“I know.”
“Well, what’s your verdict?”
“An intellectual,” the doctor replied hesitantly, “an intellectual. You never know where you are with that sort. They may be capable of sublime sacrifices or else break down at the very first crisis, and then that’s the end of them. I’ll have to think it over at greater length.”
“We haven’t the time.”
"Then take him on,” the doctor retorted rather testily. “After all, from my point of view, I see no
serious objection.”
“Is he normal mentally?”
“Normal?” The psychiatrist gave a shrug of impatience and the middle-aged man got up to leave. “First you’ll have to define the norm. All I can say is, I’ve known crazier people than him in the service . . . even in the higher ranks,” Dr. Fog concluded as his visitor left the room.
6
The Gestapo raid on the Lachaume farm brought an end to a series of brilliant successes
and to the luck that had favored him since the begin- ning of the war, particularly during the first few months of his new activities. He felt as though a brutal stroke of an ax had descended upon him. Not only was he paralyzed in every limb, but almost all his vital functions were suspended, reduced instantaneously to a thunderous beat of his heart and to a dull ache that spread throughout his frame as a result of this in- human hammering.
He was plunged abruptly into a state of absolute passivity, like a patient whose reflexes are deadened by an injection before a serious operation. He made no attempt to get hold of his submachine gun, which was in a cupboard within arm’s reach. His brain was incapable of issuing a single order or even of thinking of putting up a fight, and in any case his body would have refused to obey.
Yet he could have fought back. He had been granted a few minutes’ grace, thanks to the heroism of old Lachaume, who gave a shout in the yard outside as soon as he spotted the vehicles; but the shout and the shots that ensued, instead of spurring him to action, stupefied him
completely. Morvan, who was in the middle of sending off a message, displayed mo
re presence of mind and resourcefulness than Cousin would have given him credit for. His eyes caught those of his officer, begging for the order that Cousin was incapable of giving. Then, since the Germans’ footsteps could already be heard on the stairs, Morvan snatched up all the papers that lay scattered on the table and stuffed them into the stove, where they burned to ashes. After that he dashed across to the cupboard where the weapons were kept. He did not have time to reach it. Four men armed with submachine guns burst into the room. Cousin, looking as white as a ghost, had not moved a muscle.
This conduct on the part of Morvan made Cousin feel strangely unhappy during the short respite he was given while the Germans were busy searching the farm. Now that the effect of the shock was wearing off, he had recovered his mental faculties, and the agony of mind he felt at what fate had in store still did not prevent him from regarding his subordinate’s behavior as an
insult.
Chance had brought them together again, Morvan and himself, for this mission in France. It certainly had not been his choice. He had even raised certain objections when he was told that the corporal had been attached to him as a radio operator. Morvan was clearly lacking in spirit, in drive, and the first requirement for an enterprise of this sort was a thirst for action. Chosen because of his technical skills, he was merely prepared to obey orders and go wherever he was told. Cousin did his utmost to drive this point home with the English
staff officer who was responsible for mounting the operation, but the latter refused to see reason.
“You already know each other, since you came over here together.”
“But that was pure coincidence. . . . Mind you, I’ve nothing definite against him. He put on a good show. But I’m not sure he's the right man for this sort of job . . .”
“You’ll have to make do with him. We’re short of French specialists, and he’s a first-class radio operator.”
Cousin had acquiesced, with certain reservations. In his dealings with Morvan, while the preparations for their departure were being made, he occasionally felt a violent urge to humiliate him by revealing his contempt. He assumed a haughty, biting tone of voice. He discouraged the friendly relationship that, in special services, was more customary than a hidebound insistence on discipline. With a heavily patronizing air, he would say something of this sort:
“I don’t know if they've told you, Morvan, but the smallest detail of this mission is of paramount importance and must be treated as top secret.”
“Yes, sir,” Morvan would reply.
With his increased responsibilities. Cousin had been promoted to the rank of major, and with due regard for military hierarchy Morvan started calling him “mon commandant”, which flattered him but which might prove somewhat risky in France. Cousin pointed this out to Morvan, who thereupon had reverted quite naturally to plain “sir.”
“I just wanted to warn you. When we’re in enemy-occupied territory, of course, it goes without saying—we’ve been into that already and I hope you haven’t forgotten what you have to do when the time comes—but even here . . .”
Cousin had told him about the cyanide capsules. With a sort of relish he had re-enacted the scene to which he had been subjected in Dr. Fog’s office, the roles now being reversed. Playing his part with exaggerated gravity, he watched his colleague’s reactions with an almost morbid curiosity. He considered them pretty disappointing and felt even more proud of himself. Morvan, it must be admitted, was badly shaken. Then he pulled himself together. Even though Cousin
offered him a loophole, telling him there was still time to back out, that he would not hold it against him—how he longed and prayed for such an admission of weakness!—Morvan finally declared he could stick it out as well as the next man and that he was ready to leave, since he had been selected.
“. . . Even here in London, don’t forget that walls have ears and that any loose talk, no matter how insignificant it may seem, could lead to disaster . . .”