Waging War

by April White

  “Normally, I’d have to approve every bit of cargo that goes with you, as you’re using military transport. However, I’m assured that there are extenuating circumstances in this case, and that certain … events will play out in such a way that I should ignore the unauthorized cargo and allow the mission to proceed.”

  I couldn’t have torn my eyes away from Colonel Marks’ gaze, even if his gaze had let go of mine. The Monger-gut was still whirling, but my own instinct for predators wasn’t pinging, so I made an instant decision.

  “A member of my Family, and, incidentally, yours, has gone rogue, sir. If we can stop him before he returns to English soil, we will.”

  Colonel Marks’ eyes widened slightly as he understood my emphasis on the word Family.

  “Your Family being …” He waited for me to finish the sentence.

  “Anachronistic, sir.”

  The startled expression he wore might have been because he realized I wasn’t from this time, or because Clockers were just that rare. I knew Millicent was still a young woman, and her parents were both alive, but I didn’t know of any others that Colonel Marks would be aware of.

  “Good luck, then, Miss.” He nodded to me, and then inclined his head to Ringo before spinning on his heel and walking back toward his waiting car.

  “Well, that was interesting. I didn’t know you and the handsome colonel were related.” Nancy’s tone sounded speculative, and despite my desire to snap the words, I laced them with sweetness instead.

  “Well, Mrs. Fiocca, it would seem there are things you don’t know.”

  Ringo smirked at me as we grabbed our satchels and flung them over our shoulders. The airplane we approached was parked facing down the runway, and there was an open door near the tail. The pilot was finishing an inspection and looked up with a grin. “Ready to fly, are you?”

  He spoke in an Irish accent with the accompanying Irish smile in his voice. The pilot was in his mid-thirties, black-haired, fair-skinned and had twinkling green eyes. His face held an easy grin as he shook hands all around. “I’m Sean Mulroy, and I’ll be your tour guide tonight.”

  His name sounded familiar, and I struggled to remember if I’d read it in a history book or something. He helped Nancy into the back of the plane, then Archer handed her our bags and followed her inside. I was next, and when Sean’s large warm hand engulfed mine, something in my touch startled him. “Oh, right, then. Up you go, Miss … Elian, is it?”

  I stared at him. “Do you know my Family?”

  His easy grin was back. “I know of them, of course. Might even have been related to them at a time. And then, o’ course, I’m Irish. We know things.”

  Irish pilot. Possible mixed-blood. Familiar name. I took a chance. “Well, after the war, if you ever do run into the Elians, they have a daughter named Millicent you might like to meet.”

  His eyes brightened. “Is that so?”

  “The manor’s in Ingatestone, but you should know, she can be a bit prickly that one, and her father won’t trust your intentions. Millicent and I are a lot alike, actually. We think we can do everything on our own, but we actually need someone strong enough to stand at our back, even when we push them away. Just something to think about if you ever do meet her.”

  “Interesting advice, Miss Elian. I’ll bear it in mind.”

  I gripped his hand tightly and almost gave him a hug, but managed to catch myself just in time. “It’s really nice to meet you, Sean Mulroy. I hope to see you again.”

  He looked a little dazed as he handed me up into the belly of the plane, and Ringo whispered behind me, “Meddlin’?”

  I looked him straight in the eyes and gave him the raised eyebrow. “Maybe.”

  Ringo grinned back. “Thought so.”

  The interior of the plane had seven seats and was like being inside the ribcage of a whale shark. Nancy was already strapped into hers, and Archer helped me into a seat next to him, while Ringo chose one behind us. “Normally we’d parachute in, but we’ll have to take our chances with a landing in the free zone.” Nancy’s tone was back to being friendly, and I found it hard to stay annoyed with her.

  “Thanks. I’m a little rusty on my parachuting skills.”

  She grinned. “I thought as much. Mulroy’s the best VIP transporter there is, though. He’ll get us in, and get himself out before Gerry even realizes they’ve got visitors.”

  There were bags already loaded into the cargo area of the plane and Nancy caught my glance. “Guns, explosives, money. All the things that keep life interesting, don’t you think?”

  I looked at Archer’s face and could see his jaw clench. He wasn’t such a fan of the killing toys either, I was glad to see.

  Sean yelled back to us to put on our headsets so he could talk to us during the flight, and once the engines had started I also realized they were the only ear protection we’d get. There was no such thing as insulation in this airplane.

  I turned around to find Ringo staring around in rapt fascination. He’d never flown before, so his experience was one of marvel and delight, whereas mine was a little more of the oh-God-I-hope-this-thing-makes-it variety.

  Our flight across the channel was just over an hour, according to Sean’s commentary, and then another hour overland to the airfield at Limoges. I estimated it was probably just after midnight when we started to land, and it looked like the whole town was dark. Archer must have read my thoughts because he spoke into the headset quietly. “Maquisards will come with lights when they hear the plane.”

  “And there they are,” said Sean. “When we stop, be prepared to jump out. I have about five minutes on the ground before they come looking for me, and I’d like to live to fight another day, if you please.”

  I braced for a landing I couldn’t see, and Archer gripped my hand tightly as we bumped lightly on the runway. Sean was a better pilot in his little plane than most commercial airline pilots I’d ever flown with, and I was out of my harness and out of the plane as soon as the door was thrown open.

  Nancy used hand signals to direct two Maquisards to empty the cargo area of bags, and when the door was fixed back into place, the two taps on its metal body to let Sean know he was clear was the only sound I heard.

  A minute later, Sean Mulroy’s little plane was down the runway and had taken off, its engines already fading into the distance.

  The four of us followed the Maquisards into the woods just off the runway, and it wasn’t until we were a couple hundred yards away from the airport that anyone dared to speak.

  Nancy issued rapid-fire orders to the men in French, and Archer translated for us under his breath. “We’re going to Gaspard’s headquarters at a farmhouse outside of town.”

  “Are you going to be able to find a protected place to sleep?” I whispered back.

  Archer smiled grimly. “Fortunately, the Maquis keep hours like I do. I’ll be fine.”

  About an hour later, I was very glad for my too-new boots after a hike that would have turned ankles and caused blisters in anything else. I could sense several Mongers around the farmhouse when we finally arrived, and I told Archer as much.

  “Seems logical the Maquis would attract them,” he whispered. “There’s a lot of anger in this country about the German occupation.”

  “Just watch your back. There’s more than a couple,” I murmured.

  Ringo and I sat in the kitchen of the big stone farmhouse sipping hot mint tea and staying out of sight of the group of young men and a couple of women who lounged against the walls of the big sitting room. We could hear them, though, and easily picked out Nancy’s and Archer’s voices as they conferred with a skinny guy they called Gaspard and two of his lieutenants at the table in the center of the room. They consulted maps and argued the about locations for setting explosives. Even with my limited French, it was clear Nancy and Archer were the plan-makers, and they used the Maquis as consultants. What was the population of this town? Was the map correct about that bridge? And who could be counted
on to help … or hurt their missions?

  Occasionally, one of the men would shuffle into the kitchen for water, or to scrounge a piece of bread. One or two of the older men smiled at us in a hospitable way. The younger men seemed suspicious and hard, and their initial reaction to our presence was always a scowl. My predator instincts were starting to shift into high gear, and I could practically see Ringo’s street-edges sharpen in a way I hadn’t seen since I first met him in London.

  I didn’t know what their lives had been like for the past four years since the Germans had occupied France, but it seemed like everyone carried a layer of anger, sometimes just below the surface of their skin, and sometimes it was hard and thick, like armor. Bodies were lean and strong, and spoke of too much running and hiding, and not enough sleep or food.

  We had walked among soldiers before, but these people were different. Archer came into the kitchen after a pair of scowling guys, probably in their early twenties, with flinty, fifty-year-old eyes, had passed through the room. He read the tension in Ringo instantly, and then looked to me for an explanation.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why does he look like he wants to tear them limb from limb?” Archer nodded at Ringo, who had shifted his gaze back down to the mug he gripped as if it was the only thing keeping his fists from flying.

  “They spat, that’s all.”

  “And called her Putain,” Ringo grumbled.

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  Archer looked at me. “Why are you downplaying it?”

  “Because they’re like feral wolverines, and the idea of one of you taking them on over some imagined slight against me makes me want to throw up. I just want to go someplace where no one can knife us when we sleep and close my eyes for a minute without worrying we won’t wake up.”

  Archer looked at Ringo’s fists clenched around his mug and he nodded. “Let’s go.”

  We left the farmhouse by the kitchen door without telling anyone we were going, and I was absurdly happy Archer didn’t feel the need to say anything to Nancy.

  Archer led us into the woods, and within about ten minutes, I no longer felt the random Monger-gut I’d been having since we landed among the Maquis. We emerged into a small clearing on the edge of a much bigger one, and I realized we were on the outskirts of a village.

  “Where are we?” I whispered. There was just enough light from the moon that the moss growing on the low stone walls looked like bloodstains.

  “Oradour-sur-Glane. My father’s gamekeeper came from this village. This is his great-granddaughter’s farm.” Archer led us to a stone barn just outside an old farmhouse and put his finger to his lips as he carefully opened the big wooden door just enough to slip inside.

  When the door was closed behind us, I chanced another whisper. “Does she know you?”

  He nodded and pulled open the door to an empty animal stall. Against the back wall, carefully concealed, was the edge of a trap door in the floor. Archer pulled it open and indicated Ringo should go first. “It’s about five feet down,” he whispered, and Ringo dropped straight down. I wasn’t a fan of blind drops, so I did use the ladder, and Archer was right behind me as he closed the trap door over our heads.

  “Another priest hole?” I whispered in the dark. It reminded me of the hidden cellar where we had found young Pancho, the twelve-year-old brother of Thomas Wyatt, hiding from the Queen’s Guard. Archer lit a candle stub and a small room was illuminated. There were blankets stacked in one corner, and a crate with a lantern on it stashed behind the ladder.

  Archer smiled. “Something like that. These are tough times, and I imagine this hiding spot has been used more than once since the war began. Francoise DuLac showed me this place when we were children. The current owner of the farm, Marianne, knows I’ve come once or twice in the past few years.”

  “What does she know about you?” I was curious how he explained himself to other people through the years.

  Archer piled some blankets together for us and tossed some others to Ringo. “She knows our families have been friends for several generations and that the scholarship I set up for the girls of the DuLac family is putting her daughter through school in England.”

  “Just the girls?” I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, that he’d set up a scholarship, or that it was for the girls.

  “Francoise was my best friend as a child, until I went to school and her father sent her home to France. He thought an education would be wasted on a woman and refused to allow her to attend even the primary school in this village. So, when Francoise had her own daughter, I made sure there was a fund in place for her to send little Dominique to school. That fund has continued, and can only be accessed by the DuLac women for their daughters.”

  “Is Marianne part of the Maquis?” I quickly ran a toothbrush over my teeth. The little hidden room was actually reasonably warm for being underground, and I thought I might even be able to sleep without my boots on.

  Archer shook his head. “Her husband is in a German prisoner of war camp, and her son is still young. She grows enough food to feed them and some of her neighbors too, and otherwise, she keeps her head down and stays out of the Germans’ sights.”

  “I didn’t know you had such strong ties to France.” I stretched out on the blanket and used my satchel for a pillow.

  Archer sat down on the blanket and looked at me oddly. “I haven’t spoken about the DuLacs to you?”

  I shook my head. “I remember a hunting story you told me once about your father, but otherwise, no.”

  He sank into thoughtful silence, and I suddenly realized why. I reached a hand out and held his. “We’ve talked about the important things. If they had died tragically, you would have told me.”

  Ringo lay on his blanket with his eyes closed and an arm thrown across his head. “She’s right. Ye would ‘ave said somethin’.”

  Archer finally nodded, then blew out the candle. It was pitch black in the underground room, and I felt Archer put something near my satchel. “A fresh candle and matches, for when you wake.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered. Then I felt Archer tug at the laces on my boots. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re safe here, and I’ll keep you warm,” he answered, as he pulled my boots off, laid down next to me, and pulled a blanket up to cover us. I laced my fingers through his and fell deeply asleep.

  Oradour-sur-Glane

  Archer left the barn at sunset to see how things fared with Marianne DuLac and her son. He was back twenty minutes later with an invitation for us to join them for dinner.

  We were careful to stay to the shadows as we made our way into the ancient farmhouse. As with every farm I’d ever entered, the door opened right to the kitchen, where a fire burned cheerily in the hearth and a pot of soup bubbled away in a big cast iron pot hanging above it.

  A young woman, not older than Nancy, stood at the sink basin peeling winter beets. Her fingers and the knife were stained a deep, dark red that looked too much like blood for comfort. The room smelled so good and was so bright and welcoming after the angry vibe of the Maquis safe house, I shrugged off the sense of foreboding and stepped inside.

  “Marianne, I’d like you to meet my friends, Hélène and Louis,” Archer said in French. Marianne’s face lit into a lovely smile and she wiped her hands clean on her apron.

  She held her hand out to shake ours, and told us in French how welcome we were in her home. Both Ringo and I smiled graciously but said nothing, and I realized Archer had introduced us by our aliases in order to protect Marianne from the information that there were more foreigners in her neighborhood than just himself.

  When neither of us spoke, Marianne merely switched to more non-verbal cues to invite us to sit. She and Archer carried on a rapid-fire conversation in French, which Archer didn’t translate, and I looked around for something I could do to help. There were carrots to be peeled, and after a couple of hand gestures, I settled in to work at the big kitchen table wit
h a paring knife.

  I was zoning out on the lyrically guttural sounds of French when a bang sounded at the door, and all three of us were out of our seats in an instant. Marianne said something to Archer with the next bang. When something dropped outside, Ringo’s posture relaxed and he went to the door to open it.

  A young boy stood in the doorway with an armful of chopped wood. He looked shocked to see Ringo and sheepish at having dropped several pieces. Ringo snatched the wood from his arms before more could fall, and the boy smiled gratefully at him.

  Archer introduced us to the boy, whose name was Marcel. Marianne’s son was not more than about seven or eight years old. He clopped inside on worn, wooden-soled shoes, which looked remarkably out of place on a child. He was too thin for any growing boy, and pale in a way that spoke more of fear than of a life spent indoors.

  Ringo gave him a grin and indicated that Marcel should show him where to stack the wood. Within a few minutes Ringo and the little dark-haired boy had stacked a very professional-looking pile near the hearth.

  Marianne pulled the heavy pot out of the fireplace, and I jumped up to help her serve five bowls of steaming vegetable soup. Marcel and Ringo washed their hands, and then we sat at Marianne’s heavy wooden table to eat. Marianne and Marcel immediately bowed their heads in prayer, and even I sent a quick thank you to the universe for the moments of peace this meal represented.

  My attention wandered around the room while Archer and Marianne talked. Heavy timber beams held the ceiling and framed the waxed plaster walls. The ceiling was higher than Tudor era rooms I’d been in, so I guessed it was probably built in the 1700s. There were faded patches on the walls where it looked like paintings had hung, and I wondered if they had been hidden, stolen, or sold for food. We ate with simple pewter spoons, yet the ladle Marianne had served the soup with was silver that had been allowed to tarnish, maybe to hide its quality from casual thieves.

  The soup was excellent, full of root vegetables and wild mushrooms, but the bread was coarse, and Marianne kept apologizing for it, especially since Archer had claimed a prior meal as the reason he wasn’t eating. She had wanted to open a bottle of wine for us, but he quickly assured her that none of us drank it, so she should save it for a special occasion. I had the sense that the four years of war in France had affected the DuLacs, and probably everyone else, badly. Marianne’s garden was growing, and she had the woods to forage for firewood, mushrooms, and probably meat, but things like wine, refined flour for bread, and leather for shoes were scarce and expensive.