Farnham was still smiling when the dispatcher put his head round the door and told him ‘fifteen minutes’.
He used the time for a mental run-through of the new identity inscribed in the bewildering array of papers with which he had been presented, courtesy of the Free French office in London. His name was Jacques Messier, and he worked for a Paris construction firm which turned out tank traps for the Germans. His family still lived in St Dié, a small railway town in the western foothills of the Vosges. As proof of all this he carried an identity card, a draft card, a trade union card, demobilization papers, all seven kinds of ration cards – which, being French, naturally included one for wine – and a marriage certificate. Since Farnham wasn’t circumcised, he didn’t need a baptismal certificate to prove he wasn’t a Jew.
As he clipped his own static line to the fuselage he wondered about the people who were hopefully waiting in the pasture below. In England the French Resistance was acquiring almost legendary status. The cities were supposed to be full of beautiful young girls in berets on sabotage missions, the forests full of outlaws doing Robin Hood impersonations, with the local Gestapo chief filling in for the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. That was the myth, but what was the reality? What sort of men was he going to find down there?
Farnham tried imagining what might have happened in England had the Germans successfully invaded the island. Who would have taken to the mountains and the woods? Ex-soldiers? Students? Ordinary workers? He could imagine his sister doing so. And he could certainly imagine his father as a collaborator.
The dispatcher opened the bomb bay, revealing a landscape of heavily forested slopes, and only moments later the green light was on, a hand was slapping him on the back and he was falling into the void. A pull on the rip-cord and the chute billowed open above him, jerking him upright.
Now he could see the triangle of bonfires below. The pilot had done his calculations perfectly, and there was no need to realign his angle of drop. The parachute carrying the H-type container was above and behind him, also on target. Farnham had a brief picture of dark figures racing across the meadow to meet him, and then he was touching down, rolling through the sweet-smelling grass and gathering in the chute. ‘You won’t be burying this one,’ the dispatcher had told him. ‘French women like their silk.’
There were about a dozen of them. Some were returning across the grass after extinguishing the fires, some were gathering in the chute from the H-container, some seemed to be standing guard on the perimeter. Two were approaching Farnham at a brisk walk.
‘Robert?’ the first asked, pronouncing it ‘Robair’ in the French fashion. He was a big man in his thirties, with dark hair, bushy eyebrows and moustache, wearing a ragged-looking coat and a crumpled but official-looking peaked cap. ‘I am Jules,’ he said, offering a hand.
‘And I am Yves,’ the other man said. He was older, probably in his early forties, thin and bespectacled, with short hair and eyes that seemed piercing in the gloom. He was wearing a thick jacket, baggy trousers and a beret. ‘And these are Henri and Pierre,’ he added, indicating the two men who were now rolling up Farnham’s chute, presumably with girlfriends in mind. They looked like brothers, and the younger of the two was not that far removed from adolescence. Both had pugnacious faces and dark, curly hair.
In the distance Farnham could see other Maquisards bending over the H-type container – they were probably trying to work out how it came apart. ‘I will show your men how to break it up,’ he told Jules and Yves in French, and was gratified to realize that they understood his accent.
Two minutes later the five canisters had been separated and assigned to their porters, and Farnham had been cursorily introduced to another ten or so men of varying ages. Tomorrow he would probably need to be told their names again, but for the moment he was left with an impression of serious Gallic faces, of smiling mouths and wary eyes.
The other thing he noticed was the paucity of weaponry on display. Jules had a German sub-machine-gun slung across his back, and two of the other men were carrying rifles, but that was all. The Stens were going to come in handy.
They left the open pasture to the stars, funnelling into single file as they entered the surrounding forest and started down a winding path through densely packed trees. There was no wind to stir the branches and the only sounds were those of their passage, the rustle of leaves underfoot and the heavier breathing of the men carrying the canisters. Within minutes it was hard to imagine the open space beneath the vast sky which they had left behind, and even harder to imagine life before the drop. The plane, the Kentish airfield, the packed train from London – all suddenly seemed light-years away.
The walk to the Maquis camp took about an hour. It was mostly downhill and mostly by path, though for about two hundred yards they followed a wider track through the forest. At no time did they have to leave the cover of the trees, which suggested to Farnham that both drop zone and camp-site had been carefully chosen.
The latter was hard to make much sense of in the darkness, and his first impression went no deeper than a scattering of tents beneath the trees. He was escorted to one of these, which had apparently been set aside for his exclusive use. There were blankets waiting on a dry oilskin groundsheet, and while he was still staring at this new home from home a cup of hot chocolate was pressed into his palm by a grinning young Maquisard.
‘We will talk in the morning,’ Yves was telling him, and Farnham had no sooner agreed than he found himself alone. Resistance fighters obviously needed their beauty sleep, and he had to admit to feeling pretty tired himself.
He woke to the sound of birds singing in the trees. There were voices in the distance, and as he lay looking up at the filtered sunlight on the ceiling of his tent two or more men walked by, giving each other updates on their latest bowel movements. Farnham smiled to himself, shook himself out of his sleeping bag and reached for his clothes. All were well worn, and had been made in France.
Once dressed, he squeezed out through the tent opening and stood beside it for a moment, examining the view. The trees stretched away in all directions, either on a level or sloping downhill. They were mostly oak and beech, rising to a high canopy through which the sun shone fitfully down. The camp-site seemed to be draped across the flat brow of a hill, which would account for the relative dryness of the ground.
The camouflaged bell-tents had been erected at roughly ten-yard intervals, and Farnham reckoned that a spotter plane pilot would need the eyes of several hawks to see them.
He walked down through the trees to where two men were sitting on adjoining stumps, cleaning and oiling their vintage French Army rifles, and asked them where he could find their leader, Jules. They pointed him further in the same direction. ‘But the leader’s name is Yves,’ they added with a grin.
Farnham walked thoughtfully on, feeling stupid. Why had he assumed that Jules was the leader? Because Yves wore glasses and looked like a schoolteacher?
He found both men leaning across a trestle table in what was obviously the command tent, examining a map. The five canisters were also there, laid out in a line on the floor, opened but not emptied.
Yves noticed the look on Farnham’s face. ‘We have waited for your blessing before distributing the guns,’ the Maquisard said with a smile.
‘You have it,’ Farnham told him, which brought a grin to Jules’ face. ‘Good,’ the Frenchman said. ‘I was hoping to use them in the morning’s exercises.’ He grinned again and disappeared through the tent flap.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Yves asked. ‘And something to eat?’
Farnham nodded, and found himself alone again. The map, not surprisingly, was of the surrounding area, and someone had been at work with a soft pencil, marking in various approaches to the nearby town of St Dié.
Jules returned with a Maquisard whose name Farnham had already forgotten and carted away the two canisters containing the Stens and ammo, and then Yves reappeared with a cup of bitter-tasting chicory cof
fee and two hunks of stalish bread wrapped around a piece of cold and extremely fatty bacon. Farnham tried consoling himself with the thought that in a few days’ time this would probably seem like a feast.
‘It was a long winter,’ Yves said apologetically, ‘and the moment spring came more and more men decided it was time to join us. Feeding them has been just as difficult as finding weapons for them.’
‘Why so many?’ Farnham asked, hoping that the answer would tell him something about the answerer.
Yves shrugged like an Englishman’s idea of a Frenchman. ‘They all have their reasons. Some want to make sure they’re on the right side now that the Germans seem to be on the run, but that’s understandable. Last year most of the new recruits were avoiding the German labour drive – life in the forest seemed a better bet than working in a factory on the wrong side of the Rhine. And I’m sure some of them thought they’d made a mistake when winter came,’ he added with a thin smile. ‘People like to think that wars are fought by idealists, but most of the time they’re fought by people who would have stayed at home if only the situation had allowed them to.’
‘That’s a depressing thought,’ Farnham said, risking another mouthful of chicory.
‘I don’t find it so,’ Yves said. ‘There’s something so much nobler about a reluctant soldier.’
It seemed early in the day for philosophy. ‘What sort of exercises was Jules talking about?’ Farnham asked.
‘In the mornings we have physical training, followed by study sessions in guerrilla tactics and the enemy’s anti-guerrilla tactics, and finally a field exercise which embodies the lessons which have hopefully been learned. In the afternoon there are more sessions on camp organization and leadership techniques in this sort of warfare.’
Farnham was impressed, and said so.
‘Have you finished your coffee?’ Yves asked. ‘Or at least as much of it as you can swallow? Come, I will show you the lie of the land.’ He plucked a pair of worn-looking field glasses from a hook, ducked out of the tent and led Farnham further into the camp. In a large space beneath a spreading oak about twenty men were doing press-ups, their grunts of exertion mingling with the birdsong above their heads. Most of them were naked to the waist, beneath which some wore trousers, some long johns and some just shorts.
‘Are there no women in this outfit?’ Farnham asked as they began walking again.
‘Not living out here,’ Yves said. ‘We had a couple two years ago, and they were both great fighters, but their presence caused too many problems. It wasn’t their fault, but…’ He shrugged. ‘We have women in the towns, and they often do much more dangerous jobs than those we do up here.’
They were through the camp now, and the screen of foliage in front of them was thinning, which suggested that they were coming to the end of the forest. The north-western side of the hill, it soon became clear, was bare of the trees which covered the other sides and crown, and from the edge of the latter they could see out across the wide valley of the River Meurthe. A mile or so to the west, and some five hundred feet beneath them, was the small village of Le Chipal. Several other villages could also be seen strung out at intervals along the winding road which ran through the foothills of the Vosges. More interesting to Farnham, about six or seven miles to the north a steam train was visible on the main St Dié to Strasbourg line, puffing small clouds of white smoke against the blue hills beyond. Following the line to the west he found St Dié itself, a red and brown smudge in the gap between heavily forested hills.
‘What’s the enemy strength in this area?’ he asked Yves.
‘It varies from week to week. There are small garrisons in St Dié and Gérardmer, much larger ones in Épinal and Colmar. The Gestapo’s main regional centre is in Nancy, but they have branch centres in Épinal and St Dié. The Milice, of course, are everywhere, and now that they’re beginning to realize they’ve picked the wrong side some of them have abandoned all restraint. It hurts me to say it, but they’re worse than the Germans.’
‘What do you need to step up operations in advance of the invasion?’ Farnham asked.
‘We would like more of everything,’ Yves said promptly, ‘but we need more guns, more food and more clothes. The guns you brought will make a big difference; another shipment and we will have as many as we need. As for food, the farmers nearby have always been generous, but there are just too many of us now. We have started sending scrounging parties further afield, with orders not to take no for an answer. Of course we leave requisition receipts, which will be redeemable once the war is over, but the farmers don’t like it and I can’t say I blame them. If there were any other choice…’ He grimaced. ‘And as for clothes…’ He held up a threadbare sleeve. ‘You have seen what we are all wearing, and at this rate most of us will be in rags by the summer. But I hope you have arrived just in time to see us solve that particular problem. In Ste Marguerite, which is just outside St Dié, there is an old army storehouse, and it’s full of clothing. There are uniforms, shoes, knapsacks, even cooking stuff, just waiting for a new army to claim them. And tomorrow night we intend to do just that.’
A little under forty hours later Farnham was one of eighteen men waiting in a small clearing on a hill, about one and a half miles south of Ste Marguerite. The Maquis camp in the foothills was only about five miles to the south-east as the crow flew, but in following a route that avoided settlements and made the most of tree cover they had walked almost twice that far.
The waiting faces were nervous, but Farnham would have been more concerned if they hadn’t been, for the military experience of most was limited to their surrender in 1940. Yves had apparently served through the final months of the last war, but that hardly qualified him for guerrilla warfare. Nevertheless, the plan which he and Jules had concocted for this operation seemed, in outline at least, professional enough.
Farnham wasn’t sure why they were waiting on this hill. The new moon was still casting its gossamer light across the clearing, and perhaps they were waiting for it to set, which wouldn’t be for at least half an hour. He supposed he could walk over and ask, but Yves had made it very clear that, for the moment at least, he was to do as he was told and nothing more. After the last few years it was a strange feeling, having no responsibility, no decisions to take. Restful perhaps, but also frustrating.
The silence was suddenly broken by a bird call which seemed to come from further down the hill. One of the Maquisards answered in kind, and a few moments later two people walked into the clearing. One was a man in his thirties, dressed for the town rather than the country, with shirt and tie visible through the open neck of his coat.
The other was a woman, and from the moment of her entrance Farnham found it hard to take his eyes off her. She was probably in her twenties, and the wisps of blonde hair which had escaped from under her hat glowed in the faint moonlight. It was impossible to tell the colour of her eyes, but the face was drawn in shadow relief, emphasizing, perhaps even exaggerating, its beauty.
Her companion was doing most of the talking with Yves and Jules, leaving her to glance around at the rest of the unit. She gave smiles of recognition to some, but when her eyes briefly met Farnham’s there was only a polite neutrality. He wondered what her name was, but knew he couldn’t ask anyone. In the Resistance names were not shared without a very good reason.
Their report delivered, she and her companion disappeared back into the trees, taking two of the Maquisards with them. These two, Farnham remembered, had been allotted the task of cutting the telephone line between St Dié and Ste Marguerite, just in case something went wrong and someone at the storehouse tried to call for reinforcements. He wondered what her role might be.
The clearing seemed emptier without her, but at least the next period of waiting was shorter. It was two minutes past one by Farnham’s watch when Jules gave the signal for their departure, and the band started down through the trees towards the wide valley below. Ten minutes later they were emerging on to the small road wh
ich skirted the flood plain of the braided Meurthe and walking north towards Ste Marguerite. A few darkened cottages loomed in front of them, but only a barking dog noticed their passage, and soon they could see the railway bridge which carried the St Dié to Strasbourg line across the road.
Near the rear of the column, Farnham was thinking that this unit showed excellent discipline. They were out on an open road, far from likely listeners, but there was no conversation at all, not even a whispered murmur. And either French boots and roads were softer than English, or these Maquisards could have given the SAS some lessons in marching quietly.
The crescent moon had now set behind the hills to the south of St Dié, leaving only the light of the stars in the clear sky above. They reached the bridge, and Jules led the way up the embankment to where the four lines of gleaming rail stretched away in either direction. The column followed them west, across the low bridge which carried trains across the Meurthe, and then clambered down another embankment to the path which followed the river. The buildings of Ste Marguerite were clearly visible now, a long line of shadowy rectangles straddling the road about half a mile to the north. On the left of the path, just before the bridge which carried the distant road across the river, Farnham could make out the complex of buildings which made up the storehouse.
A few minutes more and they were gathered beneath the surrounding wall, eight feet of brick topped with glass-encrusted concrete. An old mattress was lying innocently in the weeds beneath the wall – Farnham assumed it had not been dumped there accidentally – and two of the Maquisards quickly manhandled it across the top of the wall. The first man was hoisted up on to the mattress, from which he scanned the yard on the other side of the wall and grinned an all-clear.
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