Attack at Night

by Robert Jackson

  ‘What happened?’ Douglas asked, his face grim. He had a feeling that he already knew. Raoul took a sip of brandy from a glass proffered by Barbut and coughed slightly, but his voice grew a little stronger.

  ‘It must have been only an hour or two after you left,’ he said. ‘When was it? Day before yesterday? Christ, I can’t remember. Been on the run for ages.’ He closed his eyes, and for a moment Douglas thought that he had fainted. But the eyes opened again, and Raoul went on: ‘It seems the Germans found the tracks your aeroplane made when it landed. A patrol of them headed for the nearest village — you remember, the village where all the help came from when the plane got stuck. The patrol was under the command of a Gestapo official. The bastard didn’t mess about. When the villagers wouldn’t talk, he picked out ten men and had them shot on the spot. Then he threatened to start on the kids, at which point one of the womenfolk broke down and told him what she knew. Can’t say I blame her all that much.’

  He broke off and asked for a drink of water. Someone brought him a cup, which he drained greedily, holding it shakily to his lips with his left hand.

  ‘That’s better,’ he gasped, handing the cup to Colette. ‘Let me get up, will you? Shoulder hurts like hell, but I can sit up okay.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ she ordered him firmly. ‘You’ve lost a great deal of blood. Besides, I’m doing my best to dress your wound, and I can’t do that if you keep on moving around.’

  Raoul grinned weakly at her and allowed her to continue with her task of swabbing mud and dried blood from his shoulder. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’re the boss.’ His gaze switched back to Douglas, and he went on with his story. ‘After the woman had spilled the beans, the Germans headed straight for my place. Luckily, somebody was out in the fields and saw them coming. I told the folks in my village to make themselves scarce into the countryside. I stayed for a while and kept Jerry’s head down with some shooting, just to give the folks a bit of a head start, then I ran for it too — in the opposite direction. As I had suspected, the Jerries followed me instead of the villagers. One of them managed to wing me, but I found a hiding place and lay low. Fortunately, they didn’t have any dogs with them, or I’d have been sniffed out for sure. As it was, the Jerries combed around for a while, then set fire to the village and went away. I knew I had to get a warning to you, so here I am.’

  He made it all sound simple, but Douglas knew that getting here must have required an enormous feat of endurance on the French-Canadian’s part. Wounded and on foot, he had crossed fifteen miles of open country, including two roads. The journey had been easy enough when Douglas and the others had made it on horseback, but for Raoul it must have been a nightmare — particularly in the knowledge that the roads he had to cross would by now be heavily patrolled.

  Colette finished dressing his wound, raising him so that she could wind the bandages round his injured shoulder. ‘You’re lucky,’ she told him. ‘The bullet went straight through. You’ve lost a bit of tissue, but no bones were broken. I don’t think there will be any permanent damage, apart from some stiffness after the wound heals.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Raoul said briefly. ‘Now can I sit up?’ Colette nodded, and Raoul was helped to a chair by Douglas and Brough. He subsided into it and winced as a stab of pain shot through his shoulder. He passed his left hand wearily across his eyes, prompting the remark from Douglas that he looked as though he could do with a good sleep.

  ‘Sleep?’ Raoul said in a tone that was almost accusing, staring at the SAS officer. ‘There’s no time for sleep. Don’t you realize, the Germans will be calling up reinforcements right now, and that by this time tomorrow the whole area will be crawling with them? There was only one thing on your side right from the start, and that was the element of surprise. Now you’ve lost even that. You can bet your last dollar that the Germans are fully aware by now that it’s British soldiers they’re looking for, not just British agents — and it won’t take them long to work out what your target is likely to be. You’ve got to move, and move fast.’

  Douglas thought for a moment, then said: ‘But they won’t know where to look for us. Isn’t it more likely that they will make an all-out drive against the Maquis in the hope that they will flush us out?’

  Raoul nodded. ‘That’s what is worrying me. For the past forty-eight hours, the Maquisards who are to assist you in your mission have been quietly moving into the area west of Arles from locations all over Provence. On the eve of the operation they will assemble south of the road leading west from Salon-de-Provence. An SOE agent code-named Auguste is with them. Has Monsieur Barbut explained the arrangements London has made to contact you?’

  Douglas nodded. ‘Good,’ Raoul continued. ‘The signal will also be received by Auguste, who will then divide the Maquisards into two groups. One will attack and destroy lock gates on the canal that runs southwards to the Etang de Berre, drawing the attention of enemy forces north of Marseille; the other will follow the railway line south of Miramas and launch a diversionary attack on the northern perimeter of Istres airfield. You must be in position, at a place you yourself must select as favourable, and be ready to make your move as soon as the diversionary attack develops.’

  ‘That’s the immediate problem,’ Douglas admitted. ‘We’ve got to get into the immediate vicinity of Istres — which we have worked out might just be possible, by taking a roundabout route — but then we’ve got to stay in hiding until we get the signal to go in. That’s going to be the difficult part. But I agree with you — what’s going to happen if the Germans discover that the Maquisards are in the area too, and take steps to eliminate them?’

  ‘If that happens,’ Raoul said in a low voice, ‘more will be jeopardized than your mission. We have two hundred Resistance men standing by for this operation — the cream of our men in Provence. If the Germans destroy them, they will also destroy the heart of the Resistance movement in this part of France. And the repercussions, the reprisals against ordinary French men and women, would be widespread.’

  A sudden thought struck Douglas. He looked hard at Raoul and asked: ‘You aren’t thinking of calling off your men, are you?’

  Raoul shook his head, and winced again as the pain of his shoulder struck him. ‘No. I realize that a great deal is at stake. Sacrifices have to be made. I know that if the Maquisards were given the choice, not one of them would back down.’

  Douglas relaxed, then said, ‘But what will you do? You can’t go back to the village, and you can’t come with us.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay here,’ Raoul told him, his voice faint now. ‘I like it here. It’s warm, and comfortable … ’

  His voice trailed off and his chin lolled on his chest. Concerned, Colette bent over him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said after a moment or two. ‘He’s fast asleep, which is the best thing that could happen to him.’ She spoke rapidly to Etienne Barbut, then said to Douglas, ‘He will be looked after. He will be taken to one of the gardiens’ cottages, and hidden. He will be quite safe there.’

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to him,’ Douglas commented. ‘But we need to get ourselves organized. The sooner we move out, the better.’

  Etienne Barbut had one of his servants cook a huge bowl of bouillabaisse before their departure. The SAS men viewed the mixture with some misgivings; the fishy assortment was almost entirely without taste, and the only item that imparted flavour was a helping of stale bread, toasted and strongly impregnated with garlic. Nevertheless, they finished their portions, feigning relish out of courtesy to their host, and being uncertain about the source of their next meal.

  Afterwards, disguised once again as Camargue cowboys, they mounted the sturdy white horses and rode southwards, accompanied by two gardiens whose task it was to bring the animals back to their corral on the ranch.

  It was still relatively early in the morning when the party set out. The sky was clear, a light pastel blue, and the breeze was sweet. For the first time since leaving England, Douglas fel
t relaxed and alert; a hot bath at Etienne Barbut’s, where they had spent the night, had worked wonders for them all.

  They made steady progress southwards, the horses following their sure-footed way along the eastern shore of the Etang de Vaccares, its purple lagoons clouded with water-birds of every description. ‘Just look at that,’ Olds said to nobody in particular. ‘I wouldn’t have missed seeing that for the world. Just think — if it wasn’t for old Hitler, I’d never have known the likes of that existed.’

  The birds were their constant companions for several miles, until they turned aside from the Etang and struck out across country towards the estuary of the Grand Rhône. Far off to the south, Douglas could see what appeared to be a range of low hills, shining a peculiar white in the sun; Colette explained that they were literally mountains of salt, accumulated when the coast of the Camargue became flooded with sea-water during the summer months.

  There was only one moment of alarm, when a lumbering three-engined Junkers 52 transport aircraft droned low overhead. The riders took temporary shelter in a dense thicket until the aircraft had passed; whatever its errand might be, Douglas thought, it obviously isn’t searching for us. So far, so good.

  After some hours, the riders reached an isolated thatched cottage. Etienne Barbut spoke rapidly to Colette, who signalled to Douglas and his men to dismount.

  ‘This is as far as we go on horseback,’ she explained. ‘We lie low here until nightfall, then make our way down to the coast. It isn’t far.’

  Douglas swung down from the saddle and gave his horse an affectionate pat on the neck. He and the others bundled up their hats and ponchos and the two gardiens stuffed the clothing into saddlebags; then, without a word, they rounded up the horses and headed back towards the northern horizon.

  The cottage was empty, but someone had clearly been expecting them. There was bread and cheese, and a pitcher of red wine, on a rough wooden table, and a fire of juniper wood crackled fragrantly in the hearth. Barbut offered no explanation, but indicated that the food was there to be eaten. They set to work on it willingly, their appetites sharpened by the long ride.

  Something was puzzling Douglas, and he voiced his thoughts to Colette. ‘How does he do it?’ he asked. ‘Barbut, I mean. I can’t for the life of me understand how he can have told whoever lives here that we were on our way. It’s uncanny.’

  Colette laughed. ‘Not really. Come outside, and I’ll show you.’

  She led him round the back of the cottage, and pointed to a small wooden lean-to hut. ‘Unlatch the door,’ she ordered, ‘and take a look inside. But try not to disturb the occupants too much. They are pretty hard-worked, just at the moment.’

  Douglas did as she said. In the gloom, something fluttered, momentarily startling him. Then, realizing what it was, he chuckled.

  ‘Pigeons! So that’s it. I suppose I should have guessed.’

  Colette nodded. ‘Yes, the Maquisards have quite an effective communications network in these parts. The only snag is that when the mistral is blowing at full strength, these little fellows sometimes won’t fly. I can’t say that I blame them; it’s an evil wind.’

  For some reason, her words sent a chill of foreboding through Douglas. Not for the first time since arriving in France, he felt a deep sense of unease. So far, everything had been too easy. He felt like a mouse, conscious that a nearby cat was about to spring, but not knowing when or where.

  Darkness, when it came, fell swiftly over the Camargue. They waited for an hour longer, and then Barbut indicated that it was time to leave. Picking up their equipment, they set off in single file, with the Frenchman leading. Conolly moved a few steps behind him, obeying an earlier whispered instruction from Douglas. The Irishman’s order was simple. If Barbut showed any sign of betrayal, he would die immediately.

  They marched on, Barbut threading his way through great pans of salt that whitened the ground all around. Ahead of them, they could hear the murmur of the sea. Colette, who would have been leading the party over this tricky ground had it not been for Barbut’s presence, moved up to walk alongside the rancher. The pace was slower now, as though Barbut and the woman were probing the darkness ahead in search of something as yet unseen.

  Suddenly, a low-pitched whistle sounded in the night, off to one side. Barbut answered with a similar call and changed direction towards the sound. Colette fell back along the line of men and sought out Douglas.

  ‘It’s the man who lives in the cottage back there,’ she explained. ‘He has organized a boat to take us to the other side of the Rhône to the Golfe de Fos. There, we can mix with other fishing craft from Port-de-Bouc and Martigues. They come and go all the time, even though the Germans have tried to impose restrictions. With luck, we shall be able to go ashore unobserved at some quiet spot.’

  The boat had been pulled ashore on the edge of a salt pan. They pushed it clear and waded after it through shallow water before scrambling aboard. It was a small craft, just big enough to hold them all. A man whom Douglas presumed must be its owner spoke in subdued tones to Barbut and Colette, then hoisted a small, triangular sail which immediately filled with the night breeze, propelling the craft away from the shore. The man from the cottage stood there for a few moments, a silent and unknown figure, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  The boat’s owner, at the tiller, touched a pair of oars with his foot and made signs that someone ought to make use of them. Douglas and Brough took one apiece and were soon helping the boat on its way. It followed the edge of the flat marshlands for some time and then entered the estuary of the Grand Rhône. The water was calm, little more than a placid trickle at the point where the great river met the sea.

  As Colette had predicted, there were plenty of fishing craft about, some of them surprisingly displaying lights. Douglas thought that the Germans would have put a stop to that. Their own boat moved in anonymity among the rest, the man at the tiller holding a steady easterly course across the estuary until, at length, the far bank became visible, curving around a mile-long promontory into the Golfe de Fos.

  The gulf itself was some four miles in width. With the SAS men taking turns at the oars, and the sail billowing nicely, the boat made good progress north-westwards toward the far shore and finally grounded among some marshy flats. The boat’s occupants quickly jumped clear and helped to push the craft free before squelching their way towards drier ground. Behind them, a hoarse whisper came out of the darkness from the boatman:

  ‘Allez, vite! Et bonne chance!’

  Hefting their MP-40s, the SAS men fanned out in an extended line as the ground became harder under their feet. Barbut pounded along beside Douglas, breathing hard. Colette was a few paces to the rear. Reaching the dunes below some rising ground, well clear of the sea, they crouched down and took stock of their position. The night was ominously quiet.

  Colette came up and knelt beside Douglas, who looked at her questioningly. ‘What now?’ he whispered.

  She pointed towards the high ground. ‘See that rock up there? Just beyond it there’s a little village called Fos-sur-Mer. It’s about three miles south of Istres. We have a contact there who is sympathetic. He is the local priest. It was my original brief to take you to him, and I still mean to do that. Are you ready?’

  Douglas got up from his crouching position and looked around before issuing his orders. Apart from his own men, there was no sign of life anywhere.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. But keep well spaced out, and freeze if there’s any sign of trouble. We don’t want a scrap on our hands.’

  They set off up the slope, using a few small, dark bushy trees as cover and taking as much care as possible not to dislodge the stones that were strewn liberally over the area. The rise in the ground was not significant, and Douglas’s team were soon at the top. Here, another strip of sandy ground lay between the top of the rise and a cluster of buildings a couple of hundred yards away.

  Douglas and the others paused again, checking tha
t all was well before moving on. Fleetingly, the SAS officer wished that it was light enough to get a better idea of the lie of the land.

  And his wish was granted. For at that moment a searchlight beam flicked on, bathing the village and its environs in a piercing glare.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Instinctively, Douglas’s party flattened themselves against the ground just below the top of the rise. The beam of the searchlight swept round from the village and traversed just above their heads, arcing in a swathe of light over the water behind them. It was a small searchlight, of the kind mounted on patrol boats.

  A guttural voice called out something in French from beyond the searchlight. Douglas slid closer to Colette and put his mouth close to her ear.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s ordering us to come out with our hands up,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s clear that he thinks we are all French. They must have been watching the boat as it put us ashore. They must want to take us alive, or they could easily have shot us down by now.’

  Douglas’s mind raced. It suddenly struck him that the Germans, or the Milice, or whoever was up there, were not expecting to be confronted by a party of heavily-armed British commandos. They obviously thought that they had netted a group of the French Resistance. Whatever the truth, there was no way now that a fight could be avoided. Douglas wondered what the odds were, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter very much, in their present predicament.

  ‘Stall them,’ he ordered Colette. ‘Say anything you like — just buy me a minute or two.’

  She squeezed his arm in acknowledgement as he crept over towards the spot where Stan Brough lay. Conolly, he saw in the reflected glow of the searchlight, was close by.

  ‘Stan, we’ve got to get round them,’ Douglas said rapidly. ‘They think we’re a party of Frenchmen, probably unarmed. Take Olds, Barber, Mitchell and Cowley and work your way along to the left. The rest of you come with me. I’m going to create a diversion. As soon as you hear things starting to happen, go hell for leather for the village and don’t stop until you’re under cover.’