by Richard Wake
“But not into the woods — aim high, into the trees,” he said. “Just keep doing it. And in between, I want you to yell in German.”
“What the fuck?” Leon said.
“Just yell in German. Like, ‘Watch out!’ Or, ‘Over there!’ Stuff like that.”
“Why?” Leon was incredulous.
“Just fucking do it. I’ll fire the first shot, and then you follow up. Do you understand?”
We heard him but we didn’t understand. Still, we took our places and got ready. Within a few minutes, the sound of an airplane engine seemed to fill the night. It probably wasn’t that loud, except this was the middle of the night and we were in the absence of any other sound save the occasional owl.
But then the sound was gone, as quickly as it had arrived. I still had no idea what we were doing. That’s when Leon stage-whispered in my direction a single word: “Look.” When I did, although the moon was not nearly full and half-hidden by a cloud besides, I could see parachutes outlined against the night sky — one, two, at least three.
Then we heard the first shot.
I shrugged and fired my rifle into the woods, up in the trees. One shot, two shots. Leon followed. One shot, two shots. I yelled, “Over there!” and fired again. One shot, two shots. Leon yelled, “Look out!” and fired again. One shot, two shots.
I looked into the sky and didn’t see the parachutes anymore. I looked out into the clearing and saw Maurice. He was running back toward the cover of the woods, dragging two things behind him, one in each hand.
I kept firing. Leon kept firing. Richard was firing, too. And then Maurice was back in the woods, and he and Richard were each carrying whatever he had dragged from the open field. We were in the truck and moving within minutes — Maurice driving, Richard in the back with whatever it was.
“So, what is it?” I said.
“They’re canisters,” Maurice said. “They’re made of black leather. You saw how big they are — like three feet. Heavy as hell.”
“And where did they come from?”
“London, I think.”
That was when Leon and I looked at each other and Maurice burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Leon said.
“Your faces — especially yours. Don’t you get it? The British are supplying the Resistance with weapons, money, radios, all kinds of things. But they only share if you play along, and they don’t think we play along quite enough for their liking.”
“So we were stealing from the Resistance?” Leon was incredulous. “We were fucking shooting at the Resistance?”
“First of all, you were shooting over their heads,” Maurice said. “Second of all, what’s stealing? And third of all, fuck them. We need to eat, too. More than them. And I’ll be damned if they’re going to run this country when this is over.”
“So, the German business?” I said.
“Just a little ruse. I don’t know if it worked or not. If nothing else, it confused them a little. We didn’t need much time, as you could see. And anyway, I think they got two canisters for their trouble.”
Maurice had thought of everything. Back at the camp, Richard informed us of our haul. “I’m not sure what some of this stuff is,” he said. “But I’m sure of two things: detonators and money. And I’m pretty sure we can use both of those things.”
28
I couldn’t sleep, but not because of Manon. I was still wired from our sojourn into the woods and the adrenaline seemed unlikely to ebb. So I was sitting outside the cabin while the rest slept inside. I was reading a tract that Maurice had given me, reading by the light of a torch. It was there that Leon joined me.
“Still too wired? I know I am.”
“Yeah,” Leon said. “Part of me doesn’t know how the rest of them can sleep. Part of me doesn’t know how I can’t sleep with them. I mean, I’m so damn exhausted.”
“But that was just so, I don’t know, exhilarating,” I said. “I don’t know how else to put it. I can’t settle down. To see a plan come together like that, all the little details. The German bit might have been hokey, but it was brilliant if you really think about it.”
Leon didn’t answer. I was trying to read his face, half-obscured in the dark. Anger, exhaustion — probably some combination of the two. After a minute, he reached over and grabbed the paper from my hands.
“Who writes this?” The masthead said it was called Journal Des Volontaires.
“They’re a Resistance group that Maurice says he admires,” I said. “They seem to be big thinkers. They get it.”
I leaned over and poked my finger at a particular article. “Read this one. Just this part here.”
Leon read along. It said:
“You don’t inherit your father’s honor the way you inherit his government bonds… We are the sons of the heroes of Verdun, but there are no more heroes of Verdun. Some are mixed into the earth for which they died; others walk around our streets behind the standards of the legionaries, wearing berets and displaying all their decorations, seeming to say to anyone looking at them: ‘We have gained the right to be cowards.’ But the pale face of the France that has not been soiled asks each one of us, ‘What about you?’ We can only erase dishonor by an overabundance of honor and sacrifice.”
Leon exploded. “So they’re cowards?”
“It’s not that simp—”
“If they don’t pick up a rifle and climb a tree and try to pick off every German private who wanders by, these 60-year-old men are cowards?”
“Calm down.” Leon was beginning to spin out of control.
“I can’t believe you’ve fallen in love with these people,” he said.
“I think you’re overstating—”
“I’m not and you know it. Or you should know it. This is craziness and you’ve completely bought into it.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” I said. Because I couldn’t, the never-ending debates. If Leon couldn’t see the need to fight at this point, I was never going to be able to show it to him. At the same time, I needed him around me. But I had no idea how to bridge the chasm. As we sat there, it was filled only with silence, and it was killing me. I had known him for decades and the idea of an uncomfortable silence was never an issue for us. But it was tearing me up as we sat there, the quiet gulf. Him, too. I could tell.
“When we re-connected in Lyon, what was I doing?” he said.
“Smuggling Jews.”
Leon and I hadn’t seen each other for more than two years, me in Lyon and him in Paris. But, as his efforts to smuggle Jews out of Paris and into Spain or Portugal became more difficult, he enlisted my help and used Lyon as a kind of way-station.
“Doing that, in these times, that makes sense to me,” Leon said. “Look, I hate these people more than I’ve ever hated anyone or anything in my life — and it isn’t even close. Trying to save my people from these animals, that’s what I should be doing — not taking pot-shots at corporals from the woods and getting innocent people killed in reprisals for no reason.”
“It’s not for no reason. It’s a war.”
“It’s a war that you can’t win one pot-shot at a time.”
“We have to try.”
“And let me ask you something else: have you ever heard Maurice, the almighty Granite, ever mention the Jews? Ever once? He fucking preaches every night — drunk, sober, everything in between. It’s been a little while now and we’ve heard his philosophy on everything. Loves Lenin. Hates de Gaulle. Loves guerrilla tactics. Hates big forces. Loves rifles, not Sten guns. Hates Goebbels more than Hitler. Loves redheads. Hates the idea of two redheads at once. Loves plum brandy. Hates that he can never find any. Every opinion in creation — but never once mentioned the Jews. Right? Never once mentioned the main targets of persecution. Right? Never heard him say the word ‘Jews.’ Right?”
The truth was, I had not.
“Not once, right?” Leon said.
“Right.”
“And you see how empty this all
is if you can’t even force yourself to remember, at least occasionally—”
“Okay, I get it,” I said.
“You don’t get it. You did, but you fucking don’t anymore. It’s like Maurice has you drugged or something. You’re his puppet.”
“Fuck you, Leon.”
“I love you, buddy, but this is wrong. Somebody has to tell you, and I’m the only one who will.”
“Fine, you fucking told me. You done?”
I walked off, not waiting for his reply.
29
We had a ration coupon between us, and that got us the first bottle of wine. We were suddenly flush with currency, after our escapade with the parachuted canisters, and that was enough to bribe the bar owner to give us a second bottle, sans ticket. Maurice, Leon and I sat at a table at the little bar that afforded us a view out of the front window of the place. Across the street was an apartment building that had been transformed into a German barracks.
It was late, well past dark, but between the light from the bar that spilled out into the street and the lit-up windows in the building across the way, it was easy to observe all the comings and goings. They seemed to work day hours, these soldiers, and they seemed to be all buttoned up by 8 p.m. From what we had seen before, and what we had been able to find out, there were 18 men who lived in the barracks. At night, there wasn’t even a guard out front. They just locked the doors — we actually saw the one soldier doing it, turning a key inside and then shaking the doors to make sure they were secure.
“Nighty-night,” Maurice said.
“You sure they’re all inside?” I said.
“I counted,” he said. “And they have three vehicles, and you can see them all parked on the curb.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “They only work during the day? What are they here for?”
“It’s a show,” Maurice said. “It’s a presence. They’re not trying to scare anybody — it’s like they’re trying to ingratiate themselves. You’ve seen the posters, right?”
“In Lyon, but not here.”
“I’m sure they’re the same.”
The posters were of German soldiers lifting happy French children in their arms, or playing with them, or holding their hands as they crossed the street, or taking off their helmets and letting one of the boys try it on. They were the joyful conquerors, the smiling occupiers. And if they spent most of their afternoons trying to round up young men for STO work details, well, don’t you see the joy that is work?
Sunny, cheerful, helpful — and we were going to kill them all. That’s what Maurice told us as we sat there.
There had never been any trouble in Mansle for the Germans, which was likely why they just locked the doors and went to bed. They didn’t push it, didn’t fraternize, seemed satisfied with the tone of friendly overseers. The bar owner said that the soldiers never came to his place to drink, instead purchasing fortification that they drank at home. One of the soldiers, making a liquor pickup, told him that they had turned one of the flats into their own private bar. And if there weren’t any women, well, as the soldier told him, “That’s what weekend passes to Limoges are for.”
Petain had come through on a tour about six months earlier, Maurice said. “The whole town came out. He drove through in an open car and they mobbed it. It wasn’t respectful reverence for the hero of the Great War — it was a goddamn cheering mob. They wanted to touch him. They worshipped him.” The disgust in his voice was plain. He nearly spat the word “worshipped.” Then, after pouring another glass, he said — not really to Leon or me, just to himself — “fucking cowards.” It was almost a whisper.
No wonder the Germans weren’t worried. If there was such a thing as easy duty in an occupied country, this was it — except for the women, which was where everyone here apparently drew the line. At least that’s what was said by the bar owner, anyway. The truth was unknowable — because the building across the street undoubtedly had a back door, and it wasn’t as if all 18 of the soldiers could get a pass to Limoges every weekend.
Satisfied that the doors were locked, and they were all tucked in, Maurice turned his attention back to the now-empty bottle on our table. He reached into his pocket and peeled off a few more bills and waved them at the bar owner. We were the last customers.
“Okay, but you have to be out in a half-hour — deal?”
“But there’s no curfew, right?” I said.
“Not officially — but I just don’t want to draw any attention,” he said. “It’s quiet here. I want to keep it that way.”
“And besides, you make a shitload of money from their business — am I right?” Maurice said. “I’m sure those boys can drink. I mean, there’s nothing else to do here at night.”
“A half-hour,” the bar owner said. He left the bottle and walked away.
Maurice poured all around and described a simple plan. It really couldn’t be easier, given the relaxed setup. Besides currency and detonators, the canisters from the earlier night also contained what we learned were incendiary explosives and timing devices — which were really just glorified alarm clocks. There also were, helpfully enough, written instructions describing the assembly of the bombs — and in French, no less. Those Brits had thought of everything.
“You’ve done this before, right?” Maurice said.
“Yes,” I said. “Not Leon, but I have. And with the instructions, a child could figure it out.”
“The way I see it, we need seven bombs altogether — one for each vehicle and four for the building — one on each side. Maybe front door, back door, and on a windowsill on the other two sides.”
“How many men?” Leon said. These were the first words he had spoken in a half-hour.
“I figure eight,” Maurice said. “That’s about the most we can get in one lorry — and I think one makes the most sense. Alex prepares the bombs ahead of time. We plant them. Then you move from one to the next, setting the timers — you’re going to be bearing the greatest risk, Alex. You do your best to synchronize them, and then we sit back and watch the whole thing blow.”
It would have been insanely risky, if not for the fact that the security around the building was non-existent. As it was, it was still fairly risky. I mean, what were the odds that all 18 men would be asleep, that someone wouldn’t be an insomniac, or just up for a late snack?
That was what was on my mind. Not Leon’s, though.
“What about the rest of the people on the street,” he said.
“What about them?” Maurice said.
“The buildings are all wood on the whole street. And there’s only a tiny alley on either side of the German barracks.”
“So?” Maurice said.
“So the whole street will probably go up with the barracks,” Leon said. “Don’t you even care?”
Maurice wasn’t used to being challenged — that much was obvious. He actually stiffened in his chair. He paused before speaking. When he did, his tone was cold, emotionless, clinical.
“You’re exaggerating the risk,” he said.
“But not your lack of giving a shit,” Leon said.
Then they just stared at each other. Well, glared at each other. After an uncomfortable interval, Leon’s eyes dropped first. Once they did, Maurice began describing the rest of the logistics. None of it registered with me, though. All I could think about was Leon, eyes down, so tired-looking, so beaten. He might have finished the rest of the bottle by himself while Maurice got more and more excited about the plan as he described it. I’m not sure I heard any of it, but I couldn’t help but notice that Maurice never even seemed to stop to take a breath.
30
Six minutes.
The first three bombs would go into the lorries, which were parked pretty much end to end in front of the barracks. There were seven bombs altogether, all wired and ready to go. There was no need for camouflage or any other niceties, so each of them was held together by nothing but tape. There was all kinds of excited talk as we prepare
d for the drive over to Mansle, but it turned pretty quickly to silence as each of the other seven men was handed their little bundle of destruction. I drove.
We arrived on a quiet back road, as was our custom. There wasn’t likely to be a German patrol guarding the main street at either end, but there was no sense risking it, either. Maurice gave me directions as I drove, and we ended up on a private farm road that dumped us at the end into the back of the town. We parked behind the bar.
“All right,” Maurice said, the rest of us gathered around. He had already given them their assignments for where they should place their bombs. He would be placing his in the first German vehicle. Leon’s assignment was the third vehicle, and then around they went — front door, side window, back door, other side window. That part had been settled. What Maurice was doing was pointing them to vantage points where each of them would go after depositing their cargo. They all trotted off a little uneasily, bombs held in two hands, rifles slung over their shoulders. But they didn’t have to worry, even if they dropped their precious cargo. Without setting the timers, the bombs wouldn’t blow.
I watched them all run away as I crouched in the alley next to the bar. I counted to 30 and then I ran out, too. As I ran, I could see that Maurice and Leon both remained in their places, which wasn’t supposed to be the plan. The rest, I could see, had deposited their bombs and were scurrying off to their hiding places.
At the first lorry, Maurice said, “You’ve got this, right?”
“Now you ask me?”
Maurice half-laughed. Then he said, “No, really.”
“Really,” I said. “Get the fuck out of here.”
He left, and I set the timer. They were pretty precise. You could set them to 30-second intervals. I had planned it out in my head, and had actually run around at the logging camp in an approximation of the task so I was confident. The first timer would be set to six minutes, and then it would go from there. The goal was to have them all blow at the same time.