“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.”