For King and Country

by David Monnery

  The sergeant needed no second encouragement, and it soon became apparent to McCaigh why that was – this was undoubtedly the most boring observation detail either of them had ever been cursed with. The rest of the morning passed without a single train appearing, and the Germans below looked as bored as he felt. ‘The war we watched,’ McCaigh murmured to himself.

  Since arriving in France they’d basically played hide-and-seek with the Germans. He knew the information they had gathered was valuable, that it might well save Allied lives over the next few weeks and months, but it wasn’t action. Eight months had passed since the night in San Severino, and he was beginning to wonder whether he’d ever find himself in a fire-fight again. If he wasn’t going to, then he’d just as soon know now, so that he could start dismantling the mental defences he’d built up and get back to living.

  It had been trains at San Severino, he thought. What did you do in the war, Dad? I was a train-spotter, son.

  In the forest camp the day went by no faster. Farnham set sentries on the perimeter and let the rest of the men sleep while he considered the problem of the tunnel. They didn’t have enough explosive to collapse it, but there were several ways to create a serious blockage without using any of their limited supplies. The choice of which would have to wait on the reports of the recce teams, so there wasn’t much point in thinking about them.

  He closed his eyes and found Madeleine’s face in his mind. They were in the forest, which wasn’t surprising – the two of them had only been under one roof together, Marcel’s in Schirmeck. He wondered what her house in St Dié looked like, if indeed she lived in a house. He didn’t even know whether she lived alone, with her parents or with friends.

  After changing the sentries at noon he went to sleep himself, leaving orders that he be woken the moment the recce teams returned. Pogo Young and Sergeant Lynton were back soon after dark, but they had to wait another half-hour for Rafferty and McCaigh. ‘We thought it was worth waiting to see if the day signalman was relieved by the one who was on last night,’ the former explained. ‘And he was.’

  Farnham listened to the two teams’ reports, studied their logs and glanced at the maps they had drawn. ‘Was there any sign of contact between the two lots of Germans?’ he asked.

  Both Lynton and Rafferty shook their heads.

  ‘But there must be between the two signal boxes,’ McCaigh said. ‘Stands to reason with a single-track tunnel.’

  Farnham thought for a moment. ‘The signalmen are French, you think? How friendly with the Germans were they?’

  ‘I don’t think ours said a word to them, unless he sat on their laps in the bog,’ Rafferty said, turning to McCaigh for confirmation.

  ‘He never came down the stairs all day,’ the Londoner added.

  ‘Ours was more pally than that,’ Lynton said. ‘I mean, there weren’t any long conversations, but there were a few nods and smiles and stuff like that.’

  Farnham examined the maps again. ‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘the eastern end offers less in the way of cover, the signalman seems more likely to be a problem, and at least eighty per cent of the trains are coming from that direction. So I say we leave that end to Jerry.’

  ‘Why not take both?’ Lynton wanted to know.

  ‘Because I want to be certain we get a train into the tunnel,’ Farnham told him.

  Shortly after one in the morning the eight men advanced stealthily through the trees above the mouth of the cutting and slid as quietly as possible down the bank, taking care to keep the signal box between themselves and the German soldiers on duty outside the platelayers’ hut. At the same time McCaigh was guiding two other men to a point on the edge of the trees immediately above the enemy. The other six SAS men had drawn the proverbial short straw, and were with the jeeps a couple of miles away.

  Having reached the back wall of the signal box, Farnham and the others crouched in the shadows and waited for a train. If the last twenty-four hours had been typical, the odds were on a westbound train, but as far as he could tell it would only make a difference if the train in question was travelling at an unheard-of speed. Five minutes went by, and ten, and twenty, and the first small signs of physical restlessness were becoming evident in the men around him when the sound of a train in the distance edged its way into his consciousness. In the signal box above he heard footsteps and the clank of a lever being pulled. An answering noise from the left had to be the signal arm descending.

  As the train grew nearer the men got to their feet, both hands grasping the Sten guns which were slung across their chests. At the corner of the box Rafferty had his service revolver out, and next to him François was looking so excited that Farnham was afraid he might burst.

  The train swept into view. It was only moving at about thirty miles an hour, Farnham thought, and was probably slowing marginally to take the trailing point before plunging into the tunnel. More important, it was a train of covered wagons, so there weren’t likely to be any prying eyes behind the locomotive. He gave his sergeant the nod, and as the locomotive surged by, pistons pumping and smoke pouring, Rafferty and François made a run for the signal box stairway. With the thunder of the train in their ears they didn’t hear their own feet on the steps, and the first the signalman knew of their approach was when the door flew open and he looked up to see Rafferty’s revolver pointing at his heart.

  Farnham, meanwhile, was leading the other five men at a steady lope down the side of the track, no more than a couple of yards from the rattling wheels of the passing wagons. The lack of light made running treacherous, but at least it would prevent the Germans from seeing them through the wheels, and as long as no one slipped and fell to their left…

  The last wagon abruptly slid past, exposing the four Germans on the other side of the track. Two were sitting, two standing, and one of the latter managed a brief exclamation of surprise before the six Stens opened up, throwing him back across the brazier, which collapsed in a shower of sparks. The guns sounded louder in the narrow cutting than Farnham had hoped, but he still felt certain that the train in the tunnel would have masked the noise from those at the other end.

  Andy Lynton was already at the door of the hut, firing another short burst, when a wail of despair came from within. He disappeared inside, to re-emerge a moment later, prodding what looked like a very young German with the butt of his Sten. ‘One prisoner,’ he said disgustedly.

  McCaigh and his two companions, who had been waiting with grenades on the bank above in case something went wrong, slithered down to join the rest of the party. ‘All right,’ Farnham said, ‘let’s get the bodies behind the hut. Ronnie, you get inside with the prisoner. Pogo, Ian, get coats and helmets on and look like you’re ready to die for Adolf. I’m going to see what’s happening in the signal box.’

  A bell rang inside as he ran up the steps, and he opened the door just in time to hear Rafferty asking the signalman what it meant in understandable if awkward French.

  The signalman took his pipe out of his mouth and told him.

  ‘It’s the box at the other end of the tunnel,’ François confirmed.

  ‘Does it need a reply?’ Farnham asked.

  ‘No,’ the signalman said flatly.

  Farnham looked enquiringly at François, who shrugged. ‘I think he’s telling the truth,’ the Maquisard said.

  ‘Of course I am,’ the signalman said calmly.

  ‘Are you for France, monsieur?’ Farnham asked him with a thin smile.

  ‘Of course. But I am also for my wife and children.’

  ‘Would you like us to tie you up once we’ve finished our business here?’

  The man smiled. ‘That would seem to be a good idea.’

  ‘OK. When’s the next train due?’ Farnham asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The Germans…’ He shrugged.

  ‘How much warning will you get?’

  ‘About ten minutes for an eastbound, five for a westbound.’

  Farnham turned to Rafferty. ‘You
and François stay here. If a train’s on the way give us a signal from the mouth of the tunnel – two flashes for an eastbound, four for a westbound.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Rafferty said, but Farnham was already on his way. He arrived back at the hut just as McCaigh triumphantly emerged with two armfuls of track-laying wrenches and hammers. Explosives would have done the intended job, but not as quietly or as neatly, and Farnham felt relieved to see the tools. He grabbed a platelayer’s wrench and led the five available men into the tunnel at a brisk walk, leaving Tobin and Young to do their Wehrmacht impersonations and McLaglan to guard the prisoner.

  ‘How far, boss?’ McCaigh asked, and his voice seemed to echo in the enclosed space.

  ‘Keep it down,’ Farnham advised. The tunnel might be a mile and a half long but for all he knew it worked as a sound amplifier. A memory from his childhood surfaced, of telephones made from two tins and a long piece of string. ‘At least a hundred yards,’ he murmured, as much to himself as McCaigh. ‘We want to make damn sure it doesn’t just shoot out of the tunnel.’

  ‘I hope we don’t meet a train coming the other way,’ one of the other men muttered.

  ‘There are places you can stand,’ Farnham said, shining his torch on one of the embrasures built into the tunnel wall. He didn’t bother to add that if the oncoming train was carrying troops, and they were seen, then they would be trapped between two groups of Germans.

  Looking back at the pale circle of the tunnel mouth, he reckoned they’d come far enough, and stepped across the track to the outer curve. After searching out the rail joints with his torch he settled on the two lengths they would loosen, positioned the other five men accordingly and applied his long wrench to the first bolted spike. It unscrewed more easily than he’d expected, and a few seconds later he was able to lift it out, insert the folded piece of cloth as a muffler and use the other end of the wrench to knock out the rail anchor. He moved on to the next bolt.

  The six of them laboured on in the dim light, trying not to let haste make them clumsy, the sound of their breathing making common cause with the soft thud of the hammers and the reluctant grating of the bolts coming free.

  They were about three-quarters done when the light flashed four times in the mouth of the tunnel, and as the darkness reasserted itself a low rumble could be heard in the distance. ‘Shit!’ Farnham muttered. How long had they got? Five minutes minus one…four at most. ‘Keep at it,’ he shouted, realizing the others had stopped. At least there was no longer any need for silence.

  For the next couple of minutes the clanging reverberated through the tunnel, but it was fighting a losing battle with the approaching train. By Farnham’s reckoning they still had two minutes but the evidence of his ears was suggesting otherwise, and at least one full length of rail had been comprehensively loosened. ‘Let’s go,’ he screamed at the others, who dropped their tools and started running towards the tunnel mouth.

  The noise behind them was almost deafening, the rails beside them seemed to be vibrating, and Farnham could have sworn that orange light was dancing on the tunnel ceiling, but as they raced out into the open air the oncoming locomotive was still about a hundred and fifty yards behind them. There was time to turn and watch the train’s signal lights falter and dip as the length of rail gave way, and the wheels plunged into the gap it left. There was an almighty noise of grinding as the locomotive slewed forward in a hail of ballast, and for one horrible moment Farnham thought he’d miscalculated, and it would slide right out of the tunnel. But it didn’t. Showering blue sparks and screeching like a banshee, the engine finally came to a halt some twenty yards inside the mouth, where only a magician could bring a crane to bear.

  The next moment smoke had engulfed it, and Farnham sent a burst of fire from his Sten into the tunnel ceiling to discourage anyone from venturing out. Behind him the helmets and coats were being discarded, the prisoner offered a cheery goodbye, the signalman tied up. On the road beyond the signal box the jeeps would now be waiting, and as the unit ran back up the tracks to board them, Farnham ticked off a mental finger. One down, two to go.

  An early sighting would give away the direction they had taken after blocking the tunnel, and for the next thirty-six hours the unit hid out in a secluded section of the forests which lay to the north of the line. On the third night Farnham set the jeeps in motion once more, and through that and the following night they moved slowly but steadily north, keeping to the smallest roads and doubling back to choose another route whenever the threat of discovery seemed imminent. They crossed one of the two railway lines through the northern Vosges a few miles west of Wingen-sur-Moder, and made camp a few miles south of the Bitche–Lemberg section of the other. From here reconnaissance patrols were sent out to explore the line, and a couple of nights later three separate teams took out three bridges several miles apart, while a fourth team ostentatiously drove north through the un-garrisoned town of Bitche before doubling back to rejoin the others.

  They lay low for another couple of nights and then headed south once more to explore the Wingen-sur-Moder line. There was more traffic now, and more Germans to protect it, but nothing like enough of the latter to cover ten miles of winding track through wooded hills. Farnham had his men on surveillance duties for several days before picking his spots and sending the same men back as demolition squads. Three more bridges were brought down, and the SAS unit once more melted away into the forest. In ten days they had severely disrupted three major supply routes across the Vosges and given the enemy a succession of logistical headaches he could ill afford, all without losing a man.

  Not surprisingly, the mood in the unit was little short of euphoric. The tensions which accompanied the constant fear of discovery didn’t just evaporate, and living by night in such conditions took a gradually mounting toll, but when push came to shove most of Farnham’s men knew how lucky they were. On the radio they heard news of the Russian and Allied advances, the fall of Bucharest in distant Romania and the triumphant march into Paris, Monty’s surge through Picardy and Patton’s drive towards the Vosges and themselves. In the sky above they saw the bomber formations heading for the cities of the Reich. And here they were camped out in the forest, occasionally venturing out to blow up railway bridges, while others suffered artillery bombardment, tank and mortar fire, the visceral nightmares of close combat and the cold horror of bombs raining from the sky. It occurred to Farnham that here behind enemy lines they were in the military equivalent of the hurricane’s eye, the calm at the heart of the storm.

  Home felt far away, but as the days went by absence made the heart fonder, the memory kinder. Tobin decided that he had forgiven Megan for not trusting him, Rafferty found himself rereading the letters from Mary which he had accidentally brought with him, and McCaigh, thinking about Billy Sangster one night, almost felt sorry for the bastard. As commanding officer, Farnham had less time for introspection, and when he did think about England it was usually to imagine the first meeting between Eileen and Madeleine. He found that worrying about how that might go gave him less time to worry about what was actually happening in London and St Dié.

  They kept moving south, and by midnight on the last day of August were only a long night’s journey from their original camp, where the rendezvous with Hoyland’s group had been fixed for three nights hence. En route they would have to cross the valley which carried the railway and road between St Dié and Schirmeck, and since it was likely that this would be heavily patrolled Farnham decided to use one of their nights in hand for some extra surveillance. At worst this would increase their chances of crossing the valley unseen; at best it might offer the chance to cause more chaos in the enemy’s travel arrangements.

  With the jeeps drawn off the mountain track some two miles north of the valley, Rafferty, McCaigh, Tobin and Pogo Young were dispatched to check out the favoured crossing-point and the possibilities for mayhem. Tobin and Young returned two hours later with mixed news. The track down into the valley was safe, but the
mile of main road which the unit would need to traverse lay in full view of a German-guarded railway bridge across the river. And since there was nothing special about this bridge it seemed safe to assume that units of enemy troops were guarding all the railway bridges.

  That was the bad news, and it was another two hours before Rafferty and McCaigh returned with some corrective medicine. The next bridge across the river was also under guard, but the three miles of track between them were not. In the middle of this stretch a second dirt road crossed the river and climbed into the mountains beyond, and almost opposite its intersection with the main road another wide path descended the northern slopes of the valley. They only had to find the top of this path and their way was clear, for both the crossing of the valley and another night of sabotage.

  Farnham checked his maps and sent them back out with a jeep to search. An hour later, with the first hint of light appearing in the eastern sky, they returned wreathed in smiles. The path could be reached from where they were without any trouble, and the way down was clear.

  They broke camp soon after dark, loaded up the jeeps, and set off. The tracks through the trees were narrow tunnels, the thin light on offer from the waning crescent moon was better than nothing but not much more, and it was almost midnight before they reached a spot some half a mile away from, and a couple of hundred feet above, the intersection with the main road. There they sat in their jeeps for over an hour waiting for the moon to set, the boring vigil only occasionally interrupted by the sound of a train or lorry convoy passing through the valley below.

  Finally Farnham gave the word and Rafferty’s lead jeep rolled silently down towards the main road, Tobin and Young ready behind the twin Vickers and Browning, eyes scanning the valley for approaching headlights.

  There were none. Rafferty flicked his lights once, and the other five jeeps rolled down after their leader, swinging right on to the main road and only engaging their engines when they were almost at the turn-off to the left. There were headlights in the distance now, but too far off to worry about. After rattling over the river bridge and a crude sleeper-made level crossing the jeeps followed the dirt road up into the trees and there came to a halt. The non-drivers all climbed out, taking with them the tools which had been stolen from the Bettborn Tunnel platelayers’ hut, and while the jeeps roared off out of sight they crouched in the darkness waiting for the traffic on the main road to pass.