Loki sat down heavily and buried his head in his hands. ‘Sorry.’
I looked to the heavens and asked God to give me strength. ‘Right, well I can’t walk into Rochefort, can I?’ I complained. ‘So we’d better set about finding some transport. Any ideas? Come on, think, Loki, think.’
He looked up at me and said, ‘I killed him, Finn.’ His voice sounded odd.
‘Well, like you said, it was you or him. Anyway, it’s not the first time we’ve shot at the enemy. Remember our escape from the mountains back home? God knows how many rounds we fired at that German patrol.’
‘I know, but that was different. They were a long way away. We could barely make them out on their skis. He was this close, Finn,’ he added, ‘Really close. Just inches. I could smell his breath. And the look in his eyes as I pulled the trigger, Finn – I’ll never forget it.’
‘Try not to think about it.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Then think of it like this – ask yourself how many good men he has killed. And remember you’re not alone. This war will be just like the last one, like any other, and when it’s all over there will be thousands of men like you and me on both sides left with nightmares about what they’ve seen and done. It’s all part of the terrible price we pay. That’s war. X was right when he said that it was vile, dirty, and has no rules.’
‘You’re right, of course – not that it helps much.’
I helped Loki to his feet and he gazed southwards towards the glow in the sky. ‘Is that Rochefort over there?’
‘Guess so.’
Leaning on his shoulder, I hopped, jigged and hobbled along the railway track. Neither of us spoke for ages. The lights of Rochefort gradually grew brighter. Eventually I saw shapes and shadows, the angles of rooftops and walls, the railway carving a canal-like path between them. The single track branched and then branched again, forming long sidings. A string of freight wagons sat waiting for a locomotive to come and drag them away. The hedges and fields to either side of us gave way to fencing and long back gardens. Loki suddenly stopped and pointed. ‘There’s a level crossing up ahead,’ he whispered. ‘We’d better get off the track. We need some cover.’
The crossing didn’t have gates or barriers. Only warning signs. As far as I could tell the road wasn’t a major one. In all the time it took to creep up on it, not a single vehicle drove past. I heard music drifting on the air and saw light spilling out of the windows and door of a small whitewashed guard house nestled close to where the road and rail tracks met. Having mislaid the German machine guns in our escape from the train, we removed the Stens from our bag and attached full magazines. ‘Over there, Finn. See it? Parked next to the house. A motorbike complete with sidecar. Your chariot awaits! What do you reckon?’
‘Looks good to me,’ I said. ‘Do you think you can drive it? Only I’m not sure my ankle will …’
‘Yes, Finn, I’ll drive,’ he interrupted. ‘But first we’ve got to deal with its present owners. How many do you reckon there are?’
‘God knows,’ I snapped irritably, rubbing my sore ankle.
‘Wait here and don’t move a muscle. I’m going to take a closer look.’ Keeping bent low, he scurried forward, darting from side to side, finally stopping in undergrowth opposite the guard house. I watched him get as close as he dared. Even from my vantage point I could see soldiers moving back and forth inside, their shapes passing the windows and door every few seconds. I counted four of them. No doubt they were considered sufficient to guard such a small, minor crossing.
Loki hurried back. ‘Four or five, I reckon. We need a plan.’
I quickly came up with two. Plan A involved using a little of our plastic explosive to create a diversion, to blast to smithereens one of the freight wagons we’d passed a hundred yards or so back. It would draw them away and give us time to steal the motorcycle. Loki thought it too risky. Plan B was simply to grab a couple of grenades from our bag, pull the pins, count to four, chuck them through the windows, then cover our ears. Loki preferred its simplicity. Plan B was decided on. But first there was the really tricky bit. Not wanting to hang around after the blast and being pretty immobile, I needed to get myself into the motorcycle’s sidecar before the grenades went off.
Making barely a sound, Loki shouldered me to the side of the house and then to the waiting motorcycle. He helped me climb into the sidecar. It proved quite a squeeze. As I tried to get comfortable, he spent a moment examining the controls of the bike, turning on the fuel tap and yanking out the kick-start pedal in readiness. A pair of goggles was draped across the handlebars. He snatched them up and put them on. Meanwhile I removed two grenades from our bag and held them out to him. He hesitated. ‘Do you want me to do it?’ I whispered.
Shaking his head, he seized them from my grasp and gave me a thumbs up. He was all set. With a grenade in each hand, he ran and pressed hard up against the side wall of the guard house. I took a really, really deep breath and held it in the second he pulled the pins from the grenades using his teeth. I began counting in my head. One … two … three … four … Loki scrambled round to the front of the house, chucked both grenades through the door, then fled back towards me. Five … six … seven … eight—
Running as fast as he could, he leaped onto the motorcycle and kicked the starter pedal. As the engine fired up, two blinding flashes were accompanied by deafening blasts. The windows blew out. Glass fragments and splinters of wood showered down over the road. Clouds of dust billowed from the open doorway. Selecting first gear, Loki released the brake and gunned the throttle. The bike’s rear wheel spun viciously on some loose stones as we sped off. Snaking up the road, he fought for control. I suddenly remembered something. Loki’s father had once owned a motorbike and I’d seen Loki have a go on it a few times. He’d always ended up falling off. Time to say a prayer!
At full throttle we raced along the road. The feeble headlamp had a cover on it with just a narrow slit, making it all but useless in slicing through the mist. Without goggles, the air buffeting my face made my eyes water. Spotting a junction ahead Loki braked hard – too hard. The bike weaved horribly as the tyres screeched and struggled for grip.
‘Christ, slow down a bit!’ I yelled. ‘Keep this up and you’ll get us both killed. Turn left here. That must take us into the centre of town.’
‘Right, Finn. Listen, if we come across any trouble, like another roadblock, I want you to play at being seriously hurt. Pretend to groan and act like you’re semiconscious. I’ll stop and tell them that the crossing and goods yard have been attacked by the Resistance, and that I’m rushing you to the hospital. OK?’
‘Yes. But what if they don’t buy it?’
‘Pull out the Sten and let them have it!’
Twisting the throttle, he revved the engine, snapped back into first gear and we set off again. Bouncing in my seat, I focused really hard on the road ahead. What little I could see of buildings and parked vehicles flashed by in one big blur as we tore through waves of mist hanging in the air like sheets billowing on a washing line. We travelled a further half mile or so before a roadblock emerged out of the gloom, complete with barbed-wire barriers and a truckload of soldiers. A long queue of vehicles patiently waited their turn in line for inspection. Without hesitating, Loki drove on, speeding past the line of parked cars, vans and trucks. At the last second he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt.
‘Achtung! Schnell!’ he yelled.
An alarmed sentry hurried towards us. Loki lifted his goggles and tried to look frantic and breathless. ‘The Resistance!’ he shouted, still gunning the throttle of the bike so he was hard to hear. ‘They raided the goods yard. Attacked the guards’ house at the crossing. Everyone else is dead.’ He jerked a finger in my direction. ‘He’s badly hurt. I’m taking him to the hospital.’
Meanwhile, clutching my chest, I’d thrown my head back and was groaning as if both my legs had been chopped off. In fact, hidden inside the sidecar I’d pressed my l
eft foot hard against the front of the cramped space deliberately, so that my sore ankle sent waves of pain through me. I wanted my hurt to seem real. It was!
The sentry bought our story. Stepping back, he waved for the barrier to be dragged open. Loki nodded in gratitude, lowered his goggles and we tore off. We didn’t dare look back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Blood and Guts
ROCHEFORT WAS A larger town than I hoped it would be. Locating Monsieur Blanc’s butcher’s shop was proving mighty difficult. Slowly, methodically, we worked our way through the streets. Although thankfully the mist had thinned in places, the lighting was still poor and I had to lean precariously out of the sidecar in order to read the shop signs. It was now late evening and most shops were shuttered or had their blinds drawn. I looked to my right, while Loki peered left. Pausing at a junction, he leaned over in my direction and said, ‘Can’t we ask for directions, Finn? This is impossible.’
‘No. We’ll keep looking,’ I replied, worried that talking to anyone might create a mighty deep hole for us, not to mention Monsieur Blanc. In any event, the suburbs were pretty deserted, with little traffic and few people wandering the streets. That all changed as we drove deeper into town. The roads narrowed and the buildings took on a medieval feel. I realized Rochefort had been here for centuries. The ancient stone buildings of the old town were crammed together. Many looked shabby and neglected. There was barely a straight roof, wall or doorway to be seen. Turning a corner, we suddenly found ourselves in a huge square that was buzzing with life. The scene took me by surprise and sent a tingle of trepidation down my back. There were bars, hotels and a large church. The town hall, or hôtel de ville, was situated opposite, across the square from us, a swastika was draped from a flagpole above the large entrance. I guessed the French tricolore had been torn down the day Fritz arrived, just like our Norwegian flags had been back home in Trondheim. There were Germans milling about everywhere, mingling with the few locals brave enough to venture out. I felt increasingly sick as Loki slowly did a circuit round the cobble-stoned square, partly because of the scary spectacle and partly because the sidecar’s suspension was unable to cope with the uneven surface. My insides were getting horribly shaken up.
Military vehicles were parked up by the kerbside around the edge of the square. Loki suddenly spotted a gap and, without warning, turned and parked between two other motorcycles. Switching off the engine, he turned to me and announced, ‘I’ve got an idea, Finn. Don’t go running off. I’ll only be a minute.’
Before I could remonstrate, he leaped off the bike and hurried into a busy café-bar that appeared popular with the Germans. What the hell was he doing? The lunatic! He was taking unnecessary risks. But I could do nothing except sit there and try not to draw attention to myself. I knew I’d struggle to get out of the sidecar without a helping hand, and even then, I’d only be able to hobble. Running was out of the question. Out of view, I held the Sten gun tightly in my lap. I waited one minute, then two, then five … What was keeping Loki? I felt ridiculously exposed and helpless. It struck me for the first time just how alien France was to me. Everything looked different from what I was used to; even the smell of the place was unfamiliar. Ten minutes passed. I was nearing the end of my tether. A boisterous group of soldiers passed by and shouted hello to me. I nodded and smiled. Bloody hell, Loki!
I took to looking anywhere there weren’t soldiers. I spent a few minutes studying the hôtel de ville and then switched my attention to a smart hotel, La Grand Maison, a few doors further along. It had huge tall windows from which light spilled onto the street. I was dazzled by what I could see of the sparkling crystal chandeliers inside. A Mercedes staff car entered the square and drew up outside the hotel. A solider leaped from behind the steering wheel, ran round the front and opened both doors the other side. A chubby, very senior-looking German officer stepped out. A colonel, I reckoned, maybe even a general, but he was too far away for me to be sure. Instinctively I sank down in my seat as far as I could and tipped down the front of my helmet to obscure my face and hide the fact I was watching him. Then another man clambered out. I squinted. Was it …? Could it be …? Oh, my God, I thought, it is! A fizz ran through me; that slicked-back hair, clipped moustache and immaculate clothes were unmistakable. Félix Mouton, alias Renard! I sat bolt upright and lifted the front of my helmet. Then out stepped a woman dressed to kill in a long, figure-hugging red velvet dress – Véronique! They climbed the steps and entered the swanky hotel, guards snapping to attention, the doorman giving them his full attention. I sat in a state of shock, barely reacting when Loki reappeared, jumped onto the saddle and fired up the engine. He pointed to a side street. ‘It’s somewhere down there!’ he shouted cheerfully in German. As he manoeuvred the bike, I watched Véronique go inside La Grand Maison – You traitor, I thought.
We did not have far to go. Loki slowed as we passed the sign above the shop. Monsieur Blanc’s name was written in tiny red letters beside the larger and more elaborately scrawled Boucherie. A little further on, Loki turned into a narrow cobbled street and cut the engine. ‘We’ll leave the bike here, out of sight, and try round the back of the shop. We don’t want people thinking he’s being raided.’
‘What the hell kept you back there?’ I hissed angrily, tearing off my helmet. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘Oh, that bar was packed with soldiers. It took me a while to get to speak with the barman. I told him I’d heard that Henri Blanc’s sausages were legendary and wanted to know where his shop was. On my way out I bumped into a couple of corporals from Dresden and they insisted I had a beer with them. Well, I could hardly refuse, could I?’
‘You left me out in the open! If there’d been any trouble …’
‘Well there wasn’t, was there, Finn? And we saved ourselves a lot of time.’ He grabbed my arm. ‘Come on.’
My ankle had swollen and I still couldn’t put much weight on it. I slung my arm over Loki’s shoulder for support. ‘Guess who I saw just now.’
‘Who, Finn?’
‘Guess.’
‘Hell, I don’t know … Adolf Hitler?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I saw Renard and Véronique. They arrived in an officer’s car and headed into that posh hotel in the square.’
‘Really? Now that is a surprise. Renard must be a fast worker, escaping Britain, reaching Berlin, passing on the stolen blueprints to his superiors and heading home to Rochefort, all in little more than a week. That’s what I call impressive! We must inform London as soon as we can get hold of a wireless transmitter. I bet it’ll raise a few eyebrows back at Mulberry House.’
He was right. And eyebrows within the SIS, I reckoned. Renard was good. So good he was being wined and dined by the enemy as a reward. And Véronique was sharing in his success. Damn her! Recalling the one and only time we’d met, that evening in Bournemouth, she’d not struck me as likely material for a double agent. I’d spotted nothing in her manner or in what she’d said. She had to be a master at concealing the truth. In the end it was her actions that betrayed her, first running to warn Renard at the Flamingo Club, and now popping up alongside him in the company of the wretched Wehrmacht. I had little doubt that members of the Gestapo and SS would also be seated at their table.
Treading carefully, one awkward shuffling step at a time, we made our way through a stinking passageway leading to the rear of Monsieur Blanc’s shop. Although it was dark at the front, I could see lights at the back of the property. Loki removed his helmet, and we both took off our heavy coats and unbuttoned our tunics so as not to scare the living daylights out of Monsieur Blanc. Resting me up against a wall next to the door, Loki took the Sten from me and said, ‘Well, here goes, Finn. Let’s hope for a warm welcome.’ Grabbing the handle, he threw open the door, stepped inside and called out, ‘Bonsoir!’
I hobbled in after him. My stomach turned at the spectacle confronting us. There was blood everywhere. Hanging from a hook in the ceiling was a pig, its belly slit o
pen. I reckoned it had been slaughtered just minutes before we’d arrived. A man wearing a heavily stained apron and holding a frighteningly long knife was pulling the foul red, grey and greenish-white organs and guts from the beast. The animal’s entrails slipped and slopped to the floor, forming a pile that slithered and wriggled, steam rising from it. Feeling myself retch, I placed a hand over my nose and tried not to breathe. The butcher was a big chap, with black, greasy hair, a huge moustache and massive arms. Startled, he turned and dropped his knife but quickly reached out and snatched up an even scarier meat cleaver.
‘Monsieur Blanc?’ Loki enquired.
The butcher raised the cleaver threateningly and then tentatively nodded. He looked ready and willing to make a fight of it. In poor French I announced, ‘We need your help. We’re Special Operations. We flew in with the others, with Jacques and Amélie Lefebvre, and Luc and Odette. Do you speak English?’
Suitably confused, Monsieur Blanc’s eyes narrowed.
‘Give him your gun, Loki,’ I said.
Hesitantly Loki held it out. Henri Blanc stiffened and shuffled backwards. Seeing that he wasn’t going to take it, Loki gently placed the gun down on a wooden table and stepped back as well.
His gaze firmly fixed on us, Henri Blanc cocked his head towards an open door behind him and called out, ‘Hélené! Come quickly!’
A young woman appeared at the door, lifted her hands to her face in dismay and let out a shriek. I guessed she was Henri’s daughter because she had the same dark hair and heavy bones. He spoke quickly to her while her eyes dashed back and forth between us. She gasped. ‘You’re English?’ she asked disbelievingly.
‘Well, we’re from England,’ I replied. In a kind of Franglais, we slowly explained what had happened to us while Hélené and Henri listened attentively. It was hard finding the right words in French, much harder than it had been in Madame Dupuis’ lessons. When we’d finished, Hélené took us upstairs and gave us some water, a wedge of crusty bread and a little soup from a large pot resting on a stove. Henri came too, and sat in the corner of the room just staring at us. He was still clutching the meat cleaver. I decided Henri was a careful man. He wasn’t taking any chances.
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