‘Marcel?’ Pierre shouted. ‘Marcel!’ he called again. ‘Give me your hand.’ Claire followed Marcel’s gaze as he stared down at the river. It seemed to be flowing faster now. Marcel looked up and slowly moved one foot up a rung of the ladder. He did the same with his other foot and then his hands until he was a few rungs away from his brother for the third time. Claire could see the fear on Marcel’s face as he forced himself to reach up. Again, Pierre and Marcel’s fingers touched. Claire and André shuffled forwards, so Pierre was nearer to grab Marcel’s hand. He did. He grasped Marcel by the wrist. ‘Let go of the ladder, Marcel, I’ve got you.’ Claire could see indecision in Marcel’s eyes. He was so near, why didn’t he--? Suddenly he looked up at his brother, let go of the ladder, and thrust his hand in the air. Pierre pitched forward and caught it. ‘I have you!’ he shouted. Holding Marcel’s hands in a vice-like grip, Pierre hauled his brother to safety.
Breathing heavily, Claire leant forward and put her hands on her knees to steady herself. The physical exertion of being Pierre’s anchor, coupled with the fear that her comrade might fall into the Loire and be lost forever, had drained her. The four comrades fell to the ground, exhausted. Claire jumped up almost immediately. ‘It’s wet!’ Her comrades laughed and she laughed with them.
‘It is wet,’ André said, ‘and it will soon be light.’ He lifted his arm and rotated his wrist until he was able to see the time. ‘We have two hours until we need to be at the tunnel.’
Trekking south across the fields, they came to a derelict barn. André put out his arm and they stopped walking. He ran to the barn’s door, opened it and looked in. Then he turned and summoned the others. ‘We’ll get out of the rain for half an hour and have something to eat.’
It was dry inside and smelled of hay, reminding Claire of the night she and Mitch had slept in the barn on the Belland farm. She quickly put the thought out of her mind and sat down on one of several logs that were dotted about the floor. The barn had clearly been used by someone other than the farmer. Lovers perhaps, Claire thought. André gave each of them thick cheese sandwiches that Édith had made. They ate hungrily.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The sabotage party arrived at the tunnel just before sunrise. Claire and André climbed the steep embankment, took binoculars from their rucksacks and lay on their stomachs. Their job was to look for German vehicles, snipers, or spotter planes that often accompanied important trains. The job of blowing up the tunnel and the train transporting German troops to Normandy to fight the Allies was Pierre and Marcel’s. They walked quickly and cautiously to the centre of the tunnel and placed dynamite against the tracks and the walls. When they had finished, they replaced Claire and André on the embankment and waited for the train.
Keeping low, Claire and André ran to where the line curved fifty yards from the tunnel. Claire fell to the ground and lay in long meadow grass on the right side of the track; André did the same on the left. Claire lifted her head and, leaning on her elbows, put binoculars to her eyes. Apart from the slight bend, which allowed them to see but not be seen, the railway line was straight for miles.
Claire suddenly saw a black speck in the far distance. She blinked rapidly to moisten her eyes and rid them of field dust, and looked again. A second later the speck grew into a square and turned into the engine of a train with steam billowing from its funnel. She estimated it was two miles away and whistled sharply twice. André replied with identical blasts; he had seen the train at the same time. Running as fast as she was able, Claire joined Pierre and Marcel above the entrance of the tunnel on the north side. ‘It’s coming!’ she shouted. ‘A mile and a half away by now.’ Having crossed the tracks, André joined them.
‘Go!’ Pierre handed Claire her rucksack and his own. ‘See you at the safe house.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘No, I’ll stay here with Marcel.’ He took a hand grenade from his pocket. ‘The dynamite was damp. It may need a little help to detonate.’
‘I’ll stay too. Two hand grenades are--’
‘No you won’t,’ André said. ‘It’s too dangerous. Besides, you’re carrying the dynamite for the pylons.’ Claire hugged Pierre and Marcel. ‘Be careful,’ she said to Marcel. He nodded and kissed her on both cheeks. Having almost lost him to the river, Claire felt protective towards him and wanted to stay. But André was right. With a rucksack full of dynamite it was too dangerous. Pierre gave André the two remaining rucksacks. ‘The train will only be a mile away now, probably less. We must go!’
‘One more thing,’ Claire said, looking from Pierre to Marcel. ‘When you have detonated, you leave straight away. Whatever happens, you must both get out immediately, right?’
‘That’s an order!’ André added. The four comrades shook hands, wished each other luck, and went their separate ways – Pierre into the meadow grass, Marcel to the south entrance of the tunnel, and André and Claire across the fields.
Claire and André heard the explosion as they entered a wood on the outskirts of a small hamlet. Claire stopped and turned. Tears filled her eyes. ‘All those men!’
André dropped Marcel’s bag and put his arms around her. ‘Killing is never right, Claire, but the German army must be stopped. If that train got as far as the front line--’ A second explosion was followed by a loud rumbling.
‘The bridge,’ Claire said. Together they watched as thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Like dense storm clouds, it blocked out the sun. Gripped by a feeling of dread, Claire shuddered. ‘Shall we wait for them?’
‘No, we’ll see them at the safe house.’ André hauled Marcel’s rucksack onto his shoulder and started to run thought the wood. Claire followed.
Claire washed in cold water from pipes that banged as the water – rusty at first – ran slowly through them. She changed into a spare set of clothes. They were damp, felt cold against her skin, but they were better than the sodden bundle that lay on the scullery floor. Hearing voices, and eager to see Pierre and Marcel safe after their dangerous mission, Claire ran from the wash-house to the kitchen. Opening the door, she saw Pierre sitting at the table with his head in his hands, sobbing. Instinctively she looked round the room. Marcel was not there. She looked at André standing at Pierre’s side. His face was ashen.
Closing the door behind her, Claire crossed the room and dropped into the chair next to Pierre. André pulled out the chair on the other side of their comrade and sat down. With tears falling from his eyes, the big Frenchman lifted his head and looked first at André, then at Claire. ‘The second bomb,’ he said. ‘We knew the dynamite was damp.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I told him not to go back, that the fire from the first bomb would impact on the second, but he ran into the tunnel. I followed him, but the train was almost on us. I shouted to him to get out, that I needed to detonate. He shouted okay and scrambled up the embankment after me. The train entered the tunnel and I looked behind. Marcel raised his arm, brought it down again, and shouted, “Now!” I knew the train would soon be through the tunnel if I did not do it immediately, so I fell on the detonator.’ Pierre put his head in his hands and sobbed again. ‘Marcel must have slipped, fallen down the embankment,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘I ran to where I had last seen him. He lay on his back, his eyes open and staring. When the second bomb exploded the blast lifted him high in the air, dropping him onto the track like a rag doll. I wanted to go to him, but the tunnel collapsed. Bricks and fire and smoke spewed everywhere, burying Marcel. There was nothing I could do, so I ran.’
In their shared grief the three comrades sat in silence. Just before dark Émilie, a middle-aged woman with sad eyes and a lined face, wearing the traditional black headscarf and dress of a widow, brought a potato and onion broth, bread, and a very welcome bottle of wine. She left them to eat saying she would be back for the dishes in the morning. None of them felt like eating, but they knew they must. Later, in an attempt to take Pierre’s mind off the death of his brother, Claire uncorked the bottle of wine a
nd André took the map from his bag. They discussed briefly how they would sabotage the communication pylons to the north, but made no firm plans. They agreed they would have to wait several days, maybe longer, until the Germans had investigated the train crash and left the area.
Claire looked at Pierre, at his grief-stricken face, his red and swollen eyes. ‘Why don’t you go home to Yvette and your children? Go tomorrow, before the Germans start knocking on doors. And,’ she hated saying the words that she knew were necessary, ‘when you tell Marcel’s wife that her husband is dead, be sure to tell her he died a hero.’ Claire wondered how little that would matter to a woman who had lost the man she loved, or to children who would never see their father again. She thought about Aimée and wondered if she would one day have to tell her that her father had died a hero. She shook the thought from her mind.
That night the three comrades slept in the attic. Sleeping in their clothes on top of old rugs beneath what smelt like even older, but thick, blankets, they were warm enough. But as tired as she was Claire didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours. Nor did her comrades by the sounds they made as they tossed and turned in the night. The following morning, before daybreak, Pierre left the safe house for home. Claire and André studied the map again, but again they made no plans.
News came in every day via Émilie, who brought them newspapers and food. Claire couldn’t cook, or even make coffee. Smoke coming from the chimney of a derelict house would cause people to talk. According to Émilie, the nearby towns and villages were crawling with Gestapo demanding to know if anyone had seen strangers in the area – and threatening them with imprisonment and torture if they withheld information.
The Gestapo and a team of structural engineers moved into the village while they swarmed over the crash site carrying out forensic tests. By the time they left, Claire was climbing the attic walls. She hated being confined to small spaces. She wanted to get out, do the job that she and André had stayed on to do, and get back to her daughter.
In the afternoon of the tenth day, Émilie arrived earlier than usual with their evening meal. She banged on the ceiling at the top of the stairs with a broom handle. ‘The Germans have gone,’ she called, laughing.
Relieved, Claire and André left the attic and followed the older woman downstairs. It was the first time Claire had heard Émilie laugh. It suited her. Seeing her now, almost dancing round the table as she laid it for supper, Claire realised how terrified she must have been every day, walking through a village overrun by Germans to bring them food. Some heroes wore medals. Some, like Émilie, Claire thought, did not. But they were heroes all the same.
‘Today is a good day,’ Émilie said, giving André a newspaper and Claire the clothes that she had taken without being asked, and washed and ironed.
‘Thank you, Émilie.’ Claire lifted the clothes to her face. They felt soft and smelled of soap. She left the room and changed. She felt warm for the first time in weeks. Enjoying the feeling of clean fabric next to her skin, she wondered how long it would be until she was wet and cold again. No matter. When she and André had blown up the pylons, she would go home to Aimée and Édith, and he would go home to Thérèse – and soon their baby. They had so much to go home to, and to stay safe for. She thought of Marcel and felt a lump in her throat. She closed her eyes. She must focus on the positive, not the negative. In the New Year, Claire promised herself – after she had spent Christmas with her daughter, and after Thérèse and André’s baby had been born – she would go to Paris and seek out the leader of the Paris Centre Resistance. She would ask him where he saw Mitch, and if he knew where he was now. If he did, she would beg him to take her there.
After supper André packed his rucksack and checked the attic, while Claire packed and examined the other rooms in the house. It was important not to leave anything behind. When she was done, she arranged the old furniture in a slap-dash way so no one would suspect the house had been inhabited. She looked around. The rooms looked neglected and the furnishings run down, which was what you’d expect in a derelict house.
‘All done,’ Claire said. ‘We’ve left nothing behind.’ She felt a catch in her throat. Marcel had been left behind. He was still out there. Or had the Germans…?
Claire embraced the woman who had looked after them for almost two weeks. ‘Thank you, Émilie, for all you have done for us.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ Émilie said. ‘Vive la France!’
‘Vive la France!’ Claire agreed.
When they came to a fork in the road they turned left. Soon the road narrowed to a dirt track ending at a gate. ‘We are close,’ André said. ‘According to the map, the pylon is a mile north of this farm.’ They climbed the gate. The pig farm, as it was described on the map, looked more like a dairy farm. Surrounded by acres of flat grazing land, it gave no cover. André pointed to a low hedge in the distance and they ran for it. Staying close they half circled the farm and walked north. When they saw the pylon they fell to the ground. For twenty minutes they waited, scanning the area for a German presence. There was none.
‘Let’s do it,’ Claire said. Together they got to their feet and approached the pylon. Taking the dynamite from her bag, Claire packed a quarter of it round one leg of the pylon and a quarter around the one next to it. André placed the detonators. From a safe distance they watched the pylon explode and topple sideways. The stench of burning rubber was followed by a loud ripping noise. Some cables snapped; others were torn from their fixings.
The second pylon was an hour’s walk to the north, in an even more remote spot, but it was a clear night and they found it easily. The same action was taken; the same result ensued. It was time to go home.
They set off on the long trek to Gisoir. André had planned the route so they would return via the Loire bridge at Beaugency. They approached with caution, even though the Germans had surrendered it to the Resistance in September.
‘The bridge is as free as France will be one day,’ André said. He put his hand on Claire’s shoulder and together they crossed the Loire and made their way home.
They arrived home exhausted, cold and hungry. Claire put her thumb on the latch of the door to the yard and pressed. It was locked. Leaning against the door, she groaned. André dropped his bag, climbed over the wall and opened it. Claire stumbled through with the rucksacks. ‘The brick,’ André said, pointing to the side of the kitchen door. He eased a brick out of the wall, took the key from behind it and opened the door. Claire followed him in, dropped the bags, and went to the range where she opened the oven door. The fire was still alight, just.
André sat down at the table and yawned. Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘I should go up to Thérèse, let her know we’re home, but…’ He looked down at his muddy clothes.
Claire put a log on the fire and tuned to the sink. ‘I’ll put some water on,’ she said, filling two of Édith’s large pans. ‘You can wash in the scullery. I’ll wash in here.’ André frowned through a yawn. ‘Well, it’s me who is doing all the work,’ she whispered, taking coffee from the cupboard and cups from the dresser.
When the coffee was made, Claire poured two cups and sat down opposite André. They spoke quietly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to be home,’ Claire said, wrapping her grubby hands around her cup.
‘I’ll see what Mother has got to eat,’ André said, struggling to his feet and opening the larder door. He came back with bread, cold meat and cheese. They ate eagerly and by the time they had finished the water was boiling. Claire hauled her tired body from the table, went to the range, and took a large pan from it. After adding cold water she gave it to André. ‘I’ll go upstairs to the linen cupboard and get us each a towel,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ As she opened the door to the hall, she saw Édith coming down the stairs.
‘My darling Claire,’ she whispered.
‘Édith.’ Full of emotion, Claire was unable to hold back her tears. She bit her bottom lip and, aware that Aimée and Thérès
e were asleep upstairs, ushered Édith into the kitchen.
‘We have had a difficult time, Mother,’ André said, putting down the pan of water and closing the door to the hall.
‘Thank God you are safe. Thérèse will be so happy to see you.’
‘Is she well?’
‘Yes, she is like a flower in bloom. She is very well.’
‘And Aimée?’ Claire asked.
Édith smiled. ‘She is also well. She talks to your photograph every day and tells me you will be home soon.’ She looked at her son. ‘André, wash and go to your wife. Claire and I will go to the sitting room. It is warmer in there and there is something I need to tell her.’
Fear gripped Claire’s heart and it began to pound, taking her breath away. If it was bad news about Mitch, she wanted to run from the house, but she knew she must hear it. Trembling, she followed Édith into the front room.
‘What is it, Édith?’ Claire asked when they were seated by the fire.
‘Alain--’
‘No, Édith.’ Claire felt the ground shift beneath her. ‘Please don’t say it,’ she said, her eyes pleading.
‘Let me finish, child,’ Édith said, taking Claire’s hands in hers. ‘Alain is here. He is in your room, asleep in your bed.’
‘Here? I-- But I must go to him,’ Claire said, jumping up.
‘No, wait!’
‘Why?’ Claire began to tremble again. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Do not worry. Alain is strong, and will soon be well, but--’
‘But?’
‘But the doctor has given him morphine for the pain in his leg, and he sleeps all of the time. The bullet was removed from his leg by the doctor in the Pyrenees, but gangrene set in.’ Claire gasped and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. ‘It wasn’t the old man’s fault, my dear. He and his wife risked their lives to save Alain’s. He would not have survived if he had spent another night on the mountain. If the freezing temperature didn’t kill him, the amount of blood he had lost would have. If the doctor hadn’t got him to his house and operated on him…’ Claire sat and listened. Everything Édith said after the word gangrene she was hearing down a tunnel that was a long way off. ‘The bullet had been in his leg too long. When he realised this the doctor risked his life again and went in search of a Maquis group that he knew was in the mountains. I don’t know the details but Pierre said--’
China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) Page 27