by Helen Watts
‘Oh, just for a few seconds then,’ he said, and knelt down on the cobbled street to tickle the little dog’s tummy. Bobby rolled over onto his back, tail still wagging, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as the boy’s fingers ruffled his fur.
The pair had become firm friends over the past few months. Patric Depaul’s garage was one of Alfred’s favourite places in the village. Patric would let him sit in the vehicles he was working on and pretend to drive them, and he was slowly teaching him the names of all the key parts – the manifold, the spark plugs, the cam belt, the chassis. There was even something called ‘the big end’, which Alfred thought sounded very bizarre.
But what Alfred liked most of all about visiting Patric was sharing his break-time. They would sit in the yard and Patric would give him some of his bread, cheese and milk while he told him a story or two. Alfred would sit and tickle Bobby behind the ears while he listened.
It was Bobby who had first introduced Patric to Alfred. One day he was lying in the entrance to the garage, watching the village folk go about their morning business, when he saw Alfred approaching from the direction of the bakery, heading home after fetching fresh bread for the family breakfast. As Alfred trotted by, absent-mindedly jangling the change in his pocket and with a large baguette tucked under his arm, Bobby saw his chance. He jumped to his feet, sprinted out of the garage and, before Alfred knew what was happening, lunged, closing his jaws around the end of the crusty loaf.
‘Hey!’ Alfred had screamed. ‘Let go. That’s my breakfast!’
Hearing the commotion, Patric dashed out into the street. At the sight of the young red-haired boy and the dog, mid tug-of-war, one either end of a baguette and both too stubborn to let go, he had to stifle a laugh. Then, realising that the boy might not be quite so amused, he gave out a loud, sharp whistle. Instantly, the dog let go, sat down and issued a little whimper, looking sheepishly at his master.
‘I’m so sorry, son,’ apologised Patric, looking at the now rather battered and soggy baguette dangling from Alfred’s hand. ‘Bobby can be a bit of a scamp sometimes, but he means no harm. He’s only a pup still. He just wants to play. Let me get you another one of those.’
‘Thanks,’ said Alfred, giving Patric the damaged bread. ‘I like dogs, but he gave me a bit of a surprise. I didn’t know whether he was friendly or not.’ Feeling more confident now, Alfred patted the dog’s head. ‘Shall I wait here with him and keep him company while you get the bread?’
Patric nodded and laughed. ‘That’s a good idea. You two can get to know one another. Bobby could do with a new friend. I’m so busy with the garage here I don’t get much time to play with him. I’m Patric, by the way.’ He held out his hand.
Alfred wiped the remaining crumbs from his fingers and shook hands. ‘I’m Alfred, Alfred Fournier, and I’d be happy to come and play with Bobby, now and then. That is, if Papa says it’s alright. He works in the bakery actually, so perhaps you can ask him.’
After that Alfred and Bobby became regular playmates. Alfred took the dog for long walks after school and played with him at the garage as often as he could. The pair became so close that, if Alfred hadn’t stopped by for a while, Bobby would come looking for him.
Alfred never ceased to be amazed how Bobby could pop up out of nowhere at any time, sometimes in the most unusual and inconvenient places. There was the occasion when Alfred had gone to old Madame Bodin’s funeral and Bobby turned up at his side by the grave, bouncing around most inappropriately and full of the joys of spring. The priest hadn’t looked too pleased at all. Then there was the school sports day, when Alfred was playing in the football team and Bobby ran right over the pitch and across the goal mouth to reach him. Monsieur Gravois, the schoolmaster, had promptly sent Alfred off and kept him on the reserve team for the rest of the term. In fact, wherever Alfred went in Oradour, it was likely that, before long, he would hear the sound of four faithful feet coming up behind him, feel a wet nose on his hand and look down to see Bobby sitting there, tail wagging, looking pleased with himself.
By the time Alfred finally got home that evening, Sylvie was convinced that something dreadful had happened. Both of his elder sisters, Christelle and Sabine, had been sent out to find him, but neither had seen him in the blacksmith’s yard so they had returned with no reassuring news. They were debating whether or not to fetch Papa from the bakery when Alfred flew in through the kitchen door, puffing and panting. He took one look at his mother’s face as she stood by the stove trying to salvage her fish stew, and knew he had gone too far this time.
‘I’m so sorry, Maman. I was at Monsieur Lefevre’s. He was shoeing this great big stallion. It was amazing. I lost track of time.’
At first Sylvie didn’t say a word. Alfred had to wait while she carefully placed the steaming pot of spoiled supper in the middle of the table. He noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. Then she raised her eyes to meet Alfred’s and spoke to him, clearly, slowly and quietly. Alfred was left in no doubt that she meant every single word.
‘You will never be this late again, Alfred Fournier. From now on, the only explanation I will accept for you not being home on time is that the Germans really have come to Oradour. Do you understand? And even if that did happen, we would still know exactly where to find you and that’s in those woods behind the cemetery like we agreed. Is that absolutely clear?’
Alfred nodded vigorously, tears prickling the backs of his eyes. ‘Yes, Maman. I’m really, really sorry.’ He threw his arms around Sylvie’s waist, burying his face in her apron. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you,’ he sobbed.
‘It’s all right, Alfie,’ said Sylvie, kissing the top of his head. ‘I know you didn’t. But I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. Now sit down and eat your supper.’
As Alfred ate his meal quietly he thought about what his mother had said and how upset she had been. He knew he had hurt one of the people he loved most in the world and he never, ever wanted to do that again.
Part 2
Saturday 10 June, 1944 (Morning)
4: The Search
Major General Karl Scholz was not a happy man. He had been woken from a deep sleep in the early hours by a telephone call from one of his soldiers. Some papers had been found in a side street in the city. It was almost certain that they belonged to Major Klausner.
At the mention of his colleague’s name, Scholz had sat bolt upright. He had only snatched three hours of sleep but he was instantly wide awake.
‘Bring those papers to my office immediately,’ he had ordered. ‘I want to see them. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
If these were indeed Klausner’s papers, they could be a vital clue to his whereabouts.
Before heading back to his quarters in Limoges, well after midnight, for some badly-needed rest, Scholz had left strict orders for the search to continue throughout the night. It was clear that Klausner had been the victim of an ambush. His abandoned car, the location in the woods, the tyre tracks. It was classic Resistance. And the more time that passed, the harder the kidnappers would be to trace. Scholz’s men had been combing the countryside between the garrison at Guéret and the outskirts of Limoges, but there was so much distance to cover and so many small farm buildings in which the captors could be hiding, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Stressed and troubled, Scholz had tossed and turned before finally falling into an exhausted sleep.
By the time he reached his office, the soldier who had telephoned was already sitting in the chair in front of Scholz’s large, imposing desk. He leapt to his feet when Scholz entered, clipped his heels together and raised his arm.
‘Heil Hitler.’
Scholz returned the salute. Then, without sitting down, he got straight down to business.
‘The papers.’
‘Here, Major General. I found them in the gutter. I nearly missed them actually. I thought it was just a piece of litter, but then I noticed the insignia.’ He pau
sed while Scholz inspected the now rather damp, creased papers. He could tell by the anguished look which came over the Major General’s face that the papers were genuine. Quietly he asked, ‘How do you think they got there, Major General?’
‘I don’t know, but this has got to mean that Major Klausner, or his kidnappers, were in Limoges… and could still be. You searched all the buildings in the street, I take it?’
‘Yes, immediately, Major General. But there’s nothing to suggest that the kidnappers had any reason to stop there. They could have just been passing through, or hiding there for a while. It’s possible Major Klausner threw his papers out of a moving vehicle.’
Scholz sat down and placed the papers carefully before him on his desk. ‘I want to ramp up the search. Major Klausner is one of the best. He was awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross – he is the bravest man I know. He has done his utmost for Germany and now it’s our turn to do our utmost for him. Take all the men you can spare and change the focus of the search. Forget Guéret. Tell everyone that the hunt now centres on Limoges.’
As night turned to dawn, Scholz didn’t move from his desk. Each time a negative call came in from a search party, he crossed off another section on a map of Limoges, feeling increasingly frustrated and more and more depressed. He had to find Klausner alive. He was far too high a prize for the Resistance to win. The fall-out of this could be huge, for the whole German army as well as for him personally. This had happened on his watch, and just after he had received General Müller’s new ‘Order of the Day’ outlining the latest SS position on the Resistance. In order for the German troops to move north to Normandy without further disruption, it had said, firm reprisals were to be taken against any civilian creating disorder.
And here he was, chasing wildly after one such guerrilla band which continued to outwit his SS troops, right here on his own doorstep. If he let anything happen to Klausner, General Müller would have his head. He had to find the abductors and their hostage – sooner rather than later.
Scholz shuddered as he drained the cup of coffee on his desk. He would never get used to that disgusting chicory flavour, and besides, the drink had gone stone cold. God, how he needed some sleep. His eyes were gritty and his head felt like it was packed with cotton wool. He put his head in his hands, desperately trying to stay calm and think clearly. Where in Limoges would he hide if he had kidnapped a top-ranking SS commander?
The loud ringing of the telephone startled him. It was his receptionist.
‘There’s a Major Heinz Goth here to see you, Major General. He is in a terrible state and looks like he really ought to be in the field hospital. But he says he’s got to speak to you. Says it’s urgent. He claims to have some vital information in relation to Major Klausner.’
Scholz brightened. ‘Send him in at once.’
The man who was shown into Scholz’s office was clearly distressed. His left eye was badly swollen, his cheek severely bruised and his bottom lip was split and caked with dried blood. His officer’s uniform was filthy and dishevelled, one sleeve torn at the shoulder seam. He swayed as he gave the necessary salute.
‘You may sit,’ said Scholz, afraid that if he did not give the order the man would collapse on the floor before he had divulged what he knew. ‘Tell me who you are. Why are you here?’
The Major sank into the chair and gripped its two arms with his soiled hands, steadying himself. Scholz noticed that the little finger on his right hand was bent horribly sideways, clearly broken.
‘I am Storm Leader Heinz Goth,’ said the officer, breathing heavily, ‘and last night I was kidnapped by the Resistance.’
For a moment, Scholz remained silent as the officer’s revelation sank into his fatigued brain. Then he blinked and sat forward sharply, his eyes suddenly alight.
‘Go on,’ he said.
Goth described how he had been ordered to lead a small party north-west from Limoges to the town of Nieul. They had been instructed to prepare quarters for an assault-gun battalion which was soon to arrive there on its march north to Normandy.
‘There were six of us,’ he explained, ‘in three cars. I was in the lead car with my driver. We’d been warned about the Resistance fighters in the area so we intended to stick together but… I don’t know… our car must have been quicker because after a while my driver and I realised we’d lost the others. We must have been going too fast for them to keep up.’
Goth cleared his throat then continued. ‘We waited a few minutes but they didn’t show. So I told my driver to turn back. We’d gone about a kilometre along the road when we had to stop. A lorry had blocked the road.’
‘Why on earth would you stop, man?’ Scholz asked, incredulous. ‘Didn’t you suspect an ambush?’
‘The two men who got out were wearing German uniforms, Major General. We thought they were friends. And besides, we were armed. I had a sub-machine gun.’
As he recalled the scene, Goth’s head dropped with shame.
‘But I never got to use it. Before we knew it, seven or eight more uniformed men jumped out of the lorry and their weapons were aimed right at us. To go for my gun then would have been suicide. They dragged us out of the car. They kicked and punched us and tore off our uniforms. All we had on was our underwear.’
As he spoke these last few words, Goth’s voice cracked and he had to swallow hard before he could carry on. Scholz stifled the urge to hurry him.
‘They pushed us off the road into a thicket. I thought that was the end. I was convinced they were going to shoot us there and then. So I did all I could. I offered them a trade. My life for information.’
‘My God, what did you tell them?’ cried Scholz, a look of panic in his eyes.
‘Nothing,’ Goth replied quickly. ‘I bluffed. I said I could give them some top secret information but I would only share it with their leader. Whoever was at the very top. I was hoping to buy time.’
‘So what happened then?’ asked Scholz, impatiently.
‘We were dragged over to the lorry and told to climb in. They threw our uniforms in after us and drove off. We got our uniforms back on and I tried to look out for some signs so I could get my bearings. At one point I definitely saw a sign for Oradour.’
Scholz scribbled on his notepad.
‘I am not sure which way we went after that but when we next stopped we were in an opening in a forest and there was another lorry there. A French lorry. I could see the tricolour. We were dragged out into the middle of the clearing. Then a man got out of the other lorry, wearing a blue uniform. I assumed he was the leader. I was desperately trying to think what false information I could feed him which would be powerful enough to convince him to let us go.’
‘And?’ demanded Scholz.
‘I didn’t get a chance to say anything. The leader started shouting insults at us, calling us SS pigs and telling us we were finished. One of the men who ambushed us kept saying something to him in French. I couldn’t understand it but I could tell the leader wasn’t pleased. He was yelling at him, as if giving him orders. That was when they led us into the woods.’
Goth looked Scholz directly in the eye. ‘They were going to shoot us.’
He paused, but as Scholz didn’t speak, he continued.
‘My driver realised what was going on and started to struggle. This seemed to infuriate the gang and they set about him, shoving him to the ground and kicking him over and over again. That was when I took my chance and dashed into the trees. I ran for my life.’
‘Do you know what happened to your driver?’ asked Scholz.
‘I heard shots and as I turned round I saw him slump to the ground. There was nothing I could do for him. So I just kept running, looking for cover. They chased me and I could hear them shouting behind me. Shots whistled past my head but I kept changing direction. It was getting dark by then, too, which helped. I could tell I was starting to lose them.’
Goth wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I came to a railway line an
d decided to follow it. I knew it had to be the line to Limoges, and I had to make a snap decision about which way to go. Thankfully, I picked the right direction. I walked through the night and didn’t stop until I got here. And that was when I heard about Major Klausner’s disappearance. I think the same thing could have happened to him. That’s why I came straight to you, Major General.’
Scholz sat motionless, taking in the horror of what he had been told.
This was not good news for Klausner. Could it be that the Resistance had executed him already? He could only hope that Klausner’s exceptional rank and reputation might make a difference. If the Resistance wanted a bargaining chip, then they had hit the jackpot.
Yes, surely he was more valuable to them alive. Until he heard otherwise, the hunt for Klausner would continue to be a search and rescue mission. And the SS had better be willing to negotiate, humiliating or not. It could be the only way to keep Klausner alive.
He looked at the shattered commander before him. ‘You are to be commended for your bravery and for your speed of action. This information is, indeed, crucial in our search for Major Klausner and you can be assured that I will act upon it without delay. For now, you have my thanks.’
Following Scholz’s lead, Goth stood and saluted his superior. ‘Thank you, Major General.’
‘I believe you have earned yourself a good rest,’ said Scholz, then inclined his head in the direction of Goth’s mangled hand. ‘But not, I suggest, before you get those wounds seen to.’
Scholz did not watch as the weary officer limped out of his office. He was already intently studying his map, and he was looking for one place in particular, the place name that Goth had said he had seen on the road sign while in the back of the lorry – Oradour.
As he scanned the area around Goth’s known route, his index finger moved across the smooth surface of the map. In no time at all, it came to rest on Oradour, directly west from Nieul – Goth’s original destination. After checking the scale of the map, he set his compass to draw a circle with a radius of twenty kilometres and jabbed the pin into Oradour. The result was as he suspected: Nieul sat well within the circle. Goth’s account was accurate. The forest where he had been taken by his captors could well have been close to Oradour.