by C. T. Wells
At least the truck was not completely out of place. The Germans had commissioned numerous civilian trucks for the construction works in the Cherbourg harbour. The rumour was they were building submarine pens and upgrading the port to support a fleet to invade England.
‘What am I supposed to do in this grand scheme of yours?’ Edouard was not sure that Anton had any plan at all.
‘Stay here. Keep the truck running.’
Edouard scowled. ‘No. That would be foolish. It would draw attention. No–one burns fuel for no reason these days.’
‘Then just wait here and start the truck when I come out.’
‘But what exactly are you planning?’
‘The squadron leader … he suspects the pilot. We must break the chain before someone joins the links to us.’ Anton squinted as he watched the German guards at the main doors to the hospital.
‘Your little metaphor doesn’t make sense. If it’s not joined, how can you break it?’
‘What?’
‘The chain.’
‘What chain?’
‘Forget it. What are you going to do to the squadron leader?’
‘I’m going to find another entrance. It’s too risky going in that way.’
‘Is there another entrance?’
‘Hospitals always have places for the food, the medicines, the linen. I’ll find a way. What’s his name, again?’
‘Langer. Hauptmann Claus Langer. He’s a burns patient.’
‘Good. You mind the truck. Be ready to drive it away when I return.’ Anton picked up his revolver. He opened the cylinder and checked the load. Then he snapped it shut and jammed the gun in his waistband, covering it with his shirt tails. Anton got out of the truck and nodded at Edouard, a fierce glint in his eye.
‘Good luck.’ Edouard pulled a cigarette from his top pocket.
Anton crossed the street and disappeared from view down a side lane. Edouard smoked his cigarette and wondered whether a cretin like Anton had any chance of success. He considered the vehicle. It was a 1930 Renault utility with a cage on the back for transporting cattle. It needed to be hand–cranked to start the motor. He shook his head in disbelief. It would be difficult to imagine a worse getaway vehicle. The one good thing about this plan was that Anton was doing all the dirty work.
***
Josef wanted to run. No, fly. The woman at the front desk looked up briefly and Martin nodded amiably as they exited the château. If the bomb went off, would she be safe? Josef had no idea whether the wads of plastic explosive would gut the cellar only or bring down the entire building.
They stepped out into the glare of the afternoon. Josef hesitated for a second on the steps. A motorcycle courier could be seen leaving the main gate.‘Time?’ asked Martin.
‘Under three.’
‘Let’s walk fast.’
Josef momentarily put aside his fear for the people in the building. He just tried to keep pace with Martin as they headed back to the Citroën.
‘Damn it, Martin. This is insane. There are people still in there.’
‘Do you want to go back in there now? We’re committed, Josef. Just get in and drive.’
A thought crashed through Josef’s mind like a thrown piston. Was he trading the lives of others for the life of Melitta? He glared at Martin.
‘Come on, Josef!’
Josef fumbled the keys in his haste to unlock the car.
‘Do exactly what I say,’ instructed Martin as he started the engine. ‘Drive fast to the gate. But stop at the guard post. Come on, step on it.’
Josef floored the accelerator, racing to the checkpoint and standing on the brakes. The same guard they had seen earlier stepped out, alerted by the revving engine. Martin swung open his door and called out, his tone urgent: ‘Did a courier leave here just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Left. Towards the Route Nationale.’
‘Quick! Open the gate. We think he was an imposter.’
The guard frowned. At that very instant, the bomb went off. The guard swore and ducked behind the Citroën.
Josef looked at the château and saw glass showering from the windows. The walls seemed to ripple and a dull, booming explosion rolled through the estate, followed almost instantly by a series of sharper cracks. Plaster dust and smoke swirled out of the empty window frames. The château was still standing, but spot fires had started.
Martin yelled at the guard. ‘Open the gate! We’ll get him.’
The guard was clearly dazed. However, trained to respond to an officer’s shouts in the midst of a battle, he heaved down on the counterweight and the boom gate swung up.
Martin slammed the door shut and Josef floored the accelerator The Citroën shot through the gate and spun its wheels as he accelerated west in pursuit of an imaginary imposter. He drove fast, relief surging through him. They were out.
Martin pointed at a lane on their right. ‘Turn here!’
Josef slewed the car onto the lane—more of a cart–track really—and headed north, a cone of dust billowing out behind them.
‘There’s a whole network of farm roads through here. I’ve checked it out. We can make our way back avoiding the Route Nationale altogether.’
Josef drove fast for a few more minutes, checking the mirrors constantly. When it seemed they were not being pursued, he slowed a little. ‘That was quick thinking,’ he acknowledged. ‘About the courier, I mean.’
‘What can I say? It’s a gift.’ Martin shifted in his seat to look at Josef. ‘You did well, Josef. You kept a cool head.’
Josef’s gripped the wheel tightly to keep his hands from shaking. He had just betrayed Germany.
‘Listen.’ Martin placed a hand on Josef’s shoulder. ‘You did what you had to do for your sister. But you also did it for the greater good. I really believe that. And I thank you for it.’
‘There was at least one person killed for your little stunt. A non–combatant.’
‘But it may save many lives. We have to think of it that way.’
Josef shook his head as he drove north between ranks of pine trees. There was no gallantry in shooting a kneeling, unarmed man.
Martin cut in on his thoughts. ‘Josef, you need to know that Giselle has been working on getting Melitta to Switzerland. We will uphold our end of the deal. Like you, Josef, I have a sister and I would do anything for her. So let me assure you that I will honour what you have done for us.’
Josef nodded. Martin sounded convincing. The proof would be Melitta’s arrival in Switzerland.
Martin opened the attaché case and found the stolen bottle. ‘You don’t have a bottle opener, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, when we get back to the farm we’ll have a drink together. To brothers and sisters!’
***
Inspekteur Eberhard Reile had been coming down the château’s stairs when the blast shook the building. The shockwave blew out some of the interior walls ahead of him, but the stairwell shielded him from direct impact. He staggered down the final steps as the building shuddered, plaster dust rained down on him and more blasts boomed below.
He covered his head as he lurched through the hallway. The cracking detonations were still lingering in his ears, but within seconds, shrieks of panic registered. He started processing the incident, his mind winding up to speed, analysing. It wasn’t aerial bombardment. He would have heard the planes … it was sabotage! There were probably multiple bombs. Everyone had to get out of the building.
Reile stumbled through the foyer, seizing the screaming receptionist from behind her desk and dragging her outside. He was not so disoriented once he got outside, and ran across the lawn, the woman in tow, putting distance between them and the building.
Plumes of smoke and dust were billowing from
the front door and the shattered ground floor windows. The external stone structure was still standing, but the blast had torn apart the east wing. He wondered if all the devices had already been detonated or whether there were more to come. Willi Boelcke emerged from the cloud, dark pits of eyes in a mask of grey dust. His stocky legs propelled him away from the destruction.
More Luftwaffe personnel staggered outside, coughing. One of them clutched his ears. Maybe ruptured ear drums.
The receptionist was sobbing. One of the gate guards hurried to assist the ones still staggering out of the building. The other stayed at his post.
Reile brushed plaster dust off his clothing and willed his mind to accelerate to full calculation. ‘Who just left the compound?’ he snapped at the Fallschirm–Panzer guard.
The soldier was tough–looking, but he appeared completely overwhelmed by the question, standing stock still and blinking rapidly. Maybe his ears were still ringing.
‘Who left here just now? Speak!’
The guard pulled himself together. ‘Two Luftwaffe pilots. They’re chasing the bomber … a motorcycle courier.’
Willi Boelcke pulled the massive Mauser pistol from inside his coat. It was a useless thing to do, but clearly, Boelcke had just realised that there were bombers at large. ‘Which way did the courier go? I’ll get the car.’
‘Shut up, Willi. It’s too late.’ Reile replayed his own arrival at the château in his mind. He had seen both the courier and the pilots. The courier had kicked down the stand on his motorcycle and walked ahead of him carrying a small bundle of envelopes. Mail for censorship he had assumed. Very little bulk to the bundle, and yet the bomber had carried enough explosive to destroy the entire photo–reconnaissance department.
Reile probed his memory about the pilots. They were in a Citroën, sitting idly. Suspicious, in retrospect. He had nodded at them as he passed their car. Young officers. A Hauptmann in the passenger’s seat and a Feldwebel in the driver’s seat. He remembered their rank insignia. Youthful faces. Hair longer than regulation, but not uncommon amongst aviators. Medals. An impressive star on the left breast of the Hauptmann—something to do with the Spanish campaign. The driver had looked young, but even the Hauptmann was young. Very young indeed for a veteran of the Condor Legion.
Reile had glimpsed them one other time. He had turned at the landing as the two pilots approached reception. The Hauptmann had carried an attaché case big enough to conceal explosives.
The guard spoke again. ‘Sir, they might still catch the courier ...’
Reile turned to the guard and locked his eyes on him. ‘No. The ones in Luftwaffe uniforms were responsible. Not the courier.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I was following the orders of the ranking offi—’
‘What name did he give you?’
The guard paled. He could not remember. ‘It will be in the book, sir.’
The Wehrmacht receptionist spoke up. ‘It was Meier. Erich Meier. He was a fake.’ She said it with scorn.
Reile rolled his eyes. Meier, in its various forms, was one of the three most common names in Germany. He turned back to the gate guard. ‘Did you get the number of the Citroën?’
‘No, Sir,’ stammered the guard. ‘But it was a Luftwaffe car. A Traction Avante. In blue.’
‘I know that. Stop trying to be helpful.’ Reile turned to Boelcke, who was still staring at the damaged château. ‘They must have walked right past you while you were smoking. What details did you notice?’
Now Boelcke looked rattled. He had clearly paid no attention at all and he was struggling for an answer. ‘One was taller than the other …’
Reile shook his head in frustration and stalked towards the gatehouse. How could the Reich ever become the greatest civilization in history with incompetent, half–witted peasants for personnel? He threw open the door to the gatehouse. Another of the guards was using the phone to report the incident. At least the phone line was working. He had already established the best leads and he was working through the probabilities systematically. The car was authentic. There were only so many Luftwaffe Citroëns in Normandy. That could be traced. Then another image from his memory flashed before him. There was a better lead. The Condor Legion medal. If it was real, there would not be many Luftwaffe squadron leaders with Spanish Civil War decorations. He could trace the uniform faster than he could trace the vehicle.
Reile reached out and cut off the phone connection while the guard was still explaining the location to the Luftwaffe field ambulance service.
The guard looked up, frowning at Reile.
‘I need the phone.’
XXIV
Josef parked the Citroën behind the barn and killed the motor. Dust settled around the car but the explosion continued to echo in his ears. The place seemed deserted. The sun beat down on fields of uncut hay.
The barn door opened and Giselle rushed out to meet them. She was not wearing her usual labourer’s clothes and cap. She wore a summer dress, with a delicate floral print. Her hair streamed out as she ran towards the car. A handbag over her shoulder; the whole picture was one of grace and femininity. He had not seen her like this.
Martin was straight out of the car, the brandy bottle in one of his outstretched hands. He gathered Giselle into a great hug. Josef saw tears of joy and relief on her face. Perhaps she had known about the sheer audacity of the plan and feared the worst.
Josef got out of the car. He was numb.
Giselle broke off the embrace with her brother and turned to him. ‘You look a little pale, Josef.’
He blinked. He had just collaborated in treason.
There was an awkward moment of not knowing what to say or do. Then Giselle flung her arms around him too. ‘Thank you for coming back.’
Josef let her hold him, feeling life seep back into his bones.
‘Come on,’ called Martin. ‘We’ll put some colour back in you, Josef. This is eau de vie. We have to find a corkscrew!’
Giselle turned to him. ‘No, Martin. I am taking Josef for a drive. We have to speak. About Melitta.’
‘What?’ Martin gave a mock scowl. ‘This is the day of our greatest success, and you would have me drink alone? Where is Edouard?’
‘He has gone in the truck with Anton. To Cherbourg. Now, I must go with Josef. We have to honour what he has done for us.’
‘Where are we going?’ Josef knew he was being dragged around like a pup on a short leash, but was too stunned to protest. Giselle’s voice sounded slightly muffled to his ears. The blast was playing over and over in his head.
‘Not far. There are things I need to tell you.’
‘About ...?’
‘You’ll see. Come on.’
Josef started the car, moving automatically. A moment later they were pulling out of the driveway into the lane. Martin was a solitary figure in the rear–vision mirror.
‘Turn left. We’re going to the beach.’ They drove quietly through golden fields for a moment. ‘Thank you for what you did. Martin needed you.’
Josef shrugged. He felt shell–shocked, but questions kept looming out of the fog that engulfed his head. ‘Why are you part of this, Giselle? This is too dangerous for you. You could be having a wonderful life … even with the invasion, someone like you need not live with such fear.’
‘I love my country. I have made my choices.’
She had been so joyful at the farm, relieved to see them alive. Now she seemed edgy. He shot a glance at her. ‘If you follow Martin, you are mad. He is mad, Giselle. He has really kicked the hornet’s nest this time. You should get far away from here.’
She turned in the seat to face him. ‘Josef, are you saying all this because you care about me?’
He glanced at her. Of course he cared about her. Even in his shell–shocked state, he knew he cared about her. ‘I am being logical. That’s all.’
&
nbsp; ‘Of course, you’re being logical. You’re half German. But listen, Josef, German logic is destroying everything.’ She pressed her fingers into her brow. ‘I wanted to talk about other things, but, as always, we’re talking about war and politics and you call it logic.’
‘Shouldn’t we be?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Listen. This is not all about logic and orders. It’s about having a heart. It’s about making the best choices in our circumstances.’
The best choices? Josef thought about the man Martin had shot in the cellar. A technician, just doing his job. Of course, Josef could understand shooting an enemy in a dogfight, but Martin had just pointed a gun at the head of an unarmed man and pulled the trigger. He was angry with her now. ‘So your choice is to be a terrorist?’
‘No. A freedom fighter.’
‘Oh, that sounds much more noble. Why can’t you just be a girl?’
Now she looked cross. ‘I am a woman. And I am a freedom fighter.’
‘Then tell me why you choose to follow Martin. To fight?’
‘I don’t follow him any more than he follows me.’
‘So it’s not just loyalty to your brother. Or your country.’
She sighed. ‘No. I like being part of a … a better story. And maybe I even like the danger that goes with it. We decided to live our beliefs and maybe even die for them. We made a choice. What about you, Josef? Have you ever really made a choice about your part in all of this?’
He didn’t answer. He just stared down the road to the where the sand dunes met the sky.
‘I don’t think you have, Josef. Because you are too good to have really chosen what you do. You fell into it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You fly for Hitler!’ She said it as though it were the worst thing someone would ever choose. ‘You are part of the machine that is destroying Europe. But I think you fell into it. You never had to really choose. Until now.’
He stopped the car at a T–intersection. The dunes curved away to his left. Deserted fields stretched to the right. The ocean was somewhere ahead beyond the dunes. He didn’t know which way to turn. ‘Which way?’