“From our point of view, yes. I even think this recent experience of his will stand him in good stead in his future dealings with his subordinates. It remains to be seen whether he’d be willing to go back.”
“He has already suggested it,” Dr. Fog replied calmly. “He has volunteered a second time.”
Disregarding the gasp of admiration Austin had not been able to suppress, he went on to explain:
“On his return, he first went off on leave. Then, as I told you, he was assigned to this unimportant staff job. He languished there for several weeks, forsaken and forgotten, like many casualties in the service, apparently resigned to his fate, filing utterly useless documents during working hours and painting the town red at night, like many other worthy young men who are at present saving the Empire and the civilized world.”
“So you know all that as well, sir?” Austin asked quietly.
“I'm interested in the fellow. It’s only natural I should follow his career. . . . Well, anyway, he had dropped out of the picture completely when one fine day he wrote at great length to the authorities, asking them to entrust him with another mission in France. Since then he has repeated his application and persisted in his request.”
“I bet it was after a night out that he thought of it, sir! At any rate, after his previous experience, it shows exceptional strength of character.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Dr. Fog murmured dryly. “It actually is rather unusual. Blusterers who are courageous at a distance—which is already saying something; quite a lot of people aren’t courageous even at a distance, let alone at close quarters—usually volunteer once. But once they’ve had their fingers—or their feet—burned, they’re not particularly anxious to have the treatment repeated.”
“Volunteering to go back after gambling with death, knowing that the risks are now infinitely greater! And yet you still seem to have some doubt about him, sir?”
“My dear fellow,” said the doctor, “far be it from me to curb your enthusiasm, but as far as I’m concerned, you know, volunteers . . .”
He paused, then continued as though he were thinking out loud:
“It’s certainly not our business to discourage them. It’s splendid, of course, but between ourselves, from the point of view of my special subject, I think I prefer the other sort.”
“The other sort?”
“Those who are willing to toe the line. Volunteers . . . I know that some of them are real topnotchers who have a proper idea of their own possibilities; but in most cases, Austin, when they’re so overeager to court danger, it’s because they’re not absolutely sure of their courage and are frightened it might be noticed. They’re the worrying kind, frequently found among intellectuals. They’re subconsciously trying to delude themselves, and everyone else as well.”
“Doesn’t that sometimes lead to good results, sir? Haven’t some of those worriers gone beyond the limits of heroism?”
“It has been known,” Dr. Fog conceded, “on occasion. Mind you,” he went on, changing his tone, “I’m speaking very generally.”
He often expressed himself “very generally,” as Austin subsequently discovered, particularly with regard to his fellow men.
“But we men of science can’t draw up rules for human behavior based on exceptions.”
At the doctor’s request, and somewhat nettled by his prejudice, Austin got out the file and they began discussing various items in it. One of these was the report Cousin had written when he first arrived in England. Austin, who thought very highly not only of the sentiments it expressed but also of its modest tone and absolute lack of bravado, had been vexed by a marginal note the doctor had made: “Don’t forget he worked on this report for over a week.” He asked his chief to explain exactly what he meant by this and how he came to be so well informed about it.
“It was on my instructions that the security people kept check on every refugee to see how long it took him to write his report, and to note any other relevant details. In Cousin’s case I was given quite a lot of useful information. . . . Ten days, Austin, no less than ten days! They had to ask him for it several times; he always wanted to improve on it. And the trouble he took! He started drafting it in the messroom, like everyone else. That wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t work there, you understand. He was disturbed by the others. He wanted to be able to think, to concentrate.”
“I see,” Austin said pensively.
“Even in his own quarters, he couldn’t find the peace and quiet he needed. He was bothered by his two companions. After that he was observed creeping off to some secluded spot on the beach, working away for hours on end, using up an inordinate amount of paper on draft after draft.”
“What a shame, sir,” Austin observed with a hint of irony in his voice, “that you didn’t manage to get hold of one of those drafts. Comparing it with the final fair copy . . .”
“I've got one of them here,” the doctor replied calmly. “I forgot to add it to the file. For once I was lucky enough to have an intelligent source of information. You’d be wrong to laugh at these methods. This already shows that our man did not succeed at the first attempt in introducing that note of objectivity and modesty that impressed you so favorably.”
Austin read through the draft and lowered his head; but, not being willing to admit defeat, he protested feebly:
“He's a professional writer, sir. It’s hardly surprising he should take so much trouble to find the right word.”
“The right word—that’s just it, Austin. I find no difficulty in picturing him bent over his work, struggling to find the term best suited to put over the idea he wants to express, crossing out, beginning all over again until . . . until perhaps, Austin, the personality of the writer emerges from the text in a manner completely satisfactory to himself.”
“In other words, sir, you look upon this document as a work of art.”
Dr. Fog heaved a sigh, shrugged his shoulders, and grunted:
“Certainly not. I simply think it’s the work of a writer. You don’t seem able to understand me at all this morning, my dear fellowl”
They went on discussing the case, and Austin drew attention to Cousin’s admirable conduct at the front.
“That isn’t literature, anyway, sir. I see you’ve been able to check up on quite a number of points.’’
“He always behaved well when he knew he was being watched,” Dr. Fog conceded. “I don’t deny it.”
He gave a brief outline of Cousin’s initial activities in the service, then proceeded to the disaster that had put an end to his mission. Once again it was Cousin’s personal report that provided the basic facts; but most of the events described were confirmed by another agent who had been able to get a few details about the raid on the Lachaume farm through a contact in the Gestapo.
Austin had given close attention to this document, which Cousin had submitted after his escape and return to England. It was written in an extremely terse style that at times was almost brutally down-to-earth. It clearly revealed his anxiety not to evade the slightest responsibility, as well as the despair he felt at witnessing the failure of all his endeavors and at seeing his efforts nullified by a moment's weakness on the part of his subordinate.
He gave a brief account of the arrival of the Gestapo, then described in further detail how the Germans had decided to interrogate the prisoners separately. The Gestapo knew what it was doing—in his presence Morvan would not have talked, he was sure of that. Once they were separated, however, Morvan had not been able to hold out against the brutal treatment. At the last moment, just as the Germans were about to start torturing him, Cousin, Morvan told them everything he knew. And he knew most of the secrets. On that score, Cousin admitted, there was no one to blame but himself. In particular, Morvan knew about the operation scheduled for that night, only fifty kilometers away, against the roundhouse. He had given away this information and a great deal more.
Realizing the urgency of the situation, the Gestapo officer had
decided to leave the farm at once with most of his men and organize an ambush for the raiding party, postponing the rest of the interrogation until later. Net result: ten men killed that night, five arrested, and many more casualties in the course of the next few days. To sum up, the whole network was destroyed, six months’ work wiped out, and more than fifty patriots tortured and executed.
Cousin went on to describe how he had been taken back to the room where Morvan was lying and was left there with him, guarded by two Gestapo men, to await the officer’s return. At this point his style underwent a curious change. The tone became pathetic, betraying a very understandable emotion.
“The next few hours,’’ he wrote, “were the worst I have ever spent in my life. Morvan was stretched out on a bed right in front of me, fully aware of his treachery, I am sure. After throwing a blanket over his legs, the butchers did nothing more for him. In spite of his suffering I could not—no, I could not—feel any pity toward him. It was impossible to forget the harm that was being done as a result of his weakness. In my mind’s eye I kept seeing the ghastly massacre that was bound to take place that very night, and it was all his fault.
“As for him, he didn’t dare look at me. He kept his eyes shut tight and I could tell his mental agony was more intense than the physical pain. More than once he went through the motions of raising his eyelids, but as soon as he recognized my silhouette he dropped them again. He didn’t once open his mouth, and I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to him, either.”
He resumed his pithy style in describing his escape. During the night his two guards started drinking and eventually passed out. He managed to slip out of his handcuffs, keeping a wary eye on the submachine gun one of the guards had left lying beside him. Cousin’s attempt was well timed. In one movement he had sprung to his feet, snatched up the weapon, and mowed down the Gestapo men with a couple of bursts. A chance in a million.
The end of his report dealt briefly with his flight, how he had reached another safe house and eventually managed to get in contact with London. A Lysander had come to take him off one night, after he had received a message ordering him back.
At this juncture Austin interrupted to ask a question, remembering he had noticed something was missing from this description when he had read it over the first time. What had become of Morvan?
“Yes, you’re right,” the doctor replied slowly. “That part has been omitted, but he gave the details verbally. He was ordered to leave them out of his written report. He had to leave Morvan behind, as he couldn’t walk. We also knew from a reliable source that the poor fellow was subsequently killed. The Gestapo officer no doubt took his revenge on him as soon as he got back."
11
“He left him behind!”
Dr. Fog gave a nod.
“Furthermore, he had very good reasons for doing so, which he’ll tell you himself. I’ve asked him to call here this morning.”
“Admittedly,” Austin muttered, “Morvan was responsible for a ghastly massacre. Just the same . . .”
“Just the same, any court-martial would have acquitted him in view of what he had been through. There would have been no charge brought against him, even by the service itself.”
“I suppose he had his cyanide capsule on him and knew what he was meant to do,” said Austin, who was already conversant with the customs of the service.
“Perhaps he wasn’t able to use it, and besides . . .”
“Yes?”
“I think I can tell you this,” said the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation. “We do indeed issue strict instructions on the subject, knowing only too well that they’ll hardly ever be followed. Generally speaking,, we're not too severe about it.”
“There are some, however, who have preferred to die that way.”
“There are,” Dr. Fog agreed, “but very few.”
Austin was about to ask another question, when the house telephone rang. After answering it, the doctor turned back toward him.
“Here’s our man.”
Austin felt a mounting excitement at the advent of this character who had occupied his thoughts for the past two days. A few minutes later Cousin was shown into the room.
His whole demeanor was perfect, Austin thought. He stood stiffly at attention in front of the doctor, in a deferential attitude but without a trace of servility. He spoke in a crisp, self-confident voice and answered the psychiatrist’s questions without equivocation. The doctor had greeted him in an affable manner and spoke to him in an encouraging tone in which Austin once again detected a professional attitude.
He told Cousin that he was fully aware of his splendid record. He could easily understand a man like him being bored to tears in an office. He knew that he had done all he could to get reassigned to active service, and thought perhaps he might be able to employ him.
“That’s all I ask, sir,” Cousin solemnly replied. “I’m not made for kicking my heels back here in London.”
“I am well aware,” the doctor went on, “of the outcome of your last mission. It’s the sort of thing that could happen to any of us, and I realize you’re in no way to blame. I’d like you to tell me the whole story in your own words, however. Nothing like getting to know a man thoroughly when one has to work with him,” he added in a wheedling tone that made his young assistant describe him mentally as a monstrous old hypocrite.
Cousin gave his account in a firm voice, without faltering, exactly as he had written it down. By judicious questioning the doctor made him include a few additional details.
It was just at the moment when one of the butchers was bending over him with a red-hot poker in his hand that he heard Morvan cry out in the adjoining room:
“Stop, stop! I’ll talk! I’ll tell you everything, everything! I’ll do whatever you wish!” He remembered those dreadful words exactly. He felt like shouting out himself, to tell Morvan to hold his tongue, but the Gestapo man put a gag in his mouth. After that they didn’t bother about him any further. They had what they wanted. Morvan went on shouting: “I’ll tell you everything, everything! I'll do whatever you want!” Cousin repeated the words grimly.
When he described the hours he subsequently spent in the room with the wretched fellow, his voice, becoming less assured, betrayed the same emotion that had emerged from the corresponding passage in his report. It seemed as though the recollection of that proximity, of his companion’s face and visible shame, made him drop his customary reserve in spite of himself. The scene came to life with extraordinary intensity, and Austin had no difficulty in picturing it in all its horror.
Eventually Cousin came to the point at which he had killed the two guards, and paused for a moment. Dr. Fog asked him quietly to go on. He then assumed a calm, almost unfeeling, tone to explain why he had made his escape alone. He looked the doctor straight in the eye, and even, at times, with a sort of defiance.
“He couldn’t walk, sir. I would have had to carry him and I wouldn’t have gone far. Just then I saw the beam of a headlight in the distance. It was obviously the Gestapo coming back. Dawn was beginning to break. We should both have been caught. You see, sir, I considered I ought not to sacrifice myself pointlessly for the sake of a mere traitor. I left him there. I plunged into the woods alone ... I’d do it again if I found myself in the same position, sir. I’m willing to answer for my decision before a court-martial, if necessary.”
“There’s no question of that,” Dr. Fog assured him quietly. “This is just a friendly conversation and I fully understand your attitude and your conduct. Let’s leave it at that. . . . Incidentally, you know, don’t you, that Morvan atoned for his shortcoming? He was killed. The Gestapo shot him.”
Cousin hung his head for a moment, then looked up and answered grimly:
“I heard about it. Frankly, sir, I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for him. That’s too much to expect.”
“No one’s asking you to,” said Dr. Fog.
Cousin’s attitude seemed rather tough, to Austin’s way
of thinking. Yet his state of mind was understandable. After living for months on end under nerve-racking conditions, surrounded by all sorts of danger, successfully eluding the countless traps set by the enemy, and then seeing his efforts suddenly sabotaged, his hopes destroyed by the miserable weakness of a subordinate—all this more than explained his bitterness.
“It’s just possible you may be given another mission in France,” Dr. Fog declared after a moment's silence.
“I know you won’t object to that.”
“I couldn’t ask for anything better, sir. You must give me another chance.”
“Austin will keep you posted. Naturally you won’t be able to use your own name again. You’ll have to change your identity. We’ve got some experts who’ll attend to that. Go and see this one.”
He gave him an address, accompanied him as far as the door, and held out his hand.
“Thank you,” said Cousin, and that was all.
After he had gone, Dr. Fog subsided into a deep reverie from which Austin made no attempt to rouse him, feeling rather inclined to meditation himself. The doctor seemed to be debating with himself over some serious decision. He came down to earth eventually and made a gesture as though to sweep aside some unwelcome objection.
“The die is cast. We’ll send him back, Austin. I’ll give you all the details of the role I have in mind for him. I don’t want to see him again myself. You’re the one who’ll give him his orders . . . and keep an eye on him, if necessary,” he added lightly.
“I see you still have some reservations about him, sir. That being so, I’m amazed you entrust him with an important mission.”
“He may be extremely useful to us in certain circumstances,” Dr. Fog replied. “He’s intelligent. He’s sharp. He has a highly developed psychological sense. You don’t find qualities like that every day of the week, and they’re just the ones that are needed for the duties I have in mind for him. He won’t be given the same field of activity as he had before. He’ll be working on his own, in a watertight compartment. Well, not quite alone . . . He’ll have someone with him constantly, to witness his actions and make him feel conscious of a watchful eye upon him.”