by Karen Abbott
The first time Francine’s papers were demanded was on a late summer’s day as she cycled home from the market one lunch hour. The members of the Resistance had temporarily abandoned their night-time activities as being too dangerous and time seemed to drag heavily on Francine’s hands. Charles had been absent for a number of days. Not that she was interested, anyway, she told herself sharply! She just wanted some action! Anything would be better than all of this waiting about … waiting for something to happen; waiting for someone else to make a move.
Angela had whispered excitedly that Pierre was arranging to have their banns read in church over the next few weeks and that their wedding would be the third Saturday in September. Caught up in the radiant joy that surrounded Angela, Francine was happily planning which dress she would wear and wondering from whom they could borrow a suitable wedding dress for Angela. Her thoughts thus occupied, she pedalled round a corner … straight into a German road-block.
She nearly fell off her bike in shock and barely managed to slam on her brakes, skidding to a standstill a centimetre from the soldier’s boots.
“Pardon, monsieur!” she instinctively gasped, in the same manner that she would have apologised to any Frenchman. Her near accident and natural confusion drew some guffaws of laughter from the soldiers manning the road-block and she had the presence of mind to add her own laughter in a self-deprecating way. Her hair was windblown and she self-consciously tucked some long curly strands behind her ear.
A couple of soldiers called out something she didn’t understand and, from the reaction of the one in charge, it must have been something coarse because he sharply reprimanded them. He clicked his heels together and made a stiff bow, nevertheless demanding to see her identity papers.
Thankful for the few moments she had had to collect her thoughts and calm her fast-beating heart, Francine pulled the required papers out of the bag she wore over her shoulder, praying that they looked as authentic as they needed to be.
The soldier examined them and seemed satisfied. He pointed to her name and said it haltingly in his guttural tones.
Francine smiled and said, “Jah,” one of the few German words that she knew, nervously hoping it was the right thing to do. Charles had told her not to draw attention to herself and not to look too attractive but it was too late to do anything about that.
The soldier said something else. His tone was pleasant and she assumed the words to be complimentary, bringing a faint blush to her cheeks. She cast her eyes down demurely and held out her hand for her papers to be returned to her.
The soldier returned them, clicking his heels together again and making a slight bow of his head as if in salute. She later felt that it was the manner of the incident and her natural reaction that had eased the acceptance of her counterfeit papers. Whatever, she breathed a sigh of relief that her first direct encounter with the enemy had passed successfully.
When her father came home to the bakery an hour or so later, he had a message for her. “M. Dandonneau says you are to meet Pierre St. Clare at La Giraudiere at midnight tonight. A courier is bringing in a radio set tonight and no-one has been able to warn those on the mainland about the mines and the extra activity in the marshes there. He wants you to accompany Pierre to the pick-up point since you know where all the mines are positioned.”
Jacques nodded his head approvingly.
“He seems to admire your skill in the marshes… but take care, Francine! Keep alert at all times. It’s dangerous work!”
“I know, Papa, and I will be careful. We are all at risk.”
She hugged both her parents and made sure she went to bed early to get some sleep, hardly aware of her change in attitude towards Pierre. He had been the idol of her girlhood … and was now relegated to the past as far as romantic dreams were concerned. She was happy about his impending marriage to Angela. Their love was visible on their faces and in their eyes … a joy to behold.
Her mother awoke her at ten o’clock. She wanted to allow extra time to cover the couple of miles to La Giraudiere because of the increase of German soldiers in the area. It was as well that she did because she had to make several diversions … sliding down steep banks into the salines; slipping into dark, narrow alleyways; melting into the shadows of outbuildings; even scratching on doors and slipping quickly inside darkened cottages.
She arrived at Madame Naud’s cottage before Pierre and thankfully accepted the hot drink she was offered whilst she waited. She cupped her hands around the mug as she sipped the hot liquid, warming both her hands and the core of her body. She hoped Pierre wasn’t much longer. They needed to be at the meeting point before the courier.
It was over fifteen minutes later when the quiet scratching at the door warned them that Pierre had arrived … except it wasn’t Pierre. It was Philippe.
“Sorry I’m late. I got held up by all the road blocks. Did you? The Germans are all over the place,” he explained as he entered the cottage. “I should have set off earlier but it was a last-minute change. Pierre has been sent up to Boyardville,” he added. “René Dandonneau thought it best to send me with you, Francine.”
“Did he? Or was it Charles?” she asked sharply.
“Charles is at Chassiron,” Philippe replied, avoiding answering her question directly, she noticed. “We’ve had word that there’s something going on up there. He has gone to investigate.”
“Hmph! If you say so.” S
he wasn’t totally convinced that it was nothing to do with Charles. How childish could he be?
“I hope you know where all the mines are!” she flung out at Philippe, rattled by the inference behind the change of personnel.
“Well enough!” Philippe retorted. “We’d better be going, or we’ll be late for the rendezvous.”
Pushing aside her personal feelings, Francine got to her feet. Her body hadn’t properly warmed through yet but maybe that was as well. The cold darkness outside wasn’t very welcoming and the drier she became, the harder it would be to go back into it.
“I’ll go in front,” Francine whispered as they left the cottage.
“No, I’d better lead,” Philippe disagreed. “I’m a man.”
“So what?”
“It is my responsibility to go first.”
“Chauvinist!”
“Too right! Know your place, woman!”
Francine childishly stuck her tongue out at him, though he couldn’t see it, and she dropped back into line behind him. They were very quickly among the marshes. Twice she had to correct Philippe’s choice of path, reminding him of marked positions of mines on the route.
“Let me lead!” she hissed again. “I’ve worked this area more then you have!”
“No! René appointed me as leader! Hurry up! We are going to be late!”
He was right in that respect. They were late and Philippe was moving quickly … too quickly in Francine’s opinion. She felt as though her heart were in her mouth as she nimbly followed behind him, doing her own calculations, ready to correct Philippe if he went the wrong way or strode too far or too quickly.
It wasn’t an easy task. Enemy patrols were on the fringe of the area so they didn’t dare straighten up. They crouched and crawled; slid down muddy banks and carefully waded in salines known to be safe … though nowhere was a hundred per cent safe.
Suddenly, a faint light shone briefly about two hundred metres ahead. It flickered again, sending the coded call sign.
Francine heard a low guttural sound over to their right, perhaps four hundred metres away, taking into consideration how sounds travel far over water, especially at night. She touched Philippe’s right arm.
“Germans over there!” she hissed into his ear.
“I know! Stay here! One of us will move faster than two!”
“No, Philippe! Let me go! I know these marshes better than you do! There are two more mines before the open channel. They’re both on the main track.”
“I know! Don’t worry! I’ll miss them! You s
tay here!” he repeated. “And that’s an order!”
Against her better judgement, Francine did as he commanded. He held a superior position to herself and her army training had taught her complete obedience, whether on the field or off it. Reluctantly, she dropped down to the ground and peered anxiously into the darkness ahead, anxiously biting on her lower lip.
Faintly, she heard the German voice again but it didn’t seem any nearer and there were no lights coming from that direction. Maybe it was just a patrol on general look-out duty. Hopefully, the patrol would move on before she and Philippe were ready to retrace their steps back to firm ground. How far had he got?
She tried to imagine the route ahead. He would be past the first of the two remaining mines by now. He should be slowing down, approaching the next one carefully. It wasn’t in the centre of the path. This one was set towards the left edge. Philippe should be on his hands and knees, his fingers tentatively searching for the tell-tale metal rim of the mine; moving towards its right on the edge of the steep bank down into the marsh.
Everything seemed to happen at once.
A bright light shone straight across the marsh to where the small sailing craft awaited Philippe, lighting up its frail structure.
A harsh command ordered everyone to ‘Halte!’
A pistol shot sang out, extinguishing the bright light but, in the same instant, a vivid orange light lit the sky ahead.
Francine saw, or thought she saw, the black silhouette of a man’s shape being tossed into the air by the blast and a further blast that lifted the sailing craft out of the water.
She instinctively dropped back to the ground and covered her head with her arms though none of the flying debris came in her direction.
And then there was silence.
Chapter 7
Francine stared blankly, her brain refusing to put into definite thoughts what her eyes had witnessed. She had seen death strike many times during her service in the armed forces … but this was different. This was on her own island, the place where she had spent her childhood, had played with her friends and grown up with them.
Philippe had been a year older than she was. He had lived at Dolus and had been around since their teenage years. Now, he was …
No! She refused to accept it. He would come crawling back through the marshes and they would marvel at his lucky escape and the others would slap him on the back and say, ‘lucky you!’
But he didn’t come.
She didn’t know how long she remained frozen in position. It seemed as though it was a long time but in actual fact was less than a minute. Her training took her over onto automatic pilot and she slid down the steep bank of the saline, her ears alert for sounds of activity from the German soldiers.
There were shouted orders that she didn’t understand and the sounds of vehicles moving about on the edge of the marshes. No-one came into the marshes to search for accomplices, though they shone bright searchlights over the area for more than an hour. None picked out her huddled form and eventually all sounds receded and she was left alone to decide what to do, which way to go.
She lay still for over ten minutes after the final sounds had faded away, unconvinced that immediate danger had passed. The Germans might suspect that others were involved and might be waiting for her to make a move. Her clothes were soaked by cold sea-water, her body chilled throughout. She wasn’t sure her legs would carry her home but she needed to be setting off to somewhere whilst there was still enough darkness in the sky to hide her.
She tentatively crawled back up the steep slope she had earlier slithered down and listened intently. All she could hear was the gentle lapping of water away in the distance where the marshes met the sea. It drew her gaze and she stared in the direction of where she had seen the violent explosion. Was it possible that Philippe had survived? That he had only been injured?
What about the courier? The sailing craft? The rest of the crew? Surely at least one had survived! And their much-needed transmitter! It couldn’t be lost! They needed it so badly!
She made the plaintive noise of the curlew and waited expectantly, hopefully … but only silence greeted her listening ears. Although emotionally she refused to accept that all were dead, her professional mind knew that to try to verify the fact would be putting herself into needless danger. There was nothing she could do. Even if the transmitter had survived the blast, it could have been blown anywhere. There would be a small enough chance of finding it in daylight—none at all in the darkness and fast-approaching half-light. No … she had to get away from the scene and let others decide if the chance of finding the transmitter undamaged at a future date might be worth the risk of danger.
She didn’t want to risk incriminating Madame Naud by returning there, besides which, it was out of the way to go back there. Neither did she want to make her way to the cottage where Angela was living. If the Germans were to search any dwelling places, those of La Giraudiere and La Chevalerie would be the nearest ones and therefore their obvious targets. She had either to make her way home and risk being caught outside during the hours of curfew … or stay out in the marshes until morning and hope to get a lift on a farm vehicle going in to the market.
It was the latter course of action that she chose. There were many isolated wooden cabins scattered about the marshes. They contained simple tools of the trades of oyster farming and local sea-fishing and would offer basic shelter until it was light enough to watch out for a likely lift back to Le Chateau.
She wasn’t really conscious of counting her steps, making the right choices through the maze of pathways through the marshes but she eventually arrived at the wooden huts on the bank of Chenal d’Ors on the north-eastern side of the marshes, their silhouettes standing out against the lightening sky. She was cold and weary and was finding it difficult to think properly.
The sound of a curlew softly drifted through the air, penetrating her numbed mind. Of course! People had heard the explosions! They knew something was amiss and were on the lookout for survivors. She shrank into the shadows and repeated the sound. An answer came from her right and she echoed it softly again.
Two dark-clad figures closed in on her and asked for her code-word. On her response, one whispered, “This way!” and she followed them though the lines of huts until they halted outside of one of them and, after tapping a series of tiny raps on the glass window, the door opened slightly and she was ushered inside. The small hut seemed to be full of men but in reality there were only three others beside themselves.
A small storm lantern provided a flickering glow and she recognised Raoul Dandonneau, the network leader of the group based at Ors. He bade her be seated and one of the men draped a rough blanket around her shoulders, though it didn’t stop her teeth chattering and her limbs shaking, as much as in the aftermath of shock as from the cold.
“Tell us what happened, Francine,” Raoul demanded softly.
Haltingly, she recounted the events of the evening, eventually dropping her face into her hands and sobbing,
“He’s dead! Philippe’s dead! And the courier and the others on the boat! They’re all dead … and we still haven’t got a transmitter! They have died for nothing!”
One of the men laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Not for nothing, mademoiselle Devreux. They died for the liberation of Ile d’Olèron. Many more of us may die … but we will be liberated one day soon.”
It was little consolation to her at that moment. She felt guilty to have survived when others had died. Was there anything she should have done differently? She knew the marshes better than Philippe. Should she have insisted on being the one to lead and not taken his refusals so readily? How would she face his mother and his girl friend? They’d hate her, surely! If she’d argued against the decision, he might have listened to her. He’d still be alive … instead of blown to pieces in the marshes.
One of the men put a drink of brandy in her hands and she tentatively sipped at the fiery liquid. It raspe
d the back of her throat and nearly made her choke but its warmth soon began to spread around her body, inducing a restless sleep.
When she awoke, streaks of light were glimmering through the edges of the black cloth that covered each window. Three of the men still remained and she could hear their low voices still discussing the night’s events. She heard one of the men speak of betrayal and toss the name of Pierre St. Clare into the frame, provoking an immediate argument between the other two.
“No! No, he didn’t!” Francine protested, struggling to sit up. “He was to have been my partner until the last moment. He wouldn’t betray me! He wouldn’t betray anyone! Pierre isn’t like that!”
“Who is like that?” Raoul asked quietly. “Does a traitor look any different than his compatriots? I would that it were so! It would make our life a great deal simpler.”
“But he wouldn’t betray the operation when he was to be part of it! Nor even if he weren’t!” Francine insisted. He just wouldn’t! She knew it!
The sound of a cart being driven along the track outside brought their argument to a sudden close. They were instantly alert to possible danger. One of the men flattened himself against the wall near to a window and he carefully eased the black-covering away from the glass so that he could peer out through the opening he had made without being seen himself.
“It’s Charles St. Clare!” he said quietly. “Let him in.”
Charles slipped through the narrowly opened door and strode straight over to Francine. “Francine! You’re safe! I got such a garbled message, I wasn’t sure!”
Francine thankfully rose to greet him, holding out her hands to him. “Charles! Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Tell them it was nothing to do with Pierre! He hadn’t betrayed the operation! Tell them!”
Charles had taken hold of her hands, as if he were about to pull her to him in an embrace but, at her words, he jerked his head around to fix his gaze on Raoul and Nicolas, the other man.
“What’s all this about?”
Raoul shrugged.