Assault on Abbeville

by Jack Badelaire

  “And you are certain none of them know about your arrest?” Verhoeven asked.

  Berger shook his head. “They know nothing, and the Germans don’t know of them, either. I was not going to expose them because of my indiscretions.”

  “But you sold us to the Germans,” Johansen said, leaning against a workbench in the corner, his arms folded across his chest.

  Berger shrugged. “You are strangers. Paquet is my friend.”

  “And the others?” Verhoeven continued.

  “A married couple, friends of Paquet,” Berger answered. “I have only met them a few times. I only know them as Helene and Ethan, but those are not their real names. It is better that way, no?”

  “You know Paquet, and he knows them,” Verhoeven replied. “It is better, but if the Germans are smarter than you, they’ll make the connection. And they are often smarter than you think.”

  “Enough,” Gorski said finally. “Lambert, find a hiding place near the road and keep watch. Johansen, you’re his backup. The rest of us will take a four-hour rest, and then we’ll switch. But first, we hide the truck further out into the woods, so it can’t be seen from the road.”

  Once the Revenants took up positions in and around the barn, and Berger’s truck was hidden behind a distant copse of trees, the six men settled in for the rest of the day. Gorski didn’t trust Berger on watch alone with only one other man, so he decided that after the first shift, the Revenant’s leader would pull a double watch and let his men get more rest. They’d scavenged a small, half-empty tin of coffee beans from Berger’s house, along with all of his other food and drink, and after his all-too-short rest, Gorski kept himself awake by eating coffee beans one at a time, grinding them into a fine paste between his teeth and swallowing them with small sips of water.

  The six men passed the time with barely a word spoken. As the morning progressed, the interior of the barn grew warm, then hot, and the men were soon in their shirtsleeves. Gorski ordered the windows and doors opened, as much to let in the breeze as to give them a better view of their surroundings. Men lay wherever they found a comfortable section of the barn floor, pillowing heads on rolled-up coats and rucksacks, weapons always near at hand. All of them former soldiers, the Revenants were old hands at finding a way to fall asleep when circumstances allowed.

  While they were awake, Gorski made sure every man drank water. Although they did bring some with them, he was concerned with their supply - they’d only had time to fill a few empty ceramic jugs at Berger’s house, and six men on a warm summer day needed a lot of water to stay hydrated. Gorski made a mental note to explore their surroundings that evening and see if he could find a spring or stream. A handful of trained men could remain hidden indefinitely, but without sufficient food and water, they had to leave their hiding place, and that was when they would be at their most vulnerable. Gorski had no desire to be put against a courtyard wall and shot for want of a sip of water.

  Those men not sleeping spent the time observing the road and conserving their energy. Over the past year, they’d been trained to find a mental balance of alertness and calm, a state where their senses allowed them to pay attention to their surroundings and note any changes, without straining themselves with constant anxiety. It was a common mistake among green troops to exert their senses overmuch at the beginning of a watch, only to slowly dull as the hours passed and boredom set in. Gorski liked to find distant objects he could observe, his senses moving from one to the other in a random pattern, never settling into a routine that might dull his mind.

  More than the strain of sentry duty, Gorski knew their real enemy today was the anxiety of the unknown. Left unchecked, it would gnaw at a man’s will, sapping his strength and his resolve. As he looked out one of the barn windows, Gorski watched a fat bumblebee move through a clump of flowers, going about its daily business. Observing the industrious creature, Gorski envied its ignorance. The bee didn’t care who occupied France. It knew nothing of politics, and bloodshed did nothing but provide fertilizer for the plants the bee visited on its travels.

  Were bees communists, Gorski wondered? Socialists, perhaps? Would they side with the Germans and Italians, or with the allied nations? He smiled, remembering that Napoleon had taken the bumblebee as his symbol, and that on Elba, there had been a squadron of Polish cavalry who’d carried a flag bearing Napoleon’s bees. As the bumblebee finished its duties, it buzzed past the barn window and performed a few acrobatic maneuvers before flying away. Gorski considered its presence a good omen. The bees, he decided, would fight for France.

  The sun was low along the horizon when Verhoeven slipped back into the barn, his MP-38 at the ready. “Three people - two men and a woman - just rode up on bicycles,” he whispered. “They’re walking them towards the barn now.”

  Gorski nodded, then gestured that Verhoeven should wake the others. He prodded Berger with the toe of his shoe, and when the Frenchman stirred, Gorski gestured towards the rear of the barn with the barrel of his automatic.

  “Your three friends are here. Greet them and bring them in, but stay calm and keep it slow. If I get suspicious, you die first.”

  Berger swallowed and nodded, then stood up, brushing sawdust from his trousers. As Gorski and the others slipped back into the shadows of the barn, Berger moved to the doorway. Seconds passed, and Gorski heard the soft squeaking of bicycle wheels and the scuffing of shoes on grass and dirt outside. Berger slowly opened the barn door and quietly greeted the newcomers, ushering them inside. Gorski saw the two men were both young, somewhere in their late twenties. One of them was tall and almost strikingly thin with a dark complexion and a shadow of stubble across his cheeks, while the other was of average height, fair-haired and handsome, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Gorski decided the shorter, stronger-looking man fit the image of a woodworker, and must be Paquet, while the taller man standing near the woman was Ethan. The woman, Helene, was above average height herself, with a slim build and short black hair. Gorski was about to consider her beautiful, but mentally checked himself. There was something, some gleam in the her eye, the way she carried herself, that put him on guard. Beautiful or no, he sensed Helene was the strongest - and perhaps the most dangerous - of the three newcomers.

  Berger glanced towards Gorski, hidden behind a stack of lumber, and Gorski nodded, gesturing again that Berger needed to proceed carefully. The Frenchman shuffled his feet, then opened his arms towards the newcomers in an imploring manner.

  “Please, don’t be alarmed,” Berger told them. “But we have guests. Men who have come from England to fight against the Germans.”

  The trio looked alarmed, although Gorski noted that Helene handled the news more calmly than her husband, who took a half-step towards the door before composing himself. When none of the three attempted to flee or produce a weapon, Gorski stepped out from behind the lumber, pistol in hand, but pointed harmlessly at the ground. If a quick shot was needed, he knew Lambert was up in the barn’s unused hayloft, rifle at the ready.

  “Good evening. Berger is right. We are here to fight against the Germans.”

  “You are not English,” Paquet stated. “Where are you from?”

  Gorski narrowed his eyes. “I am Polish, but I fight alongside the English now.”

  “Are you a saboteur? A spy?” Helene asked. Gorski saw her eying his clothes.

  “I am not a soldier, at least, not anymore,” Gorski replied.

  “That was not an answer to my question,” she countered.

  Gorski made a subtle gesture with his free hand and took a step out into the room. One by one, the other Revenants - save Lambert, up in the loft - revealed their presence.

  “Who we answer to is not important. What matters is that we are here, and we require your assistance,” Gorski answered.

  Ethan, having composed himself somewhat, and perhaps embarrassed at how his wife had stood her ground and interrogated armed strangers, made an awkward show of moving to stand between Helene and the maj
ority of the Revenants.

  “Why should we risk our lives to help you?” he asked. “Yes, we have talked of acting against the Germans, but you come here carrying military weapons.” He gestured towards the machine pistols in the hands of Verhoeven and Johansen. “Killing Germans will only make the lives of all who live in the region more perilous.”

  To this, Gorski could not help but chuckle, an action which caused Ethan, who thought Gorski was laughing at him, to scowl in anger.

  “You mock us?” he snapped at Gorski. “You come here asking us to help you do your dirty work, but then you’ll go away, while we’ll have to live with the consequences. You risk your lives, but we risk the lives of many others!”

  “I am sorry, monsieur. I do not mean to mock you,” Gorski said, raising a hand in apology. “I laugh because, unfortunately for you, blood has already been shed.”

  “All the activity this morning,” Helene said, looking up to her husband. “It was clear something had happened to the west of town.”

  “Something did indeed happen,” Gorski replied. He paused for a moment, then looked to Berger significantly before speaking again.

  “Did you know your comrade here, Monsieur Berger, was collaborating with the Germans and the gendarmes? Did you know he’d been arrested for selling black-market pornography to German soldiers? Did you know he was passing false information on from the Gestapo to those who would in turn pass it along to us?”

  The newcomers froze, their expressions cycling through shock, disbelief, fear, and finally a mixture of horror and anger. Helene strode over to Berger and slapped him, her arm moving so fast, Berger had no chance to defend himself.

  “You piece of shit!” she snarled at him. “You would have us arrested! You know they would shoot us! They might arrest our families!”

  “Is this true?” Paquet asked Berger.

  Berger said nothing for a moment, then his chin quivered and he nodded.

  “What do they know? Do they have our names?” Paquet asked, a note of fear in his voice.

  Berger shook his head. “They only know of my black market contacts, that it is through them that I communicate with the English. I have told them nothing of any of you.”

  “Then what happened today?” Helene asked, her eyes moving to the German weapons in the hands of the Revenants.

  Gorski gestured towards Berger with his pistol. “Your friend here, he thought to earn the means to buy his way free of his sins. He brought us to his home, fed us and provided us wine, and when we feigned sleep, he departed with his truck, claiming a need to go about his business for the day while we rested. Instead, he returned with German soldiers, two gendarmes, and an agent of the Gestapo.”

  The three newcomers looked at Gorski in alarm.

  “What happened?” Paquet asked.

  Gorski shrugged and gave the man a small smile, then lifted the pistol in his hand. “We killed them all, looted their bodies, and took all of Berger’s hoarded money before driving here.”

  “You killed them all?” Ethan repeated, aghast.

  “What hoard of money? What do you mean?” Helene asked, her eyes suspicious.

  “All of the money the English have sent him, to assist with bribes and other necessities in your actions against the Germans. Surely you were aware of the funds England has provided your resistance cell to finance your endeavors?”

  The looks on their faces confirmed Gorski’s suspicions. “Ah, so not only was he a collaborator, he was an embezzler, a thief.”

  “How much money?” Helene asked.

  Gorski reached into his coat pocket and produced a fat wad of large denomination francs, several centimeters thick. He tossed the money to Helene, who thumbed through the bills for a moment, before her features twisted in anger. She stepped towards Berger and slapped him across the face again, this time with the money in her hand.

  “So! You risk our lives by getting caught selling filth to the enemy, and you’ve been keeping this from us? We could have used this money!” she snapped.

  “The money,” Gorski interrupted, “was not meant for you to use for anything other than weakening the German war machine. That was its purpose. It does not sound, to me, as if you would have used those funds for such a purpose.”

  With that, he stepped forward and extended his hand, palm upward, towards Helene. She hesitated, her gaze moving from Gorski’s outstretched hand to the other hand holding the gun, and finally she handed him the bills before taking a step back, towards her husband.

  “If we had known about the money, perhaps we would have taken action,” Paquet spoke up. “But perhaps not. We are not soldiers, we are not spies. I build furniture. They sell wine. Berger drives a truck. That is all.”

  It was Verhoeven who spoke up. “You have ears, don’t you? One does not need to be a soldier or a spy to listen and remember. Information is the most important resource in war, more valuable than money or men, or even time, for information can make a small amount of any other resource count for much more, if used correctly.”

  “How would we know what was important and what was not?” Paquet asked.

  “If Berger had been doing his job properly, he would have been communicating with your contacts in England, and they would have told you what to listen for, what was worth reporting,” Verhoeven answered.

  “None of that matters anymore, does it?” Helene said, her tone bitter, her eyes fixed on Gorski. “You are not here for information, but killing. That much is obvious.”

  “We will need information in order to complete our task, and that is where you will become useful to us,” Gorski told her.

  “What do you mean?” Paquet asked.

  “Most of us cannot pass as locals here,” Gorski told him. “Verhoeven speaks fluent French, but his accent would give him away to anyone paying attention. Johansen and I, we would be spotted immediately. We need you to be our eyes and ears now, to move where we cannot.”

  “And where is that?” Helene asked.

  “You are not ready for that information,” Gorski told her.

  “Then why are we here?” She demanded, anger rising in her voice.

  Gorski reached into his other coat pocket and produced the Luger automatic taken from the Gestapo agent. He held the pistol out towards her, butt first.

  “You’re here to kill him,” Gorski said, nodding towards Berger.

  NINE

  Berger was faster than Gorski had expected, but Dumond, despite all his bulk, was faster still. Berger covered three meters before the bigger Frenchman caught up with him and swept Berger’s feet out from under him with a length of wood. Berger landed with a gasp, clawing at the sawdust-covered earth, attempting to drag himself towards the door in an animalistic desire to escape. Dumond stepped over to him and reached down, grabbing Berger’s collar and lifting him to his feet with all the ease of righting a fallen toddler.

  “This is insane!” Paquet cried. “We cannot kill him!”

  “Of course you can,” Verhoeven answered, while Gorski continued to hold the outstretched Luger. “He is a collaborator and a thief. He cannot be trusted. He would sell you to the Germans in a heartbeat if he thought it would save his worthless life.”

  “No, no, no!” Berger whined, twisting and jerking his body in a futile attempt to free himself from Dumond’s implacable grip. “That is not true! I would never betray you!” He turned to Helene and Ethan. “I know we do not know each other very well, but I know Paquet. He is my friend. I would not sell him to the Germans at any price, even if it meant my life!”

  Gorski looked at the woodworker, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

  Paquet looked at his friend for a long moment. Berger had tears streaking his cheeks, and his nose was running, a trail of mucus sliding down his face. His shirt and trousers were covered in sawdust. All in all, he was a desperate, pathetic figure. And yet, Gorski saw Paquet’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, his jaw tense. Gorski was careful not to smile.

  “
No, I don’t believe him,” Paquet finally answered. “I am sorry, my friend. But I know you. You have a good heart, but your will is wanting.”

  All too easy, Gorski thought. He lifted the Luger and offered it to Paquet.

  With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, the woodworker took the pistol in hand. He seemed to take in the weight of it, as if wondering how something so compact and sleek could take life so easily.

  “Make it quick,” Gorski told him. “The heart, or between the eyes.”

  “Please, for the love of God!” Berger cried. “I am not who these strange men think I am, my friend! Yes, my will is weak, but I am still loyal to you. I could have told the Germans about you, but I did not! I kept the secret!”

  Paquet closed his eyes, and his hand lowered the pistol. “I know what must be done, but I can’t do it. I’ve known him for years. We drank wine together. He carried my mother’s coffin in his truck two years ago. I cannot trust him, but I don’t have it in me to kill him, either.”

  Berger let out a sob of relief and sagged in Dumond’s grip, but the big Frenchman didn’t let go of his captive. “Thank you, thank you!” Berger gasped.

  “He would have seen us arrested and shot this morning,” Gorski said, his patience wearing thin. “By exposing our presence here to the Germans, not only does it place us in greater danger, it places you in danger too. Every moment he lives, he is a liability. He is a direct threat to your lives.”

  “But why must he kill him?” Ethan asked, gesturing wildly towards Paquet. “You are clearly able to kill a man in cold blood. Do it yourselves!”

  Gorski folded his arms across his chest. “You will take his life so we can be sure you have in you the will to do what must be done. We need to know the strength of your commitment. If you cannot kill him, we will do it ourselves, but we will have no further use for you.”