Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  ‘It’s not for you. Tell Madame Bonnier to be careful – she gets sucked in any further, and I won’t be able to help her. The SS is now involved. There’s a company of them out there hunting for someone. They’re hard, battle-seasoned men. The elite. Bad bastards.’

  He pushed past Mitchell. Mitchell stood for a moment. He had had one lucky escape; now it felt as if the net was closing. How long would it be before Marin informed on him? It was time to get out.

  15

  As Juliet approached her house with Simone she saw Marin come out of her front door and turn up the street towards Gustave’s bar. As she closed the front door behind her she leant against it for a moment, thoughts racing.

  ‘Mama?’ said Simone, sensing something was wrong.

  ‘Go into the kitchen, Simone.’

  ‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’

  ‘Simone!’ she hissed, still wary of who might be in the house.

  The girl recoiled. Juliet reached for her and held her shoulders. ‘Darling, there’s been an… accident,’ she said gently. ‘Please. Go into the kitchen. I will explain everything, I promise. All right?’

  The girl nodded and obeyed.

  Mitchell appeared at the top of the stairs and came down to meet her.

  ‘I saw Marin leave the house,’ she said.

  Mitchell glanced towards where Simone waited in the kitchen, then took Juliet’s arm, guided her into the front room and closed the door. ‘He knows something’s going on. But I don’t think he’ll say anything.’

  ‘While I was in Saint-Audière Chaval came looking for you. He left a message with Simone.’

  ‘He dragged her into this?’

  ‘There was no one else he could trust. Jean Bernard and I were with you. He says the men in the hills are going to attack the railway sheds near Saint-Audière.’

  ‘To avenge Lucien?’

  ‘Yes. Chaval wanted to take you to them. He said he’d wait at the crossroads. I don’t know if we’re too late or not.’

  Mitchell peeked through the window on to the street. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. ‘I can’t. I have to go north.’

  ‘But Lucien...’

  ‘The boy ran! I couldn’t help him!’

  ‘These men don’t have enough experience or weapons. You’ve been trained. If you can’t help them, stop them. You’re their only chance. You want them lying dead as well? What in God’s name is wrong with you?’

  Mitchell looked at her. She was utterly determined. Ever since he had been brought injured into her home the events that had unfolded had been at her insistence. ‘Jean Bernard isn’t the local co-ordinator. You are. He’s the courier. That’s why Chaval brought me to your house and not his. Because you’d know what to do,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to help those men or not?’

  He ignored her. ‘That’s why you came and got me out of prison, to make sure I took command here.’

  She opened the door and looked back at him. ‘Men don’t always like taking orders from a woman. Help them. You owe us that.’

  *

  As Jean Bernard drove him out of the village towards Chaval’s rendezvous, Mitchell checked the .45. Then he asked, ‘Have you heard anything about the SS patrol?’

  ‘Nothing. They must suspect that there are other survivors. The soldiers might have found the radio and weapons at the crash site. If they are in our area then it is a frightening escalation.’

  ‘And Chaval and his chums won’t make matters any better,’ said Mitchell. There was a debt that had to be paid to those who had risked everything to help him. To abandon them now, no matter how urgent his desire to reach Paris, would have been a betrayal. And he knew that if London ever sent another wireless operator to this circuit then whoever it was would have no authority, and at worse, might be abandoned to their fate.

  When they reached the crossroads there was no sign of the poacher.

  ‘We’re too late,’ said Bernard. ‘He’ll be heading up the railway line the other side of that hill. Go after him. Stop them. Now is not the time for action.’

  *

  The doctor left him to clamber up the steep three-hundred-metre track across the hillside. Mitchell’s feet blistered quickly and the strain on untested muscles tired him. His lungs burnt from the effort as he paused for a breather and looked back to see Jean Bernard’s car turn on the empty road towards Saint-Just.

  A cool wind buffeted his face as he scrambled up the remaining slope and when he crested the ridge he paused again to catch his breath and scan the ground in front of him. In the distance, a figure was making his way around a scar on the hillside that skirted the forest. The hulking size of the poacher with a rifle slung across his back could not be mistaken.

  ‘Chaval!’ Mitchell’s voice reverberated down the hill and a moment later the figure stopped and turned.

  *

  Chaval set a hard pace. His grunting acknowledgement that nothing could have been done to save Lucien showed he had no ill feeling towards Mitchell, and it was soon obvious that he valued the Englishman’s involvement in his quest to avenge the boy. Mitchell made no effort to dissuade him; the time was not yet right. Only when Chaval had taken him to those who were going to be engaged in the attack would Mitchell use his rank to stop them.

  An hour later Chaval and Mitchell slid down the steep embankment of a railway track. As they reached the bottom Chaval quickly pulled Mitchell into a bush-covered ditch; he pressed him face down against the bank and whispered: ‘Patrol.’

  Mitchell had heard nothing through his laboured breathing. Remembering his training, he steadied his breath and ignored the pounding in his ears from his thudding heartbeat, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of boots along the stone-laid track. The two men were hidden from sight but they could have reached out and touched the jackboots of the passing soldiers, who smoked and laughed among themselves. The half-dozen men passed by. They didn’t look to Mitchell like front-line troops.

  Chaval’s look of warning kept Mitchell silent but as the sound of the men’s footfalls diminished and the soldiers disappeared around a bend, the big man sighed and spat. ‘We’ve never had any trouble from patrols this deep in the countryside.’

  ‘They didn’t look that alert,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Run like a rabbit across their path and see how alert they are. All right, come on.’

  *

  Half a dozen Maquis – rag-tag men, one of them black – lay in dead ground a few hundred metres from cavernous railway sheds, near a holding area with large mounds of gravel beneath an overhead hopper. They were further hidden from view by rolling stock and piled-high railway sleepers. Mitchell crouched, following Chaval down to the men once the poacher had given a low warning whistle. The men stared at Mitchell as Chaval whispered who he was. It seemed to offer the Frenchmen little reassurance and their expressions showed no sign of welcome. One of them, whose oil-engrained hands and stubble suggested he was a mechanic of sorts, appeared to be the group’s leader.

  ‘Christ, what are you doing here?’ he said.

  ‘This is the man I told you about,’ repeated Chaval, nodding towards Mitchell.

  ‘We don’t need his help; he’s caused enough trouble,’ said another. This one was wirier and wore stained overalls beneath his workman’s jacket.

  ‘If you stay here the Germans will box you in,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Piss off, we know this place,’ said the mechanic.

  Mitchell could see only four soldiers, who lazed around the railway shed taking a meal break. Laughter and muted conversations reached the waiting Frenchmen. Two of the soldiers kicked a football back and forth, yelping like kids as they dribbled and tackled. Mitchell saw that unlike the two other men, who were older, these were little more than teenagers. Which of the two pairs would turn out to be the most aggressive? Mitchell wondered. Were the older men die-hard Nazis or draftees who would rather be home with their families? It could be the younger ones who were
keen to earn their spurs in this backwater posting.

  ‘You’re outnumbered,’ said Mitchell.

  The skinny one sneered. ‘Fuck, he can’t even count.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Chaval. ‘We came in through the woods. There’s a patrol moving down the tracks. Six of them. That’s ten against your four and me and him.’ It was obvious the maquisards hadn’t known about the other soldiers and suddenly their bravado evaporated.

  The black résistant turned on the mechanic. ‘I told you we should have a cut-off ambush in place.’

  ‘Shut up!’ his leader hissed, but Mitchell could see he had no idea what to do next.

  Mitchell squatted closer to the men. The black maquisard had a half-filled sack tied to his belt and, by its shape, Mitchell guessed it held explosives and timers. Each man had a rifle, except for the mechanic, who carried a British Sten gun. They were hopelessly ill prepared. ‘Lucien died trying to help me so I’ll do what I can to help you, but I’m not hanging around for that patrol to shove a bayonet up my arse.’

  He gave them a moment to consider what he’d said and then turned and scurried away, crouching low, finding cover. Chaval spat. ‘Idiots,’ he said and quickly followed Mitchell. It only took a moment for the others to shove past the mechanic, who then had no choice but to follow.

  Mitchell limped on his blistered feet and sank gratefully to ground in a brush-covered area a few hundred metres away. Chaval was quickly at his side and watched as the others followed. As they sheltered, Chaval pointed out the men to Mitchell.

  ‘Maillé,’ he said pointing to the mechanic. ‘Laforge,’ the skinny railwayman; ‘Bucard,’ the black man; ‘Drossier,’ the one who might have been a clerk and least suited to the task – a thought Mitchell quickly dismissed as he considered his own background.

  ‘I am Pascal. What do you have?’ he said, pointing at the sack.

  Bucard tipped out the contents: a few clips of ammunition, some detonators, a piece of plastique, a grenade. Meagre stuff.

  ‘What’s in those sheds?’ he asked.

  ‘A crane. They use it for lifting damaged rail tracks and tanks. There’s only two of them in this part of the country,’ said Bucard. That was a good target and Mitchell saw the value of destroying it. He fished out the cigarettes he had taken from Vincent in the cell and passed them to the men, who seized the chance for tobacco with murmurs of delight.

  Drossier grinned. ‘It’s been a couple of weeks since we could get a ration.’ Mitchell’s gesture had softened them up. The men lit them, each smoking a lungful.

  Mitchell poked a finger in the sack’s contents. ‘You haven’t got enough here to destroy it.’

  ‘It’s all we could scrounge. It’s what we have,’ said Bucard.

  ‘Back there I heard you talk about a cut-off ambush. Were you a soldier?’

  ‘Yeah. North African Colonial Regiment at Lille under Général Moliné. We were fighting a rearguard for Dunkirk.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him. Most of them ran! The Germans came, they danced in the streets,’ sneered Maillé.

  Bucard lunged towards Maillé, who appeared unconcerned. Chaval easily stopped the ex-soldier. ‘Don’t let him wind you up,’ said the poacher.

  ‘Madame Bonnier’s husband was at Lille,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘He was my company commander. He was killed there,’ Bucard said, allowing his temper to cool.

  Mitchell looked towards the mechanic. ‘From what I heard those men bought time for the evacuation with their lives. Where were you when the fighting was going on?’

  Maillé grimaced and was obviously shamed by the question. ‘I did my bit. See if I didn’t.’

  Chaval grunted. ‘You did well out of servicing Vichy cars in your garage, Maillé.’

  Mitchell’s guess at the man’s occupation had been correct.

  ‘I sabotaged as many as I could!’ Maillé insisted.

  The looks of those around him said differently.

  ‘And my grandmother poisoned their bread in her bakery!’ laughed Laforge.

  Maillé had no choice but to swallow their taunts as Mitchell picked up the plastique. ‘You can use this to destroy some track, but that’s about it,’ he told them. ‘You have to get inside the sheds. Damage the machinery beyond repair. Otherwise, they just replace the parts you destroy. It’s that simple.’

  He had their attention now.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ said Laforge.

  ‘Create a diversion. I’ll get into the sheds with Chaval,’ he said, grabbing a fistful of dirt, ‘and get this into the moving parts. We’ll plant some explosives outside on the tracks, enough to cause the minimum amount of damage and make it look like an amateur attempt to disrupt the line. They’ll have it replaced in less than an hour. You men go another couple of hundred metres down the track. You need to be well up on the embankment so you can escape. Fire a few shots and the patrol will double back and those four soldiers will join them. You distract and confuse them, and then pull back. We will meet back on the road to Saint-Just. Don’t do anything clever or ambitious, just keep them pinned down while we do our job in the shed. It’s a delaying tactic and as much as you want to kill Germans today, don’t, or you’ll have the SS swarming over everyone. Who has a watch?’

  Bucard and Drossier raised their hand.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Mitchell. He pointed at Bucard. ‘He’s the soldier; do as he tells you.’ He looked at the men expectantly and when they remained silent he shoved the explosive and timers beneath his jacket. He tapped Chaval on the shoulder and started back for the railway shed.

  *

  Mitchell and Chaval hunched down less than a hundred metres from the shed, its interior heavy with shadow where the lifting crane lurked monster-like. Both remained silent. Mitchell’s nerves fed him a hundred things that could go wrong and his chest pounded with fear. He forced himself to slow his breathing and concentrate. He had to stay calm, he told himself. Blind panic would not get the job done. Chaval glanced at him with a look of concern. Mitchell nodded. He was OK. He checked his watch. Then the distant sound of sporadic gunfire started up along the track. The soldiers guarding the railway siding were momentarily stunned; then, quickly shouting orders to each other, they grabbed helmets and weapons and ran towards the inter- mittent shots.

  He and Chaval moved quickly, skirting the shed’s opening, cautiously checking that there were no more soldiers. Chaval stepped quickly into the shadows, followed by Mitchell. The poacher searched for and found a spanner and began unscrewing a feeder plug as Mitchell grabbed an oil-filling can, spilt a handful of the dirt from his pocket into it and then drained oil into it from an oil drum. Unconcerned about the spillage he plunged his hand into the can and stirred the gritty mixture.

  ‘Chaval?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Mitchell poured the oil quickly. ‘More oil!’ he called.

  Chaval took another oil can and filled it from the drum, then he too plunged his hand into his pocket and poured a fistful of dirt into it. Mitchell threw aside his own empty can and took Chaval’s.

  ‘You think this will work?’ said Chaval.

  Mitchell concentrated on pouring the oil. The gunfire down the track had increased. ‘They start up and the grit will destroy anything that needs lubrication. They’ll have to remachine everything.’

  ‘Not round here they won’t.’

  ‘That’s the idea. Go. I’ll finish here. Put the explosive on a single track. Let’s make them think that’s all we wanted to do. It’ll take their mind off the crane. I’ll be right behind you.’

  Mitchell replaced the feeder plug screw and tightened it with the spanner, then carefully wiped away any excess oil that had spilt on to the crane’s bodywork. He wiped his hands, stepped back and let his eyes see what the Germans would see when they returned to the shed. Nothing looked out of place. He picked up the empty oil cans and put them back on the workbench with the spanner. Down the track, the gunfire had increased in intensi
ty and, as he ran towards Chaval, who was already on his feet having fixed the explosives, Mitchell felt an overwhelming sense of desperation. Something had gone wrong.

  16

  They were well clear when the track leading into the siding for the crane exploded. The sudden crump made no impression on Mitchell’s nerves. He had passed through the fear barrier and now ran on adrenaline. It was the silence from down the track that forced him to pump his legs and keep up with Chaval, who had glanced back at him. Mitchell saw in his eyes that he too feared the worst. As they got closer they darted to one side so they could make a different approach. Clambering up the embankment they pushed through the trees, then slowed to study the ambush site. The maquisards stood surrounding unarmed Germans. Two soldiers looked to be wounded, their comrades held at gunpoint with hands raised as Maillé and his men levelled their weapons. The raised voices of a furious argument between Maillé and Bucard could have been heard in London. As the two men swore and threatened each other Drossier and Laforge gathered the Germans’ weapons.

  ‘You stay out of this!’ Maillé bellowed.

  Bucard was dangerously close to striking the mechanic. ‘You kill them there’ll be reprisals!’

  Mitchell and Chaval stepped right into the fray. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Mitchell demanded as Chaval once again got himself between the two warring men.

  ‘We don’t take prisoners! How can we? Are you mad! What do we do with them?’ demanded Maillé.

  ‘I told you to retreat once you’d attacked them! We needed a diversion!’

  ‘He wouldn’t! He said we could take them!’ said Bucard, turning away in disgust.

  ‘And we did! It’s time we taught them a lesson,’ said Maillé, looking from one man to the next. Laforge shrugged, Drossier averted his eyes. ‘Fuck you,’ said Maillé to the men and cocked the Sten gun, turning towards the fearful Germans.

  Mitchell snatched it from his hands as Chaval manhandled him away. Maillé cursed and put up a feeble resistance but the big man pointed his own weapon at him. ‘I will settle this, Maillé. You want to kill in cold blood? I will be the first, eh?’