Once the column of four lorries had eventually trailed by on the far side of the river Farnham sent someone down to the river bridge to check out the road, and having received the signal that it was empty led the men down to the railway tracks. The line to the left, in the direction of St Dié, looked the better bet. The tracks were channelled between the river and a shallow, grassy slope which soon vanished into the trees. The latter could easily be reached if a hiding-place was needed, and the river, which here tumbled itself through a cataract of large rocks, was noisy enough to mask their efforts with wrench and hammer. The only disadvantage Farnham could see – one that was also true of the other direction – was that the outer curve of the track, the one which they would need to loosen, was furthest from the river. If the train tipped over it would be on to the grassy slope, not into the water.
The eleven men spread out up the track and started working at the now familiar task, unscrewing the heavy spikes and knocking out the rail anchors. Twice in the next twenty minutes approaching traffic on the road forced them to scurry up into the shelter of the trees, but by the end of that time some sixty yards of rail had been deprived of everything which held it to the track, and Farnham was about to declare their work complete when the first sounds of an approaching locomotive carried down the valley. It was coming from the west, and he found himself hoping that it wasn’t a hospital train carrying wounded enemy troops back to Germany.
He ordered the men back up into the trees, and spread them out in a line above the expected position of the derailed train. It would probably have been more correct to simply run for the jeeps, but Farnham told himself there was always the possibility that the train might be carrying Allied prisoners. Deep down, he knew full well that the child within just wanted to see the train crash. But there was no risk attached – even if the train was full of armed troops they wouldn’t be able to pursue a motorized SAS unit into the hills.
The noise of the locomotive grew steadily louder, but the wait still seemed endless. And then suddenly it was in view, a moving black shadow against the darkness of the valley, its crew silhouetted against the orange glow which suffused the cab. Farnham had a brief glimpse of a guard seated on the roof of the first covered wagon, and then the rail abruptly gave way, and the locomotive was ploughing through sleepers and ballast. One of the two crewmen was flung out into the darkness, leaving his partner holding on for dear life.
The two leading wagons concertinaed as the heavier locomotive ground its way to a reluctant halt. All stayed upright, but the doors of the first wagon broke open, and in the dark interior Farnham thought he could detect movement. Several seconds later two shadows jumped down from the doorway, and suddenly the SAS men became aware of voices, many voices, rising above the tumult of the river and the hissing engine. Inside the covered wagons people were asking each other, asking the world outside, what had happened to the train.
Men with lights were now walking along the side of the track towards the locomotive, and in the criss-cross of the beams the SAS men could make out uniforms and boots and guns. Orders were being shouted in German, and then one torch beam caught the two who had climbed down from the gaping doors, and behind them a sea of faces staring down. The two were both no more than children, and like the adults crowding in the wagon doorway, they wore yellow stars on their chests.
As Farnham realized who these people were and where the train was going, the younger of the two broke out of the imprisoning torch beam and began scurrying up the grassy slope towards him. The torches whirled after him and caught him in flight, and in that moment several irrefutable truths flashed through Farnham’s mind.
It would be the height of foolishness to start a battle with an unknown number of Germans.
He had no right to risk his men or the mission for a group of foreign civilians.
And even if he did save these people now, there was no way he could keep them safe tomorrow.
All the same, his finger squeezed down on the Sten’s trigger, scattering the torch-bearers, bringing forth shrieks of concern from the people on the train. And all along the line, as if they’d been waiting for the cue, his men opened fire with their own guns, engulfing the sounds of human distress in a mechanical storm.
From his position at the other end of the SAS line Ian Tobin had watched the two illuminated coaches at the rear of the train shudder to a halt. One was a brake coach, the other a saloon of some sort, and through the lighted windows of the latter he had a clear view of men struggling to keep their balance as the train faltered and inertia threw them forward. There were about six or seven of them in the coach, and his eyes just had time to register the fact that only a few of them were in uniform before the lights blinked out.
A few seconds later he heard rather than saw a coach door open, and then picked out a shadowy figure cautiously descending the steps. Another man followed, then there was a clatter of feet as several men descended from the brake coach. Torches winked on, and a party started forward up the side of the train.
A few seconds later two more men descended from the saloon, and as one capped his hand to light a match Tobin could make out the black uniforms, the zig-zag SS logo on their collars. One of them said something in German, causing the other to turn and look up the train, and then gunfire erupted away to Tobin’s right. As if suddenly aware of his presence, the two SS men’s faces jerked in his direction, just as his finger tightened on the trigger.
He felt rather than saw them go down, and lifted the barrel to rake the black mirrors of the coach windows. They exploded inwards in a succession of loud snaps, leaving in their wake cries of pain and a tapering tinkle of falling glass.
From the brake van next door a gun opened up, and Tobin fired a burst in the direction of its muzzle flash. There was a crash as a body tumbled off the train and the sound of a door slamming, presumably on the other side of the train. He heard boots splashing through ballast but could see nothing, and realized that the guns had fallen silent.
The sound of a motor vehicle coming up the valley seemed to seep out of the sudden silence. The guards on the bridge, Farnham realized. They were coming to see what had happened.
‘Neil! Mickie!’ he yelled out. ‘Cover the road.’
They raced past him and the still-hissing locomotive, clattered across the river bridge and threw themselves into the long grass beside the road. Two headlights were now visible in the distance, and the vehicle behind them seemed to be slowing down as it grew nearer, which suggested an unfortunate level of common sense on the part of the driver.
‘Keep coming,’ Rafferty murmured, urging the unknown enemy forward, but to no avail. The vehicle stopped a couple of hundred yards short of their position, well beyond range of the Stens, and extinguished its light. For about half a minute it just sat where it was, and the two SAS men could imagine the conversation as the Germans looked at the stricken train and wondered where the gunfire had come from. ‘None of our business,’ McCaigh murmured on the enemy’s behalf, and the vehicle’s driver obviously agreed, abruptly reversing into a three-point turn and roaring off back down the valley.
‘The better part of valour,’ Rafferty muttered as he got back to his feet.
‘They must like living,’ McCaigh decided.
Back at the train the lull had settled into a lasting silence. It seemed as if the Germans had all died or run away, but some might still be hiding in the darkness nearby – it was impossible to tell. The whole business was a nightmare in more ways than one, Farnham thought as he walked down the train, instructing his men to let out the prisoners. At the rear he listened to Tobin’s description of the men in the last coach and looked at the bodies of the two SS officers lying beneath the open door. A cigarette end was still smouldering between one of the men’s fingers, blackening the dead skin to match the uniform.
Farnham stood there trying to think. They couldn’t have much time, but there was no way of knowing how much. Another train could appear at any minute, as could a
troop convoy on the road. He had to assume that the guards on the bridge two miles down the valley had heard the gunfire and reported in to their local HQ, which was probably in Schirmeck. Ten miles away. A small unit could already be on the road.
The train was emptying, and the sound of the river was now mingling with hundreds of voices, most of them subdued, a few nervously strident. They sounded like people who had just survived a disaster, Farnham thought, but in reality they had only postponed it. The crematorium at Struthof was still awaiting them.
He turned to Tobin. ‘Tell Andy Lynton to get the men together up by the engine,’ he told him. ‘We’ll be pulling out in a few minutes.’
As the Welshman scurried away Farnham walked towards the nearest group of prisoners, and the faces turned towards him seemed pathetically hopeful. ‘Have you got a leader?’ he asked in French, directing his question to the oldest-looking man. It felt like a stupid question, but he couldn’t address them all.
‘No,’ the man said helplessly. ‘We are just prisoners. We…’
‘I understand,’ Farnham cut him off. ‘But I cannot talk to everyone, so if I tell you…’
‘Tell us what?’
Farnham took a deep breath. ‘The Germans will be here soon. I don’t know where they were taking you, but there is a concentration camp further down this valley, and Jews are being killed there.’
There were gasps of horror all around him. ‘So what should we do?’ the old man asked him calmly.
‘I think you should head into the forest and try to hide there until the war is over, or at least until the Americans reach this area. They could be here in a couple of weeks.’
The old man looked at him. ‘All of us?’ he asked. ‘There are old people and small children. How will they survive? What will we eat?’
Farnham shrugged. ‘Anything must be better than certain death.’
‘Surely the Germans will come after us?’
‘Probably, though maybe they’ll be too busy saving their own skins. Take the guns from their dead soldiers…’
‘Won’t you take us with you?’
Farnham had dreaded this question. He felt like saying that there was no way to save them all, that the only result of trying would be to get his own men killed as well, but such honesty was too brutal. ‘If we all stayed together we would be caught,’ he said. ‘You should split up into small groups. That will give at least some of you a chance.’
‘Robert,’ François said quietly, and Farnham realized for the first time that the young Maquisard was standing at his shoulder. ‘I do not think you will need me for the next few days,’ the Frenchman went on.
‘No, I…’
‘I will stay with these people,’ François said. ‘I know the country around here. I know which villages will take people in.’
Farnham looked at him and found that the eager boy had grown into a man. He offered his hand to both François and the old man, wished them both luck and walked away up the train, conscious of all the eyes following him, feeling more helpless than at any time in his life.
The eleven men jogged up the dirt road to where the jeeps were waiting, engines spluttered into life, and soon they were back in the familiar world of the mountain forest, surging up slopes and coasting back down again, mostly tunnelling through the endless trees but occasionally catching glimpses of dark hills rolling away to a far horizon. There was enough time before dawn for them to reach their original camp, but with the scheduled rendezvous still almost forty-eight hours away there was no need to hurry, and with the local Germans probably running around like headless chickens Farnham reckoned that the sooner they got off the roads the better. About six miles south of the railway Rafferty noticed a barely discernible path to their left, and following it up through the trees, discovered an ideal site for the day’s camp.
By this time a light rain was falling, which did nothing to lighten the sombre mood of the SAS men as they dug scrapes and camouflaged the jeeps. Most of them couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the Jews on the train, and some of those given the first shift in the scrapes had an unusually hard time getting to sleep.
On watch with Rafferty, McCaigh asked the other man if he could see anything different about his face.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Time before last that I went home,’ McCaigh explained, ‘I went for a drink with my old man, and in the pub we looked at each other and he just kept looking, you know, like a real long stare. And I asked him what he was looking at, and he said that in the last war a few men got it but most men didn’t, and he could always tell from the look in their eyes.’
‘Got what?’ Rafferty asked.
‘What it’s all about. And he said he’d never worked out who was better off – those who got it or those who didn’t. But he was pretty sure I hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Well, your face looks as ugly as ever to me,’ Rafferty told him.
The rain stopped soon after dawn, but the dense grey clouds hung almost motionless in the sky for the rest of the day, a fitting accompaniment to the mood of the unit. Several times during the morning gunfire was faintly audible in the far distance, and a German spotter plane was seen by one of the sentries circling the hills to the north. In the afternoon that sentry’s replacement noticed a dense cloud of dark smoke on the horizon, but there was no way of knowing what was being burnt.
The clouds rolled away with surprising rapidity after dark, revealing a thin sliver of a moon which hardly seemed bright enough to delay their night’s journey. They advanced with more than the usual caution nevertheless, with Rafferty’s lead jeep often ranging far ahead of the main column. Farnham would have liked to stop in one of the sleeping villages for any news the locals might have of German movements, but François was no longer with them and he wasn’t sure enough of his own ability to accurately gauge the villagers’ reactions.
What he’d told the old man – that the Germans would be too busy losing the war to worry about one train-load of Jews – might be true, but somehow he doubted it. He remembered things Yves had said about the Gestapo chief in St Dié, who didn’t sound like the sort of man to take such an insult in his stride. At the very least there would be more executions of hostages.
They had warned the SAS officers about this in England. The taking and killing of hostages was nothing more, and nothing less, than a form of blackmail, and the teams working behind enemy lines would have to steel their hearts against the knowledge that the Germans were making others pay for their actions. All of which had sounded very sensible in a briefing room in deepest Gloucestershire. The briefer, after all, had probably never taken a decision which he knew would probably condemn innocent people to death.
Farnham found himself wondering whether there was a God up there making the necessary calculations. In one column the Allied lives supposedly saved by their bridge-blowing and tunnel-blocking; in the other the hostages shot, the boys on Ziegler’s obscene see-saw. Throw in a few Jews on the plus side – at least some of them must have got away – and a few French railwaymen on the minus side…
Farnham stopped himself. There was no point in thinking about all that now. Later perhaps, but not now.
He consciously steered his mind back to the world around him – the rattle and hum of the jeeps, the silence of the trees. They had climbed high into the mountains, and he was just thinking that this must have been an old military road when the silhouette of a ruined tower appeared briefly on a crag above the trees. The remains of an earlier war, he thought, and once again the absurdity of it all seemed almost overwhelming.
He remembered the conversation he’d had with Yves soon after arriving for his first stay in May, and the Frenchman’s comment that wars were mostly fought by men who’d rather have stayed at home. It might have been true, but it hadn’t applied to him, or not then anyway. But now…now at least he could imagine wanting to stay at home, and the realization that this was so he found extraord
inarily pleasing.
It was about one in the morning when the column of jeeps coasted down the familiar stretch of road and turned off on to the partly man-made track which led down through the forest to their original camp. The moon had long since set but the stars seemed preternaturally bright and the trees seemed to glow with silver light. It occurred to Farnham that after three weeks of night prowling he was beginning to see with a cat’s eyes.
The area of trees which had been their home for the better part of a week looked as though it had never seen humans before, but maybe the light of day wouldn’t be so flattering. Farnham picked out Tobin, McLaglan, Young and Lowe to check the perimeter and stand the first watch, and the rest of the men got down to the business of unloading and camouflaging the jeeps. After seventeen days of sleeping in scrapes the popular demand for tents was irresistible, and Farnham could see no reason to resist it. ‘I’m going to walk over to the Maquis camp,’ he told Rafferty, ‘and find out what they know about German movements. I’ll take McCaigh with me.’
‘OK, boss.’
‘We’ll be back well before dawn.’
McCaigh was pleased – a walk was better than work at any time – and the two men set off in silence, Farnham indulging himself with the possibility that Madeleine might be there. They had only just passed Pogo Young’s sentry position when they heard the sound of movement further down the path. Both men stopped dead in their tracks and listened. It was more than one man, more than five. Coming closer.
And then a burst of gunfire sounded from another direction altogether, away to their right. A new silence seemed to fall across the forest, but only for a moment – the sounds on the path below seemed to double in intensity and more gunfire erupted from a third point of the compass.
For King and Country Page 18