"How long will it take to get to this Weingarten Beach?" asked Ross, peering out into the predawn darkness.
"If we're lucky, about fifteen hours," replied Newkirk. "Could do it quicker, but we have to avoid the bigger cities. But we should be in Belgium by lunchtime, if we don't get ourselves lost."
"And then you have to drive back again?" Ross shook his head. "Seems a lot of trouble to go to, just for two guys."
"Well, it gets me out of the place for a while." Newkirk laughed under his breath. "We don't get many excursions, you know. We took a trip to Berlin not long ago, but you don't really enjoy it when you're banged up in Abwehr HQ. Besides, it's a chance to have a look round, see what the Krauts have in the way of coastal defenses, anti-aircraft batteries, that sort of thing. Then when I get back to Stalag 13, we pass it on to London by radio."
He glanced at his other passenger. Sullivan, who had taken the front seat so Eddie could keep his leg extended in the back, had fallen asleep almost as soon as the car had set off, nearly an hour ago. "Your mate's well away," remarked Newkirk
"Yeah, Tom never misses the chance for some shut-eye, and he didn't get much while we were on the run."
"It wouldn't hurt you to follow his example."
Ross shrugged. "Not sleepy. Anyway, this may be the only time I get a look at Germany from ground level. Not that there's much to see right now."
"Sun'll be up soon. And between you and me, there won't be much to see then, either," said Newkirk.
There was silence for a couple of minutes.
"It doesn't sound Belgian," observed Ross thoughtfully. "They speak Dutch, don't they? Or French. So where does it get a name like Weingarten?"
"That's the code name. See, it's not always the same beach, we have to change the location regularly, so the Germans don't cotton on. Three months earlier, and you'd have been heading up north, but that's got a bit too risky, so Belgium it is, for now. But we keep calling it Weingarten, in case anyone picks up our broadcasts," explained Newkirk. "And it's easier than trying to get your tongue around the real name. It took me long enough to get a decent German accent, I'm not about to start on another language, thanks all the same. You speak any German at all?"
"Not a word," admitted Ross. "Sullivan knows a little, so he did all the talking since we got shot down. I guess maybe I should have had some German lessons while I was grounded."
"Instead of meeting pretty girls." Newkirk laughed quietly. "I know which I'd have been doing. Still be doing it, if I had the chance."
"Limited opportunities, huh?"
"Very limited. There's the Kommandant's secretary, but Colonel Hogan's already in there. Of course, I could cut in, if I didn't have too much respect for my commanding officer." Newkirk paused, contemplating how little such considerations would matter if he thought he was in with a chance. "Otherwise, there's the occasional Underground member, some of 'em are not bad sorts at all - the girls, that is. And sometimes I'll meet a bird when I'm out and about, which is all right, as long as she doesn't turn out to be a Gestapo informant. That tends to take all the fun out of it."
"I reckon it would," murmured Ross.
For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Ross gazed out of the window, watching as the landscape gradually emerged from the darkness. "It sure doesn't look like hostile territory," he remarked after a while. "I guess they don't get so many air raids in these parts."
"Well, no. It'd be a bit of a waste, coming all this way just to wipe out a few pigs and a barn or two," replied Newkirk. "The big raids are aimed at cities - Frankfurt, Düsseldorf, places like that - and industrial areas. And bridges, too, although it usually saves trouble if we take care of those ourselves. Hammelburg gets its share, of course." He paused for a moment, then added very softly, "Not as bad as London during the Blitz. Not yet, anyway."
"You got family there?" asked Ross.
"In the East End. My sister writes and tells me they're all fine, but, well, she would say that, wouldn't she? And I'd be none the wiser, stuck here in the middle of Germany." Newkirk's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"You never thought of trying to get back there?"
"Oh, we've all thought about it," said Newkirk sombrely. "But what good would it do? Best I can hope for is that we get this bleedin' war won, before..."
He didn't finish the sentence, and the journey continued in silence for a while. The road ran in wide curves between green fields alternating with stretches of woodland, passing through a couple of pretty little villages, which Ross seemed to find quaintly attractive. But he changed his mind, when in one of these towns, they passed a couple of small boys, maybe nine or ten. One waved, the other gave the Nazi salute.
"Holy cats!" mumbled Ross, trying not to stare. "Is he for real?"
"Always makes me feel sick when I see a kiddie doing that," remarked Newkirk quietly. "You can't blame the lad, it's all he's ever known, all his life, but when I think of our kids at home..." Once again, he let the thought fall away.
"You have any of your own?" asked Ross.
"No - well, that's to say, not as far as I know," replied Newkirk. "But I come from a large family, and being the oldest, well, you worry about them, don't you?"
"Yeah, you sure do." Ross shifted in his seat, with a soft grunt of discomfort. "There's a girl I know in London - did I tell you about her?"
"You mentioned her, yes," said Newkirk, the shadow of laughter in his voice.
"She's got a whole lot of brothers and sisters. Doesn't say much, but I know she gets anxious," Ross went on.
"Not evacuated, then?"
"Didn't work out. They're a pretty enterprising bunch, from what I hear. But it doesn't matter how many of you there are, I reckon you worry just the same. My brother's in the Marines, he was fighting on Guadalcanal last year. There's only two of us, but I'll tell you, Pete, some nights I just didn't sleep. And then I'd get a letter from him, and all he wanted to know was whether I was okay."
Newkirk laughed softly. "That's what I get from Mum. Even right in the middle of the Blitz, she'd write to ask if I was wearing my winter woollies." He paused for a moment. "So, this bird of yours...Hello, what have we got, then?"
They had reached a junction, and were forced to stop by the continuous traffic flowing past, all headed in the same direction, taking up the full width of the road. The noise was loud enough to wake Sullivan. He gasped, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. "Are we there already?" he mumbled.
"Not quite yet, chum," replied Newkirk, as he watched the tanks rolling past. "Mark IVs," he murmured, after a few moments. "And heading south. So not Russia, then."
He got out of the car, and took a few steps back and forth, as if stretching his legs. For a couple of minutes he stood a few feet from the passing column, to all appearances waiting with bored resignation until he could continue on his way. One of the support vehicles stopped briefly; the passenger, an SS captain, asked a few questions, but Newkirk was well-primed for this.
"Colonel Felsner, on his way to Wiesbaden for a strategy meeting," he explained. "Top secret, I don't even know what it's about." He lowered his voice, confidentially. "But it's not hard to guess. His last posting was...well, a colder place than this."
The captain glanced at the car. "The Russian Front?"
"I never said so," Newkirk said quickly. "But when a man comes back from active service with frostbite, you know he hasn't been in North Africa."
"No...no, that's true," replied the captain, his eyes brightening. "At least that's one thing..." He broke off hurriedly. "Very good, private. I hope I can trust your discretion regarding our movements."
Better than you can trust your own, mate, thought Newkirk; but not even a flicker crossed his face, as he snapped into a salute. "Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Heil Hitler."
He returned to the car. "Tunisia, odds on," he remarked. "Handy to know, though from the news reports, it's a bit late for that."
"Things been going on, while we've been on holidays?" asked Ross. His voice sounded a little strained, and Newkirk glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
"A lot can happen in seven weeks," he said. Then, after a pause, he added, "Nearly time for elevenses. We'll let this lot get past, then once we're a bit further on, we can stop for a bit. Wilson said you should stretch that leg out every so often."
A break in the column gave him the opportunity to cross over, and soon the noise and dust thrown out by the monsters of war fell into distance, as the road twisted round to enter the soft quiet of a stretch of woods. Newkirk kept his eyes open for a suitable place to pull over, and before long found an open grassy clearing, bright in the late morning sunlight.
"This'll do us," he said.
They had brought food, and flasks of coffee, to avoid having to find meals along the way. Sullivan, with the natural healthy appetite of a young man who had gone short for too many weeks, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and rapidly disposed of them, then excused himself with a grin, and went to commune with nature.
Ross had eased himself out of the car with caution, and stood leaning against the door for support.
"You won't be making any more bombing runs," observed Newkirk, bringing him a mug of coffee.
"No, I guess not," Ross sighed. "Maybe I can get a training post, or something like that. There's plenty of non-combat flying work around."
"You think they'll send you home?"
"Not if I can help it." His voice deepened with resolve.
Newkirk regarded him curiously. "You're really serious about that lass, aren't you?"
There was a pause, as Ross considered the question. "Yeah. I'd take her home with me like a shot, if she'd go. But I can't ask her to leave her mom, not while the war's still going on. Anyway, how would it look? Some folks get real mad about us Yanks getting together with English girls. I reckon her brothers would be gunning for me if I even suggested it." He fell silent again. "God knows what she's thinking right now," he added softly. "Two months, and not a word from me."
"Well, not long now, and you can set her mind at rest," Newkirk pointed out in what he hoped was a bracing tone. Then, as Sullivan returned, he let the subject drop.
The brief stop seemed to do them all good. This time it was Ross who drifted into sleep as the journey continued. Sullivan took charge of the map, directing Newkirk around the outskirts of Koblenz, and south of Aachen to cross the border into Belgium. Every so often they would have to stop at a checkpoint, and at each one, Newkirk's story changed slightly. To begin with, "Colonel Felsner" was on his way to Köln, for specialist medical treatment; then to Maastricht, for a top-level briefing; and finally to Antwerp on a Wehrmacht recruiting drive. Not for a moment did the colonel's driver let on how tight his stomach muscles were, each time he handed over the documents Kinch had made up. But they passed without question.
There was little difference in the appearance of the countryside as they got further into Belgium, but Newkirk was very much on the alert. "Thing is, it's not just the Germans we have to worry about from here on," he explained, when Ross, who'd woken up, queried the change. "They'll only shoot us if they think we're not German. The partisans, on the other hand, will shoot us if they think we are. And they won't give us time to explain ourselves first."
He made another rest stop on the outskirts of Liège, but kept it short. Soon they were on their way again; and when first Ross, then Sullivan dozed off, Newkirk let them sleep. Both of them had arrears to make up in that department.
A gradual flattening out of the landscape indicated they were nearing the coast. Newkirk took his time, consulting the map as he went. He couldn't risk getting lost now; somehow, it mattered more to him than usual that these two - well, Eddie, if he was honest about it - should get safely back to England. He skirted round Brussels, and headed for the sea.
The sun was low over the horizon, as they finally came within sight of the water. A small village lay before them, whitewashed stone walls gleaming gold in the western light. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," said Newkirk under his breath.
Sullivan heard him, and opened his own eyes. "Gosh. Ain't that just the prettiest thing you ever saw?"
"It sure is," murmured Ross, gazing as if he could see something beyond the view.
Newkirk drew the car to a halt in front of a little café facing the waterfront, its windows reflecting the sunset. "This is the place," he said. "You better wait here, I'll go in and find our contact."
He strolled in, every inch a German soldier, apparently oblivious to the hostile glances of the few patrons already established at the scattered tables. The proprietor, a heavy-set man with a receding hairline, gave him a guarded look, and uttered a few words in his own language. Newkirk had no idea whether it was a greeting, or a promise to cut his throat at the earliest opportunity.
"Ein Bier, bitte," he said brusquely. The man continued to gaze at him for a few seconds, then moved slowly to the taps.
Newkirk paid for the beer, and leaned forward. "Are you the man who breeds goldfinches?" he murmured softly, still speaking German
The man's expression didn't change. "No. But my wife's brother keeps canaries."
"Emile?"
"Yes. Are you from..."
"Papa Bear, that's right. And I've got two cubs, wanting to go home."
Emile smiled, and the tension in the café eased immediately. "We have been expecting them." Divining by some instinct Newkirk's nationality, he had switched to English. "The British submarine will pick them up tonight, as requested. They are...?"
"Waiting outside. I'll fetch them in." Newkirk went to the door, but stopped dead. In the bare couple of minutes he'd been inside, Sullivan and Ross had picked up some unwanted company. The man's uniform, though not identical to that of his French counterparts, clearly indicated his status; a member of the Gendarmerie. And he was apparently bent on giving Sullivan a hard time.
"Oh, blimey, it's the rozzers," murmured Newkirk, at a loss.
Emile had followed him, and at sight of the policeman, he gave a sigh. "Claes, Gerard, go and explain. Georges is no collaborator," he explained to Newkirk, as two of his customers slipped out to deal with the problem. "He has helped us out many times, but his dislike of the Germans is too well known for him to be a part of our group."
Claes and Gerard were now expostulating with the officer in their own language. It took a couple of minutes, but finally he grasped what they were saying. He straightened up, saluted, then, unable to contain himself, grasped Sullivan's hand in both his own, shaking it vigorously. Ross received the same treatment. A few more words were exchanged, before the two Americans were escorted into the café, leaving the gendarme to watch the car.
"Boy, that was scary," Sullivan burst out, as soon as they were inside. "I tried to get rid of him, but he didn't seem to understand my German, and he kept yabbering in...I mean, he only spoke the local lingo," he finished up hurriedly, with one eye on Emile and his fellow Belgians.
Gerard - or Claes, Newkirk wasn't sure which was which - made some remark or other, and a laugh went round, to Sullivan's further embarrassment.
"You must be hungry, after your long journey," said Emile. "There is time for a meal, before the submarine comes." He bustled off towards the back of the café. The meal proved to be beef stewed in beer, and went down very well with two of his guests. Ross was too weary to eat.
"Not long now, Eddie," said Newkirk, watching him closely; and Ross gave him a tired smile. What he needed was another good night's sleep; but that would have to wait. In the meantime, the red wine Emile had brought along with the stew seemed to hearten him up a little. By the time the others had finished eating, he looked ready for the final part of the journey.
Near midnight found them at the rendezvous point, some distance along the shore from the village. A small boat, wide and sturdy-looking, was drawn up above the water line, and its owner stood by, ready to ferry the two Americans out to the submarine as soon as the signal appeared.
"Hey, Peter," said Ross. "You could come along, you know."
For a moment, Newkirk was tempted. He rarely let himself think about it, but sometimes he was desperate to get home; to see Mavis, just for a few minutes; to check on the kids and make sure they were turning out right; to give his mum a hug and tell her everything was fine.
"Well, I'd love to, Eddie," he heard himself say, "but think how disappointed the Kommandant would be, if he didn't see my smiling face at roll call every morning." Then with a rueful grin, he added, "Anyway, there's still too much work to do."
"Somehow I thought you'd say that." Ross returned the grin. "You're all right, Pete."
Emile's voice prevented Newkirk from replying. "The signal has been given. It's time."
Ross straightened up, with a little stagger as he put weight on the injured leg. Newkirk took his arm to steady him, and together they crossed the sand.
"Thanks," said Ross in a low voice, once he'd been settled in the little boat. "Thanks for everything."
"All part of the service," replied Newkirk, keeping it light. "You just go and make that girl happy. And don't worry about what her family will say, because if they've got any sense - well, if any of my sisters brought you home, I'd give her my blessing, and dance at your wedding."
"I'll hold you to that." Ross gave a low chuckle. "When the big day comes - if it ever does - you better be there."
He gripped Newkirk's shoulder for a moment, before the boat was pushed out into the sea. Even then, he kept watching, till he could no longer see the beach at all.
Suddenly he laughed.
"What's that for?" asked Sullivan.
Ross grinned in the darkness. "I just invited him to my wedding," he said. "And it only just occurred to me, I still don't know his last name..."
