Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #19. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      A Breton Homecoming: Conclusion

      by Peter James Quirk

      (Note: When Part One ran in the previous issue, I was under the impression that this is a true story, but the author just informed me that is really a work of fiction. I regret this misinformation, though it is still well worth reading.

      –Marvin Kaye)

      The story thus far…

      It is the summer of 1940 during World War II, and the French and British forces have been devastated by Nazi Germany’s Blitzkrieg tactics, although the majority of the British army plus many thousand French soldiers were rescued by the British Royal Navy from the beaches of Dunkirk and transported across the English Channel. The remainder of the French Army, those who weren’t either killed or captured, struggled to make their way home. This included many young men from the North-Western province of Brittany, where the fisherman Yann Le Corr and his friend Padrig anxiously awaited news of Yann’s son (also named Yann). Eventually they learned that Yann was wounded and under the care of a doctor in Nantes, a large city in the Loire Estuary. They resolve to go there in their fishing boat and bring him home. As the story continues, the two fishermen have just arrived in Nantes.

      2 (continued)

      At that moment, the roar of an engine brought us to our feet. And as our eyes scoured the waterfront, a motorcycle and sidecar turned onto the dock from between two abandoned warehouses. It roared up to the jetty, and the soldier astride the machine, a splendidly attired cavalryman replete with helmet, jodhpurs, and black-leather gaiters, dismounted and unclipped a sub-machine gun from beneath the handlebars. He held it loosely but kept it aimed in our general direction as the man in the sidecar, a ranking officer, stepped out and pulled himself erect beside him.

      “Don’t do or say anything stupid,” I warned my volatile companion. “Our story is plausible. I just need to stay alive long enough to tell it.”

      At that moment, the officer, a major, called out in fluent French: “Step down from the boat and put your hands on your heads. Then walk toward us slowly.”

      As we climbed down to the dock and my back was turned to the Nazis, I whispered nervously to my companion: “Be really careful, Yann. The officer speaks very good French.”

      “Where are you from and what is your business?” demanded the major as he approached.

      We stopped momentarily, and I somehow shook off my funk as though it were stage fright, and I was back at the auberge in front of an audience preparing to tell one of my famous tales of Breton peasant life:

      “We are Breton fishermen, Herr Major,” I said, lowering my hands slowly. “We sail out of Kérity, which lies north-west of Nantes, near the Pointe de Penmarche.”

      “Ahh, yes,” he interjected, “that’s Bigouden country, is it not? I know that region rather well. I used to spend summers with a family near Quimper when I was a student.”

      My face must have telegraphed my amazement, because he laughed out loud as he continued:

      “You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Nantes?”

      “Herr Major, one of our crew was badly hurt in an accident at sea. We brought him to Nantes and left him with a doctor. Now we have come to take him home.”

      His eyes narrowed as he pondered our circumstance. Then he ordered his man to lower his weapon. “We in the National Socialist High Command,” he said, as he reverted to French and his demeanor moderated from menacing to merely pompous, “are acutely aware of the injustices inflicted on the Breton peoples by the archaic feudal covenant still enforced by the local seigneurs and condoned, nay, encouraged by the elitist central government.”

      He paused to gauge the effect his pontificating had on us, and then he looked at Yann as though expecting a response, which was clearly dangerous.

      “Alas, mein Herr,” I interjected, “we are fishermen, and although we work long, hard hours, we are mostly self-employed; so we are not really affected by the same struggles as farm workers.”

      “Well,” he continued. “You will find that the German occupying forces, ably supported by your loyal Vichy government, will improve the lot of both the land workers and the fishermen of Brittany. Tell me, is your friend able to walk? If not, perhaps I can arrange a vehicle to bring him down to the quay.”

      “P-please,” I stammered, alarmed for a moment that he might be sincere, “don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.” I paused, grasping for subterfuge. “I believe the doctor has a car,” I added hastily.

      “Very well,” he said, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbling something down. “Here, take this; this will serve as a safe-conduct through the town. That is my name at the top. Don’t hesitate to try to find me if you encounter difficulties.”

      “Thank you, Herr Major,” I said, incredulously, as I stared down at this unanticipated bounty. Yann, who apparently realized that the scales were tipping slightly in our direction, nudged me in the ribs:

      “Ask him about the Kenavo,” he said, ever the practical seaman.

      “And our boat, Herr Major?” I asked. “My captain wishes to know if we can leave it here safely while we pick up our shipmate.”

      “Bien sûr!” he replied, taking back our precious pass and adjoining a hasty postscript. He handed it back with a flourish. “This gives you three days, my Breton compatriot. That should be more than enough time.” With that, he clicked his heels, threw his right arm in the air and rendered the obligatory: “Heil Hitler!” Then the two men clambered back onto their machine and disappeared back between the same two buildings.

      Yann shook his head in disbelief. “Did he say what I thought he said?”

      “He did,” I affirmed. “According to him, the only reason the Nazis came to Brittany is to help the Breton peasants overthrow their French oppressors. But whatever—as long as we have this pass, we can come and go as we please.”

      Yann nodded, then stepped forward with a satisfied smirk and spat on the ground where the German Major had stood just moments before.

      We battened down and lashed a tarpaulin over the Kenavo and ventured into the town. This once proud capital of Brittany had been in German hands for just two weeks, and disbelief and even shame were palpable on the faces of the people as they hurried through the streets with heads down and eyes averted.

      We found our doctor’s house—a three-level Victorian with roof turret and brick façade—just as the shadows of early evening began stretching into twilight. And when we tapped lightly on the heavy oak door, a woman’s voice, more suspicious than nervous, called from within: “Who are you and what do you want?”

      “We are Breton fishermen, and we’re here in search of a shipmate. We were told that Doctor Bertrand might be able to help us.”

      “Just a minute,” came the response, and we heard footsteps, retreating—fading. Moments later, different steps—heavier, slower—returned, СКАЧАТЬ