is this guard-post?”
Josef said, “About a kilometre or more inland. In a village, if you can call it that. There is one big house that is the guardpost now and some little houses around it.”
“And the guard? What strength?”
“Company strength or more. A hundred to a hundred and fifty men. One third of them on patrol, you know? The rest in the house.” He took another pull at the flask and then Smith took it from him. That would be enough. So was a hundred troops, more than enough to guard one woman, to prevent her escape…He paused and examined the thought. They would be careful she did not escape, their eyes turned inwards. But what of a rescue attempt from outside?
He would be a fool to try it.
He found them all watching him as he came out of his abstraction, and Buckley in particular with a knowing look that vanished into blankness as Smith’s eyes found him. Smith snapped at him, at all of them. “What the hell are you all gawping at? Where do you think you are? Idling on the beach at Southend with a bag-full of winkles and a belly-full of beer? You’re supposed to be keeping a sharp look-out! You’re sitting right off a German shore!”
That set them looking about them.
And it had put off the decision.
Eleven minutes gone.
He glanced at Josef, feeling that he was being forced into this by a streak of soft sentimentality he had no right to possess, not as an officer in command, but he demanded, “You could take us there?” It was only just a question.
“To the guard-post?” The Belgian peered at him. “I could. But it would not be easy. There is barbed-wire strung all along the dunes and the Germans patrol the top. Every gap in the dunes is filled with wire strung like — like the web of a spider. There is a gun or a machine-gun every kilometre, sited to sweep the beach. Trenches are dug behind the dunes. When I made the signal to you I had to crawl into a gully so the men at the guns would not see the light. There are troops billeted or camped close to the trenches. If there was an attack alarm the trenches would be manned in minutes. A landing by troops would be very difficult, perhaps impossible. But one or two men, moving quietly and keeping away from the guns and patrols, that can be done. We did it last night. But when we get to the guardpost? There is a company —”
Smith broke in, his mind made up, “I know. Will you take us?” And as the Belgian hesitated, “Then will you draw me a map?”
Josef’s teeth showed in a wry grin. “A map would not get you through the dunes. But you’re determined to try. So. I will take you there.”
Smith asked, “You have a report to make?”
Josef made a rasping, derisive noise. “Whoever makes the report can tell Intelligence that Josef said: ‘No luck. Keep trying.’ It doesn’t matter. They’ll keep trying anyway.”
Smith looked at Lorimer. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Mr. Dunbar. Now put us ashore.”