Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  ‘Get the cutters,’ he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Maillé caught on, undid the straps on Mitchell’s haversack and pulled out the bolt cutters.

  ‘Now?’ asked Maillé.

  Mitchell turned and saw that the turntable was being cranked to face the waiting engine.

  ‘Hear that?’ said Drossier. ‘The freight train’s gone past. A few minutes more and there’s going to be the sweetest sound.’

  ‘We stand here gossiping like women in a damned bread queue and the last sound you’ll hear is German bullets ripping your head off,’ said Maillé.

  ‘Cut the lock,’ said Mitchell, turning back to watch the agonizingly slow-moving turntable. If any of the railway workers were studying the bogey wheels they might spot Drossier’s charges and then the mission would fail. There was still time for an alert soldier to pull the timers out of the plastique. The turntable stopped. Had they seen something? He sucked in his breath, and then the turntable began its torturous grinding journey again as the pivot turned to line up on the locomotive.

  The gate was open.

  Mitchell ushered the men through, closed the gate behind him, tugged the thick chain back through the bars and with a final glance at the locomotive, which had now edged on to the revolving track, prayed that the explosives packed against the central pivot under the steel framework had not been dislodged. He followed Drossier and Maillé across the dark streets towards the van. They climbed in but Mitchell stood outside, head tilted slightly towards the sky. He checked his watch.

  ‘Pascal!’ Maillé hissed. ‘For God’s sake. Come on.’

  Mitchell half turned, raised a hand to quieten him, and then walked away from the van to where the street broadened into another. Once again he checked his watch. And then he heard the dull thunder of explosions in the distance. He grinned and stepped back towards the van. He thought he heard shouts from the yards, distant cries of warning. And then the air reverberated with the shockwave from their charges going off.

  ‘The gate! Drive past the gate!’ he urged Maillé.

  The van’s gears complained as Maillé swung it across the street. Drossier braced himself in the back and readied his sub-machine gun in case they were pursued but the mayhem and flames in the marshalling yards had caused widespread panic. Maillé slowed; Mitchell leant out of the window and caught a glimpse of the locomotive stuck firmly on the turntable being engulfed by flames.

  Drossier slapped him on the back. ‘We did it. We did it.’

  Maillé grinned. ‘We’re getting good at this, Pascal. Let’s find more targets, eh? Let’s hit the bastards again.’

  ‘We will,’ said Mitchell. ‘When the time is right, we’ll hurt them again. But right now don’t drive too fast. All right, Maillé?

  ‘All right, Pascal. You’re the boss.’

  50

  As the train had derailed Chaval and the others stood shocked at the scale of destruction. The tracks had curled like putty and the locomotive, which was by then travelling at speed, lurched from the rails and ploughed into the low embankment. The anti-aircraft crews on the front flatbed wagons were hurled to their death, their guns careering into the narrow road and crushing them. The first four boxcars followed the engine off the tracks but the remainder of the train was intact with all the machinery secured on flatbed wagons. Soldiers thrown from the sudden impact rallied quickly. Many were injured but an officer or a sergeant – Chaval and the others couldn’t make out which – started bellowing commands. Steam hissed into the sudden stillness accompanied by groaning metal as the engine’s weight shifted. The small road was effectively blocked but there were enough soldiers remaining to quickly fan out to secure the area. Edmond had led Chaval and the others into the forest where they retrieved the van and then made a dash for the bridge. It was their good fortune that the bombing run was a few minutes later than expected because when the aircraft came they came in low and fast. The sky shattered with a roar. RAF Mosquitoes, with the distinctive sound of their twin Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, swept in and raked the stranded train with cannon fire, dropping their bombs along the length of the train. Men were vaporized. The ground erupted, throwing wagons and machines high in the air, shrapnel tearing into the edge of the forest. Flames soared. Shockwaves from the blasts bent the trees and flung anyone beyond the train to the ground. Within seconds the destruction was complete and the Mosquitoes powered away without loss. Chaval had stopped the van on the bridge and the awestruck team watched the dawn light turn to flames. The degree of devastation and the swiftness of it left them stunned. With senses numbed by the sound and fury of the attack, they drove away slowly towards the rendezvous with Mitchell and the others.

  *

  There was jubilation back at Gaétan’s house. Chaval and Edmond, with Ginny and Laforge, were already waiting for Mitchell and his men when they arrived. Brandy and cider were brought up from Gaétan’s cellar and Madame Gaétan beamed with pleasure as she proudly laid plates of food down for them in the barn. Their voices, raised in excitement at their success, were muted by the thick windowless walls. They shouted over each other, the men backslapping and then eagerly embracing Ginny.

  ‘You have struck a blow tonight, colonel,’ said Gaétan, raising a glass to toast Mitchell. ‘One that will give hope to many.’

  Mitchell felt more exhaustion than elation. The intensity of the operation had drained him. ‘Everyone played their part. You too. We could not establish ourselves here without your help. I just pray that the Germans do not take reprisals.’

  Gaétan shrugged. ‘Blame for a bombing raid cannot be laid at anyone’s door except the RAF.’

  ‘The Germans are not stupid. They’ll see the connection between the destruction of the turntable and the raid.’

  ‘Let them. Once they identify the explosives they will concentrate on tracking you down. British agents in Paris will inflame them.’ Gaétan swallowed the drink in his glass and placed a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘Everyone must sleep here for a few hours then go back before curfew.’

  Mitchell suddenly felt hungrier than he had in days. He scooped spoonfuls of food into his mouth and listened to the others, bolstered by their daring, telling stories, embellished no doubt with every glass of alcohol. Ginny and Madame Gaétan laughed along with the men.

  Chaval edged towards him and clinked his glass. ‘Pascal. This is the start of great things for us.’

  ‘And more dangerous times, my friend,’ said Mitchell. He looked to where Edmond and Gaétan hunched together in conversation. ‘Edmond?’

  Chaval glanced at the gamekeeper. ‘He did well. I still don’t like him but he did what was needed. He knows more about Paris than we think. He knows clubs and brothels. Knows where to find black marketeers. He might be a gamekeeper down in Norvé but he’s streetwise here.’

  ‘Then the old man must use him to get food and drink. We can’t suspect him of more than that, can we?’ Mitchell made no mention of having spotted Edmond the day he and Chaval met. Clearly, Edmond had been following Chaval to either determine that he was trustworthy or in an attempt to find where Mitchell and Ginny were in hiding. The question that Mitchell could not answer was whether Edmond had trailed Mitchell without him knowing it. If he had, was the apartment compromised?

  Chaval gave Mitchell a thoughtful look. ‘I don’t know, Pascal. What do you think? Might he have contact with the Germans and have betrayed that wireless operator? Was your plane shot down by chance? In these times we cannot give our full trust to anyone.’ He downed his drink. ‘He’s a gamekeeper, my natural enemy. Don’t listen to me.’

  ‘You’re the one man I do listen to, Chaval. Keep this to yourself for now but I am going to get Juliet, Simone and Jean Bernard’s family another place to stay. The Gestapo have been watching them.’

  The threat registered in Chaval’s eyes. ‘Do they know what Madame Bonnier and the doctor were doing in Saint-Just? If they have learnt that she was running a Resistance group down there then she will be
on their wanted list.’

  ‘Too far away, Chaval; they won’t know anything. There’s no link. No, this has to do with the missing wireless operator in Paris.’ He paused, uncertain how much to explain. ‘It might just be coincidence. He’s dead.’

  Chaval frowned and looked at Ginny. ‘If they track either of you down she’ll also be in grave danger.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pascal, I haven’t told you what happened out there. She was keeping watch when a car came by just as we were laying the charges. A couple of Luftwaffe pilots. I don’t know what happened but she shot them dead. Bang bang. Just like that. Cool as you like. She might not look much but I reckon she’ll handle herself well no matter what. She’s a very brave girl.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Obliterated in the bombing raid along with them in it.’ Chaval stood and clasped a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘I hope to God I never get in her way,’ he said and grinned.

  51

  Oberst Ulrich Bauer of the Abwehr watched the civilians drafted in by the army to help in trying to clear the damaged turntable. It was stuck fast with its central pivot completely destroyed. The lifting cranes required to raise the locomotive from the track on the revolving bridge were trapped inside the sheds. The attack on the turntable and the destruction of the train a few kilometres away had been a complete success. More than a hundred soldiers had been drafted in to search the yards and do what they could to assist in clearing the torn steel from the turntable. Even more had been sent to the site of the destroyed train. These men were not the army’s combat engineers who fought on the front line but from a pioneer battalion used for labouring tasks. The few engineer corps officers in Paris had been hastily roused from their beds soon after the bombing raid and despatched to each area. In the marshalling yards two of the smaller locomotives had been moved across the complex track system and were now stationed either side of the trapped train engine on the turntable. It was hoped that by pushing and pulling it could be shunted clear to allow the available engineers to assess whether any movement of the turntable was possible. Bauer allowed a beat of approval for the saboteurs’ daring and skill. The trapped locomotive was caught between two sets of tracks so why, he wondered, were the engineers even attempting to move it? To be seen to be doing something was the answer, he decided. Men’s raised voices joined the clamour of metal being struck by sledgehammers and the hissing cut of oxyacetylene torches. Bauer saw the SS car arrive and Stolz and Koenig step out. Bauer ground out his cigarette, watching Stolz stride across the tracks. For a moment he wished the Nazi would trip and go headlong into the gravel and iron. With any luck he’d break his neck.

  ‘Well?’ Stolz said. ‘How bad?’

  ‘It will take weeks to repair.’

  ‘A co-ordinated attack. I’ve had my ear burnt on the phone this morning by Himmler. The Führer is enraged.’

  Bauer lit another cigarette. It would help calm his resentment towards Stolz and his masters. The Nazi Party was run by a failed chicken farmer and a lance corporal paper hanger.

  ‘I want reprisals,’ demanded Stolz.

  Bauer raised a hand. ‘Just a moment.’

  An engineering officer approached and saluted, then gestured for the soldier with him to lay out the dummy rats and blocks of plastique with their timers. ‘Oberst Bauer, these were discovered in various different places. It looks as though the saboteurs didn’t have time to set their charges. I have men spread out across the tracks searching for any more explosives but it’s a slow process.’

  ‘Thank you, captain.’ Bauer picked up one of the rats. He extended it to Stolz who pulled back. ‘A neat idea,’ said Bauer. ‘I’ve seen them before. Have you?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Dead rats packed with explosives and a timer shoved up their rear end. A bit like us. Primed and ready to explode.’ He tossed it to Stolz who caught it in a reflex action and then flung it from him in fear.

  ‘Damn you, Bauer. This isn’t a game.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Stolz, it won’t explode unless the timer is crimped. It’s a British game. These were obviously British saboteurs. The rats, the timers, the explosives. British.’

  ‘There’s nothing obvious about it. It’s the Resistance using their explosives. I want reprisals. One in three railway workers and fifty locals.’

  ‘That would be stupid,’ said Bauer.

  ‘It would be effective,’ snapped Stolz.

  ‘No, it would not. The railway personnel were in as much danger as our men in the sheds. And shooting locals will make this clean-up even more difficult. We’ve sent so many to forced labour in Germany we won’t have the manpower. We need every man we can get, though most of them are so malnourished we’ll be lucky if they can wield a broom. I’ve already dragged a hundred civilians here. And there’s a shortage of railway workers. You’d make matters worse for us all. We…’ Bauer paused. ‘The Third Reich’ – he emphasised the words – ‘needs them. For once, colonel, you’ll have to forgo your bloodlust.’

  ‘Sir, may I speak?’ said Koenig. ‘The bombing raid spared civilians and that plays well into British hands. The colonel is correct about the number of men we need, but I would suggest also that in this instance, if we take reprisals, it is likely shooting hostages will inflame resentment towards us. The population here will never give us information, should they have any. The French railway workers shared the same risk as our men. If anything that act alone might convince others to speak out against the saboteurs if they know anything.’

  Stolz glared at the younger man. ‘There are times, Koenig, when you can be insufferable.’ He stared across the marshalling yards as Koenig lowered his eyes. ‘But your logic is sound enough.’ He turned to Bauer. ‘The Gestapo will arrest thirty men and interrogate them.’ He raised a hand quickly to stop Koenig’s interjection. ‘I know, I know, Koenig. Torture will doubtlessly give us nothing in this instance. But I must be seen to do something.’

  ‘Then let my men and French police round them up and question them and when little is forthcoming you can blame me. Wouldn’t that serve you better?’ suggested Bauer. ‘Another feather in the cap of the Sicherheitsdienst in the tussle between the security service and military intelligence. And our methods do not cause such hatred towards the Reich but turn it instead towards their own countrymen who arrest them.’

  Stolz recognized that the proposal had merit. ‘I want a copy of the list of those arrested and your report.’ He turned away with Koenig at his heels. Bauer watched them leave. Sooner or later his men would find something he could use against the Nazi and then the power would shift back his way.

  In the background the sound of metal being wrenched apart put his teeth on edge.

  52

  When Milice Inspector Paul Berthold had been ushered into the Head of Sicherheitsdienst’s office, a beautiful, well-dressed young Frenchwoman had come out. It seemed to Berthold that Standartenführer Heinrich Stolz might be a man who enjoyed the good things in life in this haven of a posting, and might introduce him to some of those good things. He was soon disabused of any such notion by the lash of the ruthless SD officer’s displeasure. According to Stolz’s information, it seemed possible that Berthold had interrogated a suspected British agent who went by the name of Pascal. The Nazi wanted a full description. How in God’s name was he supposed to remember one face among the many he had interrogated? he asked. He was told in no uncertain terms that he had better start remembering or his time as an inspector would soon be over. Berthold had suffered the humiliation and gone back to the police barracks where a bed had been arranged for him. Paris. The great open city, virtually unharmed from the Occupation, beckoned him with its nightclubs and restaurants and willing women for those in authority. And now any anticipation of such pleasures had to be put on hold while he tried to satisfy the requirements of the Aryan bastard who lorded it over the city. There was only one hope for Berthold and that was to find Gerard Vincent. He thought
the man the Nazis were so interested in had shared a cell with the black marketeer. He telephoned the Préfecture at Saint-Audière and had the desk sergeant check the arrest log: when had Vincent been detained and what was the name of the man who had been brought in after the boy, whose name he could not remember, had been shot? The dates tallied. The man he had questioned was Pascal Garon. If Gerard Vincent was known to the authorities in Paris then Berthold would bring enough pressure to bear on him to get a description of the other man in his cell that day. What Berthold could not recall was Gerard Vincent’s Paris address. Their dealings had been off the record and the war profiteer’s location in the city had barely been mentioned. It lurked somewhere in Berthold’s memory but refused to yield to his probing.

  He approached the Brigades Spéciales and then the local Milice but neither were willing to help him. Their resentment surprised him. Back home he carried authority; here he was an outsider, a country bumpkin brought to the city by their German masters, someone who might usurp any success they achieved themselves. Any sense of… he searched for the word and then settled on ‘brotherhood’… brotherhood was sorely lacking in Paris. Milice officers jealously guarded their own patch and influence and Brigades Spéciales thought themselves the right hand of God. He was on his own.