“All right, sir?”
“Yes, carry on.”
A minute later Udall turned again.
“Sorry, sir: water in my eyes. Have to wipe them.”
“All right.”
So now Udall stopped paddling and presently Taggart felt salt water stinging his eyes and had to pause and wipe them and then he had to wipe the compass again. He wondered how much longer than the scheduled time it would take them to reach their destination.
It was twenty minutes later that he saw a mine bobbing on the surface and veered sharply away from it: straight towards another. His heart began to hammer as fast as when he had been under fire and already this mission began to cause him a foreboding of mishaps lying ahead in the darkness.
He began to notice the motion of the canoe as popply water made it bob up and down and yaw. He looked at his luminous-dialled wristwatch and wondered how far they had come. Another mine appeared and he began to worry that the connecting lines might foul one. Could that break off a horn and detonate the mine? Certainly it could delay them by snagging tightly and holding them fast.
Taggart began to think about The Maginot Line, about the retreat to Dunkirk and about his first two Commando raids. All had seemed less daunting than this present expedition.
They were an hour and twenty minutes late when he saw the foaming wash of small waves on the beach and heard the hiss and murmur as they lapped the sand. From fifty yards offshore he was able to make out the line of bathing huts that stood at the foot of a low cliff. This looked like the right beach but there was no landmark by which to judge their exact position on it.
With an unexpected jar, the canoe stopped and turned violently broadside to the incoming tide. Taggart and Udall wielded their paddles urgently to swing the craft back in line.
“Sandbank,” Taggart said. “Get out quickly.”
Udall wriggled free of the tight-fitting cockpit and stood up to his knees in water. Taggart scrambled out and helped him to haul the canoe over the sand bar. They went back hurriedly to warn the others. Presently all three canoes were over the sandbank and on their way to the beach.
They grounded the three craft in line abreast and stood on the sand with Tommy guns ready, blinking into the darkness.
They heard the faint crunch of feet on the sand and shingle. A figure emerged, a black silhouette against the faintly starlit background.
Taggart said quietly “Canot.”
A quiet voice replied “Pagaie.”
A hard hand shook Taggart’s and then each of the others.
“You are Pagaie in person?”
“No. I will take you. Pagaie is two hundred metres east of us. There is a third lookout two hundred metres further on.”
The Commandos folded and packed their canoes, shouldered the packs of explosive and picked up the Folboats.
They trudged 100 metres through the sand to where a slight figure stood staring out to sea.
“Canot.”
“Pagaie. Welcome. You are very late.”
“We had further to paddle than we had expected.” The hand that Taggart shook felt small; and, with a shock, he realised, delicate, although the grip was firm. Was a mere youth in charge here?
Pagaie had spoken in a whisper. To Taggart the voice sounded youthful. He felt a sudden resentment. A boy sent to do a man’s job? But, he reminded himself, perhaps young boys did not arouse the enemy’s suspicion.
“Where do we hide the boats?”
Again the reply came in a whisper. Why, if the first lookout had not whispered, had spoken normally but quietly, did this one insist on such theatrical caution? Once more a spurt of annoyance agitated Taggart’s thoughts.
“This way.”
The slender figure turned and moved away.
Suspicion seared Taggart’s mind: this over-cautious guide walked with a noticeable sway, a swing of the hips. “Just a moment!”
He ran forward. With the muzzle of his Tommy gun in the small of the guide’s back, he snatched off the seaman’s cap on the guide’s head.
Long blonde hair, released, cascaded around Pagaie’s face and she turned her head.
Leaning to within inches of her, Taggart saw a pretty face, with large, angry-looking eyes, a pert nose and a ripe mouth that held no smile but which he was instantly tempted to kiss. For a moment he hesitated, then he drew back.
“You are Pagaie?”
Curtly she said “Yes. Any objection?”
Taggart grinned.
“That remains to be seen.”
She tightened her lips and scowled.
“Come on, Canot: there’s no time to play the fool. The bloody Boches (les sacres Boches) are too damned close.”
Taggart heard Udall, who had experienced difficulty in pronouncing Pagaie, say disgustedly “Peggy! Bleedin’ell! And I thought we was going to be met by some tough Frog like Georges Carpentier.” (‘George Car-pent-ear’.)
“Peggy” whirled round to glare at him and then at Taggart.
“Is your soldier drawing uncomplimentary comparisons between me and our great World Heavyweight Boxing Champion? Because if he is...” She drew a large automatic pistol from under her jersey.
“Not at all. The reference was entirely complimentary.”
Udall muttered “Blimey, I thought she ‘ad big tits; but it was a bleedin’ great gun.”
“If you look more closely — but I wouldn’t advise it —” said Taggart, “you’ll see you were right first time.”
He heard the other five men laugh.
The girl hurried towards the bathing huts which stood directly against the cliff. She unlocked the door of one in the middle of a row of twenty and beckoned the others inside. Shining a blue-shaded torch on the floor, she shifted a pile of deck chairs to reveal a trapdoor. She bent to raise it, but Taggart forestalled her.
“I can manage perfectly well...”
“I’m sure you can,” he said, but opened the trap.
A strong wooden ladder led down to a chamber in the rocky ground. It smelled dank. They lowered the three Folboats into the underground room, which Taggart could see consisted partly of a cave and partly of excavation.
When the trapdoor and concealing deck chairs had been replaced, the girl stood with her hands on her hips in a challenging attitude. The man who had led the Commandos had gone and they had not seen the other lookout at all.
“I’m taking you to my house. We’ll go in single file. It’s two streets back from the seafront, on the outskirts of the village. If we happen to run into any Boches, kill them without making a noise. I hope we don’t: they have warned us that for every Boche killed they will execute ten Frenchmen.”
It was a slow journey. First there was a narrow path to climb, then a long wait at the clifftop to ensure that there was no enemy sentry or patrol. They moved on and threaded their way through gorse bushes and among small clumps of trees. Taggart realised that there would be no time to reconnoitre the barges tonight. Another instance of the unjustified optimism of the desk-bound who made plans for other men to carry out.
Although most of his mind was given to their stealthy and circuitous noctambulation, there was room to cogitate on the girl who guided them. How old was she? It was not possible to judge accurately in the dark. Why was she taking this risk? It must have been long premeditated, for the underground chamber was large and strongly shored with stout balks of timber that supported a corrugated iron ceiling. She was only an inch or so over five feet and looked as though she weighed perhaps seven stone in her slacks and jumper. Which led to the reflection that it would be exceedingly agreeable to see what she looked like with nothing on at all.
A shape darker than its immediate background of faint starlight emerged from behind a tree at the instant that Taggart turned to look back at the men following him in file at one-yard intervals. The shape wore a German helmet and carried a rifle.
Sergeant Duff, at the rear of the file, sprang forward and slammed the butt of his Tommy gun into
the German’s belly. The man sagged forward and clutched both hands to it. His rifle fell to the ground. The sergeant tossed his Tommy gun to Wallace, who caught it. Out came Duff’s garrotte and a few seconds later the enemy soldier was dead.
The girl had left Taggart a few paces behind when he halted to witness this brief and shocking assault. She came running back. They all gathered around the victim.
“Did he have to do that?” She rounded angrily on Taggart.
“Of course he did.”
“This means that ten Frenchmen could be shot tomorrow.” her voice shook with fury and the effects of shock. Her lips were trembling. With fear also? Taggart asked himself.
He made no concessions to her sex or her mental traumas, and spoke curtly.
“We must get rid of him... dump him in the sea.”
“No time to waste... and the tide will wash him up anyway.”
“What, then?”
She was a woman of swift decisions, evidently.
“We’ll have to bring him with us. With luck, the Boches will think he deserted. It happens surprisingly often. Even the swinish Boches are not all Nazis. Some of them are Communists and many were badly frightened during the fighting. If this pig is a coward and a Communist, he might well be put down as a deserter. A man can’t hide all his secrets from his comrades; as I’m sure you know.” It was a long speech for a moment of urgency, and during it Taggart had told Gallagher and Wallace to pick up the corpse and carry it.
“How long will it be before they miss him?” he asked.
“A corporal comes round every two hours. We have about an hour and a quarter before he is due to reach this point.”
“You must have spent a long time observing their habits.”
“Every minute of every day and night since the swine arrived here, one of us has watched them.”
Who are “us”? Taggart wondered.
Ahead he saw a high wall with a wrought iron double gate and, beyond, the roof and chimneys of a large house. It was a typical French bourgeois home. He was immediately able to imagine the sort of family that owned it: well-off, smug, respectable in the community while perhaps living private lives of which the parish priest would not approve despite their ritual attendance at church.
“We’ll go in by the door on the lane at the side. It leads straight into the stables... now the garage.”
They paused in a small clump of trees before dashing across the lane and through the stout wooden door. As soon as the last man was inside, in a thick darkness redolent of stale exhaust fumes and petrol, oil, car polish and leather, a low-power bulb went on. The garage was carefully blacked out. A large Citroen, two racing cars, a big Delage and a Salmson sports car gleamed in an impressive row.
“What do we do about him?” Taggart indicated the German whom the two Scots had dumped .on the stone-flagged floor.
The girl stared with loathing at the dead enemy.
“We shall dispose of him so that he will never be found. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let it go at that. It is my responsibility. One of my men killed him.”
She faced him with her hands on her hips, an aggressive stance. He could see now that she was in her middle twenties, tawny-eyed and even prettier than he had supposed.
“I hope you aren’t squeamish.”
“Try me.”
“Very well. He is not the first Boche of whom we have had to dispose: both the others were assumed to have deserted. Getting rid of a man is not easy; so we chop him — it — up: legs and arms off at the trunk and the knee, or shoulder and elbow... the head off... easy to carry, you see? That still leaves a large lump of torso for someone to hump. No matter. The separate pieces are buried deep and at least a kilometre apart. We burn the uniform.”
“Good God! Who does the dismembering?”
“I do. Listen, I was an auxiliary nurse, I know about anatomy. I also know about the Boches: our hospital was bombed and shelled and sick and wounded men were slaughtered... when we moved, our convoy of ambulances was dive-bombed and strafed. My two brothers were killed flying fighters against these barbarians. I enjoy cutting up garbage like this brute.” She nudged the corpse with her foot.
Corporal Fysshe-Smith had followed the girl’s discourse and translated for his comrades. They stood staring at her with mixed expressions of amazement, disgust and admiration.
“Shall we leave him here?” asked Taggart.
“There’s a covered inspection pit under the Citroen. Sling him in there.”
Taggart gave the order and Gallagher and Wallace reluctantly obeyed.
“Good,” the girl said. “Come on now, into the house. She took them across a paved yard to a side entrance that led to the kitchen and its ancillary rooms. “Coffee? Cognac? Food?”
They sat around the well scrubbed wooden table and drank hot coffee laced with brandy, while the girl explained to Taggart what she proposed; but it was more the issuing of instructions, for she invited no change in the plan.
“I live alone here, now, with my father, who is a widower. He is a lawyer and he also owns a few farms inherited from my mother’s family. We have an elderly man and his wife as staff, and a girl, an orphan from the village, who also lives in. All three of the servants are utterly loyal and discreet and they hate the Boches as virulently as my father and I.”
“The racing cars: your brothers’?”
“Yes. And I used to race the Salmson, as well as compete in rallies. We also have a small aeroplane; I am a pilot, like my brothers.”
“An impressive family.”
She had not smiled yet and she did not do so at the compliment. She looked sad.
“We were, perhaps. Now my only interest is to accomplish the death of as many Boches as I can. My father was wounded in the last war and has no reason to tolerate their presence either. We are going to hide you in the cellars. A part has been bricked off for just such an occasion as this, and fresh air is brought in through a duct. For washing and other essentials, there are the staff facilities at the back of the house, beyond the kitchens. You will be reasonably comfortable during your short stay. You, Monsieur,” she looked directly at Taggart, “Have a guest room upstairs. We were assured of your fluency in the language and we have false identity papers for you: you are supposed to be my cousin, the son of my mother’s younger sister, visiting from Caen. You have been discharged from an infantry regiment and are about to begin studying Law.” She looked at Taggart in silence for a moment and this time a faint smile showed on her lips and her eyes. “You look rather conspicuously healthy and fit, for a member of a conquered nation.”
“I shall do my best not to draw attention to myself. But I have a lot to do, which means I must go out and about.”
“We know the purpose of your visit, Monsieur.” She sounded tart once again. “I shall accompany you. We are, after all, cousins!”
Kissing cousins, I hope, thought Taggart.
“Since we are to be cousins, perhaps I should know your name, Mademoiselle Pagaie. Mine is Rodney Taggart.”
“Odile Legrange. And you are, for the time being, Robert Chavagnac, son of a History lecturer at Caen University, and formerly of the Twentieth Regiment of Infantry, with service in The Maginot Line and at Dunkirk.”
“Did you know that this is very near to the truth of my real experiences here?”
“No. It was a reasoned guess.”
“You are as intelligent as you are beautiful, Mademoiselle Odile Legrange.”
She blushed, dropped her eyes and resumed her curt manner.
“You must all get some sleep now. It will soon be dawn.”
* * *
It was a small town of 10,000 inhabitants, but the centre to which a large area of the surrounding countryside’s farmers, cattle dealers, grain merchants and small manufacturers came for legal and medical advice, shopping and entertainment; mainly the cinema and a couple of dance halls. Lawyer Legrange was very prosperous, not only thanks to his
inherited property but also to his flourishing practice.
Taggart met him at breakfast and was touched and encouraged by the warmth of the lawyer’s welcome.
“There are many ways to describe the Boches, Lieutenant: vermin, a foul disease, instruments of the devil; and Hitler, of course, is the Anti-Christ embodied. I cannot look on the enemy as fellow human beings. No reprisals seem too dreadful to me.”
Taggart had lain awake for a while visualising pretty Mademoiselle Legrange up to the elbows in gore as she hacked away at dead German soldiers with a meat cleaver and butcher’s knife. Evidently Papa was aware of his attractive daughter’s grisly but practical — and, he recognised, entirely essential — method of disposing of inconvenient bodies.
“Your whole household is very brave, Monsieur.”
“My sons were brave, Lieutenant.”
When her father had left for his office, Odile addressed Taggart with businesslike briskness.
“We — the two men who were on the beach last night and I — have not been able to approach as close to the harbour as we would like; but it is plain that there is a large number of real barges and tugs moored there. However, we suspect that there are also many dummies and most of these are in the fishing harbour, the outer port. Of course, all fishing is prohibited: if the Boches allowed any fisherman to put to sea he would sail straight across to England and join the Navy. The whole port area is closed to us. Only the damned Boches are allowed through the high barbed wire fence. But Jacques, whom you met last night, has three boats in the fisherman’s harbour and he has been trying for weeks to get permission to be allowed aboard in order to do something to the engines, so that they will not deteriorate, and...”
“Oh, yes, inhibit them.”
“Is that the technical term? Well, he has to do that and ensure that the other mechanical equipment is not rusting away. My father has obtained permission for him and the skippers of the two other boats that Jacques owns to carry out this work tonight, after sunset.” She grimaced. “It is distasteful, but my father has to keep on good terms with the Boches: the Harbour Master and the Town Major. He has managed to obtain permits for all the fishing boat owners or captains to visit their boats in turn for this purpose. Jacques and his two are to be the first. The Boches will not allow more than three at a time. My father proposes to send you along as his representative: you are, after all, supposed to be his nephew and a law student.” She smiled and her usually serious, even cold, expression became warm and as feminine as it was seductive. “You will have a letter of authority.”
The Steel Fist Page 16