Cold Lonely Courage

by Soren Petrek

  There had been a few very lucky survivors of Oradour sur Glane. They recounted their terrifying ordeals once the Germans were gone as they returned to the ruin of their village. It had been almost completely decimated. None of the buildings were inhabitable, even the one that the German’s had occupied, drinking the contents of the owner’s wine cellar in an impromptu celebration, as he lay dead in a hole somewhere. The next day his home, too, was torched.

  One woman had escaped the church through a back window, along with a young mother and her baby. The three had been machine-gunned, but the older woman had survived by crawling away to hide in a nearby field. Miraculously, some wounded men had escaped. As the barn they were in was set ablaze they were able to crawl away and hide. Diekmann and his der Fuhrer regiment had gone on a looting and killing orgy. Bodies were found down the well at the center of town. Madeleine needed no further proof. Diekmann would never see a courts marshal. She was going to send him straight to a higher authority for judgment.

  “I see you, Diekmann,” She whispered. She moved over to the rifle, nestled in a makeshift cradle to steady her shot. With a few minor adjustments she readied the scope and rechecked the distance and wind velocity. She positioned herself behind the rifle and saw Diekmann standing alone. She put the cross hairs of the telescopic sight on the side of his head. The arrogant fool refused to wear a helmet. That can be dangerous, she thought coldly. Diekmann seemed oblivious to the malice that radiated from her. She felt her heart beat and regulated her breathing. The finger of her right hand curled evenly around the trigger. She released her breath slowly and between heartbeats squeezed the trigger. The heavy grain bullet ripped apart Diekmann’s head long before the report of the rifle was heard. She was so far away that little sound reached the German troops. Diekmann collapsed as every muscle in his body simultaneously relaxed. It was almost a minute before anyone noticed his inert body on the ground. Men took cover when the gun’s report reached their ears. He was clearly dead and it was several minutes before lieutenant Boche crawled over and inspected Diekmann’s body. He looked down at what was left of the man’s head, the eyes vacant and cloudy.

  “Move the Major’s body and cover it for burial,” he told two attending soldiers. He looked in the direction the shot must have come from and was puzzled. If the sniper was an advance scout he would have continued firing as a signal for a British advance. Neither happened. Diekmann had been singled out and assassinated. A cold chill ran down his spine as he considered what that meant. There was a killer out there that had specifically targeted Diekmann. For all he knew maybe the sniper had been sent from Berlin in an attempt to put an end to the ramifications of the business at Oradour sur Glane. The general himself may have ordered the killing. Equally disturbing was the notion that someone else was retaliating. If that was so, it might never end. Was he next? He scanned the horizon and knew that he needed some kind of answer. He assembled a squad of three men and piled into a vehicle with a mounted machine gun in case the British decided it was time to start the war again and attack.

  Not far away, Captain Teach stood among several officers preparing to signal the British advance against Caen. The men looked at each other as they scanned the horizon with their binoculars looking for the shooter.

  “That didn’t come from our side, lads. The sound was from Jerry’s flank. I don’t remember sending a scouting party over there, it would be bloody suicide at this point. Maybe some Maquis is taking pot shots at the Hun.”

  “That was no potshot, Harry,” Teach said, addressing his fellow officer. If the shooter is who I think it is, there is a dead German in hell right now.”

  The men looked at Teach. His face glowed with something they couldn’t label.

  “Not one of your old crew, eh Jack?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, old boy,” Jack said with a jovial pat to the man’s back. “If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

  The assembled men chuckled, as they broke apart to attend to their duties.

  “Soon, Madeleine,” Jack whispered aloud as he walked towards the command tent.

  A short while later Lieutenant Boche was summoned over by one of his men.

  “I think we found the weapon, Lieutenant,” a young soldier said, pointing to the sniper rifle laying where it had been fired. “It took us a while to get close. We weren’t sure the shooter had moved on. The man must have some talent to make a head shot from this distance.”

  Boche walked over and looked down at the rifle still cradled in the shooting stand. The bolt had been removed, rendering the weapon useless without repair. He walked over and reached down and picked up a small hat that was carefully laid next to the weapon. It was a tiny scrap of a thing but he recognized it for what it was immediately. The killer had left behind a tiny baby’s bonnet charred and discolored with smoke. Inside the bonnet was a small piece of bread. His insides turned to ice as he remembered the screams of the children of Oradour. He remembered hearing that one of the soldiers had thrown a live baby into the oven of the local bakery. Their ghosts sought vengeance and this was the beginning. Boche turned and walked away, trying to banish the memories from his mind. But the sound of hundreds of tiny feet marching in wooden clogs drummed accusingly in his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Madeleine was sitting in Colonel Maurice Buckmaster’s office. He was head of F section and responsible for the SOE activities in occupied France. He had been the man who had originally interviewed her over tea and scones. Those days seemed a lifetime away. The Colonel was a much more relaxed man now that his directive in the war had been accomplished.

  Madeleine received years of back pay as an ensign and used some of it to put herself up in the Ritz hotel and to purchase some new clothes. She smiled at the memory of the British women as they watched her make her way through the expensive shop making several purchases, her confidence adding a layer of sophistication and depth to her already stunning good looks.

  Buckmaster returned her smile. She looked chic and stylish in clothes tailored to fit her. She had gone to Harrods and received a full beauty treatment and was turning heads in the street wherever she went. There was a porcelain quality to her skin, complementing her fine bone structure and features that had taken on a more sensual look than the twenty year old girl his section had sent to France as a killer. He found himself having to break eye contact with her often. Funny after all he had endured that he would feel like a schoolboy in the presence of one of his own operatives.

  “I don’t suppose I can talk you into undertaking another mission, Madeleine. Germany is far from defeated and a person with your talents can be very useful.”

  “No, Colonel. I am finished. I have completed my assignment and leave the rest of the fighting to the soldiers. France will be completely free very soon. Once the south is liberated, I will return to La Ciotat and my family.”

  “You have served your country and the cause of freedom with utter distinction. There will be medals and honors for you once this is all done.” Buckmaster slowly poured the tea in the formal manner that gave him such pleasure. It was the simple things that reminded him that Britain had endured her people and traditions, her backbone. He was just bursting with patriotic pride these days. Many agents had been lost to the war, some perished in battle, and others suffered a slower death in concentration camps. The Germans would have much to atone for and he intended to participate in whatever wartime tribunals were established to punish the atrocities of the Nazis.

  “I wonder, Colonel. Assassination hardly ranks in the gentlemanly art of war. I was the hammer of the dirty tricks department. I killed so many.”

  “Madeleine, every flight that bombs German towns kills hundreds and thousands of civilians. For the most part, all of your targets were military and, I might add, some of the most demented and unholy of men that have ever walked the face of the earth. We are quite sure that our suspicions that these same SS and Gestapo participated in the mass extermination of countless numbers
of Jews will be confirmed, along with their more open crimes like those perpetrated at Oradour sur Glane.

  “I tried when I could to help get Jewish children out. I remained anonymous as possible. There were many brave young men women risking their lives to do the same without training. All they had was courage and trust in God. Their heroics saved lives. I took lives.”

  “The Nazis are monsters, Madeleine.”

  “True enough. I have fulfilled my promise to my brother Yves. France will be free. Now I must return to my parents. They have had no word from me for more than three years.”

  “You have news of their safety?”

  “Yes, the German police officers of whom I spoke verified that they were alive.”

  “Major Horst Stenger and Captain William Petersen?”

  “Yes sir. If you have any influence, please locate them and see that they are afforded privileged status. They are Germany’s future and her past. I find that after knowing them I cannot hate the German people, however hard I try. Stenger and Willi saved me in more ways than one. Stenger will be a leader in the rebuilding of Germany. I know it in my heart.”

  “I have some additional although unconfirmed information about those two.” Buckmaster said, tapping a thin file on the table next to the tea service. It seems that hundreds of Jewish refugees have told stories about being aided in escape by men they thought to be masquerading as Gestapo agents. One taller and blond and the other darker, compact like a prizefighter.”

  Madeleine tried to speak but couldn’t, peals of laughter rolling out of her as she looked at Buckmaster. Tears rolled down her cheeks, letting her emotions go unchecked. She felt just marvelous. Buckmaster stared at her a look of utter surprise on his face. This was their stone killer! Eventually he couldn’t help it and dissolved himself. His own sleepless nights were becoming a thing of the past. His agents had fulfilled their jobs, as had he. France was free. People passing in the hall must have wondered what was going on in that little room on the second floor of 64 Baker Street, London.

  Stenger and Willi stood behind the temporary barbed wire fence along with hundreds of other German POWs awaiting their fate. They were relatively clean, not having been in combat as many of the other captured men had.

  A few days earlier they had surrendered to a US patrol, sitting austerely in front of the little police station drinking coffee. The Americans had been relatively cordial believing that they were basically arresting German MPs. Enlisted men everywhere treat MPs with some deference, regardless of which side they’re on. Both men turned to watch as a British jeep pulled into the compound. Two officers jumped out and presented some orders to the commanding officer of the makeshift POW camp.

  “Major Horst Stenger and Captain William Petersen, front and center,” one of the guards called out.

  “What’s this, Horsty? I don’t care whose army this is, it’s never good to get your name called out,” Willi said out of the side of his mouth.

  “We better find out, Willi,” Stenger said, equally surprised.

  One of the officers marched stiffly up to the fence. Snapped to attention and saluted Stenger as he stepped forward.

  “Major Horst Stenger and Captain William Petersen please report!”

  “Stenger and Petersen here,” Stenger answered.

  “Come with us, sir. Somebody in London has ordered your release.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “The directive ordering your release was signed by Winston Churchill.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Willi managed to say.

  “You must have friends in high places, gentlemen.”

  “No, an angel on our shoulders,” Stenger said, shaking his head and smiling knowingly at Willi.

  “You are officially released and are now posted in the service of her Majesty’s Navy as civilian employees for the duration of the war.“

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t believe it. You two are going to be night watchmen at the Bullmastiff brewery in Cardiff, Wales. You lucky sods!” The officer proclaimed incredulously.

  “I trust the brewery is intact, Lieutenant?” Stenger said, addressing the officer.

  “Your planes dropped bombs everywhere else but it was never hit.”

  Stenger roared with laughter and Willi was shaking and giggling so hard he had to hold onto Stenger.

  Willi finally managed, “You see, Horsty, I got you in the brewery business after all!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Jean-Pierre Toche sat at the kitchen table and went over his restaurant accounts. Things had improved dramatically once the Germans left. The people of La Ciotat were still celebrating and spending money at the restaurant. His stocks of wine and spirits were down, but he grinned, knowing that there would be another round of celebration when Germany was defeated. He mechanically did the books, but his thoughts were far away. He and his wife had not seen nor heard from Madeleine in more than three years. He had long since prepared himself for the worst. Not knowing what had happened to her was very difficult. He had no idea if she was dead or alive. He couldn’t allow himself false hope. It was his soldier’s way of dealing with grief. War takes the young and leaves the shadows of their parents to pick up the pieces and live bravely on he thought, staring down at his ledgers, seeing them there but focusing on nothing. His eyes misted as the heaviness of grief settled on his shoulders.

  Madeleine rode in an American Military Jeep as it drove down the streets of La Ciotat. In the open Jeep, the salty fresh air blew in off the Mediterranean. It filled her and cradled her in its raw embrace. It was then she knew she was home. Everything in the town seemed the same, yet different. There was an excitement in the air. She saw hope and promise on the faces of people that she caught a glimpse of as she passed. Things were so different from when she had stolen away in the dark of night, the blood of her first kill on her hands. It was this place and the bold patriotism of its people, that had sustained her during her times of loneliness.

  Suddenly she grabbed the driver’s arm, pointing hurriedly to the opposite side of the road. The young soldier slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop right across the street from a small, orderly restaurant. The Jeep swayed as it came to an abrupt halt. Madeleine had to grab the dash to keep her seat. She sat unable to move as she looked in through the windows of her home. Indecision crept into her thoughts for the first time in years. She was not the same daughter who had left them so many years ago. The innocence of youth had been ripped from her by the terror of war, and by the things she’d seen and done. She caught a movement in the window and knew it was her mother. All hesitation disappeared as she threw herself out of the jeep and ran towards the open door.

  “Maman!’ Madeleine cried as she ran through the front door.

  Madeleine’s mother stood in shock as Madeleine ran forward. The tray she was carrying clattered to the ground.

  “Madeleine!” she yelled and grabbed her daughter, squeezing and kissing her to make sure she was real. Seconds latter Jean-Pierre charged from the back room, stumbling a little with his prosthetic leg. He crashed into his little family and they clung together, tears of joy and laughter shaking them as they held on for dear life.

  Later Madeleine and her parents sat around the small family table in the back eating and drinking, stopping only for frequent hugs and kisses when they couldn’t hold back.

  “You fought with the British, I see,” Jean-Pierre said touching the insignia on Madeleine’s sleeve.”

  “I was commissioned and worked for the SOE French division. I was an agent.”

  “Were you in France with the Resistance?” Madeleine’s mother asked without a hint of surprise.

  “I worked alone, mother. Always alone,” Madeleine said glancing away.

  A slow smile grew on Jean-Pierre’s face as he began to understand the truth behind his daughter’s words.

  “You killed Germans, didn’t you, Madeleine? You took revenge for Yves and for France,” Jean-Pierre said
.

  “Yes,” Madeleine said without hesitation looking directly at her mother.

  “Claire, I am pleased to introduce you to the most dangerous French woman the world has ever known, L’ange de la Mori?

  When Madeleine didn’t deny the statement the shock on her mother’s face slowly changed into a gleam of knowing pride.

  “Of course she is, Jean-Pierre. I have often cautioned you not to cross the women in my family. Our blood is both the hottest and the coldest,” she said, not missing a beat as she raised her glass to Madeleine.

  Major Jack Teach walked down the cobble stone street checking the signs on the various businesses as he passed. It was hot and the sun was beating down on him. He had never been so far south in France. He wished for some bathing shorts and a towel for the beach he could glimpse in the distance. He had asked directions at the train station, in his British Grammar School French. It was just down the road. As he made his way down the road he rubbed an ache in his left shoulder. He still carried a nasty piece of shrapnel he’d picked up courtesy of the retreating German army. He’d been informed that Madeleine was alive through his old posting in Baker Street. He was overjoyed by the information, and immediately requested a long overdue leave. He needed to find her and to fulfill his promise. He refused to think about whom he would find after so many years of separation and war. The same hope he had carried throughout the war drove him forward.

  Teach turned a corner and saw a few tables and chairs arranged in the shade of a large plane tree in front of a modest sized building bearing a simple sign, Chez Toche. He dropped his bag in the street and the small slip of paper on which he’d written down the directions fell from his hand as he crossed the street against traffic, ignoring the surprised complaints of a few motorists and pedestrians traveling past.