Assignment in Brittany Read Free Page A

married.”
    “He wasn’t,” Hearne said, enjoying the shocked look on Matthews’ face. He added, “That was probably during Augustine’s ‘O God, make me pure but not yet,’ period.” For a strong Scots Presbyterian, Matthews was reacting in a very High Church manner. Hearne grinned amiably.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Matthews. “Well, I’ll be—”
    “That’s about all, then?” Hearne asked tactfully.
    “Yes,” said Matthews. “Yes. I’ll see you again before you leave.”
    “How do I go?”
    It was Matthews’ turn to smile. “Just drop in,” he said.
    The sun had come out and with it a swarm of flies, fat black flies, inquisitive, persistent. But, at least, Hearne was beginning to feel dry and warm. He took the map out of his pocket to verify his position again. It was a detailed French map of Brittany with well-worn creases, stains and a jagged tear over the Atlantic corner for good measure. If he were questioned, he was to say that this map had been given him at Brest after he had arrived there by fishing-boat from Dunkirk. Better allow himself a slight case of shell-shock to account for the periodbetween Dunkirk and the armistice. Shell-shock might be useful later: it could explain any strangeness, any lapse of memory. So, with this map, he had found his way home to the North of Brittany. The food in his pocket could be explained away, too... friendly peasantry department. Could be explained away. He smiled grimly at the phrase. He would just have to take especial care tonight in his short journey to Saint-Déodat, and then no explanations would be necessary to any curious patrol.
    He examined the map for the last time. He must be able to remember the details of the district to the north and west of this wood, to reach the toy railway which trailed the main road from Rennes to Saint-Malo. It would guide him part of the way. The rest would depend on his knowledge of these thin and thick red lines and winding black ones. He had looked at them so often in the past few days that they were etched on his memory as well as on this map. At last he admitted that he could do no more, that he must depend now on a combination of intelligence and intuition. There would be no moon tonight, but if the sky stayed clear the stars would be enough. Failing them, it would have to be by guess and by God.
    He settled himself more comfortably in his bracken bed. The sweet smell of fern and grass, the warmth of the sun, the increasing hum of the innumerable insects, drowned him pleasantly. He felt himself slipping into light sleep. Tomorrow, he was thinking, tomorrow Bertrand Corlay would be home.

3
    NIGHT JOURNEY
    A cool breeze awakened him. The bright green of the bracken and trees was no longer bathed in sunlight. The glade had darkened, as if a shade had been pulled down over a window. The gentle hum of insects had gone, the birds had become silent. There was only the uneasy stirring of branches overhead, the anxious rustling of the leaves. Not a pleasant sound, Hearne thought, especially when a man was hungry and cold. As the dusk deepened, he made an effort to get up. He was much stiffer than he had even thought. He sat with his back against a tree, and ate half of his rations, such as they were. The other half he replaced stoically in his pocket. If he bungled tonight, there would be another day to provide for.
    At last the darkness had thickened enough to let him reach the edge of the trees. He walked slowly, even painfully at first, but by the time the first stars began to show, he was ready.
    He looked at the North Star, and got his bearings. The fieldsahead seemed horribly naked. In a way, he thought as he left the trees, this was something like taking a dive from a plane, except that he didn’t have to worry this time about the parachute opening.
    The ground, becoming more tamed as it descended, sloped gently into a broad shallow valley. The clumps of gorse grew more sparsely, much to Hearne’s