by David Gilman
‘I thought of that as well. Is there a bus route anywhere nearby she could use?’
‘Too dangerous. She would need to change three or four times to get into Paris. She is not familiar enough with the route.’
‘No, I was thinking of a bus to the railway station.’
‘Ah. Yes. We can do that. One of my men has a house a couple of kilometres from here. There is a weekly bus that would stop at the station. If she boarded there then we could have a decent enough cover story for her. He has relatives down near Vichy. But that bus won’t come till tomorrow.’
Mitchell felt a quiver of anxiety. He wanted to be away from the château by then but leaving Ginny in the patrician’s care worried him. If the leak in the circuit originated here than she could be betrayed and never even reach Paris. He quickly analysed his options. The risk to him and the men staying any longer was the greater. Were the SS still looking for them or had they satisfied their bloodlust back at Saint-Just?
Olivier Gaétan watched Mitchell as he considered what to do next. What kind of man had London sent? Problems and the often difficult decisions that needed to be taken to solve them could give the measure of a man.
‘We’ll go and you will ensure she gets on that bus.’
So, Gaétan realized, the Englishman had decided to trust and favour his own survival over the girl’s. It was the correct decision. Colonel Pascal Garon was far more important. ‘As you wish.’
‘I would like to take the Peugeot.’
‘If it runs. There is no fuel.’
‘It runs. One of my men has checked it over. We can draw petrol from the Citroën.’
‘You leave us with little fuel.’ Gaétan sighed, but nodded his agreement.
‘Good. Give us three days if you can. Take the horse and cart into the village and report the theft of the Peugeot to the gendarmes. You tell them that your petrol was drained from the Citroën. Now, where do I find Neuville?’
‘Colonel, I would beg you to leave him in peace. In truth, he was a man who should not have been sent to do such dangerous work. His nerve broke. Had he been captured by the Gestapo he would have betrayed me and my circuit.’
‘So you executed him,’ said Mitchell, suddenly aware of how much a loss to his own mission the agent’s death would be.
‘That was my intention, yes.’
‘Then you’ve failed in your duty.’
‘He is an educated man. I believed that the day would come when he would have recovered sufficiently to go back to Paris. He had made contacts there that would have benefited everyone. It was a gamble that I took. And I do not wish to kill an innocent man.’ He looked at Mitchell and said deliberately, ‘I am not a murderer.’ The implication was obvious.
Mitchell had no desire to explain the circumstances that led to him killing the German soldiers. Perhaps it even served a purpose if Gaétan thought him to be ruthless.
‘You will understand, colonel, that I am extremely reluctant to discuss his whereabouts because I do not know what your intentions are. I will not allow you to kill him.’
‘I respect your feelings, and I give you my word that that is not why I need to find him. He has information that I need.’
The patrician studied Mitchell. And then he nodded. ‘He found refuge with a Frenchwoman with whom he had fallen in love when he first came here. They masquerade as man and wife. Madame Ferrand is a widow with two small children. There are many such widows in France, colonel, and for them to find a caring man is their good fortune. I had documents forged for him.’ Gaétan hesitated again. ‘Charles Ferrand.’
So, Mitchell realized, Major Knight’s instinct was accurate. Peter Thompson had discarded his cover name and taken another.
‘The village is a few hours from here. I would beg you to exercise extreme caution. If you are being hunted and they discover anyone there has helped you…’ He let the sentence hang.
‘I know exactly what that means,’ said Mitchell. ‘Where is the village?’
Gaétan hesitated. ‘I will give you the information you need, colonel, but I want something in return.’
‘I’m not here to bargain,’ said Mitchell.
‘You are here under my roof and protection and now you wish to deprive me and my men of valuable fuel. There’s a German fuel dump for local troops and, with your men, we could steal enough to keep us operational for several months.’
‘Drums or jerrycans?’
‘Cans mostly. They have bowsers and drums but the cans are used for quick resupply.’
‘How much fuel are we talking about?’
‘I would need at least fifty.’
‘How heavily guarded is this place?’
‘About fifteen men, mostly non-combatants. It is a motor pool so there will be ancillary staff, motor mechanics and the like. But I cannot risk raiding the place with so few men of my own.’
‘But you speak of reprisals.’
‘The fuel depot is twelve kilometres from here. There are very few villages in that area and when I report the theft of my vehicle to the gendarmes and my suspicion that a group of thieves or perhaps even the men being hunted have passed through, then the Germans will be looking for you. I have hiding places for the petrol.’
‘All right, but we’ll need fuel as well. I want as many jerrycans as can fit in the boot of the Peugeot.’
‘Then we are in agreement?’
‘When do you wish to do this?’
‘Mademoiselle Thérèse will be safely on her way tomorrow morning.’
‘Tonight then.’
27
Gaétan’s gamekeeper, Edmond, led six men down a darkened track. There was barely enough moonlight to penetrate through the tree canopy, sparse though it was. Behind them, Mitchell led his own group. One of Gaétan’s men had switched off the engine of an old open-back lorry and coasted downhill until the lorry pulled into the bushes less than a hundred metres from where they would go through the wire perimeter. Mitchell and Gaétan’s men had been briefed by the gamekeeper. The German perimeter fence was at its most vulnerable when it ran along the edge of the forest. It was also the furthest point from where the German soldiers were billeted and their vehicles parked. The plan was to cut through the wire and to manhandle as many of the cans of fuel as possible back to the waiting lorry, and then escape without raising the alarm. The gamekeeper had gathered the men before darkness fell and made a model in the dirt, scratching a track through the bits of twig that represented the forest and using baling wire to show the extent of the fuel dump compound. Small stones represented the soldiers’ sleeping huts. Once everyone was satisfied that they understood the plan of attack Mitchell acknowledged that this would be Gaétan’s operation led by his chef de terrain, Edmond. Mitchell would designate two of his men to establish ambush positions which would catch any German attack in a crossfire. Mitchell emphasized to everyone that they were not there to kill Germans but to steal fuel. Laforge suggested it was the ideal time to destroy the fuel dump but Mitchell insisted the primary aim was to steal rather than destroy. No matter how remote the area, a conflagration would surely bring major forces to bear on the area. And that would jeopardize not only Gaétan but also Mitchell’s mission in Paris.
The men stumbled along the track, each one gripping the length of rope held by Edmond at the front, guiding them until they reached the wire fence. Chaval and Edmond, poacher and gamekeeper, knelt side-by-side as Edmond’s men cut through the wire.
‘There are boars in the forest,’ whispered Chaval. ‘I can smell them.’
Edmond glanced at the big man who was obviously a hunter, perhaps a woodsman, most likely a poacher. It took skill and years of tracking to be able to pick up the scent of the boar. Men usually took dogs to root out wild pigs.
‘They’ll stay well clear of us,’ Edmond whispered.
‘Not if we’re using their foraging trail,’ Chaval answered. It sounded like an accusation and Edmond realized that Chaval knew that that was exactly the route
he had used to bring them alongside the wire. The final snip of the wire cutters stopped him from answering. Without another word, the men slipped through the gap in the fence. Mitchell had ordered Bucard to use his experience to set two of their men in the cut-off positions. The soldier took Maillé and Laforge either side of the hole cut in the fence and gave each man a field of fire across the compound. If the Germans staged an attack their initial assault would be slowed by the two men, allowing the others to fall back. Fifty metres along the track where it widened sufficiently two of Edmond’s men had positioned a four-wheel trolley used for carrying milk pails. As the cans of fuel were carried back they would load it and manhandle it to the lorry. Mitchell gauged the time needed would be at least an hour and no one knew the guard roster or the times when they changed over. It was a risk but if a basic standard operating procedure applied to the German army as it did with the British then he assumed each sentry would have two hours on and four off. Bucard suggested that if they worked on the twenty-four-hour routine of a soldier’s day then they were about to see a changeover of sentries.
‘Wait,’ Mitchell urged Edmond. Men were already manhandling the jerrycans. Edmond was disciplined enough to take the warning seriously. He told the men in a whisper to remain still and silent. The men’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and, through the canyons of the stacked-high fuel cans and drums, they saw a figure moving in the distance. An orange glow spilt out into the darkness as the sentries’ hut opened and four soldiers stepped out. They hunched and yawned but quickly became more alert when their guard commander joined them. He barked his orders, and in time-honoured tradition, the German soldiers braced to attention and then marched across the compound and out of sight to relieve the previous watch. The waiting résistants listened for any movement that might indicate a guard close by. Bucard gestured that he was going to sneak forward and establish where the sentries were stationed. Mitchell saw him move quickly through the shadows until he disappeared from view. Mitchell looked around to where the men waited patiently, alert to any untoward sound. The night was silent except for the occasional screech of an owl. A movement in the shadows quickened Mitchell’s pulse but it was Bucard moving back to them.
‘A couple more minutes and the previous guards will be back in the warmth of their hut,’ he whispered to Mitchell and the gamekeeper. ‘The sentries looked to be fairly stationary; each man is moving no more than twenty paces. Ten left, ten right.’ His teeth flashed in the darkness. ‘I heard one of them counting to himself. Being on sentry duty can be boring and, besides, these are Germans and they don’t do more than they are ordered.’
He stayed on his haunches, cupped a hand around the luminous dial of his wristwatch, and then nodded and pointed towards the hut. Sure enough, the returning sentries were standing down by what was most likely a corporal of the guard. The men’s muttered relief at being off duty floated across the compound. The orange light came and went as the door opened and closed.
‘I’ll go back down and keep watch,’ said Bucard.
Mitchell nodded and tapped him on the shoulder. As the African soldier slipped away into the darkness again, Edmond whispered for the men to continue. Grabbing a jerrycan in each hand, Mitchell joined the nine other men and laboured back through the fence, sweat already prickling his skin at the combined weight. Clouds shifted across the moon as the wind rustled the treetops. It brought more light to see the path and the creaking trees would help disguise any noise. As the moon was cast back into darkness the men stumbled, but they pressed on, their curses little more than vehement whispers. Mitchell was glad that his own misfortune had led him to these hardy men who laboured with him and that the Norvé circuit, as small as it was, was manned by brave résistants prepared to risk everything. A thought crossed Mitchell’s mind. Gaétan had given authority and responsibility to his long-serving gamekeeper and the man knew everything: the landing and drop zones and the place in Vincennes outside Paris. If anyone was a risk to the Norvé circuit it was Edmond. He followed the stocky gamekeeper’s figure towards the drop-off and knew that if anything went badly wrong that night, he could not allow Edmond to be captured alive.
Everything was running smoothly. The men worked tirelessly, lifting, carrying and then stacking the cans. The operation became a rhythmic line of men passing each other in the night. And then the unconscious beat of steady movement shattered. Somewhere along the track where Laforge and Maillé sat in the treeline, their weapons aimed across the compound, there was a sudden crash, an animal sound of grunting, squealing anger and the fearful shouts of alarm as one of the men broke the silence. A shot rang out from their position.
‘Away!’ shouted Mitchell immediately. Men dropped the cans they were carrying and unslung their weapons. Floodlights flared from the four corners of the compound. A klaxon howled. Mitchell saw the sentries running, uncertain where the shouting and gunshot had come from. The sound of staccato sub-machine guns rent the air as Bucard turned his aim on to the lights. Laforge and Maillé opened fire too, their bullets tearing up the dirt in the compound. He saw Bucard step into the light, shoot out another lamp and duck into the alleyway of stacked fuel drums. The Germans had spilt out of their hut at the first gunshot and taken up a defensive position. Gaétan had been correct in that they were not front-line troops, but they hadn’t forgotten their basic skills and followed the guard commander’s bellowed instructions where to direct the fire. Now the camp was alive. Other huts emptied out mechanics and cooks, all bearing weapons. Edmond directed fire from the trees as the men moved rapidly towards the lorry. Laforge and Maillé swept their aim across the open ground.
‘Bucard!’ Mitchell yelled. ‘Come on!’
He saw the soldier appear briefly, raise an arm to acknowledge and turn back to give another burst.
Maillé stood and sprayed gunfire to cover Bucard’s withdrawal. Laforge moved position and caught two soldiers trying to outflank the colonial soldier.
Mitchell shot at the guard commander’s position, which, with the sustained fire from the résistants, gave time for Bucard to run towards the fence. He was almost at the wire when a single shot rang out and he pitched forward. One of the sentries had appeared behind him at the mouth of the alley. Mitchell’s heart thudded wildly; his man was down. Chaval was suddenly at Mitchell’s shoulder as the Englishman squeezed the trigger – but missed because he was already running towards the fallen man. Chaval fired rapidly, killing the sentry. Sporadic gunfire chased around the perimeter as men either tried to find targets or shot haphazardly to try and keep their enemy’s head down.
Mitchell turned the fallen man. There was no pulse in his neck. His eyes stared, blood filled his mouth and the shattered chest showed where the bullet had torn through his body. Chaval slung his weapon and bent to pick him up and carry him.
Mitchell grabbed his arm. ‘No. Leave him,’ he insisted.
‘We take him, Pascal. He’s one of us.’
‘He has his army papers on him. They’ll trace him, perhaps even back to Saint-Just. The Germans might think it was a group of deserters who did this.’
Chaval immediately understood. He grabbed a handful of Mitchell’s jacket and hauled him to his feet, then turned towards the hole in the fence. A line of flickering red tongues spouted from the résistants’ weapons but they were already moving away quickly under Edmond’s command. By the time Mitchell and Chaval joined them on the track the shooting had halted as the men began to clamber on to the lorry. The engine coughed; the gears grated. The driver revved hard, pushing away into the trees and the track towards home. Low branches whipped at them as they clung to the swaying lorry. Only when they were below the treeline did the driver switch on the headlights to see where the track led, and then quickly doused them again.
Intermittent firing continued in the distance as the lorry lumbered away with its cargo and survivors, the Germans shooting in panic, not realizing the men had escaped.
The men were silent. Bucard was gone. Mitchell
gripped the rail, rolling with the bumpy ride. Death had struck so swiftly. The loss wounded him. The cold night air stung his eyes and brought tears to his cheeks.
28
It had been a bitter return to the Gaétan château. The flurry of excitement as Edmond reported to his master was quickly put aside as the fuel was carted off to be cached. Mitchell instructed his men to fill the Peugeot’s tank and then put as many cans in the boot and footwell as they could. Recriminations began as soon as the night’s work was finished. Maillé accused Laforge of panicking when the boar pushed its way through the undergrowth. Laforge had fallen and his weapon had fired inadvertently. The bickering between the two became heated until Chaval pointed an accusing finger at Edmond claiming that the stupid bastard had put them in danger from the very beginning and that he, Chaval, had warned him.
Emotions were running high and the two men quickly came to blows. They were dragged apart by the others. It was nobody’s fault, Mitchell told them. The unexpected happened. Bucard’s death would serve a purpose when his papers were discovered and the Germans began their investigation into him. Gaétan’s men filtered away into the night to return to their homes. Edmond faced Mitchell’s men.
‘I am sorry your comrade died. He was a brave man. I took the only route I knew that would give us the best chance to seize the fuel.’
Mitchell thanked him for his words and the patrician dismissed his loyal servant for the night. Gaétan had brandy brought for Mitchell’s men.
Mitchell gathered his men around him. ‘You drink tonight and toast your friend. I will raise a glass with you; then I’ll leave you to your grief. Bucard once gave me his wisdom: I honour him for it and am saddened by his death, but it’s for you to share his memory between yourselves and not with an outsider. Chaval, the men must be ready to move at dawn. All right?’