Cold Lonely Courage

by Soren Petrek

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “I must have some help with the train,” SOE operative Brian McDermott said to a middle aged Frenchman standing in the storage room of a small tebac, a combination corner store and newspaper stand. The war years had not been kind to the shabby little store, and there were few items on the shelves, the effect of severe rationing. However, McDermott knew that the owner, Monsieur Pernod, in addition to being a Resistance leader, had a variety of items for sale that weren’t readily displayed. After all, he was a merchant. Who could better understand the value of things in short supply but available on the black market?

  “I can spare no men. They are already off with the Maquis, assisting with the invasion.”

  McDermott shook his head, “We can save hundreds of lives, but we need to disable the flat cars. I have all of the necessary supplies but I cannot do it alone.”

  “Explosives?”

  “Non, monsieur, paste,” McDermott said smiling.

  “Paste? How will you stop train cars with paste?”

  “Help me and I’ll show you.”

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “This far away, I doubt Jerry will be watching very hard. Most of the rail attacks come when the trains are underway. This will be different. We will be able to get to the cars long before they go on their way. We will disable them. If we are successful more than 300 tanks, 1400 additional vehicles and 15,000 men will have to go by road! Time is everything. The longer it takes Jerry to regroup and counterattack, the further inland we get and the more men and armor we can throw back at them if they try. I must have help!”

  Pernod smoked his cigarette and looked at McDermott. There was no mistake; he was measuring the man as surely as if he were being fitted for a suit. McDermott held his eyes and watched as Pernod came to some silent personal decision.

  “Then I can offer you help.”

  Pernod motioned to a young girl sitting quietly in the corner. She was school aged at best, but she didn’t hesitate for an instant.

  “Marie, go and find your sister.”

  McDermott watched the girl walk out of the room. Her sister must be a messenger. He hoped so; there was little time and no telling when the trains would leave, carrying death and destruction towards men who were fighting for their lives already. He needed help fast.

  Shortly, a slightly older girl, who had to be Marie’s sister, came into the room. The sisters stood next to their father, waiting patiently for him to speak.

  “Here is your help, it is the best I can do.”

  “These girls? McDermott asked incredulously. They are children. Even young men would be better!”

  Both girls instantly took offense. The change in them was dramatic. Their dark eyes burned with passion and their spines straightened as if they were ready to attack.

  “We can do anything some silly boys can do,” the elder girl spat furiously. “We have been helping for years now. We are brave and have seen more Germans than you have. We won’t cry like some lost little boy looking for his mother if things get scary. They are always scary when you are smuggling messages or guns. We know of the rumors of the L’ange de la mort, she is a woman and a sister in the Resistance. She would kill you like swatting a gnat. We are daughters of France, and I don’t care if you think we’re old enough or not! The English of all people should remember the bravery of the young women of France when they are determined to drive invaders from their native land. You English have not lived with these bastards pawing at you, like some toy for them to abuse at will. I have smiled enough. I have kept my head down long enough. I have seen my friends sent away to work in their slave camps and factories long enough! The invasion has come. When I get the chance, I will kill Germans. Watch me!”

  McDermott stepped back under the onslaught. It was if the girl grew in stature as she unleashed her diatribe, her tongue lashing raised to a crescendo that was almost a roar. The look in the eyes of the girls was frightening in its intensity. He had offended them deeply. The older girl was shaking with fury. Suddenly his mind understood her reference to Joan of Arc, who at seventeen had led French troops in battles to rid her homeland of the occupying English. He knew he had made a serious misjudgment. He had to correct it or all was lost.

  “I am sorry. I did not know. I don’t always understand how things have been. My family lives under the bombs in London. My brother is on the bottom of the channel in his Spitfire. I spoke stupidly. I only know what must be done.”

  “Oui, monsieur and what is it we will do?” The younger girl asked gently, the fury receding as McDermott explained himself. The sudden pain on his face communicated more than his words ever could.

  “We’re going to drain the oil out of the axles of three hundred flat cars and replace it with my special paste.”

  “That will work?” the girls’ father said raising his eyebrows in amazement.

  “Oh, it will work. You see, the paste works like oil for a little while, and then it hardens like cement. Those cars will seize up and be useless. Jerry will have to offload his nasty hardware and move it up the road. Other chaps and ladies,” he said with a nod to the girls, “will make their life hell all the way to the front.”

  The girls and their father beamed. McDermott made what would undoubtedly be an incredibly dangerous mission sound like a monumental schoolboy’s prank.

  “The only thing I haven’t worked out is what to do with the oil. It can’t be drained onto the ground, it would be noticed. We must collect it and dispose of it.”

  “I know exactly how to dispose of the oil,” Pernod said.

  “How?”

  “It will be sold “

  McDermott smiled at the wonderful irony of it all. They would not only steal Jerry’s oil, but they would add insult to injury by profiting from it. He had more than a little bit of rogue in him. He had been perfect for SOE, a natural grifter. He knew Pernod would make a tidy profit selling the oil to his friends and neighbors. Why not? The Pernods were the ones putting themselves at risk. A little compensation for the deed wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  “You are a man after my own heart. We must begin at once. We will need a truck and a plan to get into the rail yard.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult. With the invasion all eyes are focused up north,” the Frenchman said.

  “Let’s hope so. Or, our trip to the station may be shortened a bit,” McDermott replied.

  The tough little Pernod family nodded in unison, clearly understanding the immensity of the danger they faced.

  McDermott and the two girls crouched at the end of the fence surrounding the rail yard where there was a long line of flat bed rail cars loaded with tanks and artillery. Loading had apparently stopped for the day and each piece was covered with tarps in an attempt to mask what was underneath. McDermott sucked in his breath and was awed at the sheer volume of equipment that could be brought to bear by the Das Reich Division. The tanks alone would wreck untold havoc on ground troops as they advanced ahead of the armor being down loaded on the beaches. He already knew serious miscalculations had been made concerning allied armor. Nobody had anticipated the nearly impenetrable hedgerows of Normandy. For generations farmers had built up the bramble and tree barriers on top of rows of earth. They served to separate and define individual fields. Tanks without infantry cover were vulnerable to attack from rocket propelled grenades. With every hedgerow a new hiding place, determined pockets of infantry could bring Panzerfausts up to shoot grenades at the allied tanks. If the Germans could combine their infantry and armor against the unsupported Allied infantry, their defense would be brutal. His mission, and that of so many others, was to cripple the French road and railway systems keeping the German reinforcements with their massive and heavily armored tanks from getting to the invasion area for as long as possible.

  McDermott looked over at his companions. If the two sisters were frightened they certainly didn’t show it. For the first time he began to believe that they might just pull it of
f. They decided to work as a team and hid a small truck nearby that held the paste and empty tanks into which they could store the oil removed from the train axles. They observed the sentries making perimeter sweeps at three hour intervals.

  McDermott motioned to the girls to move and the three of them ran doubled over to the train, ducking under the side of the lead car and setting to work. They moved with machine-like efficiency. McDermott was trained specifically for the task and it had become routine for him. As the gear oil had to be routinely replaced, the bolts that allowed for drainage loosened easily. Once the oil was drained into a large wine bottle, they squirted in McDermott’s paste like icing piped onto a cake. Several times they stopped and listened for activity. Nothing stirred. The Germans would not have expected any significant Resistance activity this far south.

  The three worked through the night with no incident, moving away from the cars when the sentries came by. Clearly all attention was directed to the fighting in the north, a small mercy given the nature of their undertaking.

  With the sun starting to rise, McDermott and the girls parted ways back at the tebac with a promise to get together for a meal when France was free and the war was over. They were bonded together by the danger they had shared. It was an unbreakable bond that ensured that they would never forget one another.

  As McDermott walked away he felt a strong sense of accomplishment for what one man and a couple of French schoolgirls had achieved. He would never take the young for granted again. He was downright cheerful in his ignorance, not knowing that he and the girls had set a series of events in motion that would ultimately claim the lives of hundreds of innocent civilians but would save the lives of many more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “All of the flat cars?” General Lammerding screamed into the phone.

  “Fix them immediately. We have been ordered to the front and we have 300 tanks to move now!” As Lammerding listened his face turned from a look of rage to one of utter disbelief.

  “General, the flat cars have been disabled. Some kind of paste was put into the axles and the oil has been removed. It solidified into some unknown kind of cement. They will have to be replaced. It is beyond my control.” Colonel Victor Rashmeir calmly spoke into the phone. He was Gestapo and had been sent to investigate the incident along with countless others taking place throughout the region and all over France.

  “How am I to get to the front?” Lammerding said, having remembered that it was never prudent to scream at a highly ranked Gestapo officer repeatedly.

  “You have tanks and trucks, drive them north.”

  Lammerding was shaking his head, “That will take days, and we’ll be exposed to the Maquis groups all along the way. My troops will be harassed from the moment we set out.”

  “Perhaps increased security might have been prudent, Herr General,” Rashmeier said evenly, with just a hint of contempt. He knew he had Lammerding. He’d had enough yelling from the General for one day.

  “Fine. These terrorists will pay, I’ll tell you that Colonel.”

  “Yes, I believe those are your standing orders General, and I am told that to date you have not hesitated to carry them out,” Rashmeire added.

  Lammerding hung up the phone without further comment. “Damn it!” He thought. I need to move a division of men, armor and equipment to Normandy by road! He yelled for his aide.

  “Klein, get Major Kampfe on the phone,” Lammerding bellowed. “And I want all of my officers here within the hour. I don’t care where they are or what they’re doing; we’re moving by 1200 hours!”

  Lammerding hated to split up his troops and equipment, but it made the best sense to get the convoy moving. He would now have to move the tanks by road and that meant using up precious fuel. Armor needed petrol. It wasn’t bazookas or bombs that hamstrung him, it was the vast amount of petrol those tanks drank up when you moved them anywhere. He shook his head again, not for the last time that day. The Allies had chosen the most heavily fortified region to invade. He had spent time in Normandy, familiarizing himself with the fortifications and terrain. It was a fortress, “Fortress Europe” as it came to be known. Why throw yourselves up against that? Bordeaux was much less heavily defended. Just as Germany had simply driven around the Maginot line facing Germany in Northeastern France, the Allies could have skirted the huge guns and fortified positions in the north and split the country in two, fanning out in all directions, cutting off huge sections of German troops from supplies and reinforcements. It was a time-tested strategy. He scoffed; it seemed more of a Russian move just to throw oneself at the enemy relentlessly to see if he would break. It was of little consequence now. Normandy it was. He was ordered to proceed to Caen, stop the advance and launch a counterattack.

  Major Kampfe watched as several small but heavy boxes were loaded onto the back of a transport truck by a small group of men. Although the boxes were marked “records” and should have been much lighter, none of the men so much as commented on that fact to their superior officer. Standing next to Kampfe was a lieutenant just recently minted out of the Hitler youth and rabid to please the dashing Kampfe whose reputation preceded him.

  “Lieutenant, these records must not fall into enemy hands, not at all costs. They are vital secrets to the war effort and will be instrumental in our eventual defeat of the enemy. Take them immediately to the railhead here at Limoges where you will take them to our agent for transport. This information is for your ears only. This convoy is to appear routine. Understood?”

  “Jawohl, Major!” The eager officer said as he leaped into the passenger seat of the staff car that was to lead the procession.

  A couple of guards accompanied the procession but that was it. Best to hide in plain sight, Kampfe mused as the procession pulled out of the compound. Nothing was certain, he reminded himself. Surviving to spend the gold would be something of a miracle. At least it gave him added incentive not to be stupid at this stage of the game.

  Kampfe watched as the small convoy turned onto the main road and out of sight. He hoped that it would be able to slip by unnoticed, as it was largely heading in a direction that wouldn’t attract any undue attention. The Lieutenant had been given a letter signed by General Lammerding directing that all assistance be afforded the convoy. Kampfe knew the signature of an SS General should get the convoy through and the gold on a train bound for Zurich without incident. He knew that anything could happen, but at least the gold was heading away from the front and towards safety. He would have accompanied it but knew that a ranking officer would ordinarily not have been sent on a routine errand. That was exactly what he wanted the convoy to appear to be, routine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Madeleine made her way north, traveling mostly by train when she could without attracting attention. She knew this region well. It was where her cousin lived and where she’d spent many August months in an attempt to escape the heat of the south and the blasting Mediterranean sun. She longed to stop and enjoy a little normalcy with her cousin Gabrielle. She had not written these long months, which had now turned to years. That would simply have been impossible, and would have put Gabrielle and her small family at risk. Madeleine did not resent the fact that Gabrielle and her small town had all but avoided the hardships of war. In fact, Madeleine drew solace from the fact that there were towns throughout the country that had escaped notice. It was near these areas of inactivity that she routinely hid.

  On the few occasions that she stopped in a shop or to quietly listen at a cafe for news, she did so under the pretense of traveling. Her “work” had taken her all over France and her familiarity with the local towns, their industries and the customs of their inhabitants all lent to her skill at avoiding notice. Bulky drab clothing and a set of ugly glasses helped as well. She usually traveled as a student studying to be a teacher. Her mother taught at a local teacher training college. Madeleine smiled now, grateful for the fact that her mother taught languages. Her mother had passed on a knack for picking th
em up to both of her children. She had always liked English. It was difficult to learn but her mother taught her religiously from her infancy. Crib languages were what she came to understand the term was. The accent was something else. Her English was heavily accented with the raw French accent of Provence. She knew it was one of the reasons the SOE accepted her. She had simply answered an advertisement in a London paper. You have to love the British. Only they would follow the ordinary conventions of advertising for spies. She had applied immediately once she made it to England.

  During the interview process, she had been cautious not to appear too eager or rabid for revenge. Each interview became increasingly secret as she was considered for the work.

  Madeleine had always been a prudent person. Her brother had inherited her father’s more carefree and happy personality. Even the loss of a leg had not driven out his joie de vivre. When he returned to her mother after being wounded during the first war, her mother had told Madeleine from a young age that a leg does not make a man. When she was older her mother had whispered to Madeleine over a couple of glasses of wine that in all the important departments her father was very much a man. Madeleine had been a little shocked but pleased that her usually reserved mother shared that intimate detail with her. Jack was like her father in some respects. He had the same carefree, almost reckless attitude towards life. He simply didn’t seem to get overly concerned about the day-to-day stresses of life. On the other hand, he showed great attention to detail concerning his missions and felt personally responsible for the lives of the people under his command. She was in constant danger of discovery. She knew that if captured she would die a slow and painful death. The Gestapo and SS had made it quite clear that any suspect meeting her description was to be turned over to their tender care immediately. She knew enough about rape; and simulated torture had given her a taste of what to expect if captured.