by John Harris
The parachutes and cords were stuffed into the metal shells and buried in the trench they’d dug. The excitement was intense.
‘A Bren,’ Ernouf said. ‘Automatic pistols. Grenades. And oh, mon dieu, look at this! ‘
There were mortars, a bazooka, a radio no one knew how to use packed in sponge rubber, incendiary pots, time pencils, detonators and silver coils of cordtex. They were all chattering noisily, indifferent to the racket they were making and asking when they could do it again. When Marie-Claude begged them to be quiet, they became motionless. petrified in whatever they were doing before continuing in whispers. But two or three minutes later, they were all chattering noisily again.
Then Théyras gave a yelp of delight. ‘Coffee,’ he shouted. ‘And sugar! And butter! I must have one of those to take to my wife so she’ll believe me when I tell her where I’ve been and won’t think I’ve been with the Widow Bona.’ He grinned. ‘And cigarettes! French cigarettes made in England! We don’t have to smoke that filth made out of cow dung and bat shit the Germans provide.’
He handed the packet round and they all lit up, standing still and drawing in the smoke with delighted smiles, pulling it down to the depths of their lungs. For a moment it seemed as if it would appear from their ears, their trouser bottoms, from inside their hats, even through the lace-holes of their shoes.
‘My friends,’ Reinach was saying proudly, gesturing at the weapons, ‘we’ve become men again. Chics types once more. We have weapons. All we need now is something to do with them.’
They all stood round him, grinning and pleased with themselves. All except Marie-Claude, waiting alone with the horse a short distance away, staring with a puzzled expression at Neville and Urquhart. She had provided the cart and all the food and wine. To a certain extent she’d provided a lot of the driving force. But now, with the weapons in their hands and cigarettes in their mouths, they seemed to have forgotten her, to have moved into a different sphere where women didn’t belong.
Staring at them, she was suddenly aware that they had reached the beginning of a new, urgent and probably dangerous phase, and she was conscious of a terrible loneliness.
Part 2: FIRST LIGHT
‘Périsse I’univers pourvu que je me venge.’
Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac
1
There was something in the air.
The invasion was on its way.
They all knew it was on its way. The whole of Europe knew it was on its way - even the Germans. The only thing they didn’t know was where and when.
It stuck out a mile that it was coming from the increase in messages from the BBC. It was obvious from the amount of training going on across the Channel, the collection of invasion craft and warships, the number of men gathered in Southern England; it was clear from the urgency that showed in everything the Germans did, the way they moved their men, increased their security and watched the French like hawks in case they knew something the Germans didn’t. Everything suddenly seemed to be on the move, aircraft, guns, lorries, men, all turning to face die north where they knew the threat existed.
Though Radio Paris had stepped up its appeals to the French not to be deluded by British and American promises, and the Germans had stepped up their threats about what would happen if they were, the messages from London continued to grow in intensity. Despite the fact that Gestapo agents seemed to be everywhere - fortunately easy to recognize because of the German love for green that manifested itself in the colour of their hats or jackets - the whole of France was on the alert. The next messages from London would surely indicate invasion in a matter of hours and the beginning of guerrilla warfare against railways, roads and telephones. In Néry, Reinach, Urquhart and Neville stayed up ail night preparing explosive charges, grenades and incendiary pots until the almond-paste smell gave them all a headache. The feeling that the end of their ordeal was in sight had grown so strong it was almost possible to reach out and touch it, and it no longer occurred to either Neville or Urquhart to question their stay in the district or complain that they were not being sent on their way. Almost without being aware of it, they had become involved in Néry’s determination to be free.
Few of them had realized that Cassino was the key to Rome or that Rome was the key to the invasion, but on 4 June they heard that the Italian capital had fallen and that Roosevelt had announced that Berlin would be next.
Marie-Claude was short-tempered with worry. ‘With Hössenfelder’s help no longer welcomed, the farm had begun to go down again. Neville had no time to soften the blow by paying her the small attentions she’d grown used to, and this only served to increase the tension. Like everyone else, Neville was absorbed in the endless discussions that went on nightly about what they could do with their weapons now they had them, the endless counting and re-counting of ammunition - as if they thought that it might have evaporated or been eaten by mice - the constant admiring of the shining inner workings of their machine-guns-. It was a man’s world in which she no longer had any influence, and it left her desolate.
Only Urquhart stood aloof. He continued his training sessions in the woods. He even entered into the endless discussions of what they should do. But always he was slightly cynical, slightly sceptical, as though he felt they were only playing at soldiers. Yet he too paid no attention to Marie-Claude, and she was starved of affection. Desperately wanting to be in love with someone, she wasn’t sure whom; and, filled with angry frustration, she could only take her problem to Father Pol. Her eyes filled with infinite distress, she sat opposite him, bolt upright in her chair and hostile in her misery, expecting - demanding - help. The old man had long since guessed what was troubling her and he poured her a measure from his dwindling store of marc and placed it carefully beside her, saying nothing, waiting for her to speak. She didn’t even seem to notice as he sat down opposite her.
Adjusting his thick glasses, he stared at her warily. She was an attractive girl, with a flair for dress when she wasn’t wearing the men’s clothes she used about the farm. Everything in the cluttered and ugly little room, smelling of the old man’s body odour, looked shabby and colourless beside her.
‘Is it possible to love twice, Father?’ she asked bluntly.
Father Pol sighed and scratched at the emery of blue bristle on his chin. As he’d watched her grow up through the war, seeing her grief as she’d lost her husband and then the man she was going to marry in his place, he’d often wanted to take her head in his hands and comfort her. But he’d been anointed to console only with words, and sometimes - to a young girl - words were as dry as old bones and just as uninteresting.
‘Are you in love again, child?’ he asked.
Marie-Claude lifted her head, her face full of solemn beauty. There were tears on her eyelashes and she wasn’t sure whether they were caused by sadness or just plain frustration.
‘I think so, Father,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know.’
Father Pol was puzzled and she went on. ‘I loved my husband ‘when he was alive, Father,’
‘He was a fine, virile man.’
‘But he’s been dead now for four years. Is it wrong to forget him?’
‘It would be a miracle, child, if you didn’t.’
Marie-Claude sighed. ‘I have a farm, Father,’ she said. ‘I need a man for the farm and I need a man for me.’
‘I’m sure you won’t find it hard, my child,’ the priest said. ‘I’m sorry sometimes that I’m old and married to the church.’
‘There’s so much to do.’
‘The Lord never intended that the Via Crucis should be travelled with ease. Duty is bitter, child, but the rewards are splendid, and Almighty God in His wisdom knows best.’
Marie-Claude drew a deep breath. ‘My worries probably seem unimportant to God. Ernestine Bona -’
Father Pol held up his hand. ‘There’s a statue of the Sacred Heart in the bedrooms of many wanton women,’ he said. �
�It doesn’t seem to make young men wish to possess their vessels in honour, or their vessels want to be so possessed. Even so, though I sometimes find the conduct of Christians deplorable, I still think the arm of the Lord is round us.’
‘Do you think the English are hypocrites. Father?’
Father Pol’s face was expressionless. This was something he’d been half-expecting. ‘Our two friends at the farm?’ he asked.
Marie-Claude frowned. ‘I hear that after ten o’clock at night the English are the same as Frenchmen. Yet they don’t seem to notice me.’
‘Perhaps they feel their duty lies elsewhere.’
Marie-Claude’s head jerked up at once, her eyes ablaze with indignation. ‘Who?’ she demanded.
Father Pol smiled. ‘Not “who”, child - “what”. Their country, for instance. Perhaps to them love’s a luxury they can’t afford at the moment. Perhaps, like you, they’re waiting for the right time.’
Marie-Claude sniffed. ‘When it comes, they’ll probably go away.’
‘That’s a possibility. God teaches us not to count our chickens before they’re hatched.’
‘And anyway, what can we do? Just because we’ve got some weapons, it doesn’t mean we know anything about fighting.’
Father Pol gestured. ‘We do what we can,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard the story about the juggler who wanted to make an offering but, as he was poverty-stricken, all he could do was toss up his knives and plates in front of the statue of the Virgin until the sweat ran down his face. But since this was all he had to offer, the Madonna herself stepped down from the pedestal and wiped the sweat from his brow. It’s only a legend but it’s beautiful, and in the same way we shall know how to behave when the time comes.’
‘In the meantime, Father, I live like a nun.’
Father Pol drew a deep breath. ‘Are you troubled by impure thoughts?’
Marie-Claude moved restlessly, her mouth mutinous. Sometimes, she felt, she derived her only pleasure from them. It was the absence of action that bothered her. ‘If they looked at me, Father, it would help. Underneath my clothes I’m a woman.’
‘I’m aware of that; like most of the men in Néry. God made the human body. Even the bits the religious perfectionists don’t always like. But these are troublous times, child, and you must possess your soul in patience. What bothers us all is nerves and the fact that we’re growing a little on edge. I try to be consoled by the fact that the Germans are too.’
By this time half Néry knew about the parachute drop and, listening to them, it appeared that they had all taken part in it.
‘I’ve just been talking to another one who was there,’ Urquhart said as they ate their evening meal. ‘This one swore he carried two of the big containers away under his arms.’
Neville laughed, but Marie-Claude kept her eyes down on her plate.
Reinach couldn’t sit still. ‘If they don’t invade soon,’ he complained, ‘it’ll be too late! It’s June now. For God’s sake, it’ll be autumn again before long.’
That evening the weather was bad, with the rain heavy on the roof and the wind roaring through the trees to rattle the windows and shake the shutters. The atmospherics on the old radio made it impossible to hear and, after thundering on it for a good half-hour with her fist, Madame Lamy switched off in disgust.
‘They’ll not come tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That’s certain. They’d all drown.’
But within half an hour, Reinach was tapping at the back door, wearing a rubber coat dripping with water. His eyes were bulging with excitement. ‘It’s on!’ he announced, his wide empty mouth splitting his face from ear to ear. ‘Didn’t you hear the messages?’
Marie-Claude dived for the radio but Reinach grabbed her arm. ‘It’s finished! They’ve stopped now! But I heard him! It might have been de Gaulle himself for all I know, He said we had to gather and transmit information and that it would be of the most vital importance to the progress of the operation.’
Marie-Claude ran to where Urquhart was repairing a broken stall in the cow-byre with Neville. ‘It’s on!’ she yelled. ‘Come quickly!’
Reinach was still dragging off his rubber coat when Father Pol appeared, coming through the back of the stackyard. Almost immediately behind him was young de Frager, The message came,’ he announced. ‘We must start at once!’
Urquhart’s expression showed his usual disbelief. ‘To do what?’ he asked.
De Frager gestured wildly. ‘This is a great date in history,’ he said. ‘We must be part of it.’
‘Well, go on, how?’
De Frager glared and Father Pol leaned forward. ‘You spend too much time asking how, my son,’ he said.
Marie-Claude was also staring angrily at Urquhart. He puzzled her. Sometimes he seemed sympathetic towards what they were hoping to do. At others he was merely cynical.
‘And where.’ she said. ‘And when.’
Urquhart looked up at her and smiled, refusing to be drawn into the acrimony of an argument, and Neville pushed forward.
‘Surely we can do something,’ he insisted.
‘What?’ Urquhart asked.
‘For Christ’s sake, stop saying “how” and “what”.’
Urquhart’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you can prove you have some idea what the hell you’re wanting to do, I will,’ he said.
‘All you do is sneer at everybody else’s suggestions.’
‘And all you do is hypnotize yourself with your own bloody visions of glory - like they do. We’re nothing. Remember that. Nothing. A group of bloody amateurs who won’t even give their full attention to learning to use what weapons they’ve got. We couldn’t even put on the simplest field exercise.’
De Frager pushed between them. ‘They’re probably on their way already,’ he said. ‘Any day now we’ll be free! God’s surely on our side!’
Father Pol shrugged. ‘God’s been on so many sides already,’ he said gently. ‘Sometimes on both sides at once.’
De Frager gestured. ‘Someone’s got to have the courage to stand up to them! The Lord didn’t come down from Heaven just to prevent men getting into bed with the wrong women or to tell old ladies it’s time they went to church again! There are Germans on the sacred soil of France! We should drive them back to their own filthy country! ‘
‘When they’re beaten they’ll go on their own,’ Urquhart pointed out.
‘Merely letting them go isn’t enough,’ Reinach growled, for once grudgingly siding with de Frager. ‘When it’s all over, other men will say “We helped to free France.” We need to say it too.’
Tarnera had also heard the broadcast but when he passed on its contents to Klemens, the colonel looked at the rain pouring down the windows and the wildly tossing trees outside. He couldn’t believe that the allies would risk all their elaborate plans, their fleet of ships and thousands of men’s lives, by launching them into such diabolical weather.
The possibility worried him, nevertheless, and he telephoned General Dannhüber for instructions. Dannhüber sounded as much on edge as everyone else.
‘How can I give you instructions,’ he demanded, ‘when I don’t know what to instruct against?’
‘Is it the invasion, General?’
‘Rommel says it isn’t imminent. My advice to you, Klemens, is sit on it. They haven’t come yet, that’s for certain. I’ve just been in touch with Paris.’
Mollified, Klemens telephoned Major Doench at Rolandpoint and Major Rieckhoff at St Seigneur, and discussed possible action with them before coming to the conclusion that, lacking information, the only thing they could do was wait. As he finally put the telephone down, Klemens called in Klein-Wuttig and Tarnera.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked.
‘We have an alert out throughout the command,’ Klein-Wuttig said. ‘Guards have been doubled, all vehicles have been immobilized and every man’s been told to sleep fully dressed, with his weapons alongside him.’
‘Good. Good. Security?’
‘Ch
ecked,’ Tarnera said. ‘Patrols in the village and sentries doubled on the chateau.’ He smiled. ‘I should hate anyone to burst in and slit my throat.’
Klein-Wuttig scowled at him and Klemens waved them away before they started arguing. ‘You’d better get some sleep,’ he said. ‘But make sure the telephone orderly knows there’s to be no dozing. And one of you had better be on call all night. Arrange it how you like.’
After they’d gone, Klemens went to bed himself. When the allied parachutists arrived, they’d not drop near Dijon, he knew, and certainly not at Néry. Then he remembered that the roads from the south and from Paris back to the Reich cut the command north of St Seigneur and. realizing the allies might well try to stop supplies from Germany, he started to worry again.
He tried to make himself sleep, but he remained uneasy and twice he sat up, once to make a note of something he felt he’d need to check the following day, once to make sure the telephone orderly had had no messages. He finally managed to drop off just before dawn but it was a restless sleep and he was still tossing when the telephone alongside his bed rang. It was Tarnera.
‘I thought you’d like to know, Herr Oberst,’ he said. They are coming.’
‘Who’re coming?’ Klemens was still befuddled.
The allies, Herr Oberst. I’ve just received a report that glider troops and paratroops have been flying over the Normandy coast in millions.’
‘Nonsense!’ Klemens could still hear the rain against the window.
‘I’m afraid not, Herr Oberst,’ Tarnera said. ‘It’s just been confirmed.’
Then Klemens realized it was daylight and sat up sharply. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked. ‘
‘Five fifty-five, Herr Oberst’
‘It must be just another raid, like the Dieppe thing. Surely.’
‘Not this time, Herr Oberst. It seems the sea’s black with ships and they’re firing on the coastal defences.’
‘The Führer said it would come in the Pas de Calais area.’