Down the Rabbit Hole- Into France

by Jason Walker

  “Major Turnball, I need you to extract Miss LeClair, as well as two allied airmen who were shot down several weeks ago. One Corporal Hiroa of the New Zealand Air Force, and one Sergeant MacArthur, a parachute rigger with the Canadian Air Force. Here are their files.”

  Two more manila files were passed across Atkins’ desk. Major Turnball took a cursory glance, knowing that he was not required to open and study them right away.

  “Thank you, Ma’am. So, my people are to undertake more than one rescue mission? If I may say so, that seems like a suicide mission, Ma’am. How am I supposed to retrieve all of those people and get them back here alive? This is going to be…”

  Atkins cut him off. “Major, my problem is getting things done. Your problem is how to get things done. I picked you because of your reputation; your reputation of being the best at what you do. Put together your team, formulate your plan, and have it here on my desk tomorrow evening, would you?” It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

  An awkward and deafening silence held the room ransom, which Major Turnball eventually broke. “Ma’am, may I ask for more men and additional supplies?”

  “You’ll have one DC3 flying in under the cover of darkness. You can take as much of who and whatever you wish as long as the plane can carry it. I will look forward to receiving your plan tomorrow evening at the latest, Major. Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

  Major Turnball knew that he had just been dismissed. He stood, and once more saluted Atkins.

  As if she possessed a sixth sense, Atkins’ secretary appeared at the door, and gestured to the major that she would show him out.

  Chapter Five

  Bordeaux, France.

  With not a cloud in the sky, the full moon shone down on the cliff, illuminating it in the clear winter night air. Two men laying on the edge were looking down through their binoculars at the road below, which was dissected by a German checkpoint. Pte. Bob Chambers, a man in his thirties, and his younger superior, Cpl. Jason Oliver laid flat on the ground and huddled together, in a futile attempt to use each other’s body heat to stay warm. Whatever heat they did have between them was quickly being absorbed by the freezing ground. They were both alert and wide awake, unlike the solitary German soldier they were observing below, who appeared to be falling asleep at his checkpoint.

  Chambers broke the silence. “What do you think?”

  “We can’t stay here, it’s too exposed, plus, this freezing wind will kill us,” replied Oliver. “Then we need to move, and fast. I’m freezing my balls off.” Chambers always did know how to get straight to the point.

  After more scanning below, both men agreed that they needed to get to the bottom of the cliff and cross to the other side of the road. The snow would be their enemy in doing so, for it is not an easy task to journey through the white fluffy substance without leaving a trail.

  Sensing Chambers’ reservations, Oliver wore a wry smile and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow, we’ll cut down some branches to brush over our tracks, and we’ll be fine.”

  Chambers nodded in a less than enthusiastic manner. Oliver stood up and headed away from the cliff edge with Chambers following him. It was going to be a long night.

  Hundreds of feet below at the German Checkpoint, Cpl. Weiss arrived ready for duty, and noticed that Pte. Meyer - the guard who Oliver and Chambers had observed a little earlier - had indeed fallen asleep. Weiss gave him a sharp shove on the shoulder to wake him up.

  “Hey, Meyer, wake up. You need to stay awake, this is not a holiday. I’m heading down the road to take a crap. Once I’ve relieved myself, I will be back to relieve you.”

  As soon as Weiss had walked away and was just a few metres down the road preparing for his daily ritual, Meyer closed his eyes and once again drifted off to sleep.

  By now, Oliver and Chambers had reached the roadside and were not more than 50 metres away from the guard hut. They hid behind a small clump of trees, and a quick look through his binoculars confirmed to Oliver that the lone guard, Meyer, was asleep. He whispered to Chambers, “There’s only one of them, and he’s asleep. I’m still not completely happy, there should always be more than one soldier guarding a checkpoint. We need to take it slowly, and quietly. You go first, and I will keep my eyes peeled.”

  Chambers swallowed and replied, “Okay. Once over the other side of the road, I’ll wait in those trees. If by any chance we get separated, just go over that mountain over there, and I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  “Okay. Go,” ordered Oliver.

  Chambers stepped out from the cover of the trees onto the snow covered road, and suddenly felt vulnerable. He looked around and could see no sign of movement. Just 20 metres away, Weiss had found the spot where he would do his business and had begun undoing his pants before backing up towards a snow bank and squatting down. Chambers continued walking across the road, using an evergreen branch with which to brush away his tracks. One thing the branch could not cover, however, was the crunching of the snow under Chambers’ boots. A whistle was heard, and back at the guardhouse Meyer woke up with a start and scrambled to his feet.

  “Halt! Halt! Shiza!” screamed Weiss, having now realised that he wasn’t as alone as he had assumed he was. He found himself running from the snow bank holding his rifle in one hand, and pulling his pants up with the other.

  Suddenly, the lights of a truck parked outside of the guardhouse came on and illuminated Chambers. He was right in the middle of the road, and the rays of the lights - which seemed as powerful as a searchlight because of the snow - left him with zero camouflage. The truck started moving toward Chambers, and behind the wheel was Meyer, who was now considerably more awake than he had been when Weiss had last seen him. Chambers elected to take his only option: to head over to the other side of the road - the side where he’d originally planned to meet Oliver, and he disappeared into the brush and deeper snow.

  Meyer stood on the brakes - which didn’t make too much of a difference on the compacted snow and ice - and came to a halt at the place where Chambers had disappeared. Meyer climbed down from the driver’s seat with his rifle poised, and cautiously followed Chambers’ tracks, which this time, he had not had time to brush over.

  Chambers, who could feel his lungs burning with the exertion of running together with the freezing air, stopped for a brief moment and looked back down the hill towards the road. In the lights of the truck, he could see the shadow of Meyer, who was pointing his rifle directly at him. He never even heard the shot.

  Oliver, still in the same position he had been in when he’d ordered Chambers to go ahead, had observed every second of the action. He made a reasonable judgment that there was nothing he could do, and decided to pull back and retreat to safety.

  By now, Weiss had run to the truck and he found Meyer still holding his rifle and pointing it up the hill. “Let’s call it in, I got him,” Meyer said.

  Oliver trudged through the forest, heading for the planned rendezvous point. With the uneven terrain of the forest floor and the snow, plus the fact that it was dark, he knew he was in for a long hard night.

  Chapter Six

  After what was probably an hour, Oliver stopped for a brief rest. He hadn’t eaten or slept for God only knew how long, and he was getting tired. He thought he heard something and slowed down his breathing. Yes, he was right. In the distance, there was a rumbling sound, but it was too far away to make out exactly what it was. He stayed silent as the noise grew louder, and then hit him; it was coming from the sky, and it was the unmistakable sound of two Curtiss-Wright R- 1820 Cyclone engines. A Dakota DC3 was in the air over Bordeaux and was heading in Oliver’s direction!

  His elation was quickly quashed another sound, the voices of screaming Germans. They were close enough for Oliver to be able to tell that there were far too many of them, and the screaming and shouting was coming from multiple directions.

  The engines were now louder than ever. He looked up to the moonlit sky and saw the b
eautiful shadow of the DC3. He knew that if he could just stay hidden from the Germans, help was on its way, and that was his incentive to stay alive. He headed towards another hillside where he would stay hidden until he could make contact with his rescuers.

  Having climbed up the hillside, he found a good vantage point and could once again see the road below. There was intense activity, the sounds of continued shouting and noise of the DC3 in the sky. His heart was thumping.

  Suddenly, a machine gun opened fire spraying bullets up into the air. “Shit.” There was an almighty explosion. The Dakota had been hit and was now limping across the sky, a wounded bird. The constant rumble of the faithful old engines had now become a sick inconsistent noise with the misfiring of the twin motors. The plane was descending, unable to maintain altitude.

  Soon after, while walking through the forest, Oliver found a clearing. He looked around, surveying the area, and stopped cold in his tracks. Just a few metres away, a parachute lay on the ground, the light silk material fluttering in the gentle wind. Underneath was the unmistakable shape of a body; it was motionless.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

  Oliver knelt down and started to roll up the parachute, uncovering the dead body at the same time.

  Click.

  He stopped dead and felt the cold metal of the rifle’s barrel against his temple. Oliver raised his hands.

  “You German?” asked the man, now very much in charge.

  “No, Norwegian. I’m a POW. I don’t have any supplies. Please help,” pleaded Oliver.

  He was ordered to slowly turn around. Oliver obeyed and also stood up, still staring down the barrel of the rifle.

  “I’m Sgt. Mitchell, British. You’re an escapee from the camp, yeah?” Oliver nodded.

  “What’s your name and rank?”

  “Cpl. Oliver.”

  Satisfied, Mitchell lowered his weapon and walked over to the parachute. The dead body was badly burned, but the Sergeant recognised who it was immediately.

  “We were in the plane that was shot down. This is Major Turnball. He’s in charge…he was in charge of the rescue operation.”

  Mitchell went through the deceased major’s pockets and found a packet of cigarettes which he took for later. Knowing that they couldn’t stay where they were for long before a German search party would arrive, he instructed Oliver to collect whatever he could from the major’s supplies.

  They then dug a shallow grave and buried Major Mark Turnball out of sight. “What’s your first name, Corporal?” asked Mitchell.

  “Jason, and you?”

  “Oh, everyone just calls me Mitchell. Sometimes they put a sergeant in front of it.”

  Formalities seemed unimportant under the circumstances.

  Having covered the major’s final resting place with brush and snow, the two new friends shook hands.

  “Okay, Jason, let’s get away from here. Follow me,” Mitchell instructed.

  The two men turned and headed back into the shelter of the forest. Oliver asked where the other men from the plane were, a question to which Mitchell did not have an answer.

  A gunshot was heard in the distance. Both men stopped instinctively. The loudest sound they could hear at that moment was their hearts beating. They heard footsteps and breaking twigs beneath the snow and both ducked down. Just 20 yards away, three German soldiers were tugging on a parachute which was caught up in a tree. Some branches gave way under the strain, and a dead body fell down.

  “One more down!” shouted one of the soldiers. The other two cheered. The three of them gathered up the parachute, searched the body of the dead man, and picked up an SAS commando’s kit which they had found on the ground.

  Oliver and Mitchell were witnessing all of this, and the latter was wearing a grim look on his face. Oliver didn’t have to ask if the dead man belonged to Mitchell’s group.

  “Are we meeting with the resistance?” Oliver asked Mitchell. “As long as luck is on our side, yes.”

  Oliver considered all that had happened during that night, and concluded that his odds of seeing the next morning alive had just diminished drastically with Mitchell’s last sentence. Through the trees, the two men continued to watch as the Germans rifled through the dead paratrooper’s supply pack. Out of nowhere, a small rock hit Oliver on the back of the head, and instinctively he blurted out, “Ouch.”

  He turned around, and in some nearby bushes he spotted Al Patterson, a trooper in his 20s, who had his index finger pointing upwards over his lips, the international sign to keep quiet. Mitchell had now spotted Patterson as well, and both he and Oliver crawled over to meet him. After a brief chat, Patterson led the other two men over to some tree stumps in a deforested area. From behind one of them, Cpl. Jason Babcock of the British Special Air Service stood. Those in the SAS have a tendency not to trust anyone easily, and Babcock was pointing his rifle at the three men.

  “It’s me,” whispered Patterson. Recognising the voice, Babcock relaxed and lowered his rifle slightly. The three men continued approaching Babcock slowly and carefully with their hands above their heads, taking no chances. As they got closer, Babcock recognised Mitchell.

  “You made it, Serg!” he exclaimed, unable to hide his joy.

  With the sound of those words, the bush rustled slightly, and Bob Moran, another member of the SAS stood up. After a few seconds of back and arm slapping, Sgt. Mitchell, being the highest ranking man among the group took charge of the situation.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  Patterson informed him that Morgan, Smith, O’Sullivan, Ryan and Petty were all confirmed dead, shot by the Germans. The conversation ceased, and the group lowered their heads for just a few seconds to pay their respects to their fallen comrades.

  “Christ,” said Mitchell. “I found the major, he’s dead too. Burnt to a crisp. Must’ve got himself caught up in the plane when it exploded.”

  A few more seconds of silence.

  “Everyone, this is Cpl. Oliver, Norwegian, an escapee from the camp. He has not, repeat has not been briefed on anything yet, so please watch what you say in front of him.”

  Oliver offered a slightly uncomfortable smile.

  Moran spoke for the first time. “What do we do from here, Serg?”

  “We head that way.”

  The men all nodded in agreement and started gathering their packs and supplies in preparation to move on.

  Chapter Seven

  Back at the bakery, Bridgette was preparing a chicken pie ready to be cooked in her stone oven, while Danielle was taking care of making them both some much needed coffee.

  “Bichette, you look so tired and you slept so late last night. Are you alright?”

  “Yes, Mama. I was just tired from my…bike ride yesterday. I’m okay, please don’t worry.”

  Bridgette looked at her daughter with concern. She noticed that Danielle had bruising on her face.

  “Are you hungry, Danielle? The chicken pie will be ready in just an hour.”

  Danielle looked at her mother but did not reply. She looked through to the bakery shop front, it was empty. She walked back to her mother, stood next to her and asked in a hushed voice, “Mama, is it safe to talk?”

  “I think so Bichette, yes,” Bridgette replied.

  “Mama, they have set up guard posts on all of the roads leading out of town. No one can get in or out. You must tell your friends.”

  “Does this affect the rendezvous, Danielle?”

  Danielle looked down at the floor and a single tear fell from her eye.

  “Mama, I’ve been ordered back to England. I will have to leave with the two men in the cellar when they are picked up.”

  Bridgette’s face crumpled with fear and heartache. A few minutes of silence went by while mother and daughter both considered the ramifications of what Danielle had just said.

  “Mama, please, come with me. We can go back together.”

  Bridgette suddenly put her emotions as
ide and wiped away her tears on her sleeve. “No, Bichette, this is my home, and this is my business which your Papa and me both worked hard to build. I will not leave here. I will stay here and stand up on my own two feet, just like Papa did.”

  “Mama, you cannot help the Resistance on your own. You will end up dead…just like Papa did.”

  “Be that as it may, Danielle, but, I must stay. They need my help, and they need my bread,” said Bridgette defiantly.

  The two women hugged as only mother and daughter can.

  “Mama, I did not expect this but I must obey my orders. Once the war has ended, I will come back for you, I promise.”

  Bridgette finally broke down and sobbed in the arms of her daughter in a way that she had never sobbed before.

  Chapter Eight

  Nazi Headquarters, Bordeaux.

  A secretary left her office to take a break. As she walked down the corridor, she heard a screaming voice full of rage coming from behind a closed door, the door which led to an office occupied by Capt. Kurt Wegner.

  “Shoot them all, they are terrorists!” he yelled. So angry was Wegner that he could feel the blood rushing through the veins in his forehead, and he was breaking out in a sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He continued: “Search every door of every property in the entire town. I want every square inch combed until we find them all to the last man. I will be there in twenty minutes.” He slammed down the phone without saying goodbye; he was not in the mood for niceties. He picked up his coat, left his office, and closed the door in such a way that it may have caused some light structural damage.

  Evening was setting in, and Bridgette was sweeping the floor of the bakery, getting ready to close up for the night. She heard a sudden but almighty commotion outside, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw two German soldiers run past her shop window. She put down her broom, and peered outside, trying to see what was going on.