by Allan Jones
“Show me,” she said, placing her hand on the gun. “Carefully now!”
He freed his hands and shuffled forward on his bottom and pulled on the sack, spilling the contents. There were indeed the items he had mentioned. She flicked her eyes over them, then reached and picked up the nearest axe and inspected it.
“These haven’t been used for some time,” she said, running her finger over the blunt edge. “They’re rusty. A good woodsman would never let his tools get in such a state, would he?”
She threw the axe to the floor, where it landed with a loud thud. A flicker of fear crossed the man’s eyes.
“Look, the Germans don’t allow much movement about these days. It’s been some time. It took a while to get a permit. I have much to do to catch up. My sharpening tools I keep here; that’s what I was going to do first, sharpen them.”
“Are the Germans your friends then, to give you this permit? Did you have to crawl to them, get their favour, do them favours, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not!” he said, the indignation making his voice rise. “I am no friend to them! I hate them, I spit at them, they killed my son! Took the other away to forced labour in one of their stinking factories in Germany. They take everything, they starve us, they take our women for their brothels, they sneer at us, give us nothing. They are pigs!”
“How did your son die?” she said softly.
“He was killed in the fighting. He died bravely, for his country. I am proud of his memory. My other son was nineteen. I haven’t heard from him since they took all the fit men and older teenagers away; six months it’s been now.”
“How many Germans are there in the area?” she asked.
“None. We see the odd patrol now and then on the roads, but there is no garrison near; the closest is at Rennes. Since they took the men away, they think there is no reason to come here, they think we are sheep!”
“And are you?”
The man ignored the question and thought, his eyes narrowing; then he said, “You, Miss, are obviously in hiding from them.”
“Obviously,” she agreed.
The man seemed to reach a decision. “We are not sheep, we are Frenchmen; we are going to fight back! We are getting ready.”
“Oh! Tell me more,” she encouraged him.
The man made a small grin. “You were right, I didn’t come here to cut wood. You see, just about where you’re sitting is buried a box of dynamite! We stole it from the local quarry just before the Germans came and we buried it. I came to get it!”
“And do what?”
“Use it to kill Germans, of course.”
“Who, exactly, is we? How many?”
“There are only four of us so far, but once we get started more will come, then more till we have a battalion, then an army, then who knows? We will drive them out!”
She said nothing. He watched as she picked up the gun, slipped the magazine and emptied the chamber. She reassembled it and put it back in its holster beneath her overalls. The man Gaspar breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to him.
“I parachuted from England last night. My plane was attacked and I had to jump far from where I was supposed to. I’ve walked through the night to get here and I’ve killed two Germans on the way.”
Gaspar was rubbing his sore hands. “My God! Where?”
“I walked the railway line north. There was a bridge over the river, there were two guards. I shot them and dumped the bodies into the river. I doubt that they’ll be found for a while, but by now they will know that they have two missing soldiers.”
“You have come far,” Gaspar said, “a long walk. Did you see anyone else?” She shook her head. Gaspar was thinking, rubbing his chin. “You are probably right, about the bodies I mean: the Germans will spend some time looking for them. When they do find them, they’ll rouse the whole area. You cannot stay here.”
She watched as he thought some more, waiting for him to reach the obvious conclusion, to take the next step. “I will take you to Henri. He is our leader, he will hide you and know what to do. You will come, yes?”
She smiled at him. “I thought you would never ask! Of course I will; I need all the help I can get,” she said ruefully. “I will have to trust you, of course. I’m putting my life in your hands, you realise that, don’t you?”
“You can trust us, I assure you. You will be in safe hands, especially when we get to Henri’s; he’s as strong as an ox and as crafty as a fox. You will like him, I’m sure.”
She walked to stand in front of him and held out her hand. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I had to be sure, understand?”
He shook her hand. “I wasn’t frightened really,” he said. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “I was bloody terrified!” he laughed. “Come, help me dig up the dynamite, then we can get out of here.”
“No, Gaspar, leave it here for the time being. I doubt you know how to use it anyway; it’s dangerous stuff and not much use unless you really know what you’re doing. All you people would do is make a few loud bangs or blow yourselves up. Really, it’s better we leave it,” she spoke earnestly.
Gaspar shrugged. “Fine, leave it; but let’s get going straightaway,” he said, gathering his tools into the sack. Amelia gathered up her pack and suitcase. They reached the door and Gaspar took the suitcase from her, with a smile. He talked as they went.
“You can ride in the back of my truck. We’ll load some logs onto it so that you can hide behind them if we’re unlucky and run into a patrol. It will be bumpy; you’ll have to hang on tight. It will take half an hour, no more. When we reach Henri’s, I’ll drive straight into the barn, then I’ll go see if it’s safe and get Henri. You stay in the back, hidden; when I’m sure it’s safe, you will hear me whistle the Marseillaise.”
She took his arm to stop him, her face suddenly grim. “Gaspar, capture is not an option for me. If things go wrong, I’ll fight to the death. I don’t care who gets in the way, I’ll kill them too. You know what you’re risking: you could get yourself killed?”
He gave her a pained expression. “Of course I do; but don’t worry, it’s very unlikely that there will be any trouble. Now come.” He hurried her on.
They reached the next clearing where he had parked his battered Citroen truck, then she helped him pile a load of logs onto the back, leaving a space near the front. She would have to wriggle over the top of the pile, but then she would be hidden effectively. When it was done, she turned to him. “Well, Gaspar, I am in your hands.”
“They are good hands; you will be safe, I assure you,” he replied, taking her hand to shake once more.
He helped her up and passed on her luggage as she wriggled into the cramped space. She heard him lift and secure the tailgate, and as the engine started she braced herself, thinking, “So far, so good.”
The truck moved off down the bumpy track. She had to heave against the logs, which had shifted and now threatened to crush her. After an age, the truck stopped and the engine died. She sat very still. Gaspar had gone and the minutes ticked by in complete silence, increasing her anxiety. She took out the gun and armed it. The waiting made her mouth dry and she licked her lips and listened intently; she had not felt so vulnerable. Presently, she heard footsteps approaching, then she heard Gaspar whistling as he had said he would. She didn’t relax; instead, she gripped the gun firmly and prepared herself in case anything was wrong. The tailgate was dropped and she heard them begin to heave the logs off the back. Then she could see them. Gaspar stopped and spoke. “Everything’s fine. This is Henri.”
Henri was a bear of a man, over six foot six, perhaps, with the build of a lumberjack. He had grey close-cropped hair and a full moustache. He wore baggy trousers and a vest which showed his bulging biceps as he worked with his huge hands, effortlessly tossing the logs behind him as if they were matchsticks. He beamed at her. “Welcome, welcome. We’ll soon have you out of there. Come, Gaspar, work harder!”
While they were distracted, Amelia shame-facedly put the
safety on the gun and put it away; then she scrambled over the remaining logs to the back of the truck. She let Henri lift her off the truck, feeling the power of the man as he set her down and treated her to a bear-hug.
He let her go and turned to Gaspar. “Get her things and bring them to the house. Come, Miss, we’ll get you cleaned up and some food. Come, quickly.”
Her legs stiff from the cramped position in the truck, Amelia hurried after him out of the barn across a yard, with more outbuildings, towards the two-storey farmhouse. Smoke was streaming from the chimney and the sight of it made her shiver, realising how cold she was. Henri reached the door and held it open for her and she went in.
She was in a large kitchen and across it a woman, presumably Henri’s wife, stood over a range cooking sizzling bacon. The smell made her dizzy with hunger. The woman hurried over; she was as tall as Amelia, a little on the plump side, as befitted a farmer’s wife, and had her long silver hair tied into a plait which reached the small of her back. Her face was full of concern as, she too, hugged Amelia, then bade her sit down at the large table that dominated the centre of the room. “Look at you, poor thing, you must be exhausted. I’ll get you some coffee, then you shall have the best breakfast we can manage. You must get out of those things, have a bath. Have you other clothes?”
“Gaspar is bringing them, my suitcase,” Amelia replied.
“No matter, you can use some of my things for now; they’ll be a little baggy, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you, Madame, you’re very kind,” Amelia smiled at her.
Henri spoke: “This is Lucille, my wife; she is the best cook in the whole of France!”
Amelia stood and extended her hand to shake Lucille’s. “Now sit, sit, drink this,” said Lucille, handing her a mug of divine-smelling coffee.
Amelia sipped and felt the warmth as it went down. Lucille returned to the range and Henri sat down next to Amelia as Gaspar came in with the luggage. He joined them at the table. “See,” he said, turning to Amelia, “I told you it would be fine. Henri here is a fine man, my best friend; we will look after you.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Gaspar, and you Henri and Madame, you’re all very kind…and good people.”
Henri snorted in embarrassment and leaned his elbows on the table closer to her. “Tell us everything. How are things in England? When will they come? They are coming back, aren’t they? When will it be? How are we to help?”
“Henri, leave the poor girl alone, can’t you see she’s exhausted? Let her eat, bathe and sleep before you ask your stupid questions,” Lucille scolded.
Amelia spoke quickly. “No, it’s all right, really, I’m fine now; this coffee is making me feel human again.”
Lucille crossed the room and set a steaming pile of eggs, bacon and mushrooms in front of her and glared at the two men. “We eat first! Gaspar, fetch the bread, Henri the cutlery.”
The men scurried to do her bidding and Amelia grinned as Lucille winked at her with a victorious smile playing on her lips. Then Gaspar tore thick wedges from the loaf of bread and handed them round. Soon they were all seated and, as she began to eat, Amelia felt tears of gratitude rising in her; she wiped them away with the back of her hand, hoping no-one had noticed. They ate in silence, in deference to Lucille, and when they were finished, Lucille refilled the coffee-pot and busied herself clearing away the remnants of the meal. Amelia felt full and relaxed back in her chair, still sipping her coffee.
Henri turned to her. “Now we talk, yes?”
Lucille bustled over. “No, Henri! No! She must get out of those things, get cleaned up. What if the Germans came and saw her like this? What could we do? You men go make yourselves busy.”
She took Amelia by the arm and lifted her up and propelled her to the doorway leading to the stairs, shooting a fierce glare over her shoulder at the men. Henri shrugged and rose to his feet. “Come, Gaspar, we’ll go and chop that wood you bought. She’s right, we must do things as normal; there will be time enough later.” Gaspar followed him out of the door with a sigh.
Upstairs, Lucille showed her into a bedroom and produced a bathrobe for her to change into. Amelia removed the knife that was strapped to her ankle and shrugged out of the filthy overall. Lucille didn’t comment as the gun in its holster was exposed; instead, she helped her off with it and tossed it onto the bed with the knife. Blood had seeped through to Amelia’s shirt, and she stripped it off. Her bra was still clean, as were her trousers. She gathered the overall and shirt together. “Please, Lucille, you must burn these quickly.” Lucille nodded and accepted the bundle and hurried downstairs with it to the range.
While she was gone, Amelia stripped off her socks and trousers − they could be washed − and stood in her bra and panties. Her hand went of its own accord to the brooch still safely pinned inside her bra. Paul sprang into her thoughts.
“God! He must be worried sick,” she thought as she fondled the brooch.
Her thoughts wandered to the times they had spent together and a smile came to her face as the memories set up a warm glow inside her. Her reverie was shattered as Lucille returned. “Come, I will run you a bath. Take those things off as well, I will wash them.”
Amelia took off her bra, and paused to unpin the brooch. Lucille came near and saw it. “A present from a lover?” she asked, admiring the brooch.
“Yes, it is, it’s very precious to me,” Amelia said, handing her the brooch for a closer look. “It’s beautiful,” Lucille said, “and expensive! He must love you very much. He is in England?”
“Yes, he does, and he is. It was his mother’s. He gave it to me just before I left: he says it will keep me safe.”
“How romantic,” Lucille sighed, handing it back. “Now, time for your bath; you can use any of my things.”
Amelia stripped off her panties, conscious of Lucille’s overt examination of her figure, and walked over to where the robe lay and slipped it on, then followed Lucille to the bathroom. Soon she lay in the perfumed water and for a while she closed her eyes and relaxed, enjoying the sensation. She felt herself slipping into sleep, so busied herself washing thoroughly in order to postpone the tiredness. It felt good to be able to wash her hair at last: she hated it being dirty..
She dried herself, wrapped her wet hair in a towel, and returned to the bedroom. Lucille had laid out some clothes for her, and they fitted her well; she guessed that Lucille hadn’t worn them in years. She pinned the brooch into her clean bra, picked up the gun and knife and made her way back to the kitchen.
She put both on the table and sat down as Lucille entered. “There, the clothes are drying on the line. Do you feel better?”
“Very much better, thank you. You’re so kind,” Amelia smiled at her. “Nonsense, you must stop thanking everyone. You shall think of this as your home now; in fact, if anyone asks about you, I’ll say you’re my niece come to live with us. We’ll say you were widowed, yes?”
“Yes, we can work it all out later, with the men as well.”
Lucille produced a hairbrush and, without asking, removed the towel and began to brush Amelia’s hair. “There, this is the sort of thing aunts and nieces do, is it not?”
Amelia laughed. “Yes, thank you…oops, sorry…er, Aunt Lucille.”
The men returned from their labours, sweating heavily as it had become hot outside. They slumped into seats at the table and helped themselves to water from a pitcher on the table. Henri fixed his glare on Lucille. “So, woman, can we get down to business now?” he asked. Lucille raised her eyes, and knowing his look that meant he was not to be denied, smiled at him and nodded. Henri smiled in return and turned to Amelia.
She answered all of his previous questions and then more, before she told him of the events of the night before, omitting nothing. Their eyes widened as she told of the encounter with the Germans; they listened intently, nodding approval. Lucille brought some wine to the table and joined them, pouring each a generous glass. Amelia finished her story and they dra
nk in silence for a while, digesting.
Henri was the first to speak. “So, you tell Gaspar to leave the dynamite.”
Amelia swallowed her wine and put the glass down, becoming more businesslike. “Yes, it’s no good to you. It’s not very efficient in an amateur’s hands; it’s good only for a big bang, unless you know what you’re doing. If you don’t, you’ll only get yourself killed or alert every German for miles around; and, forgive me for saying this, you’ve been very kind, but you are amateurs, aren’t you? Your hearts are in the right place, but these things require much thought, meticulous planning and a great deal of training. From what Gaspar told me, I deduced that you aren’t yet ready to take on the Germans. Believe me, they are no fools; they have the biggest and best army in the world, they are well led, well organised and at the moment their morale is very high… just look at what they have achieved. They think themselves invincible, and at the moment they have good reason to, because they are.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. Gaspar shifted uneasily in his chair and avoided her eyes. Henri stared moodily into his glass. Amelia held out her glass and Lucille filled it. She took a draught and resumed. “Their belief that they are invincible is precisely their weakness. Imagine the shock when someone takes them on and defeats them! The German mind thinks in logical straight lines, black and white; they love efficiency. This is another weakness we can exploit, but we have to use guile and cunning, hit them when they least expect it, where they least expect it; come out of the shadows, hit hard and disappear without trace. We instill a sense of fear, doubt and even panic; we stay invisible, we make it unsafe for them to walk alone, make them move in groups, make them always be looking over their shoulder, waiting for the assassin to strike. This is what we can do: keep them jumpy, make them afraid of us, afraid of the dark, the shadows. Pin them down!”
She had their full attention now! “All this we can do, and more; we can attack their supply lines, their communications, we can ambush and kill them, we can spy on them and get our findings to London. Good intelligence on the enemy is vital; I can’t stress that enough. Information on your enemy is more important than bombs and bullets. With good intelligence we can predict their moves, we can feed them false information and have them running around chasing themselves; we can even make them move whole divisions to the wrong place while we attack another! Do you see?”