Rendezvous in Madrid

By Ian Okell

Rendezvous in Madrid
The second adventure in the Heidi Fuchs series

June 1940 – Britain stands alone. facing overwhelming odds
Retired civil servant and accidental secret agent, Sir Freddy Villiers, should have stood no chance against a Nazi killer like Heidi Fuchs. In fact he and his colleague, Gendarme Capitaine Martine Dumont, were lucky to survive their recent encounter. But their last glimpse of her, as they fled the scene, convinced them she was dead.
This time it’s going to be different, General de Gaulle has given them his personal assurance: they won’t be in any danger - just a quick trip to collect some information, before the French surrender is formally signed and the Germans take control.
It’s all arranged, the transport has been laid on and their contact expects them. It’s exactly the sort of undemanding job that would suit a retired and cultivated gentleman, hoping only to avoid boredom.
It was difficult to see what could possibly go wrong.

“A cracking follow on to Rendezvous in Paris – just what I’d hoped for.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Okell
• Release date: Apr 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310208935

Ian Okell

Ian was for many years a ship’s chandler, part of the fourth generation in his family business, supplying merchant vessels around the United Kingdom and north west Europe. Deciding that too much of his time was spent in travelling, and looking for a job which allowed more time for a home life, he set up a local business of his own; a registered firearms dealership. However, although still fun, the gun shop has turned into a much busier operation than originally envisaged, and is now run by son Mike, with Ian relegated to the role of general dogsbody. He is also a commercially qualified pilot on medium sized twin engined aircraft. Ian and his wife Margaret, another pilot, live in Cheshire, they have three grown up children and, so far, two grandchildren. For many years writing has been his hobby, resulting in about one book a year, although never with any thought of being published. It was only after taking part in a British Arts Council literary criticism website that his books found their way into print.

Book preview

‘I remember that night; not with fear as you might imagine, but with astonishment. It was a night of strange, improbable events – and death. It keeps replaying in my mind like a loop of film, perhaps it will fade in time, but I haven’t got rid of it yet:’

Sir Freddy Villiers

18th. May 1940 - near Paris

Emerging into the darkness, I was confronted with a scene from Bedlam, lit dimly by the car's headlights. Jacques was on his hands and knees, struggling to get up; Martine was holding one of her arms and gasping in pain, there were people in the tree line shooting – at us? And in the middle of things, our supposedly disarmed captive, pointing her gun at me and firing wildly, as though annoyed by something I’d said.

I reached for Jacques' pistol but for the life of me, couldn't remember if the safety was on or off, so I just pointed the damn thing and pulled the trigger. Surprisingly, it went off. She recoiled in shock, but then fired back at me. So I pointed my gun and fired again. This time her gun arm dropped to her side. She stood there looking at me for a second, then the weapon dropped from her hand. She stepped backwards and fell to the ground. I think I just killed someone.

I ran to Martine, but she waved me away. ‘I'll be OK, you see to Jacques.’

He had a bullet in one shoulder, and was getting unsteadily to his feet, I helped him. ‘Martine and I are getting in the plane, will you be alright?’

‘I've got friends nearby and we don't have time for any more refueling, you'll just have to go with what you've got. You get Martine to the plane; I'll turn the car round.’

As I shepherded Martine to the aircraft, he moved the Daimler, so that its lights pointed at the shooters, giving us some cover behind the glare.

Martine stood looking helplessly at the huge step up to the cockpit. Having only one usable arm didn't help matters. I reached down, grasped the hem of her skirt in both hands and yanked it all the way up around her waist. She raised her eyebrows, but made no protest, I should have done this days ago.

Then I turned her round and told her to reach up to the edge of the doorway with her good hand. Without her skirt, she was able to lift one leg high enough to get a foot on the wing strut. Then with both my hands pushing her backside she was propelled through the door. One might have thought it impossible to have carnal thoughts at such a time, but with my hands on her firm round bottom, my interest was unmistakeable.

With her safely in, I followed. As I did, there was a flash of light from the far side of the car, no doubt Jacques had set light to the cans of petrol, to create a diversion. But as I looked, I realised there was a human form writhing in the flames, it had to be Heidi. I turned away, sickened.

Trying to ignore the events outside, I used the dim light of my torch to scan the instruments, I found the magnetos and switched them on. On the left was a red button, that would be the starter. Below that was a key socket, I tried the key and it fitted. Turning it to the right a small green light came on, this was progress. Attached to the under edge of the dash was a lever, marked Benzin, or fuel, with the options; Rechts, Links and Beide, I moved it to Beide.

What else? I looked down the left, there were two unmarked levers. The larger would be the throttle, so thinking back to starting Sandy's motor launch at Hayling Island, I set it to fully closed, and the smaller one would be the mixture, so I set that to fully forward.

There didn't seem to be much else, so I pressed the red button. For a moment nothing happened, but then a bullet struck some part of our airframe, I didn't think the two events connected so I pressed the button again. Still nothing, what had I missed?

Then I spotted it, down on the right below the door, was a black panel of electrical switches. Unable to read the labels, I switched them all on, and a red light started to glow on the dashboard. I pressed the button again, this time it coughed but didn't start. Bugger, I hadn't primed it. I pumped the primer knob vigorously a few times, then pressed the button again, third time lucky?

This time the engine coughed twice, then settled itself into a comfortable roar. Thank God. Proper pilots go through all sorts of sensible pre flight checks, to make sure all their bits are working, but I'm not a proper pilot and I'll find out if any of my bits aren't working when we hurtle screaming to our doom.

There was the smack of another bullet hitting us somewhere; this was no time to linger, I opened throttle, all the way – and prayed.

Our take off run was a confused and jolting rush through the darkness, followed by a sudden and surprising calm. Then I realised that I could see cars moving along the N13, which was now passing under our wheels.

Recovering from the shock of being both alive and airborne I checked the altimeter, it was reading 450 metres, that was surely high enough. I slackened my tense back pressure on the stick and the aircraft seemed happy to settle at that level.

A hand rested on my shoulder and I could smell her face near mine. ‘Head three zero zero degrees.’

‘Where will that get us?’

‘The coast, near Caen, then we turn right and pick up the Seine estuary. That will lead us to Le Havre, there’s an airport just to the north of town - it's right on the coast.’

I used one of my hands to take hers, I turned it over and kissed her palm, it was all I could reach. But that was a very brief respite as I struggled to maintain our height, speed and heading, it was like trying ride a bicycle whilst juggling three oranges.

In the midst of this balancing act there was of a brief flicker of even deeper darkness as a black shape flew directly over us. Our tiny aircraft bounced up and down and rattled. My heart sank, we’d been spotted.

Martine tapped my shoulder, urgently. ‘You've got the outside lights on.’ I looked, and saw that she was right. Groping for the electrical panel I moved the switches off, one by one - a glow from one of the wings went out. That must have been our landing light, I hadn't even realised it was on. Then I switched off the next one and the red and green glows at the wing tips disappeared. I tried the third, and the instrument lights went out, so I switched that one back on again.

‘I can see them shooting, they're off to the right.’

I moved the throttle fully back and the stick fully forward – we went down like an express lift. Maybe operating the flaps would increase the effect, but I couldn't cope with that. I needed all three hands to control the plane as it was. The Airspeed Indicator was now past 200 kilometres, I pulled the nose up slightly to stop it going any further. The Turn and Bank needle showed that I was falling over to the right, the direction I’d been looking in.

I pulled back and moved the stick to the left. It wasn't enough, we were still accelerating and still tipping sideways. I pulled back more firmly, and moved the stick more positively to the left. The sweat was pouring off me, and I was gasping for breath.

The hand came on my shoulder again. ‘That was good, I think we've lost him.’

I wanted to shout that I didn't feel good, I felt stupid. Flying over a country at war, in a stolen aircraft, lit up like a Christmas tree, made our interception unsurprising. The surprise was our survival.

It was a starlit night, and half an hour later we saw the coast before we reached it. The Seine estuary was clear and the petrochemical works up river from the town could be seen pumping smoke into the sky. I swung out to sea to come back in on the coast just to the north of town. There was a dark area where Martine had said, but was it an unlit airfield, or the local woods?

We would soon find out - when we tried landing on it.

CHAPTER 1

Sir Freddy Villiers

Putney, London, Saturday 1st. June 1940

Cassie had come down from Edinburgh as soon as she heard the news, and then been able to organise John’s mother to look after the boys. To be quite honest I had dreaded the meeting, Mary had been dead for less than six months, and here I was living openly in the family home with a woman young enough to be my daughter. How my actual daughter was going to feel about that was not something I was eager to discover. I had no intention of hiding the arrangement, but thought that a degree of tact might help cushion the shock. Martine agreed to move in with a Mrs. Beresford who took in lodgers, and whose house was only a three or four minute walk away.

Coming to visit her recently widowed father and finding that he had so rapidly replaced her mother with some exotic French interloper was more than I should expect her to cope with; well, not all at once anyway.

However, like that old cliché about no plan of battle ever surviving the first gunshot, so my hopes of a tactful slow disclosure of the arrangement fell apart almost immediately. Normally I would have gone to Kings Cross to meet the Edinburgh train, but with the schedules so disrupted by troop movements it could have involved a wait of several hours, so she had insisted that she would make her own way home on the tube.

The walk from Putney Bridge station was just long enough for her to meet one of her old school friends, a young woman she hadn’t spoken to in years, but who was only too pleased to seize this opportunity for mischief making.

Once the inevitable and basic questions of: How are you? How many children do you have? Where are you living now? Were disposed of, her supposed friend launched into a smug recital of how pleased she was that Cassie had finally come down to sort her father out.

‘We all thought it was the shock of your mother’s death and then his retirement coming so close together that must have affected him, if you know what I mean, it can take some men like that.’

Then when Cassie looked blank at this suggestion of my mental breakdown, her friend was delighted to expand on the subject.

‘It’s just that he disappeared for the best part of a fortnight, the milk was piling up on his doorstep, and then when he came back he produced some fancy young French woman, I think she’s a dancer or some such, and she’s living there with him now. I imagine she worked in a bar – or something like that.’ The something like that was pronounced with lip smacking relish.

‘I mean there’s bound to be talk, it’s not five minutes since you mother’s funeral. I think it’s what they call a mid life crisis, things probably just got too much for him. We all thought that you’d come down and sort things out.’

So it was that after our first kiss of greeting on the front door step, Cassie’s first question was, ‘So where’s the exotic French dancer then Dad?’ The question was accompanied by a smile, but there was a hint of nervousness just below the surface.

I sighed. ‘Leave your bag in the hall and come and sit at the kitchen table, this is going to need a cup of tea, or maybe something stronger.’

Thirty minutes later, after I had recited the story of my trip to France with a British Special Forces team, all of whom had been killed except for me, to seize a top secret piece of electronic equipment. (See ‘Rendezvous in Paris’ – Heidi Fuchs Book 1) Of how I had almost been captured by the Gestapo, repeatedly shot at by a wide variety of people and obliged to fly myself and my companion out of France in a captured German aircraft, in the teeth of the advancing German Blitzkrieg; Cassie’s first question to me was the truly bizarre, ‘So she’s not a French dancer?’

Men’s and women’s brains clearly work on different principles, I couldn’t imagine a less important part of the whole story than that.

"Well she’s certainly French, I can vouch for that, but as to whether or not she can dance – I have no idea, it wasn’t that sort of trip. Her name is Martine Dumont and she’s a Capitaine in the Gendarmerie, she’s incredibly brave and resourceful and she saved my life; more than once.’

‘As you also saved hers, from the sound of it.’

‘Well these things do tend get a little reciprocal when you find yourself up against it.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Ah, now there you have me. By some people’s lights she’s clearly too young for me, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t know her exact age, it somehow never came up in conversation. Though if you’re interested, I do have her French identity papers upstairs, you can come and look.’

Cassie came with me to the main bedroom, the marital bedroom that her mother Mary and I had occupied for so many years. Despite the history, there was no point in trying to conceal our current sleeping arrangements. She stopped in the bedroom doorway and sniffed.

‘Well she’s got a decent taste in perfume, but then I suppose she should have, being French.’

Then she walked over to the dressing table and picked up a silver framed picture of her mother. ‘Has this been here all the time, or have you just put it there because I was coming?’

I was shocked. ‘Of course it’s been there all the time. Mary wasn’t just your mother, she was my wife, and that picture stays where it is.’ It would have seemed inappropriate to mention that I had superstitiously turned it to look more at the wardrobe than the bed.

Cassie came over and hugged me. ‘I’m sorry Dad, but there’s a lot for me to catch up on. Do the two of you make each other happy?’

I thought about it. ‘Yes we do, but it wasn’t quite like that. For different reasons we were caught up in events beyond our control, we needed each other and we helped each other, and now: yes, we make each other happy. But in the middle of a rapidly expanding world war I have no idea how long that will last – how long anything will last. To be honest I’m more concerned about you and John.’

I took Martine’s French papers out of the drawer and handed them to Cassie. As I did so she saw Martine’s service pistol lying in the drawer in its black leather holster, and gestured towards it.

‘I’ve never seen a gun in this house before, is that yours or hers?’

‘Hers.’

‘But while you were with her in France, were you using one?’

‘Only when there was no alternative.’

‘And did you . . .?’

‘Did I kill someone? These things are often very confused, so it’s not always possible to be sure, but probably yes. Does that upset you?’

‘If they were the Gestapo and the alternative was you being dead, then no it doesn’t. I would have pulled the trigger myself.’

She took the identity documents over to the window, to examine them in the light.

‘Capitaine Martine Dumont of the Gendarmerie, based at Chalons sur Marne, in the Department of The Marne. She’s forty four years old, listed as unmarried and has four commendations for meritorious conduct.’ She looked up at me. ‘Martine Dumont is clearly everything you said she was, and if this picture’s anything to go by, she’s not bad looking – in a severe sort of way.’

‘That’s very kind of you – if a little patronising.’

Cassie laughed. ‘Well she’s got such a dour expression on her that it’s difficult to tell. But this isn’t too bad, she’s ten years older than me and exactly twenty two years younger than you, it could have been worse.’ She put her hand out to hold my own. ‘Honestly Dad, the mother I knew and loved left us a long time ago, long before she actually died. And knowing the way you looked after her through all those months, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of; she would just be delighted to see you smiling again. The only thing is, I’ll have to tell this exotic younger woman not to tire you out, it could affect your heart.’

‘Don’t be so coarse.’

More laughter. ‘And don’t you don’t be so prim Dad, I’m a married woman with children. Where is she now?’

‘I thought it would be better if she moved in with Mrs. Beresford for a night or two.’

‘Absolutely not, I can’t wait to meet her. You stay here - I’ll go round and fetch her.’

It was a long night and a happy one, Cassie insisted that Martine repeat the whole story, and this time she appeared to take in more of the details than Martine’s alleged dancing skills. During our escape from Paris in the middle of May, Martine’s right forearm had been injured, we had thought at the time it was broken, but it turned out to be no more than severe bruising. However, the fact that her arm was still lightly bandaged made her look more like a wounded war hero. I think the sight of the bandage helped to convince Cassie that her aged parent and his new girlfriend really had been engaging the enemy at close quarters.

There were times in that evening, as the two of them were thick as thieves, when I could have safely gone for a walk and neither of them would have noticed. At midnight, the wine having long since run out, Cassie insisted in opening one of the bottles of Champagne from the cellar, it was that sort of night. I was extremely relieved, as well as more than slightly drunk.

Cassie stayed for two days and Martine came with me to Kings Cross to see her off back to Edinburgh. Wherever you find it, I have always felt that practicality was a prized feminine virtue; taking the world as you find it and making sense of things, rather than impotently whining about how things ought to be. Mary and I must have brought her up properly, or just been lucky.

Regularising my status in the eyes of my only living blood relative was a welcome relief, but that was only half the problem. The other half was the lack of fulfilment that had originally led me into the recent escapade in France. If you spend several decades being fully occupied and stretched to the limit, in a responsible and respected position, it’s very difficult to suddenly find yourself alone and idle. The only prospect ahead of me being to sit on a park bench and do the Times crossword every day, unless of course I was busy that day, feeding the ducks.

After Cassie returned to her own family in Edinburgh, I applied to join the newly established Local Defence Volunteers. I was seen by a jumped up shoe shine boy in a badly fitting Second Lieutenant’s uniform; it looked as if it had come from a theatrical costumier. In the Air Ministry he would have failed the intelligence test to be made a Boy Runner.

‘The trouble is Sir Villiers, that we’re already oversubscribed.’ Said the youth, looking at my identity card.

‘It’s Sir Frederick Villiers.’ I corrected him.

‘Oh alright then Frederick,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise you’d want me to use your first name. And the other trouble is that according to your date of birth, I reckon that makes you sixty six years old, and our age limit is sixty five. So I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you.’ He pushed my identity card back across the desk to me.

‘But that’s ridiculous, I’m highly educated, I’m very fit and in full possession of my faculties; there must be something I can do.’

‘I’m sure there’s lots you can do.’ he said breezily, and not unkindly, ‘but not round here. I’ll tell you what though, if this war goes on for another four years, like the last one did, they’ll probably extend the age limit – maybe up to seventy.’

‘That won’t be a lot of use to me, in another four years I’ll be 70.’

He puzzled over this for a moment, but could find no flaw in my logic and so nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’

I thanked him politely, picked up my identity card and walked out with what little dignity I had left.

The Observer Corps and even the local fire watching group were worse, with the same age limit. The gentleman in the Observer Corps office suggested I should contact the Red Cross. ‘They’re always on the lookout for people in your age group, to help pack the Prisoner of War parcels. You know the sort of thing; tins of corned beef, board games and woolly socks.’

These people all meant well, and it was perhaps only my own arrogance that made me think that I was in some way too good for what they were offering; but honestly – woolly socks?

Quite incredibly Martine fared almost as badly. There were hundreds of thousands of displaced French citizens in Britain, both civilian and service personnel. Nobody really knew the numbers, but since Dunkirk the country was jam packed with them. The French embassy in London was besieged by crowds of people on a daily basis, most seeking news of family members trapped behind the advancing German lines. When Martine finally managed to speak to someone, the only advice they were able to give was to make her way to one of the internment camps set up around the country for the evacuated French troops. It was suggested that any recruitment to French resistance forces would be made from such camps.

Both of us thought that such a suggestion was about as helpful as packing woolly socks.

‘Any French units offering resistance to the German occupation will either be in the south of the country, Marseilles, or the naval base at Toulon.’ She said. ‘Either that or the government will abandon territorial France altogether and move to Algeria or Morocco.’

I agreed. ’Half the French fleet are already in North African ports, they have to be your best hope for any continued resistance. Unfortunately, working at the Air Ministry my expertise lies with matters aeronautical, so I don’t know much about your naval commander, Admiral Darlan. Is he a fighter or a quitter?’

Martine shrugged. ‘Like you, I only know his name from recent newspaper reports, I don’t know anything about his character. I was pleased to see that Monsieur Reynaud has now taken Marshal Petain into the government. He beat the Germans in the last war so I can hardly imagine him wanting to surrender so rapidly in this one - not without making some sort of last stand, no matter how desperate.’

Looking back, it’s easy to be amazed at our naivety, but with what we knew then, that was how things looked to us at the beginning of June. Events were shortly to make fools of us all. The situation we thought could get no worse, abruptly did just that.

Charles de Gaulle

Chateau du Muguet, near Tours

Tuesday 11th. June 1940

‘If you would care to wait here General, the Prime Minister will be along very shortly, and he particularly wanted to meet you before entering the conference.’

Even when speaking French, there was no doubt that General Sir Edward Spears was referring to Prime Minister Winston Churchill, rather than the French Premier, Paul Reynaud. The only possible confusion arose from the fact that Charles de Gaulle was still getting used to being addressed as General, he had only held the rank for two and a half weeks; even the gold leaf on his hat was still shiny.

‘But why would he wish to speak to me?’

Spears raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I rather think that Mr. Churchill can speak for himself General, he’s never struck me as the sort of man who needed others to talk for him.’

De Gaulle had met Churchill for the first time in London, two days earlier, and whilst he had been impressed by the man’s wit and culture, he had been even more impressed by his brutal determination. He had always thought of himself as being direct and to the point, but had found the aristocratic old Englishman to be even more so, veering from the most sincere consideration and friendship to almost aggressive bluntness. Why such a man should wish to have a private meeting with the newest and most junior member of the French government, when the French Prime Minister and Cabinet were waiting in another room, was less than obvious; perhaps to express his contempt at the continuing, and now absolute collapse of the French army?

And it wasn’t simply the collapse of the army, it was the humiliating revelation that the entire French defensive plan had been fiasco. The cripplingly expensive Maginot Line of gun emplacements and fortresses, stretching the full length of the Franco German border, had been a serious drain of the French defence budget for years, but when put to the test had proved to be completely useless.

The Germans had declined to play by the rules and simply driven around the end of the line, going through Belgium and flattening that country in less than a week. No one in authority had thought it necessary to extend the defensive line along the Belgian border. The politicians had reckoned it would send out the wrong signals. Once clear of the misplaced and pointless Maginot Line, all that stood between the Germans and Paris had been a seriously demoralised French army and the small and badly equipped British Expeditionary Force.

Even then there might have been some hope, if only the French had realised that tanks work best when grouped in large numbers and supported by air power, rather than dispersed randomly throughout the army. Unfortunately the Germans had already worked this out for themselves, and so it had taken them just a month to overcome all the available British and French forces and reach the outskirts of the capital. It was the fastest and most complete collapse of a major military power in modern history.

The tidal wave of warfare sweeping through northern France had led to both the government and the military command abandoning Paris, and they now found themselves in temporary accommodation near Tours, some eighty miles south of the capital. Even more dispiriting was the fact that everyone knew that this retreat was just the first step in the ever accelerating dance of defeat.

Although his personal record was exemplary, de Gaulle was aware that, standing there in his new General’s uniform, he represented that beaten military. He instinctively drew himself up to his full six foot five inches, if he was going to be the recipient of one of Mr. Churchill’s withering put downs he’d better be ready for it. Politics and diplomacy were a new game to him, dealing with another General or even his own Prime Minister was one thing: but the Prime Minister of France’s closest ally - especially someone like Churchill – was unknown territory.

With a clatter of booted footsteps on the tiled floor, a group of men came in through the main entrance hall and swept towards him, around the bottom of the grand staircase. Most were British General Staff officers, but there were two men in civilian black suits, one of them a slightly overweight older man, who strode ahead of the group. His outline and face well known from countless newspaper pictures and newsreel films, but just in case there had been any remaining doubt, the cigar in his mouth removed it.

Sighting General Spears and de Gaulle, Churchill angled in their direction. As he approached he remarked, conversationally and almost quietly, to his companions. ‘You see, I told you he was a big bugger.’

De Gaulle picked up the comment, cataloguing the Englishman’s casual use of the word bugger as a possibly friendly reference. Unlike the French or Americans, the British used swear words in the most unusual settings and often in a jocular fashion. Although he refused to use either language in public, de Gaulle was completely fluent in both German and English. German, because he had spent almost three years there as a prisoner in the last war, and English, because anyone aspiring to the higher reaches of international affairs needed that language. And the higher reaches were exactly where Charles de Gaulle aspired to.

Breaking into a smile and the French language at the same time, Churchill advanced with his hand held out. ‘My dear General; how very pleasant to meet you again, but what trying circumstances my friend, what very trying circumstances.’

Another mental note catalogued the use of the term my friend. Churchill’s French accent was like a bull in a china shop, but his command of the language was sufficient for that not to have been a mistake.

Two of the accompanying British Generals stepped forward to shake his hand, and congratulate him on his counterattacks at Montcornet and Abbeville, expressing what seemed to be genuine admiration and respect.

But Churchill wasted no time moving to the heart of things. ‘Well then General, what have you got on the menu for us today?’

‘In what way Prime Minister?’

Churchill stepped closer. ‘Are you and Reynaud going to win the argument and move your government to French North Africa, to continue the struggle from there, or are Petain and his defeatist friends in military command going to win the vote for an armistice?’

De Gaulle was wrong footed by the disagreeable and direct honesty of the question, a question that had been his main preoccupation for the last week, but not one he expected to be asked in such circumstances. He had made no prior plans to deal with a scenario that found him isolated and expected to give his analysis of the French Cabinet’s inner workings - and to a foreigner at that.

‘I couldn’t possibly say Prime Minister, but I’m sure that Monsieur Reynaud will be happy to brief you on his and his colleagues’ views. I am only a very new and junior member of the administration.’

Churchill stepped even closer still, it was all de Gaulle could do to avoid instinctively stepping back. The old man’s voice had dropped and was now more of a rumble than a sound. ‘You and I, my friend, are going to be seeing quite a lot of each other in the months and probably years to come, so we might as well get this straight right now. You don’t have the time for diplomatic bullshit, and I don’t have the taste for it. Do you need me to repeat the question?’

The two things that everyone who knew him agreed on, were that Charles de Gaulle lacked neither bravery nor intelligence. And so it was after only the very briefest pause for thought, that he saw clearly which way the future lay.

‘That won’t be necessary Prime Minister. Monsieur Reynaud is a good man who means well and has the support of myself and four or five of his other colleagues to move the government to North Africa and continue the fight. Unfortunately, I do