by Hilary Green
‘With any luck,’ Gregoire said, getting out, ‘we should get a grandstand view of the fireworks from here.’
They were parked on a ridge and the ground fell away from them in the direction of the road. Gregoire looked at his watch.
‘OK. There’s nothing we can do now but wait for dawn.’
The night seemed interminable. Luke dozed and woke and dozed again. He was jerked into wakefulness by a voice.
‘Listen!’
Luke scrambled out of the car and stretched. Gregoire and the rest were huddled together, all their heads turned towards the west. For a moment, he could hear nothing, then he became aware of a low throb, the sound of heavy engines a long way off.
‘They’re coming!’ one of the men said. ‘Why haven’t the explosives gone off?’
Gregoire looked at his watch. ‘Any minute now. But at this length of delay, those time pencils are notoriously unreliable.’
Luke looked to the east, where the first streaks of light were gilding some low cloud.
‘The convoy has made better time than we expected,’ Gregoire said. ‘Let’s hope the message got through to the RAF as planned.’
As he spoke, there was a flash from somewhere below them and then a low rumble; then in rapid succession, a series of other flashes, followed by the boom of explosions. The men around Luke gave a cheer and Gregoire turned to them with a grin of satisfaction.
‘Well done, chaps! That should hold the Boche up for quite a while.’
All the time, the growl of the engines had grown louder and soon they could see the convoy winding its way through the trees.
‘Mon Dieu!’ someone exclaimed. ‘That is not a boat. It’s a ship!’
‘Where are the planes?’ someone else asked anxiously.
‘They’ll be here,’ Gregoire promised.
Below them, there was sound of brakes being engaged and gears grinding. Then, there were shouts and they saw men jumping out of the escorting armoured cars and throwing themselves flat beside the road, rifles at the ready.
‘They are expecting a Maquis ambush,’ Gregoire said with a chuckle. ‘They’re in for a nasty surprise.’
In tense silence, they watched the activity on the road. There was a sound of sawing and one of the tractors hauling the boat was uncoupled and brought forward.
‘It won’t take them long to clear the road with that,’ Fernand muttered.
Gregoire was holding the S-phone transceiver to his ear. Suddenly it crackled into life and a voice spoke through the static.
‘Foxhunter to Hound. Are you receiving me? Over.’
‘They’re here!’ Gregoire said. ‘Hound to Foxhunter, receiving you loud and clear. Please state your position. Over.’
There followed a rapid exchange of map co-ordinates and estimated distances, then quite suddenly the planes appeared, three of them, flying so low that they seemed to be skimming the tree tops.
‘Foxhunter to Hound. I have visual on the target. Going in for the kill. Over.’
They watched as the planes changed formation into line astern and swooped over the road. There was a crackle of machine-gun fire and rifle fire in return, and then three loud explosions.
‘Bullseye!’ came the voice over the S-phone.
The planes pulled up and circled, and then came in for a second run. This time, the watchers could see the tracer bullets striking the escorting vehicles in the convoy and one of the tractors burst into flames.
‘Foxhunter to Hound. Job done. Turning for home now. Over.’
‘Hound to Foxhunter. Bloody good show! Well done. Give our love to Blighty. Out.’
They stood in silence until the planes had disappeared, then Gregoire yawned. ‘Come on chaps. This may not be very healthy neighbourhood once the Huns get over their surprise. Time to head for home.’
Chapter 18
Luke slept most of the way home and it was not until he had devoured the meal that Jacques had waiting for them, that he went to look for his sister. He found her kneeling by the pool below the spring, scrubbing at her dungarees with a piece of soap. With her back to him, it took him a moment to recognize the dark-haired girl in the green blouse.
‘Chris?’ he said, with a hint of doubt.
She looked up sharply and got to her feet.
‘Ah-ha! The hero of the hour! Good afternoon.’
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ he mumbled.
She laughed. ‘Yes, you do. The story of your sharp-shooting is all round the camp. Well done, chéri.’
‘It really was just luck,’ he protested. ‘I see you got some proper clothes at last.’
‘It’s like wearing a uniform, really,’ she said. ‘I need it to blend in. But I still don’t feel right in a skirt.’
‘Well, you look right,’ he told her. ‘In fact you look very nice.’
‘Well!’ she said. ‘That’s a first! I can’t remember you ever paying me a compliment before.’
He grinned. ‘Well, don’t start expecting it to happen regularly.’ Then he added seriously, ‘Did you go into town?’
‘Yes, and it’s full of Jerries.’ She told him briefly what she had found out, omitting the encounter with the young German. She had told no one about that, so far.
Over the days that followed, changes began to occur in the camp. The Maquis numbers were swollen by young men from all around the area, escaping the STO and more importantly, they were joined by two ex-army officers who had decided to throw in their lot with the resistance. Their arrival caused some discord in the camp as they, not unnaturally, felt that they were better qualified to lead than Xavier, the blacksmith.
Christine and Luke were aware of several tense conferences at which Gregoire was acting as mediator before the issue was resolved. Xavier remained the leader of the group but accepted the two newcomers as advisers on military matters. The men were organized into sections of ten, each with a leader, and training became much more intense.
One day, Gergoire arrived in the camp with a stranger, who he introduced as Dr Martel.
‘The doctor has left his practice in Orleans to throw in his lot with us,’ he told them. ‘He will be setting up a hospital for all the Maquis groups in the area at the Château de Vermot. I have requested a drop of medical supplies and he is looking for volunteers among the local women to act as nurses.’
Xavier had found a new, more accessible, dropping zone, as Gregoire had requested, in the woods not far from the village of Quarré les Tombes, so called because of the strange sarcophagi in its churchyard. One night, there was a parachutage which provided them with heavier and more sophisticated weapons. A local farmer lent a cart and a team of oxen to carry the containers to the camp, where the contents were unloaded and the containers themselves put to use as storage, while the parachute silk was cut up and distributed to be made into sleeping bags. Many of the members of the group had worked in the timber industry, and soon solidly built log huts began to replace the makeshift tents and shelters. Gregoire was well on the way to achieving his aim of transforming a rag-tag collection of undisciplined amateurs into a useful fighting force.
With the German presence in the area and the frequent patrols and road blocks, it became much more difficult to obtain food supplies. There were still outlying farms which would provide eggs and milk, and sometimes a ham or a chicken or two, or even a sheep; but Christine found herself making regular trips into Montsauche or some of the other small towns, armed with forged ration cards, to collect essential items. She could not be seen carrying the quantities required for so many people, so she often shopped in two or three different villages, lugging her loaded basket to pre-arranged rendezvous where Cyrano would pick her up.
She did not keep her appointment with Franz. It was not that she was afraid that he intended her any harm; but the reaction of the two women who had called her a whore held her back. She had heard how suspected collaborators were treated and she did not want to risk the same fate for herself.
A day or
two after the parachutage, she returned to the camp with disturbing news.
‘The Boche know about the parachutage. They descended on Quarré in force and arrested the mayor and his deputy. They are threatening reprisals if the locals don’t tell them where to find us.’
Gregoire shook his head grimly. ‘I’m afraid there is nothing we can do about that. We shall just have to hope the villagers remain loyal, but I fear for the consequences for them.’
‘But they haven’t done anything wrong,’ Christine said in distress. ‘We can’t let them suffer.’
‘What can we do to prevent it?’ he asked. ‘Any form of resistance is going to provoke reprisals. The alternative is to give the Germans free run over the whole country. I’m sorry Christine, but these are the grim facts of war. Sometimes innocent people have to be sacrificed for the greater good.’
One day Gregoire took Christine and Luke aside, his face serious.
‘Christine, I want to make a suggestion to you, but please bear in mind that it is only a suggestion. You are not obliged to agree to it.’
She looked at him with some trepidation.
‘What is it?’
‘Have you ever heard the term “femme de liaison”?’
Her anxiety increased. There was something in the phrase that suggested immorality.
‘No.’
He smiled briefly. ‘It’s not what you are thinking. In areas where the Maquis operate, they often employ local women and girls as messengers. They are people who are part of the local community and who can move around without inviting suspicion. In that way they can observe what the enemy is doing, where there are road blocks, where there are movements of troops that might suggest an attack, that kind of thing, and then feed that information back to the Maquis. In that way they perform an invaluable service.’
‘But isn’t that what I have been doing?’ she asked.
‘Indeed it is. What I am suggesting is an extension of that. At the moment, you rely on Cyrano to take you into Montsauche or wherever and he already takes enough risks. The explanation that he just happened to be giving you a lift worked well once, but if he was stopped again with you in the car, it would look suspicious. No, hear me out!’ This to Cyrano, who was listening and seemed about to protest. ‘Also, you do not have an address or an adequate cover story to explain your presence in the area. As I said, the ideal “femme de liaison” is an embedded part of the local community.’ He paused and looked into her face. ‘What I am going to ask you to do will not be easy for you. I know that. I am suggesting that you take up residence at the Beau Rivage. Madame Bolu is prepared to employ you as a waitress and general help, so that if you are questioned, you can give a credible account of yourself. She will also send you on various errands – she will be able to concoct reasons for them – which will enable you to move around the area, keeping your eyes and ears open as you go. So, that’s the idea. What do you think?’
‘You mean I wouldn’t live here, in the camp, any more?’
‘Yes. I know that isn’t easy to accept. But I’m sure you will be made very welcome at the Beau Rivage. I think Jeanette Bolu must be about the same age as you. Perhaps it would be nice for you to have some feminine company.’
Christine lowered her eyes. The last person whose company she wanted was the girl who had flirted so openly with Cyrano, among others.
Luke cut in. ‘No! I don’t like the idea at all. Chris and I should stick together.’
‘But you are happy to go off on missions and leave her here,’ Gregoire pointed out.
‘That’s different. She’s safe here.’
‘But she already goes down into the villages on her own. If she was stopped and questioned, she might have difficulty explaining herself. This way, I am giving her a cover story that should convince the Boche that she is genuine.’
‘What about the story she told before, about being Mme de Labrier’s god-daughter?’
‘She would still need to be staying there and Lentilly is not sufficiently central. She would have to make long trips on bicycle to report.’
‘So I should come back here to report,’ she said hopefully.
Gregoire shook his head. ‘No. One of the principles of running a successful circuit is that none of the members should have direct contact with any others. That’s another reason why I don’t want you to have to rely on Cyrano. We will set up what we call a “dead drop”, a place where you can leave a message, which he can pick up on the way to or from his pupils’ houses.’
‘So I wouldn’t see … any of you?’ There was a quaver in her voice that she tried unsuccessfully to repress.
‘There are places we could meet,’ Cyrano said. He turned to Gregoire, who was shaking his head. ‘We would need to do that if Christine had anything important to report. There isn’t time to teach her an elaborate code. What we need is a simple message that conveys the fact that she has some information and gives a time and place for a meeting.’
‘Where would you suggest?’ Gregoire asked.
‘I already go to practise the organ in two different churches. Duns-Les-Places on Tuesday evenings and Montsauche on Fridays. All Chris would need to do is leave a message saying something along the lines of “meet me on Tuesday” and I would be there. Nobody would think there was anything suspicious about a young girl going to church. And if by any chance someone else read the message, it would just seem like some kind of lovers’ tryst.’
Gregoire nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yes, that sounds pretty foolproof. OK. What do you think, Christine?’
‘I’ll do it!’ She did not pause to consider the full implications. The idea of secret meetings with Cyrano, even if the romantic implications were fictional, was too tempting to resist.
‘No!’ Luke said again. ‘It’s too risky. If something happened to her we wouldn’t know. We might not find out for days.’
‘OK. Here’s an idea,’ Gregoire said. ‘Suppose we agree that every day Christine will leave a sign of some sort in the dead drop. It could be something as simple as a scrap of paper with that day’s date on it. Cyrano will check the drop daily. That way you will have the reassurance that she is still safe. And there’s something else.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Christine. ‘Memorize this phone number and then burn the paper. If you should ever feel that you are in danger, or if you simply don’t feel you can carry on any longer, for whatever reason, ring that number and someone will come and get you. Just say, “I want to come home”. Does that help to allay your fears, Luke?’
‘I suppose so,’ he said unwillingly.
‘Christine?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’ She turned to Cyrano. ‘There’s just one thing. Could you ask the BBC to broadcast another message? I know Maman will be worrying. Just ask them to say: “Michou’s pups are still safe”.’
Next day, Cyrano drove her down into the valley. He took her first to a ruined building at the side of the road between Montsauche and Duns. It had once, she imagined, been home to a shepherd or a forester but the roof had fallen in and the interior was deep in nettles and smelled of urine and animal dung.
‘Sorry about the pong,’ he said. ‘It’s the sort of place people find handy if they’re caught short, which is why no one would ask too many questions if they saw you or me coming out. Now, look.’ He reached up to a small space between the wall and what remained of a rafter and withdrew a tobacco tin. ‘If you have a message for me, or if you are just leaving the date as we agreed, put it in here. I will come by every afternoon to check.’
‘What sort of messages?’ she queried. ‘I mean apart from the one saying I need to meet you.’
‘You know the kind of information we need. Are the Boche searching a particular area, or are there checkpoints on certain roads? And I may need to ask you to find out specific things, like is it safe for a mission to set out along a particular route.’
‘But we can’t just put that sort of t
hing in words anyone could understand,’ she objected.
‘No, we need to have some kind of code. I was thinking, if the message about meeting is going to sound like a clandestine love affair, why don’t we pursue that idea. For example, if I want to know if the road to Marigny is safe I could leave a note saying: “I have to go to Marigny. Can you meet me there?”’
‘And if it isn’t I could reply: “I can’t get away to meet you. Father is watching me.”’
‘Yes, that’s good. “Father” could be our code word for the Germans. So “Father has gone to Planchez” would mean the Boche are there.’
She looked at him and saw that his eyes were sparkling. Was it amusement, or delight at their combined ingenuity – or something else? All she knew was that they were sharing a joke.
She grinned back at him. ‘Yes, that’s good.’
He drove her next to the church at Duns-les-Places.
‘The curé here is a supporter. He holds confession every Monday and Thursday evenings. If you need to get an urgent message to me tell him in the confessional. He will make sure I get it.’
Finally, he drove her to the Beau Rivage, where Madame Bolu was waiting.
‘Come in, chérie! It’s good to see you again. Jeanette has been asking what has happened to you. She’s quite excited at the idea that you are going to stay for a while.’
Jeanette came in from the kitchen.
‘Salut, Christine! Oh, I like you in that dress! I felt so sorry for you in those horrible dungarees. Doesn’t she look smart, Maman?’
‘Take Christine upstairs and show her her room,’ her mother said. ‘But don’t be too long. I need you to help serve the lunch. You can show Christine what to do.’ She smiled at her. ‘You may as well start to learn the job. We need you to be convincing. Are you staying to eat with us, M. Cyrano?’
Cyrano shook his head. ‘No, Madame. Thank you for the invitation, but I have to get on.’ He turned to Christine and took her hand. ‘Are you quite clear about everything?’