by Alan Evans
He had laid out the plan, harsh-voiced, clearly and concisely so every man knew exactly what he had to do. But there were so many calculated risks. He worried about Jimmy Nash. Would he be able to carry out his vital part? Was he alive? Brent remembered the burst of cannon fire soon after the landing. Had the drifter, Dent and Crozier, been taken by surprise, shot up, annihilated?
He peered at his watch again, for something like the tenth time since setting out on the river, his face stooped close over the dial to make it out in the night. The rain had started again, driving in over the bow as the barge butted into it and he turned his back to it, the better to see the time. Then he looked up and saw Suzanne experiencing the same difficulty, her head bent over her lifted wrist.
“This part is new to you, of course.” That was Chris Tallon, grinning wryly at David and not bearing a grudge. Brent was in command and had taken his decision, for good or ill. And he had brought them this far. Chris went on, “Coming ashore, I mean, to see how the other half earn their money.”
David returned the grin, “Yes.” But then it faded. This place was not new to him. His eyes were on the girl and now hers lifted to meet his stare. He knew she had heard his reply to Chris’s comment, must be remembering his earlier reference to the river: “I don’t recall it that well.” He knew they were both a year ago from now in their thoughts.
Then, she had been pretty and chic, passionate, a hungry and eager lover... But once he had found her sitting at the window of the cottage in the dead of night with the tears wet on her face. She had told him she was crying because she was happy. He was sure she was lying to him, but said nothing. There was worse to come but he only found that out later. At that time he had held her in his arms through the rest of the night and did not make love to her again. In the morning the boy had ridden up to the cottage from the village on his bicycle, bringing the telegram recalling David Brent to Paris. From there he would go to join a ship. Now they stood together in the night again, only a yard apart, the rain slanting on the wind between them.
Albert spoke nasally and this time did not point to right or left as he had done so far, indicating to Cullen or Grundy at the helm the heading for the deep-water channel. Instead he made a downward, dampening motion with the flat of his hand.
Suzanne said huskily, “He says we must slow; the lock gates are just ahead.”
Both she and David remembered them. He had leapt ashore to open the gates and had laughed down at her as she took the dinghy through the lock.
Brent looked at his watch. They would lose time at the lock and there was none to spare.
*
Otto Meissner was eighteen years old and peered nervously out at the world through round, steel-framed spectacles that gave him an owlish look. He was a Schütze, a private soldier, and just out of recruit training. He had hated that training and done badly, partly, because his instructors terrified him, mainly because he did not want to be a soldier and knew he lacked the necessary qualities of nerve, stamina and aggression. He reasoned that by character and physique he was a clerk, so if they wanted him in uniform they should put him into a divisional office. But now he was a rifleman in an infantry battalion. That was the army for you.
He blinked through the rain that speckled the lenses of his glasses and hunched his narrow shoulders against it inside the greatcoat that was too big for him. The night was dark, cold, wet and he had to keep his eye on the Gefreiter, Solz, at the head of the file. Otto was at the tail of it and he watched Solz over the shoulders of the two men between. The Gefreiter was an old soldier, with ten years’ service but still only a corporal, foul-mouthed and evil-tempered. Tonight he was drunk again, and dangerous. He had already put the butt of his rifle into one Frenchman they had met, though his papers were in order and he had a pass to be on the streets after curfew.
Now the lane opened out onto the bank of the river and Solz turned left to follow the path that ran downstream at the riverside. Then one of the others called, “There’s a boat in the lock!”
Solz swung around and stared at the closed lock-gates thirty metres away. “How can you see a boat in there from here?”
“Well, I can’t see the boat, but I can hear an engine. And look at the man on top with the rope.”
Solz grunted, “Ah!” He, too, could hear the low throb coming from inside the lock. Now he saw the figure silhouetted against the lighter background of the night sky, with a mooring line hitched around a bollard and easing it out. So the boat inside was descending as the water level fell; he had not noticed the sluices emptying because water was only running out at the bottom and falling only inches into the river downstream of the lock. So it was almost empty. That was confirmed now as the man on top unhitched the mooring line and tossed it down to the unseen boat. Then he went quickly to the wheel that opened the lock gates and wound it furiously.
Solz said gloatingly, “We’ll turn the bastards over, show them who’s boss around here. And there’s bound to be a bottle aboard.” He moved forward towards the lock-gates and the foot of the iron ladder running down from the lock above to the path on which he stood. The other two followed him, unslinging their rifles as he did, and halted by him close to the foot of the ladder.
Otto Meissner hung back at first then only trailed along at a distance, because he didn’t want to “turn over” anybody but suspected that if his lack of enthusiasm showed he might be next. So he was hunched in the deeper shadows under the trees and some twenty yards from Solz and the other two, when the lock gates swung fully open and the man above came down the iron ladder as quick as any monkey.
The idling engine inside the confines of the lock now quickened. Otto caught a glimpse of a snub-nosed barge, with a tarpaulin-covered cargo, easing out from the side of the lock and towards the open gates. Then Solz was growling menacingly in bad French, “What’s the hurry? Why are you running cargo at night?” He had stepped in close as the man swung around at the foot of the ladder, so he stared into the Gefreiter’s scowling face only feet away behind the muzzle of the rifle.
Cullen did not answer. For one thing, he did not have a word of French. For another, the only thought in his head was: “Christ! It’s a Jerry!” He had never seen a German before.
The bow of the barge crept out of the lock and slipped past him. In two strides he could have stepped aboard her. He could hope for no help from the other man who had come ashore with him, to snub the after-mooring line as the water ran out of the lock and the barge sank steadily lower, because he had already climbed down the ladder inside the lock to the barge. And now Cullen saw the big German’s expression change.
Solz may have become suspicious of this strange seaman wearing what looked like a Kopfschützer, a woollen cap, or finally noticed that he had a pistol belted around his waist. He pointed his rifle at Cullen and worked the bolt to drive a round into the breech for firing.
The three commandos, squeezed in among the sacks and crates under the tarpaulin right forward in the barge, saw him a scant six feet away as the bow slid out of the lock. One of them opened fire and the other two a split-second later. The three Thompson guns swept the river bank like a metal flail. Solz fell forward and his rifle exploded a bullet into the mud of the path. The two men behind him were punched backwards as if by an iron fist, to lie in the mud.
Tallon snarled, “What the hell is going on?” He ran forward along the narrow strip of deck beside the covered cargo, his Thompson gun held two-handed, chest-high, ready to fire. The barge was still moving ahead so he was only half-way along the deck when he was clear of the lock and could see the bodies on the shore.
Brent, standing aft by Grundy, called down the engine-room hatch, “Stop her!” Then as the stern of the barge cleared the lock he ordered, “Lay her alongside!” He jumped ashore with the after mooring line then passed it to the seaman who followed him. Tallon was already on the bank, with two of his commandos who took up defensive positions, down on one knee and back to back at the edge of the tre
es, facing up and down the path. He trotted up as Brent turned on Cullen and rephrased Tallon’s question: “What happened?”
Cullen rubbed a hand across his face that felt numb. “I came down the ladder, turned round and there was this big Jerry poking a rifle at me. He said something, I don’t know what, then he put one up the spout —” he looked at Tallon “— and that’s when your blokes fired, sir.”
Tallon called to the two kneeling by the trees, “You shot them?”
“Sir!”
“How many of them were there?”
“Just the three, sir.”
Tallon went quickly to the bodies, crouched over each in turn, finally rose and looked at Brent: “All dead.”
“Put them out of sight and get aboard.” David stepped onto the deck of the barge and stood by the engine-room hatch. Suzanne was there, her hands in the pockets of her trenchcoat, one gripping the pistol. Now she released it and brought out a handkerchief. David saw her wiping her palms. Her face was still but he heard her trembling sigh.
Tallon and his two men dragged the bodies into the trees and threw the rifles in after them. Then they returned to the barge and Chris jumped aboard beside David Brent to ask one question: “How long?”
Brent answered him flatly, “We’ve lost ten minutes coming through the lock.”
Chris swore, then: “That firing could have been heard, reported, and another patrol on the way to investigate.”
“We’ll be gone when they get here.” And David Brent ordered, “Full ahead!”
*
The Feldwebel in the guardpost in the village a kilometre away had brought along his portable gramophone. He and the two dozen men who had recently come in off patrol, or whose turn was not due for another four hours, were seated around the stove, bawling out the chorus of the marching song as the scratched disc revolved. No one heard the distant, short rattle of machine-gun fire.
In St. Jean, north of the river in the old port, another group of four wet and mud-spattered soldiers stood listening. The Gefreiter muttered, “Just that one burst.”
One of the three men with him laughed, “Somebody let off a magazine. Forgot to put his safety catch on. He’ll be on the carpet in the morning.”
The Gefreiter grumbled, “I just hope he didn’t shoot anybody but himself. They should put the fool inside.” He started off again and the others followed him.
*
Otto Meissner listened to the receding drone of the barge’s engine with his gloved hand stuffed in his mouth. He had gagged himself thus after the first awful shock of being hit, finding himself prone in the inches-deep sludge and leaf-mould under the trees, seeing the men leaping ashore from the barge. He bit on the glove against the pain and to stifle the shrieks that rose like bile in his throat. When one of the men came to peer at the bodies only feet away, Otto hid his eyes and face inside his sheltering arms. He did not raise his head to look around until the sound of the barge had faded into the distance.
He knew he had been hit in the legs, was afraid to move at first but then tried and pain screamed up from his feet. He made one tentative effort to stand, using his rifle for support, but abandoned the attempt. He thought he could feel broken bones grating in his ankles. He could never walk, even with the rifle as a crutch, so he tossed it aside. He thought that he had not fired a shot, had just hidden in panic and terror. Solz would have fought if given the chance. But he wasn’t Solz, knew he wasn’t a soldier at all. It did not occur to him that if he had tried to fight he would have died.
He had to report. He still could hardly believe what he had seen, what had happened to him, though the pain was real enough. He had to raise the alarm.
He forced himself to his hands and knees and began to crawl. He whimpered in agony at every grinding movement of each dragging boot and after a dozen yards collapsed and wept. Then he crawled on again.
*
The train rattled and swayed northward. Max Neumann sat with his jacket collar turned up against the wind that whistled through the cracks in the side of the wagon, his hands tucked under his arms to try to keep some warmth in them. Soon he would stand and flap his arms, stamp his feet to restore circulation to the blood that seemed to be freezing inside him. He did that every few minutes and tried to encourage the others to do the same. They would all die if they did not maintain this discipline until the train halted. They would all die anyway, but he obstinately refused to give up. He did not know why.
He shoved himself upright as the train slowed. Were they stopping? Would the torture be reduced to mere misery for a while? He set his eye to one of the cracks and saw the train was running slowly past a siding. Dozens of vehicles were scattered around; he could make out the humped shapes of the nearest and saw others vaguely in the background. There were lights in some of the vehicles, showing as thin slivers where they leaked through the carelessly closed tilts. Then the wagon trundled past a soldier, a sentry standing close by the track with rifle slung over one shoulder. Max realised this was a body of troops, possibly a battalion, in bivouac. And the train was not stopping.
It rolled on slowly and he wiped at his eye that watered from the draught coming in through the crack. He looked again and now saw the reason for the train reducing speed. They were passing over a bridge. As it slid away behind, the clacking of the wheels gradually quickened.
Max turned to face the blackness inside the wagon. He thought: What’s the point? But then he started clapping his hands, running on the spot clumsily and staggering on the rocking train. He shouted breathlessly, “Come on! Keep warm! Keep moving!”
Chapter Ten - “All patrols to close on the river!”
The young Major Kurt Ritter was enthusing over his assault company of grenadiers: “They are all men under the age of thirty, every one of them in the peak of physical condition…” Ilse, watching him, thought that he made a good example, fresh-faced, seemingly packed with energy. He sat straight-backed in the chair as if copying his teacher, the Oberst, sitting opposite him, but looking ready to leap from it at a word of command. He addressed Erwin König but now and then would glance at Ilse, to include her in the conversation — or to assess her. Ilse recognised one more example of the stallion male but this one did not frighten her, as had the Frenchman now sitting in S.S. Headquarters. This was a man like Rudi Halder. Maybe tomorrow she would tease Rudi about the handsome and virile Major. She smiled to herself at that, thinking of Rudi, then remembering that he was out at sea.
The telephone rang, cutting off Ritter in mid-sentence, and König rose to answer it. He stood by the desk, lean, straight and tall, listening to the report relayed through the barracks, the hoarse voice of the Unterfeldwebel who commanded at post 12.
He had trudged up the path from the guard-hut to the bridge over the ravine, splashing through the puddles and slipping in the mud, his men at his heels. Before they reached the bridge they were soaked by the pouring rain, hunched and miserable, but he snapped and snarled at them like a dog herding sheep and they spread out to search.
Their torches probed into the undergrowth and under the dripping branches of the trees, the jerking beams cones of jewelled brilliance in the darkness of the ravine and reflecting from the stream. One man found the cigarette stubs, wet and shredding, where Albert had waited. Another kicked at the cardboard he had used to mask the hole in the bridge, but saw no significance in it. The cigarette stubs were reported, the man on the cliff bawling the information down to the Unterfeldwebel where he prowled about the beach at the mouth of the ravine. He barked an acknowledgment and went on with his own search. The sand was churned, rain-sodden, but showed signs of bootprints. He found more on his way down to the surf but no sign of a boat grounding; the tide had washed that away.
But he had seen enough, trotted, slipped and slid along the half-kilometre of greasy path back to the guard-hut and telephoned the Herr Oberst.
König listened to the concluding words of the Unterfeldwebel, who paused now and again to catch his breath
: “I think someone was taken off, or landed tonight. Those prints would not last long in this weather.”
König agreed, “Well done. Now get off the line.” Then he spoke to the officer on duty at the barracks across the river, “There is evidence that an enemy agent may have landed in the area of post 12 tonight, and one of our sentries was killed so the landing could be made. Alert all patrols. And at first light I want a search of all houses and farms within five kilometres of that post. Start organising that now.”
He replaced the receiver and scowled down at the desk. One of his men was dead and it was no accident. There might not be any mark of assault on the body but murder had been done, König was certain.
Kurt Ritter was on his feet, tugging down his jacket. “I could not help overhearing. It seems you will be out long before dawn.” He did not doubt that the Herr Oberst would lead the morning search. “I’ll leave you to take your rest.”
But König waved him down. “I sleep little and certainly not this early. I have some fine cognac. You’ll take a glass?”
That was only half a question and half a command. Kurt Ritter grinned and sank back into his chair. He asked, “You said an agent ‘may’ have landed. It is not certain?”
Erwin König stood with his back to the fire and watched his daughter busy with the bottle and glasses on the side-board. He knew she was a beauty and had seen the glances cast at her by Ritter, but he was sure poor Kurt was too late. The girl saw a lot of Rudi Halder. König suspected the affair was more serious than it might appear, but he would not pry. His daughter, and the young Kapitänleutnant, had to live their own lives.
He shrugged. “Someone landed or was taken off. We’re sure of that. So I’m assuming the former until I’m proved wrong. We’ll see what the searches turn up tomorrow.”
Ilse brought the glasses of cognac, handed them to Ritter and her father. Someone. She thought that it would be a man, of course, out there in the night, hiding and hunted. Then she saw again that other man being dragged, legs trailing, into the dark house along the quay. She shivered.