“Some people said Ailly should have killed herself rather than live with the German officer. But I knew her; I taught her. For Ailly to take her own life would have meant casting her soul into eternal damnation. It is not up to us to decide whether we live or whether we die. That is left up to le bon Dieu in Heaven.”
“Do you remember the name of the German officer?” Marsh questioned.
“Not today. My memory is not so good today for names. Perhaps tomorrow. But I do know that you bear a strong resemblance to him. Yet there is something about your smile that reminds me of my little Ailly.”
“Do you know where she is buried, Mme. Arnaud? I’d like to visit her grave,” Marsh confided “before I leave to go back to Paris.”
The old woman smiled. “She is in the ancient section of the family plot, with the unmarked gravestone. Her papa never knew that her maman and I buried her there. Each Tuesday, I go to place flowers on her grave.”
Standing in the graveyard where his mother was buried opened the gate to memories long locked away in a small child’s mind. People weren’t supposed to remember what had happened to them when they were only two years of age. In the cemetery, Marsh wondered whether he’d been told the story so often that he could reconstruct the feeling of terror to go with it—the shell hitting the château; being knocked from his mother’s arms, with smoke and fire all around him—and Neal, the downed American flyer, rushing into the house and calling her name, “Ailly! Ailly!”
Yet neither Steppie nor Neal had ever told him of the fallen stone statue or the still, white hand of his mother, barely visible in the debris.
The sound of the shelling in the distance brought Marsh back to the problem at hand. He motioned for Laroche to stop the jeep. Now it was time to proceed the rest of the way on foot.
Heinrich von Freiker, recalled to duty a week before his medical leave was up, sat in the field tent and drank his bottle of wine.
He was in a black mood, summoned as he was from Berlin by von Rundstedt, to take König’s place, just when his investigation of Gretchen von Erhard had gotten underway. He knew the young woman was an impostor, masquerading as a mere schoolgirl when, in actuality, she was much older. He had set out to prove it, but his investigation had been cut short with his new orders. The Führer himself knew this Normandy thing was just a diversionary tactic. The real invasion would come when Patton’s forces landed at Pas de Calais, and if his leave had to be cancelled, that’s where Heinrich wanted to be, in the thick of the fighting.
Heinrich put down the empty bottle, belched, and left his tent for the latrine.
When challenged by the guard, he called out “Freya,” and walked on into the darkness.
Marsh and Giraldo, flanking their way from opposite ends of the camp to Laroche and Madison, suddenly froze as a twig snapped under their boots, making a loud noise.
“Wer ist da?” a voice called out, challenging the noise.
In the dim light, Marsh could see the outline of the soldier, with his helmet on, his gun with fixed bayonet pointing in their direction. Giraldo looked at Marsh, who silently prayed that they would not be caught in a spray of bullets from a trigger-happy guard. He dared not speak, for they were in the wrong area of camp.
Again the soldier called out, “Wer ist da?”
The drunk Heinrich, returning from the latrine, answered, “Freya.”
The guard lowered his rifle as his commander came into sight. And Marsh and Giraldo, happy to be alive, congratulated themselves for learning the password as well.
Farther away, in the compound where the tanks sat like great hulking prehistoric monsters, the two sentries came together, spoke briefly, and resumed a steady pace, with an ever-increasing distance between hem.
Watching their pattern, Giraldo and Marsh waited for Gig and Laroche to reach the compound. And in the meantime Giraldo mentally selected the tank he would requisition.
Marsh timed the guards, noting how long it took them to make their rounds and return to the starting point. The third time the guards came together and parted, with backs to each other Marsh heard the cricket and knew the other two were in position. He responded, waited three minutes, and then gave Giraldo the signal to run for the tank.
As one of the guards reached the remotest part of his walk and was ready to turn, Madison sprang from behind and grabbed him with a choke hold. Laroche thrust his knife into the softness of belly. Laroche, the gentle Cajun, who had gotten sick to his stomach with his first fight in Sicily, was now hardened to the conditions of war, of kill or be killed.
“Wer ist da?” The familiar refrain came from the other guard at the slight disturbance. And Marsh, closest to the guard, responded, “Freya,” as Heinrich had done.
To his surprise, the response brought a swift, unexpected retaliation of gunfire. There was nothing left to do but return the fire and run for the tank. Laroche and Madison did the same, as voices sounded in the distance, and a searchlight went on, illuminating the camp area.
Like groupers threaded through the gills on a fisherman’s line, the three fell into the tank, one on top of the other. A machine gun went off somewhere; soldiers finding the dead sentries, called to each other in excited voices, and Giraldo, the only one who could see through the visor of the tank, watched a squad of soldiers running toward them.
The other three held their breath and listened, as metal hatches clanged and reverberated, as the Germans methodically investigated the empty tanks around them.
The four waited for their tank to be next. But after a few minutes, the officer, evidently satisfied that no one had bothered the tanks, called off the search.
Guards were doubled, and the camp returned to normal, while inside the tank the four sweating men moved to a more comfortable position and silently watched while Giraldo familiarized himself with the controls.
A half hour later, Giraldo, not knowing how much diesel fuel the tank had in it, started the behemoth up. With a jerk to its great, wide treads, the tank moved out, while once again, guards shouted and the camp’s searchlights went on. But the tank, buttoned up, was secure, the heavy armored plate more than a match for the sentries.
Giraldo crashed into the open road, and with a whoop they were on their way, while the drunk Heinrich von Freiker, putting on his pants again, struggled to comprehend what had happened.
“You sure set off the fireworks, Lieutenant,” Madison declared. “Just what did you say to the guard to get him so riled up?”
“Freya,” Marsh said. “I would have been all right, if I’d been going to the latrine. But the tank compound evidently had a different password.”
“I wonder what the major’s going to say when he sees us coming down the road in this thing,” Laroche asked.
“Probably shoot us with everything he’s got,” Giraldo answered.
“Hey, Laroche, take off your undershirt,” Gig suggested. “We’ll run it up on the gun turret, for a surrender flag.”
“Hell, we should have taken time to paint a star on it,” Giraldo complained.
“That’s all right. The major will recognize your driving, Giraldo. He made the lieutenant promise not to let you drive the jeep,” Gig quipped.
“The jeep! I forgot all about it,” Laroche lamented. “You think the major will be mad at us for not stopping to get it?”
“I expect he’ll forgive us, if we clear the bridge for him.” Marsh smiled and touched the good-luck piece in his pocket.
In the dark, the armored beast rumbled, winding its wide tracks down the road in the direction of the American soldiers interspersed with members of the French Underground. And the commanding officer, listening to its approach, gave orders to hold fire, on the slight chance that Marsh and his men had been successful in their mission.
Camouflaged behind the trees and dug into the hedgerow country, trucks and jeeps waited, ready to move out.
In what was left of the moonlit night, the tank finally came into sight, with a small white piece of cloth
hanging on the gun turret—an undershirt, GI issue.
“Damned if they didn’t do it,,” the major swore, looking through his binoculars. His admiration caused his weathered, stubbled face to break into a grin.
Marsh and his men continued to the base of the bridge, backed up, wheeled slowly to the right, and using the tank’s sixty-ton weight, began the clearing of the bridge, ramming the disabled tank that stood in their way.
The steady drone and rumbling of treads set up a vibration in the distance, and the commanding officer knew the Germans weren’t far behind. Now their escape to the other side of the river depended upon the success of one confiscated tank and four men to clear the bridge in time for the convoy to rush across and join the others before the entire panzer division destroyed them.
With his head not as clear as he might have wished, Heinrich von Freiker waited for news after his initial command to pursue. The stealing of a tank smacked of a traitor, and he would take great pleasure in retaliating. If the villagers didn’t turn in the members of the Underground, he would round up ten citizens and have them shot. But first he planned on stopping the tank before it could do damage to his own panzer unit—and shooting the bastards who’d stolen it.
Giraldo, gauging each push against the disabled tank, hit it with enough force to jar the teeth and catch the neck in a whiplash. Sparks struck, metal against metal, until a great crash signaled the success of ramming the disabled tank off the bridge.
“Back up, Giraldo,” Marsh ordered. “Let’s get off the bridge.”
But Giraldo, struggling with a frozen left lever, swore. “I can’t get it in reverse!” And for a terrifying few minutes with the rumble behind them vibrating the concrete of the causeway, Marsh and Giraldo both used their strength to try to unlock the behemoth.
Gradually, the lever eased into the correct position.
Gig, suffering from claustrophobia in the enclosed tank, opened the hatch and leaned out to give directions to Giraldo, so that he would not miscalculate and plunge them off the bridge.
“Do we have any ammo?” Marsh inquired.
“No,” Giraldo replied. “And not much fuel, either.”
As the tank reached the abutment next to the bridge, the American convoy began moving across in a steady flow. A salvo from a bazooka made a direct hit on one of the jeeps. It went up in flames, leaving its occupants on a funeral pyre. The other vehicles rerouted around the burning jeep.
One tank, stolen from the enemy, was the only defense as the men continued across the bridge, while underneath, two swimmers strung the sticks of dynamite along the pilings. It was up to that small group to keep the Germans from sweeping toward the beaches with their reinforcements.
Maurice Duvalier, hidden by the side of the road with three of his compatriots, all over seventy years of age, watched the German tanks pull out, one by one, crashing onto the road where he and his men had hastily planted the mines. Only one portion of the tank was vulnerable—the soft underbelly, like the Achilles heel, undipped in metal armor.
The first explosion brought a tremendous sense of satisfaction to Maurice, who had waited for his land to be rid of the German conquerors. After the first blast, he expected the panzer division to be more cautious.
True to his surmise, the tanks stopped, turned toward the edge of the road, and, with their flailing chains, sought out the obstacles in their path. Maurice, aware that his maneuver would not stop them completely, but merely buy time for the Americans, was pleased at the havoc he had caused. Silently, he gave the signal to the others. They had done all they could. Now it was time to return to the farm cart and make their way back to Underground headquarters—the farmhouse presided over by his two elderly sisters, Jeanette and Cecile.
Surrounded on all sides by flooded waters, the narrow causeway was only wide enough for the vehicles to travel single file. With the stolen tank covering their departure, the last truck, the final jeep managed to get onto the bridge just as the first of Heinrich’s tanks came into view.
The stolen tank’s guns were silent. Only its enormous bulk now protected the rear of the convoy.
“What are we going to do now, Marsh?” Giraldo inquired, seeing the monster headed straight toward them.
The loud report of arms drowned out Marsh’s reply, for the salvo, glancing the tank, reverberated into the inside chamber.
“Turn tail and run, Giraldo,” Marsh shouted once more. “Get off the bridge.”
Again the left track sruck. “Jeez, why did I have to pick a tank with a stubborn lever? Giraldo wailed.
For the second time that night, Marsh lent his weight and the two men pushed it into reverse.
On the other side of the long bridge, the men from the convoy dug in for the fight, while the two swimmers crouched on the bank with the detonator to destroy the bridge, now that the convoy had finally gotten across.
Marsh had not meant to cut it so close. He had hoped to have enough time to abandon the tank and set it afire to block the Germans. But all four men were trapped inside with no hope of staying alive. If they opened the hatch now, they would be picked off as soon as their helmets became visible.
“Get on the bridge, Giraldo,” Marsh ordered.
Giraldo obeyed, while Marsh removed a grenade, weighing it in his hand and feeling for the pin. “When I tell you to scramble, we’ll hit the concrete. I’ll count to three—Gig, you go first, followed by Giraldo.”
The two men on the bank, seeing the German tanks approaching, had only one thought—to push the detonator and destroy the bridge before the tanks reached it.
Almost to the second, the hatch of the stolen tank came open, its occupants crawling along its wide treads, while inside the grenade went off. The double explosion of the bridge and the tank tossed the paratroopers into the air, like the mannequins that had been air-dropped from the gliders earlier, to throw the Germans off the scent of the invasion.
Stunned, they lay where they had landed, atop other bodies on the side of the bridge next to the approaching enemy. The moonlit scene of the peaceful river was once more ravaged by war.
Chapter 20
For thirty-six hours, Dow Pomeroy had waited for the telephone to ring, for Mittie to call him, to give him some message about Alpharetta. Anything at all, to indicate that she had arrived safely in Sweden, or that the mission had been called off at the last minute.
Instead, there was a blanket of silence, with no communication whatsoever. Dow, used to following each mission’s progress from hour to hour, was in a strange situation, cut off from headquarters, unable to do anything more than wait. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
“I’m flying to Middlesex,” he told Birdie, and with Reggie accompanying him, he left Lochendall, Belline, and his ADC behind.
Belline, bored with life in such a desolate place, prowled restlessly about the stone house for most of the morning. It was too windy to walk along the beach, so she went back to her room, painted her nails, rearranged her hair, and then rummaged in the closet until time for lunch.
By late afternoon, Belline’s fury at being left alone spurred her to action. Going to the closet, she pulled out the green ensemble belonging to Alpharetta, dressed in it, and, in heels much too high for the rugged country, went downstairs to find Freddie Mallory.
Freddie, playing solitaire at the dining-room table, looked up as Belline walked into the room.
“I’m dying of boredom, Freddie,” she announced. “How about taking pity on me?”
“You want to play double solitaire?” he asked.
“No, I want to go into the village, but Eckerd won’t drive me unless you say it’s all right.”
“I don’t know, Alpharetta. Sir Dow said you were to stay on the grounds until he got back.”
“Will you please stop calling me by that ridiculous name?”
“Do you prefer ‘Lady Pomeroy’?”
“My name is Belline. Belline Wexford. And I’m tired of pretending to be someone else.”
“And who’s to care? Or overhear? I think you’re all making a mountain out of an anthill, with this secrecy business. And I’m tired of being kept a prisoner in this God-forsaken place.”
“It’s only for one more day,” Freddie said. “Can’t you find something to do in the house? Read, or work a crossword puzzle, or—”
“No. I’ve decided to go into the village, and if you won’t take me, then I’ll walk.”
“In those shoes?” he inquired gently.
“And what’s wrong with my shoes?”
“They’re really quite attractive. But I daresay you’d find the going a bit rough in them.”
“Oh, I expect you and Eckerd will come along with the car after a while.” With a satisfied smile, she left the room and went upstairs for her purse. By the time the front door slammed, Freddie had on his officer’s coat and was following after her.
“Lady Pomeroy,” he called, but Belline didn’t turn around. She kept walking down the road in the direction of the village.
Claus Mueller, watching the house from his vantage point across the road, noticed with interest Belline’s progress. With his telescope lens, he took several pictures of her.
She was walking differently today. Perhaps it was the shoes. And she didn’t look any too happy. No wonder, being left by the bridegroom so soon. As he continued watching, he saw the black Rolls-Royce slowly pull up and stop. The door opened and the woman, smiling, climbed into the car beside Pomeroy’s ADC.
Claus left his hiding place and hurried to take the film to his contact in the village.
On Wings of Fire Page 18