“The laird of this manor died in France three months ago,” Wormwood said quietly. “His widow currently resides elsewhere with her family, and the government provides her a notable sum to rent the property and pay the salary of old Kinley, the groundskeeper.”
The two emerged into the parlor, where they came upon four men. Two were sitting at a table, each cleaning a disassembled automatic. A third man, tall and gaunt, stood leaning by a large window looking out over the grounds, a glass of beer in his hand. The fourth was a heavyset man stretched out across the length of a sofa near the fireplace, a cap pushed down over his eyes, obviously fast asleep.
“Gentlemen,” Wormwood said, speaking French, a language Gorski knew with some proficiency, “this is Lieutenant Bruno Gorski, formerly of the Polish Black Brigade. Of the five of you, he possesses the most experience fighting the Germans, having stood against them not only in his home country in ‘39, but in France as well.”
“So, he is to be our leader?” the large man on the couch pushed back his cap from dark brows as he sat upright. To Gorski’s ear, he spoke French like a native.
“Yes Dumond, that’s correct,” Wormwood answered, nodding.
Dumond stood up from the couch and stretched his arms, yawning exaggeratedly. The Frenchman was nearly two meters tall, with shoulders as broad as the length of an axe handle. He bore a dark complexion, and his head was covered in a thick stubble of black hair, a dark beard rising up to his cheekbones. Although Gorski had at first thought the man to be fat, he saw now that Dumond was like an enormous bear, thick-limbed and heavily built, and little of his bulk appeared to be excess weight.
“What are you staring at?” Dumond grunted at Gorski, his eyes narrowing in menace.
Gorski was not impressed. “I’m not sure,” he replied, speaking in rough French. “You have the look of some creature crawling out of a cave after sleeping through the winter, but I cannot tell if you are a man or a beast.”
The other men in the room froze at this comment. For a moment, Gorski wondered if he’d miscalculated, but suddenly the Frenchman’s dark features split in a broad, toothy grin, and Dumond threw back his head and let out a deep, booming laugh.
“A cave! That is good! Many men fear me, but you do not. I like that. We will kill many Boche together!” Dumond stepped forward and offered his hand. Gorski did not hesitate to accept it, although he found his strength sorely tested in resisting Dumond’s vise-like grip.
The tension in the room broke, and Wormwood made introductions. Henri Dumond had been an anti-tank gunner holding the line against the Germans during the Dunkirk evacuation, when his position was destroyed by a Stuka dive-bomber. By the time Dumond, wounded and still somewhat dazed, made his way to the beaches, his unit had already sailed for England. Meeting up with a Belgian soldier, the two of them built a raft out of assorted debris, then sailed out into the Channel, where they were picked up by a private yacht rescuing soldiers from Dunkirk.
The Belgian soldier who’d escaped with Dumond was Adrien Lambert, one of the two men sitting at the table. Short and compactly built, Lambert had been a sniper with the elite Chasseurs Ardennais, the Belgian infantry tasked with patrolling the Ardennes Forest. After his position had been shelled and he found himself wounded and behind enemy lines, he carefully made his way west, until he finally reached Dunkirk and met up with Dumond.
The other man at the table was Piet Verhoeven, a Dutchman who’d served with his army’s Light Division. After he recovered from being wounded on the first day of fighting, the fledgling Dutch resistance helped Verhoeven slip out of the country. Verhoeven was of medium height and slim build, with soft, almost feminine features and a gentle manner at odds with the .32 caliber pistol sitting on the table next to him.
The last man introduced to Gorski was the tall, blond man by the window, Ole Johansen, formerly of the Norwegian 6th division. Johansen had been badly wounded during the German assault on Gratangen, one of the opening battles in the campaign to retake Narvik. He was rescued by a local farmer, who hid him and tended to his wounds. Eventually Johansen was well enough to make his way to neutral Sweden, where he eventually managed to find passage to England.
Once all the introductions were finished, the men settled into a moment of uncomfortable silence, each eying the others, unsure of what to say next. Although they were a diverse group of soldiers, Gorski knew the five men had two things in common: they all seemed eager and willing to kill Germans again, and they were all considered missing or killed in action. While Wormwood hadn’t been entirely forthcoming as to the reason they’d all been brought here, to a remote manor house in Scotland, Gorski’s mind began to put the puzzle pieces together.
Finally, Wormwood cleared his throat and looked each man in the eye for a second before speaking. “You men have all suffered greatly these last few months. Your homelands are now occupied by German forces, your countrymen pinned under the heel of Hitler’s jackboot. For the moment, our lads in the air have postponed any German invasion of Britain, but the future of the free world is far from certain.
“Now, even if a seaborne attack across the Channel never occurs, I think we all know that, if there is to be victory, if we are to one day take your countries back from old Adolf, that day is far in the future, and there will be many dark, difficult days between now and then. We will all be called upon to make sacrifices, both of the body, and of the soul.”
Gorski saw the others glancing at each other with confused looks on their faces, reassuring him that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been told what all this was about.
Wormwood continued speaking. “You five lads were presumed to have been killed in action. Through your own ingenuity and determination, along with a bit of luck and perhaps an act or two of providence, you found your way to England. Now, after a period of contemplation, each of you has chosen to stay deceased, at least officially, so that you can perform deeds - quite possibly unpleasant and distasteful deeds - which would otherwise never be sanctioned by your governments.”
None of the others seemed surprised by Wormwood’s last statement, which led Gorski to believe that each of them, to one degree or another, had come to the same conclusion as he had.
“Here, in this lonesome place,” Wormwood said, gesturing around him at the manor house, a nod towards the window and the grounds beyond, “I want the five of you to work together, to train together, and prepare for the day when I send you back across the Channel and into the lion’s den. That day will not be tomorrow, or the next. It might not come for some time, even. But when it does, you will have been prepared, intellectually and physically, to strike back against the Germans, five revenants come back from the grave to take revenge against the Hun.”
There was a sound at the doorway, and Kinley stepped into the room carrying a tray upon which sat a silver teapot and a half-dozen teacups.
“Ah, the tea’s here,” Wormwood said, smiling. “Just brilliant!”
FOUR
The Western Coast of France
One Year Later
Gorski swung his leg over the gunwale and lowered himself into the motor launch, finding his footing in the dark more by feel than sight, as the moon was a narrow crescent hidden behind a thick barrier of cloud. A hand caught hold of his jacket and held him steady as he let go of the gunwale and sat down on the wooden plank of a seat.
“Many thanks,” Gorski whispered in French.
“You are welcome,” Dumond replied, visible only as a dark shape seated next to Gorski.
“Off you go then, and good luck,” came a voice from above, and Ensign Sims pulled up the line once Jones, sitting at the rear of the motor launch, untied it from the cleat.
“Thank you,” Gorski replied in English, and he gave Sims a casual salute. “For this, and for saving me last year.”
“No idea what you mean, old chum,” Sims smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark. “Never saw you, then or now. Never saw any of you chaps, to be exact. Cheers!”
Gorski did not like being on the open water, especially in something as small as the launch, barely able to hold the half-dozen men currently on board. His mind flickered through vague memories of his ordeal crossing the Channel in a rowboat, the days of heat and thirst and despair, of believing at the end he was going to die alone on the open ocean. His left hand gripped the side of the launch, while his right unbuttoned his coat and brushed the butt of the pistol under his left armpit. It was the nine-millimeter Vis automatic he’d carried with him since ‘39, and although it would do them little good if ambushed at their landing site, the feel of the weapon brought him a small amount of comfort. Adjusting the straps of his rucksack, Gorski simply waited, hunched over his knees and squinting against the wind as the launch covered the five kilometers to the shore.
Eventually, Jones throttled the launch’s motor back to a faint grumble, and Gorski glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then lifted the binoculars from around his neck and focused them on the shore a kilometer away. A minute passed, then he spotted the flicker of a red-lensed flashlight. The signal was correct.
“Jones,” Gorski murmured, “send the reply.”
The sailor used his own red-lensed flashlight to send the response signal, and Gorski saw an acknowledging flash.
“Now,” he said, “to shore, please.”
Jones pushed the throttle forward again, and the launch surged ahead. Gorski winced at the sound of the engine. Even muffled with special insulation and baffles, the sound seemed far too loud out on the open water, even though it was the middle of the night, and they were kilometers from any significant population.
As they closed to within the last couple hundred meters, Gorski heard the sound of a weapon’s bolt being cycled. At the bow of the launch, Johansen kneeled with a Bren light machine gun, ready to open fire at any sign of the enemy. Like the automatic under Gorski’s coat, he knew it would offer little more than token resistance.
Seconds later, Jones throttled back the launch and let momentum carry the craft forward. The keel softly hissed through the sand and brought them to a stop. Gorski drew his pistol, clambered over the side of the launch, and splashed through the surf with Dumond, Verhoeven, and Lambert, while Johansen stayed at his post, covering them with the Bren.
Gorski and the three others moved quickly off the pale sand of the beach and into the brush, waiting with weapons in hand until a voice called to them softly in French.
“The kettle is hot.”
“The night is cold,” Gorski replied, pointing his weapon in the direction of the voice.
“Strangers are welcome,” the hidden man said, concluding the coded signals. He stepped out from the shadow of a nearby tree, a short, rotund man in a black Homburg and dark trenchcoat.
“I am Berger,” the man said, shaking Gorski’s proffered hand. “Welcome to France, my friends! Now, come quickly. My truck is not far, but there may be a German patrol at any time. We must be back to my home before they find us on the road at this hour.”
Gorsk nodded and then signaled Johansen, who disembarked from the launch, leaving the Bren gun behind. Jones gave a wave, barely seen in the dark, and then reversed the launch’s motor, backing out into the surf as Johansen heaved against the bow and broke the craft free of the sand’s grip. After a moment, the timbre of the muffled engine changed, and the launch nosed away from the shore and motored towards its parent vessel. Gorski watched for a moment before Dumond touched his shoulder, and then he turned to follow Berger.
The six men moved silently through the dark, all of them armed and ready except for their guide. The Revenants - the name they’d coined for themselves shortly after Gorski met the others - came to France equipped for speed and ease of movement, not burdened for war. Lambert carried the only rifle among them, while Dumond cradled in his hands a cut-down shotgun, its twin barrels sawn away just ahead the forestock. The three others carried only sidearms, and their rucksacks were compact and not unduly heavy.
They walked for only a few minutes before the bulk of a covered truck appeared ahead of them. The Revenants scanned the darkness around them, but all was silent - there was no sign of an ambush.
Berger motioned towards the rear of the truck. “Please, it can accommodate all of you. If I am stopped along the road, there is a chance I can get us through without a search. I am known to some of the Germans, because I deliver to their barracks. But if someone else is up front with me, they will be suspicious.”
The five men climbed into the back of the truck, and Berger untied the canvas cover, unrolling down over the tailgate. Dumond and Lambert took up positions at the rear, while Gorski sat near the cab. There was a small opening that allowed him to see into the cab and through the windscreen, and he peered inside, watching Berger as the man started the truck. The Frenchman turned to around and saw Gorski watching him.
“Please, be careful. If we see a German patrol, get out of sight. They often shine a torch past me and through there, to try and see if someone is within.”
Gorski nodded and positioned himself largely out of sight, peering out only occasionally as they drove along a dark country road, the way ahead illuminated only by the barest sliver of light from the blackout-shielded headlamps. Every few minutes, Berger turned and looked back into the cargo bed out of the corner of his eye, and he would always smile and nod at Gorski, as if to assure him that all was going according to plan.
“Your accent,” Berger said at one point, as the road straightened out for a moment, “you are not an Englishman, no?”
“I am Polish,” Gorski answered.
“Ah, I see! I am sorry for the occupation of your country. Now I see why you come here to spy on the Germans. Where did you learn my language?”
“That should not concern you,” Gorski answered.
Berger shrugged, smiling again. “Of course, it is a secret! I only meant to offer my compliments. You do not sound like a native, of course, but you speak it well.”
“Thank you,” Gorski replied. He leaned back, ending the conversation, but he turned and looked to Verhoeven, whose face was illuminated by the wan light coming through the opening. Gorski gave the Dutchman a raised eyebrow. Verhoeven tapped his nose and wrinkled it, as if smelling something rotten. Gorski nodded.
A few minutes later, Berger turned the truck off the road and onto a heavily-rutted drive. Gorski looked out and saw a single-story house a hundred meters back from the road, in amongst a thin scattering of trees. Neither the grounds nor the house looked like they were very well maintained. Berger pulled up next to the house and shut off the engine, then looked back into the cargo bed.
“We are here!” Berger said with a broad smile, stating the obvious. “Go ahead and climb out, there is no need to worry. We’re too far from the road to be seen in the dark.”
The Revenants quickly exited the cargo bed, their heads moving back and forth, searching for threats. When nothing happened, they collected their rucksacks, then turned and followed Berger as he opened the front door and moved inside. Although Gorski wasn’t able to see much as he approached the house, he noted the sagging eaves and flaking whitewash.
Berger paused for a moment to light a lamp just inside the doorway, then welcomed everyone inside. The house’s interior told a different story than its exterior. Although it wasn’t terribly spacious, the house was clean, tidy, and well-furnished. Gorski noticed a radio near the fireplace that couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old. Through the doorway into the kitchen, he saw several bottles of wine on the countertop, and there was the scent of quality tobacco lingering in the air. Gorski examine
d several coats and hats hanging from pegs near the door, all in excellent condition and above-average quality. He caught Verhoeven’s eye again, and gave the slightest of nods towards the blacked-out windows facing the direction of the road. The Dutchman nodded.
“Friends, make yourselves at home!” Berger exclaimed. He swiftly directed the Revenants towards the small sofa and several chairs, then fetched two more chairs from the dining room before lighting a pair of lamps bracketing the mantle. The rucksacks were placed in a row along one wall, and although Berger tried his best to divest Lambert and Dumond of their long guns, repeatedly offering to place them by the coats near the door, the two men acquiesced only so far as to lean them against something near at hand.
“You gentlemen must be starving!” Berger declared, and immediately disappeared into the kitchen. Gorski heard the icebox open and close several times, the clatter of plates and the clink of glasses. Berger emerged a minute later carrying a large lacquered wooden serving tray, piled high with cold chicken, bread, cheese, apples, two bottles of wine, and six glasses.
Verhoeven leaned forward in his chair and poured himself a modest glass of wine. “Your generosity is quite humbling, monsieur. Is this to be expected whenever a few guests drop by and visit you in the middle of the night?
Berger smiled and spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “Of course not, but for you? Men who risk their lives working to defeat the Boche? Only the best of what my meager pantry has to offer!”
“We are not the only ones risking our lives,” Lambert said, taking a portion of cold chicken and a thick slice of bread from the tray. “You would be pushed against the same wall and shot along with us and the rest of your resistance cell.”
Berger flushed with embarrassment. “Ah, yes. This is true, of course. Come, let us put such things from our minds for now, and drink a toast - to the end of the Third Reich!”
Each of the Revenants drank a small portion of wine, but they focused more on the food, taking advantage of the opportunity to eat now, for one was never certain during such times when the next meal might occur. Gorski produced a couple of chocolate bars from his rucksack and offered them to Berger, who gratefully accepted them and immediately divided them up as a dessert to end their meal.
Assault on Abbeville Page 2