Note: I originally wrote in two previous chapters that the mission would take about sixteen hours. But as I planned it and researched it, I realized twenty-four hours was more realistic. I've revised the references in chapters 16 and 17 to reflect this change. Sorry for any confusion! Also, thank you to Valashu for continuing to beta this story!

PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 18: TO THE SEA

Spread out on a long table in the tunnel was a topographical map of Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany. It was nearly as large as half of a door, and it was held down in the corners with an assortment of bricks and rocks. The edges were crinkled and worn and the surface was dashed with faded red and blue pencil marks showing the team's potential passages to the sea.

"It's about three and a half hours to Koblenz. Newkirk, Colonel Hogan will be about an hour and a half behind you. After you connect, you'll wait an hour or so and leave around 0300 hours. The trickiest part is always the border crossing," Kinch said, thunking a finger down as Hogan, Herr Witman, and Peter leaned in to observe. He swooped his hand around in a curving motion. "We're going to avoid it with a trek through the hills. Right around dawn, you'll be met by a French resistance fighter named Arpège. He and his team will take you by foot, then by horse and wagon across two rivers, through the far north corner of Luxembourg, and on to a village outside of Namur. From there, it should be a little more than two hours to the coast. You should be at the safe house by 0930 hours."

"What are the arrangements for our return, Kinch?" Hogan asked.

"You'll leave the Witmans and board a train at 1036 hours with your 'nephew.' You'll have two changes, and then you disembark in Würzburg and Otto will have Schultz ready to relay you back to camp. Peter should be in the cooler in time for supper," Kinch said with an apologetic smile.

"On April Fffool's Day. Marvelous," Peter said. "Right then, what about once they're on the sub? What should they expect?" He shifted into German to ask the question for the benefit of Herr Witman, and Hogan and Kinch understood why. The X-class midget submarine that would carry the Witmans to their new country was basically a tin can for a five-man crew. Any passengers would be on top of one another the whole way. Comfort was not even a remote consideration. Kinch nodded with a serious look on his face.

"You'll have time to move and stretch before you embark at midnight, Herr Witman. Once you're on board, your best use of time will be to sleep. From Saint Idesbald across the Channel to Deal, it's 88 kilometers—that's 55 miles," Kinch began.

"Deal is in Kent, Herr Witman," Peter broke in. "That's right where the North Sea and the English Channel intersect. The waters are deeper there than in the Channel. The seas can get choppy, though."

Witman nodded in appreciation. He'd been to England before the war, and he'd been on ships. But a submarine was something entirely new.

Kinch picked up his explanation again. "It won't be a quick passage, Herr Witman. The X-class travels at two knots per hour until she's twenty kilometers from shore, then she'll surface and cruise at six and a half knots."

"So, it'll take nearly six hours before you surface," Hogan said. "Then what, Kinch? Another six hours or so?

Kinch was scratching out details on a note pad. "Not quite," he said thoughtfully. "Once the boat surfaces, she'll need about two and half hours to get to British waters. Once she's in range of home port, she'll be in towed by a mother submarine, so the last 40 kilometers or so will only take an hour and a half. I'd make it about ten hours to complete the crossing, including time to couple the boats."

Hogan looked at Witman. "You'll know once you're in British waters," he said. "That'll be a fun ride," he added, whistling and making a swooping gesture with his hand. He checked his watch. "Sunset is at 1938 hours," he said. "You've got an hour until you leave at 19:48."

XXX

Peter spent the next hour in the tunnel in the company of LeBeau, the Witmans, and piping bowls of chicken soup. He had no idea how his best mate managed it, but the soup was filling and delicious. As Peter devoured it, the warmth seemed to help clear his chest and head. He'd vowed not to smoke en route, because it always made him cough when his throat was sore, but he was going to have to have a cigarette before he put on his Hitler Youth togs for the journey. So he pushed away the bowl, smiled at Hannelore and Frau Witman, and excused himself.

LeBeau tagged after Peter as he wandered down the corridor to his sewing hut.

"You're ready for this?" LeBeau asked. "You took your aspirin?"

"Yes, and I've packed a few in my pocket," Peter said as he took off his jumper and undershirt and started pulling on the loathsome Jugend uniform. Still in his RAF trousers and with his shirttails hanging out, he lit a cigarette.

LeBeau's hand was on his forehead before Peter could inhale. "I don't care what Colonel Hogan says. You are warm."

"I j-just had soup, LeBeau," Peter replied with hint of a mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It wwwarms a lad up. It was delicious by the way."

"Of course it was; I made it," LeBeau said, laughing himself now. "Stop changing the subject. When you get back here…"

"…I'm going straight to the cooler for my misdeeds and transgressions," Peter said. "I'll sleep it off, Louis. And look at the bright side—I'll be with a doctor!" He was changing out of his trousers and into his Hitler Youth shorts.

"Anja's not a doctor yet, but she knows more than you do," LeBeau snarked. "So you listen to her, compris? I will make sure Colonel Hogan tells her."

"You just would, wouldn't you?" Peter grinned as he buttoned up. "Fffine. I'll do whatever she says. She's had some rather good ideas so far."

"Oh, she has, has she?" LeBeau shot back. "Don't forget your protection, Pierre."

"What?" Peter answered, momentarily confused until the meaning of LeBeau's words sank in. "Blimey, Louis. There wwwwwon't be any time for th-th-that. I'll be lucky if we have time for a k-k-k-kiss." He tipped his head to one side, momentarily looking even younger than his eighteen years. He sat down to pull on his knee socks.

"Take them anyway," LeBeau said, reaching into his pocket and handing over small envelope. "You should always have two to be safe."

Peter took what LeBeau handed him and stuck it in his pocket, but he was embarrassed. "I, I won't need them."

"Things happen fast. You need to be prepared. Even if you don't need them, the point is to get in the habit of having them when you're with her, because the day will come," LeBeau said.

Peter was hanging on his every word, his eyes wide with interest. "Will it?" he asked in complete sincerity. "You think it will happen?"

LeBeau smiled. "In time, yes. If not with Anja, then with someone else." But almost certainly with Anja, he said to himself.

"There is no one else, Louis," Peter said with absolute conviction.

XXX

The first leg of the journey wasn't difficult. They left through the emergency tunnel and rode in the back of Robin Redbreast's milk van, surrounded by clattering bottles and a slightly sour lingering scent of spilled milk as they rattled along on country roads toward Koblenz. Olsen, who was already out of camp in his role of outside man, rode along for the first leg of the journey, sitting beside Robin in the front seat and chatting quietly in German.

In the back seat, Hannelore and Peter sat side by side, playing a string game. Peter ran through his bag of tricks to entertain the girl. She could do a cat's cradle, a star, a witch's broom, and the Eiffel Tower. He taught her the cup and saucer, parachute, Jacob's ladder and one he'd come up with on his own called the fighter plane.

"In German, we call them Fadenspiele," Hannelore said. "Or Hexenspiele," she added with a mischievous flip of her hair.

"Ooh, 'witches games,' I like the sound of that," Peter said with a wink. "We just call them string figures in English," he added. "They're jeux de ficelle in French, Louis says."

"Do you play them with him?"

"Sometimes, when I'm bored, he'll do it with me," Peter said. "But the other chaps make fun of me, like it's a kid's game. Except for Carter. He's keen to learn tricks."

"It's not just for kids! It's complicated and it requires a lot of ..." Hannelore searched for a word. "Dexterity!" she declared.

"That's true," Peter laughed. "And I need to keep my fingers in practice."

"Oh? Why? Do you play piano? I do," Hannelore said.

"Not exactly," Peter replied, fighting back a smirk. "I have certain mechanical skills necessary to our operation that require dexterity, as you say." There, he'd dodged that one. He didn't feel like explaining the nature of his skills-or why and how he'd acquired them-to a sweet girl like Hannelore. He wasn't even sure Anja would approve of his less reputable talents, and Anja was an adult, just like him, who understood that war demanded compromises.

Hannelore demonstrated the cat's cradle again. "Das Abnehmespiel," she said.

"Hmm. Cat's cradle sounds better, don't you think? Katzenwiege," Peter said. "In French, it's la scie or 'the saw.' Die Säge."

"Cat's cradle," Hannelore repeated. "That's what Annie Laurie Whitman would call it," she grinned.

XXX

The milk van rattled over the cobblestones in a courtyard next to an old inn in Montabaur, on the north side of Koblenz. It was a busy place, if the number of cars parked out front was any indication. Robin Redbreast pulled around the back, to a kitchen entrance, which led to a servant's staircase to the upper levels. Olsen took the lead, and Peter waved the Witmans and Hannelore behind him, taking a moment to case the bushes and shadows for any observers. He was satisfied there were none, so he headed up the stairs while Robin busied himself unloading cases of milk for the helpful owners of the inn.

Two stories up, the family settled into an attic with bare walls, a pitched roof, and two metal bed frames with thin but serviceable mattresses. It was past eleven o'clock, and Hannelore looked exhausted as her father slipped off her overcoat and settled her onto one of the beds. "Sleep now, child," he said softly. "We have about an hour."

Hannelore nodded sleepily and fell asleep with her arms tucked under her head. Witman covered her with her overcoat, then folded up his jacket and tucked it under her head as a pillow.

Olsen and Peter stood in one corner, peering down the stairs and smoking.

"Grey Wolf will get you to Arzfeld," said Olsen, who had done this journey more than a few times. "Then he'll hand you off to…"

"…A Maquisard named Arpège," Peter said. "Blimey, I thought their camps were all in the south."

"They've shifted," Olsen whispered. "They're working to delay the German mobilization to the coast. They're being hunted, you know. They operate in very small groups. No big concentrations, no fixed camps."

"Well, they know their way through the wwwoods, don't they," Peter remarked.

"They do. You're in good hands," Olsen said, patting Peter on the chest. "I'm sticking around until Colonel Hogan gets here. You should rest." He tipped his head toward Hannelore. "Your little friend was exhausted."

Peter looked at Hannelore and smiled. She was sleeping peacefully while her parents, sitting on the bed and holding hands, were talking almost nose to nose. He'd never seen his parents behave so affectionately, but he remembered his sisters and their callers sitting that way. It must be what love looks like, he thought.

"Thanks, mate, but I'm not tired," Peter replied in a distracted voice. In fact, the adrenaline buzz of a mission had kicked his system into alert mode and he was quite sure he couldn't have slept if he tried. But he did want a drink of something to soothe his throat, which still felt shredded. He'd drained his canteen on the first leg of the journey.

"Where could we get some water?" he asked Olsen.

"I'll go," Olsen said. "They know me. Watch the door."

Ten minutes later, Olsen was back with large bottles of water and a bag of apples, which he passed around to Peter and the Witmans. Frau Witman put one aside for Hannelore to have later.

Forty minutes after that, headlamps illuminated the back of the courtyard and blinked three times before being extinguished. Peter peered out the window and smiled. He was pretty sure he knew that motor car. There was plenty of room for a driver and six passengers. It was the Adler Standard 8 that belonged to Snowy Owl and White Dove, out for a late night drive.

Robin Redbreast had remained in his milk van, "on break," if anyone had the nerve to ask why a milkman was sitting alone in his vehicle after midnight. He emerged and led Colonel Hogan and Anja to the back doorway, then rattled off into the night, milk bottles clinking.

Anja was the first through the door, and her eyes lit on Peter. She was dressed in the uniform of a women's auxiliary member, and she smiled at him, her eyelashes fluttering in a teasing way, her head tipping invitingly to one side. Even in dull grey, with her hair swept up in a severe bun, she looked beautiful to him.

She must have been driving, Peter realized. One tendril of her hair hung loose over her right ear, and he longed to touch it, to tuck it back for her. He walked to her tentatively, acutely aware of all the eyes that were watching them, and then threw caution to the wind, sweeping her up and twirling her around joyfully. It had been two days since he saw her on the mission to arrest Monck, since he'd held her on his lap and felt the surge of passion, and it was much too long to be apart.

The milkman who goes by the code name Robin Redbreast was introduced in chapter 9 of my story "Done Talking." He is an injured WWI veteran who drives through the night for the Underground while making dairy deliveries to restaurants and schools and then to homes. The Maquis are the French resistance fighters who hid in the mountains and woods and performed guerilla raids against German targets. A member of the Maquis is a Maquisard.