by C. T. Wells
The Lysander came over the treetops at the north end of the field. It suddenly seemed loud enough to attract the attention of every German in Normandy.
The Lysander pilot overflew the field once, turned upwind and lined up on the beacons. Josef did not see the landing. Giselle pulled him close and kissed him. For a moment everything else melted into insignificance. He held her tightly, feeling the cool, soft flesh of her cheek pressed against his own.
Martin arrived again and took Giselle by the elbow. ‘Come on. Let’s get you to England.’
The Lysander was barely fifty paces away, idling and ready for takeoff.
She looked from one to the other. ‘You two look after each other. Will you promise me?’
Martin and Josef looked at each other. Martin turned back to her. ‘Don’t worry about us. You go and sort out the English.’
She kissed Martin on the cheek and turned back to Josef.
The RAF pilot had climbed down from the Lysander. He opened the door to the passenger compartment and beckoned her to come.
Giselle kissed Josef one last time.
***
Reile was settled behind the sniper rifle. He could clearly see the shape of the British aircraft and the RAF pilot silhouetted by the flickering torches. Off to the left, standing out from the treeline, were the three fugitives. He assessed the situation swiftly. They were surrounded.
It was a matter of making sure no-one escaped. He could not let the plane get off the ground— that was critical. Looking through the sight he traced the cross–hairs over the plane. He had to disable it. What was a critical component? Where was the fuel tank on a plane like that?
He saw a figure run out onto the field clutching a handbag. The woman. She must not escape.
The pilot! The critical component was the pilot. One shot could prevent an escape. Reile drew a bead on the airman. He was stooped under the wing, waving urgently to the French woman. The distance was four hundred metres, well within the accurate range of the Mauser. The sight hovered over the pilot’s back. If he could be kept alive for interrogation, that would be an advantage, but the immediate concern was preventing anyone escaping by air. Reile held his breath, settled the cross–hairs on the pilot’s lower back and pulled the trigger.
***
Giselle watched the pilot crumple even before she registered the crack of the rifle. He fell beneath the wing, convulsing. She froze for a second. Then there were shouts. Harsh German voices shouting ‘Halt!’
A burst of machine gun fire got her moving. She moved instinctively back towards Martin and Josef. Martin was crouched beside the oak tree, firing the MP–18 into the darkness of the woods.
Josef ran to her and pulled her in amongst the trees. ‘Lie down.’ He seemed unnaturally calm as he pulled the pistol from his holster and scanned the woods.
Martin was firing short bursts at the Germans, but he was drawing return fire. The clatter of automatic weapons filled the night. The bright muzzle flash from machine pistols stabbed through the dark of the forest. They were maybe forty metres away in amongst the trees.
She watched Josef mark the enemy position and level the Walther. He fired two shots. Then two more, but it was impossible to know whether he hit anything in the darkness.
Josef’s shots drew another burst of fire from the Germans. He dropped to the ground beside her.
Martin returned fire, blazing away with the MP–18. There was a scream from the woods. He darted away from the oak and slid in beneath a fallen tree to Giselle’s left as more short bursts were fired.
Lying back against the fallen timber, he changed the clip on the MP–18. She knew he only had one spare. ‘There’s only a few of them,’ he called to Josef. ‘I’ll hold them here. You get Giselle away.’
‘Right.’ Josef glanced towards the plane, but it would be a suicide dash to cover the open ground.
Giselle knew the best option was to run through the woods to the north end of the field where the motorcycle was hidden. Maybe they could get away by road. They could not stay and fight. He must have almost emptied the Walther. They were outnumbered and outgunned.
‘Follow me,’ he said to her.
‘What about Martin?’
‘He’ll come. Just follow me!’
He seized her wrist and they dashed north, crouching and zig–zagging through the trees.
A furious exchange of automatic fire behind them indicated Martin was holding off their pursuit.
Giselle slipped on a damp branch and Josef nearly pulled her arm out of its socket as he wrenched her to her feet.
A burst of fire off to their left made them both drop to the ground. Bullets hit the foliage around them with a thwap. Josef spun towards the shooter and aimed the Walther.
A voice boomed out of the darkness. Sharp words in German. ‘Drop your weapons. You cannot escape.’
Mistake. Josef zeroed in on the voice and fired.
Something large hit the ground but another long burst of fire kicked up dirt around them. How many were there? They sprinted on through the trees and slid into a fold in the ground, partially obscured by low branches. It wasn’t much in the way of cover.
‘Giselle! You must run to the motorcycle. Get away if you can.’
Close by, the thud and crunch of feet running through the woods could be heard. Josef fired two shots towards the sound. ‘Go!’
***
Josef waited behind as Giselle scrambled onwards, tripping and slipping in her haste. He pressed himself into the tree trunk as more rounds were fired from a machine pistol. Wood splintered near his head, but he heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt closing on an empty chamber. The enemy weapon was either out of bullets or jammed.
He heard something dropped on the ground, then feet pounding as someone unseen chased after Giselle. He followed, leaping forest debris and ducking branches. He knew he had one shot left.
A fallen tree barred his way. He was certain the German was between him and Giselle. He pushed through the tangled branches and came onto a path, little more than an animal track, but a clear way through the trees. He sprinted for a moment, then skidded to an abrupt halt. The path diverged in a Y–junction.
Which way had Giselle taken? Both led in the general direction of the motorcycle. He listened hard, but only heard cracks of gunfire from the MP–18. Martin was still in the fight at least, buying them time ... but there was none left. The German must be closing in on Giselle. Which way?
Then he recalled her silly quip about socialism. When in doubt, turn left. He chose the path and ran for all he was worth, trying not to stumble in the ill-fitting boots. He had one bullet left to save her. He raced through the overhanging trees, watching the pools of moonlight ahead for any sign of Giselle and her pursuer.
Up ahead he glimpsed a blockish form charging through the forest, dark coat tails flapping.
Josef stopped running and levelled the pistol at the broad back of the German. He squeezed the trigger at the same instant he realised the man was lunging to grab Giselle. The shot could kill her too. Even as he fired, he yanked the Walther away, and his final bullet went wide into the forest.
***
The sight on the sniper rifle hovered over the edge of the forest. Reile could hear shots and see muzzle flash. His men should have trapped the quarry by now. A furious gun battle was being waged. He cursed under his breath. The résistance was going to fight to the end. He would have preferred to orchestrate a slow death for them.
***
Josef watched the bulky German flatten Giselle with his tackle. He pressed her head into the ground as she writhed beneath him. He saw the brute straddle Giselle and raise an arm to strike her. He surged ahead and leapt at him. In full flight he kicked out at the German’s back. Anton’s heavy boot crunched into his kidney region. The German grunted but lurched to his feet. He seemed obliv
ious to the pain from the vicious kick. An impact like that might have crippled some men, but the Gestapo man’s torso was armoured in slabs of muscle. Now he was up for the fight.
Giselle rolled away from them and Josef squared up to face the squat and powerful Gestapo agent. He had seen this one before. The German was advancing on him with a switchblade that had appeared out of nowhere.
Josef still had Walther in his right hand, held by the smoking barrel, so he could use it like a hammer. Then he realised his grip on the weapon told the German the pistol was empty.
The Gestapo agent grinned, welcoming the hand–to–hand combat. He moved lightly for such a beast of a man. He darted forward and the blade flashed past Josef’s chin. He swayed backwards from the slash as the Gestapo agent flicked the knife at him again.
On the next lunge, Josef sidestepped the knife–hand and threw a straight punch at the German’s jaw. He jarred his left fist against meat and bone; it was like hitting a tree stump. The German didn’t even rock backwards and Josef had to scramble sideways to avoid the slashing knife. Tripping on deadfall, he sprawled to the ground on his back. The pistol hit the ground beside him.
The Gestapo agent grinned as he pounced. Landing astride Josef, he stabbed the knife down towards his eye. Josef grabbed the German’s knife hand with both of his and used all his strength to deflect the blade from his face. But the German was stronger and the tip of the knife pressed closer
Then the German slumped and the knife dropped onto the ground beside Josef’s head. Giselle was standing over the German, brandishing the heavy blackwood clarinet like a club. She had just slammed it into the base of his skull behind the ear.
Josef rolled away and was up in an instant and the Gestapo man was still crouched on all fours, shaking his head and reeling from the blow. He was pushing up off the ground like a boxer being counted.
Josef kicked his face and the man rolled away, clutching at his head. Josef snatched up the Walther from the ground and hammered the butt into the bridge of his nose again and again, clubbing solid metal against flesh and finally feeling the cheekbones collapse beneath the blows. The German lay still.
Breathing hard, Josef holstered the Walther and looked around. There was no sign of Martin and no more gunfire. How far away was the motorcycle? Not far, he could see where the trees thinned at the road.
‘Look!’ Giselle was pointing to the north–west. There were headlights from several vehicles and the unmistakable rumble of truck engines. He guessed the Gestapo had just taken their SS dogs off the leash. The roads would be blocked in no time. A perimeter secured. They couldn’t fight their way past a squad of SS.
The Lysander was still idling out on the field. ‘Come on! The plane’s our best chance.’
‘Can you fly it?’
He just took her arm. They raced back through the trees to the edge of the forest. He hoped he could fly it. He scanned the field. The plane was a short dash across open ground. ‘Martin!’ he yelled. ‘Martin!’
There was no response. Giselle was white with fear and grief. But there was no time to find Martin.
‘Let’s go!’ They ran together, charging towards the dark bulk of the Lysander. It had vibrated and wobbled off course without chocks to hold it in position. It would take several seconds to line it up for take–off.
They dodged around the crumpled body of the RAF pilot and approached the fuselage.
‘Get in!’ Josef pushed Giselle up the steps into the passenger compartment.
He leaped into the front seat and checked the controls. Things were different. British. A spade–grip control column. But all he had to do was get off the ground, the rest he could figure out in the air. He kicked the rudder pedal and throttled up. The Lysander responded, but it was facing across the runway. He had to taxi it back onto the right line. It bumped around over the rough field in a wide arc. If he didn’t line it up properly, they would be in the trees before they got clear of the ground.
Headlights caught his attention as he looked out of the cockpit.
A dark saloon was driving fast over the field, lurching on its suspension and bearing down on the Lysander. It was on a collision course with the plane.
Josef opened the throttle, willing the plane to move faster. The radial pistons of the Mercury engine growled in response.
The headlights of the Mercedes bounced as the car surged across the field. It was on course to ram them, and the plane was taking too long to come onto the right heading.
The Mercedes closed in and Josef winced as the plane lumbered forward. Not fast enough! The Lysander would take a moment to come up to speed. The car was going to ram them.
Then, off the port side, Josef saw movement on the ground. The RAF airman had raised his head. Lying on the field, the pilot had drawn a revolver and was shooting at the racing Mercedes.
Pistol shots cracked above the noise of the Lysander’s engine. Josef watched the windscreen shatter and the Mercedes veer off course. It was moving too fast for the turn and it rolled, the wheels on the high side still spinning as it skidded and teetered upside down with the roof partly collapsed.
Josef looked down at the RAF pilot who had saved them.
The airman waved him away. There were more vehicles driving onto the field now at the far end. There was no time to load a critically wounded man on board.
There was nothing for it but to fly. It was the only escape, and he wanted Giselle out of this mess immediately. Josef lined up facing north and accelerated the little plane across the field. It bounced over the uneven ground and gathered speed. The tree line looked impossibly close. He kept the plane on the ground as long as he dared before pulling back on the stick. A Messerschmitt could not have got off the ground at that speed, but the willing little Lysander leaped into the air and cleared the ragged tree tops. They raced away into the night sky.
XXXVII
Eberhard Reile crawled out of the upturned Mercedes with blood covering his left eye. He gingerly wiped it away with his coat sleeve and winced. There were still shards of glass embedded in his forehead. But he was steady on his feet and, through his good eye, he watched the Lysander escape to the north. A cold fury surged through him. The trucks of the SS were pulling onto the field from both ends, but it was too late.
Reile walked across the dewy grass covered in blood and dirt. It appalled him to be so filthy, but he channelled his fury towards the young RAF pilot, lying twisted on the ground nearby. Reile pulled a Luger from his jacket, cocked it and limped towards the Englishman. He felt utter contempt for the enemy. But also for himself. How could he have let them escape? It had been pure vanity not to involve the SS from the outset.
‘You were supposed to stay down the first time I shot you,’ he said in clipped English.
The RAF pilot was clearly in a bad state, grey and gaunt. Most of his blood had been poured out into the French soil like so many before him. He was trembling. ‘Sorry, old chap. We Brits have a stubborn streak.’
Reile looked down at him. ‘I deal with stubbborn people all the time. They still end up telling me everything.’
‘You’ll get nothing out of me.’ The RAF pilot limply raised his revolver.
Reile thought he was going to take a final shot at him and he raised the Luger instinctively. But the pilot got the muzzle of the revolver against his own ear and put a bullet through his head.
Reile silently cursed the British. That definitely counted as stubborn.
Then he realised that perhaps his quarry had not yet escaped cleanly after all. He turned back towards the Mercedes. He needed a radio, and fast. Perhaps the field equipment had survived the crash.
***
Josef levelled the Lysander at two hundred metres as they raced out across the broad sands of a Normandy beach. He had already decided the only option was to fly north for England.
Giselle called to him from t
he rear–facing gunner’s seat.
He couldn’t hear her above the engine. Josef pulled on an intercom headset and indicated for her to do the same.
Giselle’words were breathless. ‘Do you think Martin made it?’
Josef hesitated, but he had to sound confident. ‘I think so. The Gestapo in the woods—I think he got them all. Then we were the star attraction. He definitely had a chance to get away.’
‘Yes I think so too.’ Her voice wavered. She wanted to believe her own words. ‘Are we on course for England?’
‘Yes, we’ll fly low over the channel. It might take half an hour. I’m not sure how fast this thing goes.’
‘What will you do when we get there?’
‘Find somewhere to land.’
‘No, I mean what will become of you? You will be in the hands of the English ...’
Josef had to think about it. His life had taken another dramatic turn when he climbed into the Lysander. He was still wearing a German uniform and, in less than hour, he would be standing on a British airfield. That would present a whole new set of problems.
‘I think they will try to take you as a Prisoner of War,’ she said.
He couldn’t argue with that. ‘Let’s just get you on the ground, then I’ll worry about that.’
The waves of the channel flashed by below as he checked the instruments and settings. He could tell the RAF pilot had made some adjustments for a slow–speed short–field landing. But now he wanted all the speed he could get. He experimented with the flap settings. It seemed he could coax a hundred and eighty knots from Lysander at this altitude.
He was more familiar with the metric system used in German aircraft but he did the conversion in his head. Three hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. It would fly faster at higher altitude, but he wanted to stay low, knowing a dark plane was harder to spot against the ocean than against the moonlit sky. He kept low and pushed the Lysander as hard as it would go, calculating he had ample fuel to make it to England. He wanted to get away from the French coast quickly. He, of all people, knew how dangerous the Luftwaffe could be, and, compared to the fighters he was familiar with, the little Lysander felt painfully slow.