He scrambled into the car. “Drive!” he ordered, and Weber, revving up the engine, roared out of the square.
Braun went in search of Major Thielen, but it took him a little while to find him, as he was off duty and had returned to his billet.
“Résistants, you say?” The major listened to Braun in surprise. He thought Colonel Hoch was only interested in searching out Jews, and the way he had gone about it the night before had sickened him. Thielen had heard about the night-time arrests at the convent, and although he was not unduly worried that two more Jews had been shipped out, he was concerned that two nuns, one of them the reverend mother no less, had been sent with them. Thielen had not seen them go, but he had heard the gossip that had described the state in which they had been loaded into the lorry. Making war on a convent full of nuns was not acceptable to Major Thielen, but there was little he could do about it. Hoch outranked him, and even if he had not done so, Thielen would have thought long and hard before he crossed swords with any SS officer. But résistants? They were another thing, and when he heard from Braun what had happened at the farm, Thielen gave brisk orders. Within minutes a truck was drawing up in the square and twenty men piling on board.
“You stay here and see to your wounded,” he ordered Braun as he swung himself up into an armoured car beside two dog handlers and their dogs. “Let’s go!”
The little convoy swept out of the square and headed at speed along the road to Albert.
“Looks like trouble up ahead, sir,” the driver said. Thielen looked up to see thick smoke swirling up into the sky.
“Foot down, Sergeant,” he ordered and braced himself as the armoured car swung round a corner.
Hoch and Weber had quickly reached the main road leading from St Croix to Albert. Although it was the main road, all of it was narrow and much of it was twisting, and Weber slowed instinctively as he approached the corners.
Hoch snapped. “Get a move on, Weber!”
“There’s oil on the road, sir,” said Weber. “They must have taken a hit.”
As they rounded another sharp bend Weber hit the brakes and they skidded to a halt. There, in front of them, its bonnet crunched against a tree where it had slewed off the road, was the Citroën. Its doors were open, as if its occupants had fled the car in haste.
“Come on,” Hoch said, “let’s take a look.” He drew his pistol, and easing open the car door stepped down onto the road.
Weber did the same. “Shouldn’t we wait for some backup now, sir?” he suggested uneasily. “We don’t know what we’re going to find.”
“We’re going to find an empty car,” snapped Hoch. “Whoever was in it isn’t going to hang about waiting for us. Come on.”
Cautiously they approached the car. There was the drip, drip, drip of oil, and Hoch could see it pooling under the car. The rear offside tyre had completely disintegrated, with the rim buckled and bent; the front nearside tyre was flat. Clearly the driver had lost control of the vehicle as he had rounded the corner too fast and slammed into the tree. Slowly Hoch edged his way round to the driver’s door, gesturing with his pistol that Weber should take the other side. The car was full of broken glass, vicious shards scattered over the floor and the seats, more in the road. The inside of the car was spattered and smeared with blood, and on the back seat was a dark stain, clearly blood and far more than a smear.
“Be careful, sir, it might be booby-trapped!” Weber was not enjoying this. He felt himself over-exposed. Here they were, just two of them, in pursuit of desperate fugitives, résistants, who had already mown down those who stood in the way of their escape. Weber felt it was time to await the coming reinforcements. Let them scour the area and catch or kill these dangerous fugitives. “It might blow up, sir!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man,” scoffed his colonel. “They’ve had no time for that. Look at the blood, here on the back seat. One of them at least is wounded. They won’t get far.”
“They may be armed, sir,” ventured Weber. He looked nervously round him, but all was quiet; there was no sign of the résistants. Where had they gone? Were they lurking in the hedgerow waiting to pounce? A rustle in the bushes made him spin round, his pistol levelled at the sound, but it was merely a bird, hopping from twig to twig.
“What a coward you are, Weber.” Hoch’s voice was icy with contempt, but even so he moved aside from the car and looked round. The road curved away in front of them, low hedges on either side, punctuated by tall poplar trees.
“They went this way,” he said. “Look, one of them is bleeding.” Pistol in hand, he followed the trail of blood along the road to an old gate leading into the adjacent field. He jerked his head for Weber to follow him, and reluctantly the lieutenant did so, his eyes swivelling nervously as he continued to search for any sign of the fugitives.
They edged along the hedge towards the old wooden gate. It was almost closed, hanging askew on its ancient hinges as if it had been dragged across in a hurry. The trail of blood stopped there, but there was another smear on the top bar, as if someone had leaned on it for a moment to regain his breath. Before going through the gate, Hoch surveyed the field beyond it. In the distance was a small copse, the trees standing tall from the bushy undergrowth that covered the ground beneath.
“Over there.” Hoch pointed at the copse. “They’ll be holed up in that wood.”
Weber looked where he pointed. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. But we can’t flush them out on our own, not just the two of us. We need men to saturate the place.”
Hoch eyed him grimly. “I know that, Weber. I’ll wait by the car. You stay here and keep watch on those trees. Shout if you see any movement.”
Adelaide had watched as the car pulled up beside theirs. It was a German staff car, but there were only two men in it, and as they got out to have a look, the inkling of an idea twitched into her mind.
Given enough time and a little luck, she thought, we might yet get away.
She watched as the two officers got out of their car, pistols drawn and ready for trouble. Hoch she recognised at once; the other, a younger man, she had seen before, but did not know his name. He was obviously ill at ease, his pistol unsteady in his hand as he stared round him. The two men stood talking for a moment before Hoch pointed to something on the ground and they moved slowly up the road.
Adelaide wormed her way under the hedge and out into the lane. The staff car had been pulled off the road just behind their crash. Adelaide peered from behind it and saw the two men making their way cautiously towards the field gate. A quick glance into the staff car showed her the keys still dangling in the ignition. She snatched them away and stuffed them into her pocket, before ducking back into the safety of the hedge.
The two men had reached the gate now and were looking over into the field. It would probably be moments only before they found Marcel, but she had to assume they wanted to capture him, not kill him, and she made no move.
Keep a cool head! she told herself. Wait your chance!
She watched as they went through into the field, and the moment they were out of sight she sped after them, hidden by the hedgerow, her feet soundless on the grass verge. As she reached the gateway she heard their voices and then the sound of someone coming back. Pressed into the shelter of the hedge, she waited, poised, her knife in her hand. Surprise must be her ally.
The man came through the gate; it was Colonel Hoch. As he turned back towards the cars Adelaide launched herself at him, bringing her knife up, hard and strong towards his chest. In the moment that she moved, he saw her and twisted away, striking out at her. Her knife rammed home into his shoulder, and he gave a bellow of pain, staggering away, dropping his pistol, but still on his feet. Wrenching the knife free she attacked again, aiming at his groin and this time her knife found its mark. With an agonised shriek, Hoch doubled up and Adelaide gave the final thrust deep into his side. Shots rang out, and she lurched sideways as Lieutenant Weber hurtled out through the gate, his pistol in an unsteady h
and, firing as he came. The shots went wide, and Adelaide sprang to her feet, diving forward as another bullet zinged over her head. Her knife still clutched in her hand, she twisted violently, rolling away, coming again to her feet, but Weber shouted, “Halt!” A glance showed her that he had her covered. He was afraid… his hands were shaking, but they held the pistol out in front of him, and at that distance he could not miss.
“Now, drop the knife!” He spoke first in German and then in schoolboy French. “Drop the knife and lie on the ground.”
Adelaide did as she was bidden. For the moment she had no alternative… maybe later, if she complied now. Her eyes flicked to where Hoch’s pistol had fallen, several yards away, measuring the distance and gauging her chances of reaching it before Weber shot her. They were nil.
“You are a résistant,” the lieutenant was saying. “You will stay where you are till my men arrive, or I will shoot you dead.” Weber stood well clear of her as she lay spread-eagled on the ground. He held his pistol at arm’s length, clutched in two hands and pointing at her. He was taking no risk that she wouldn’t attack again. His eyes flickered across to the inert body of Colonel Hoch. “And a murderer. For this killing, you will be shot.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Marcel’s voice was a drawl, and as Weber spun round two bullets thudded into his chest. The lieutenant fell where he stood and Marcel leaned awkwardly against the gate. “Takes care of those two,” he said. “Time to move before the rest get here.”
“We’ll take their car,” Adelaide said. “Come on, let’s get you into it.”
“All in good time,” Marcel said. “Let’s get them into ours first.”
“What! Come on, Marcel! They’ve got troops coming!”
“So, let them find a car crash. The cars are the same. They’ll realise in the end, but it will give us more time.”
“The cars are the same…?”
“Use your eyes, Adèle,” snapped Marcel. “Come on, we have no time. Get them into the wreck.”
Together they dragged the two bodies along the road to the crashed Citroën, and heaved them into the front seats. It wasn’t easy. The bodies were a deadweight and Marcel was struggling with the wound in his shoulder, but somehow they managed, heaving the two men into the car and slamming the doors against their sagging bodies.
“Move their car up the road,” ordered Marcel, and, retrieving a jerry can of petrol from the boot, he splashed it generously over the bonnet and inside the crashed car, before striking a match and tossing it in through the open driver’s window. The petrol ignited with a whoosh and Marcel leapt backwards, almost falling over before staggering to the waiting staff car. Adelaide had the engine running, and as Marcel hauled himself into the passenger seat she let in the clutch and pulled away.
“I’ll direct you,” Marcel said, his voice weak as he collapsed back against the seat.
Even as they accelerated away, Major Thielen was thundering along the road from St Croix in his armoured car, the truckload of men behind him. He saw the black smoke pouring into the sky and as he rounded the corner he almost ran into the burning Citroën. His car and the following truck screeched to a halt. Men jumped down into the road and the two dog handlers with their dogs jumped out of the armoured car. There were yells of “Keep back! Keep back!”, but Major Thielen ran towards the burning car. He could see two bodies inside, could make out the insignia on the burning jacket of the driver. The heat was intense, driving him back, his hands held up to shield his face.
“There are people inside!” he yelled. “Give a hand here!”
There were indeed hands, but they dragged him back from the burning car. “There’s nothing you can do, sir,” one of his junior officers shouted. “It’s too late, they’re gone. Keep back!”
Even as he dragged the major clear, the petrol tank of the burning car exploded and they were all thrown backwards as a fireball erupted into the air, raining burning debris down on their heads as they dived for cover. Pandemonium reigned for a few moments as the troops beat out the sparks that smouldered on their clothes and burned in their hair. Patches of dry grass ignited along the roadside, and the tree against which the car had been wedged flamed like a torch above the burning remains.
Later, when the fire had been doused and the car had cooled enough to be approached, Major Thielen peered into what remained of its blackened shell. The explosion and subsequent conflagration had incinerated the two bodies he had seen, but he had no doubt who they were. Braun had passed on orders from Colonel Hoch to follow him in pursuit of two résistants, and this Thielen had done.
It was clear to him, he told his men gravely, that in his haste to apprehend the résistants, the colonel’s driver had taken a corner too fast and crashed into a tree. There was oil on the road, which must have made him skid.
He didn’t believe it, of course, but whatever the cause of the accident, Thielen was glad to be rid of Colonel Hoch. He considered him a disgrace to the Fatherland. Thielen was fighting a war, but he had no time for thuggery, torture and murder, practised on civilians, and he knew that Hoch had committed all three. Life without him would be a welcome relief indeed. He was glad Hoch was dead and he was not going to look particularly hard at the circumstances; he had no intention of suggesting that the colonel’s death was anything more than a dreadful accident, happening in the course of his duty. Such would be his report.
“Should we search the area, sir?” demanded Hartmann, the young officer who had dragged him back from the burning vehicle.
“Certainly,” agreed Thielen. “Let the dogs loose and see if they pick up a scent.”
The dog handlers did as they were ordered, and the dogs ran round in excited circles, as they discovered patches of blood in the dust of the road.
“Blood, sir,” reported one of the handlers. “Looks fairly fresh.”
“See if they pick up a trail,” ordered Thielen. He might still find the résistants that the colonel had been chasing. The dogs were released again, but apart from nosing about in a dry ditch at the edge of the field for a while, they found nothing to take their interest, and after a while they were returned to the armoured car.
“I wonder how they came to crash,” Hartmann said, studying the remains of the Citroën. “I suppose this is Colonel Hoch’s car.”
“Of course it is,” snapped Thielen. “We’ve seen him in it a hundred times. Please see to the removal of the bodies, Hartmann, and arrange for the burial of the remains. I will report back to SS Headquarters in Amiens.”
Hartmann appeared to be about to speak, but thinking better of it he snapped a salute and turned to give the orders to his men. Hoch had been feared almost as much by his own men as he had by the local population. A sadistic and ambitious man, he would be mourned by no one.
Thielen realised that the knowledge Hoch had gained from the torture of his most recent prisoners had died with him, but even so, he didn’t despair of catching the résistants. Braun had actually seen them, so he could give a description, and Thielen himself already had one contact in the locality. He could be tapped for more information. No, Thielen didn’t despair of catching them at all… and the credit would be his.
“Get the road cleared,” he ordered Hartmann, “then report to me at HQ.”
Unaware that pursuit, for the time being, was over, Adelaide and Marcel turned off the road to Albert, and, with Marcel navigating, took the lanes and by-ways, travelling across country until they bumped along a dirt track and through the gate into a farmyard. As they turned in, Adelaide recognised it as the farm Marcel had taken her to on the night she had landed. She pulled up in the yard and the elderly woman, Maman, who had looked after her the last time, came out. When Maman saw Marcel slumped in the front seat of the car, she began issuing orders to Adelaide, and between them they managed to get him out of the car and into the house.
“Put the car in the barn for now,” Maman said as she took hot water from the kettle on the range and set about removing Marcel’s
shirt. “We’ll hide it properly later. Now,” she said, turning her attention to Marcel, “let’s have a look at you.”
Adelaide did as she was told, driving the car into the open-ended barn so that it was not immediately apparent to anyone who came into the yard. The front seat was covered in blood, and she realised that Marcel had been bleeding steadily ever since they had made their break. His wound was worse than she had realised, and the effort he had put into moving the two German soldiers into the wrecked car, and his determination to get them both to a safe house, had made it worse. She found a bucket in the yard and filling it at the pump set about trying to remove the bloodstains from the leather seat. She got the worst off, but the stain needed more than clean water and a cloth to remove it completely. Next, she found a screwdriver in a box of tools and carefully removed the number plates. There was no point in making identification of the car easy. Someone had lost his car; the German staff car was almost identical; with a little careful work it might be a replacement.
When she finally went back into the kitchen she found Maman bandaging Marcel’s shoulder. Marcel was pale, his face drawn with pain, but he managed a weak smile as she came into the room.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
“Taken care of, for now,” she replied, putting the number plates on the table beside him. “All we have to do is get rid of these and replace them.” She spoke to Maman. “How bad?”
“Not good,” replied the old lady, tipping the bowl of bloodied water down the sink. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll live. Now, what about you?”
“Me?” Adelaide sounded surprised.
“Sit down and let me look.” Maman poured clean water into the bowl, and taking Adelaide’s hands washed them thoroughly. The water made the cuts from the flying glass sting, but none was very deep, and Adelaide had been almost unaware of them in their flight.
The Sisters of St. Croix Page 38