Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Mon Dieu, messieurs, a treasure trove!” Raymond gave voice to the enthusiastic murmurs of the group. Nearly fifty thousand troops of the British Expeditionary Force had embarked on those docks the year before, abandoning their weapons and supplies to the advancing Wehrmacht. Félix and friends had squirreled this gear away for better times. Now each of the partisans received appropriate kit. Should the plan succeed, the sabotage would be deemed the work of British agents and the town might escape reprisals. And the Occupiers would waste time and resources scouring the estuary and coast for non-existent landing craft.

  All participants agreed on meeting the next morning to work out individual assignments. Malraux would give both the swimmers and the two assigned to the diversionary explosions at the South Lock a quick course in setting charges and fuses. As the men donned coats before dispersing, he offered one last piece of advice: “We’re going to need every available man for a challenge this daunting, so if you know anyone here in town who claims to be with us, he should step forward now, because tomorrow night we strike a blow for freedom!

  Erika had come to despise the peeling wallpaper, the one-burner hotplate, and those creaking stairs leading up from Rue Thiers. On arrival, she’d imagined spending quiet hours in the room above the tavern, watching the swoop of the seabirds, observing the hustle and bustle on the street and waters below, and entertaining the children. Instead, the seaport traffic had become a constant daily reminder of captivity in close quarters.

  The children were still interested in the parade of fishing smacks and lighters, and especially excited to spot flag-flying submarines or follow the progress of an occasional destroyer moving through the locks. But finding ways to occupy their minds for days on end had become exhausting. They wanted to explore this new world, not just observe it, but she couldn’t forget that Horst’s spies could be anywhere out there.

  The day after their arrival Geneviève had rushed up the stairs and knocked excitedly. Someone had phoned the previous evening and asked for them. The innkeeper assured Erika she had pleaded ignorance and revealed nothing. But now a tall man in an overcoat had been downstairs asking probing questions. The stranger described them well and knew both their code names. There could be only one explanation—Gestapo sent by Horst. Thank God René had been off plotting with his partisans and not come into the bar unexpectedly! Especially frightening was the agent’s clear description of her. Had the substituted fingers failed to fool Horst? It was clear she dare not venture into public until after the sabotage was a fait accompli and they were far away at last.

  René’s new proposal for attacking the bunker compound struck her as too hastily planned and ill-conceived. It was clear the partisans lacked more than a touch of common sense, but here she was, tied down by maternal obligations and out of the loop. She, too, wanted to strike some meaningful blow against the facility, but such a foolhardy gamble made no sense to her frustrated mind.

  The children slept just meters away in the alcove, so she kept her voice low but her sarcasm clear. “What a glorious moment this’ll be for all you men, right? You finally strike at the heart of the Reich by killing off a few guards and—if all goes well, mind you—perhaps even keep a couple of U-boats in dock for a day or two. And it’ll only cost the lives of half our men, and probably your own as well!”

  “Please, darling,” René’s tone imploring, “please try to understand.” She shook him off and turned to the little sink, busying herself with washing up after supper. “Just hear me out, René insisted. “You know we can’t restrain these men forever, and they’re sick of doing nothing. Some of the young firebrands already speak of joining the Brest or Angers networks where partisans are taking bigger risks.”

  Erika dropped to the wooden chair, tormenting the ragged dish towel in her hands. She wouldn’t surrender to such foolhardiness. “So you grandstand here tomorrow night just to hold your group together? Is that really why we’re here?” She raised a hand to stop his interrupting. “No, let me finish. How this misbegotten plan strikes some significant blow against the Nazi bastards is something I’d love to know.” She flung the towel toward the sink. It fell short, a twisted lump on the worn linoleum. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to clear that up for me?”

  René cupped her hands in his. “Listen, darling.” He kissed her eyelids. “I understand what you’re going through, I really do. For years we’ve done everything side-by-side, just the two of us in charge. But it’s time we face facts. Most of Europe is already under Hitler’s heel and England is fading fast. Malraux says their economy’s a shambles and their major cities devastated by Göring’s bombers. And what have the Allies accomplished on the Continent lately? Little more than insignificant Channel raids, he says.”

  “But clearly nothing that’ll win this war,” Erika observed.

  “My point exactly.” René lifted her from the chair and took her place, pulling her onto his lap. She snuggled against him, the fight leaving her, satisfied for one brief moment to be in his arms. He caressed her cheek. “Our hands are tied right now—these fascists are simply too big and brutal for the Allies. All we have are token acts of resistance until America does more than just send material support.”

  “She will, won’t she?”

  “Ryan’s convinced it’ll happen soon now. That’s why he and his friends are back in Europe. And why Malraux agrees to an endeavor as insignificant as this one.”

  She took a deep breath in surrender. “So we do stupid little attacks for the same reason England makes defiant gestures on the Channel?”

  “What’s our choice, darling? If we show them we aren’t all docile sheep, that there is active resistance, we give hope to the suffering British. Besides, many small gestures just might get some momentum going, right?” He waited for Erika’s nod, grudgingly given. “And even if tomorrow only slows down two U-boats for a few weeks, it’s a statement, a thorn in the bastards’ side.”

  “Maman?” Leo’s drowsy voice emerged from the alcove where he shared a cot. “You’re going to wake up Sophie, then she’ll be grumpy and a real bother. She kicks me as it is.” René laughed as Leo rolled back toward the wall. “I’m sleepy, and besides, I’m sad when you two argue.”

  Erika kissed René, then stepped over to tuck in the boy. “Hush, my love, go back to sleep. We’re not arguing, we’re discussing. All is fine. Your father and I have adult business to handle, but we’ll keep our voices low, all right?” She realized she’d never referred to René as his “father” before.

  “I love you, Maman,” his words already muffled by sleep. “You, too, Papa.” René had heard it and was smiling broadly, too.

  How had she gotten so lucky with this child? And then to find him a new father in dearest René, that powerful—if stubborn—man with a heart of gold. Leo had endured so much in his short life—constant danger, violent confrontations, life on the run, few peaceful moments. No child deserved such a fate. And now there was Sophie, such a combination of shy smiles and wicked naughtiness. What a hate-filled world for rearing children, and what horrors occurring across the continent as those heartless bastards made their lives a hell.

  René would go into battle tomorrow without her at his side. It was the right thing to do, no matter the possible cost to his growing family. He would be brave and possibly foolhardy, as was his way whenever he thought their cause just. She would be strong, as she had learned to be.

  But now, mon Dieu, how and when to tell him of their pregnancy?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saint-Nazaire, Occupied France

  10-11 September 1941

  Beneath a bright moon the U-boat compound appeared even more daunting. René and Malraux waited beyond the train tracks for a group of sailors to enter first. The concrete structure loomed high above, a monolith longer than three soccer fields capped by a massive roof. Hooded lamp posts followed the perimeter of the guard fence and other lamps bathed the stark walls in dim wartime light. The air reeked of fresh concrete, die
sel fuel, and unidentifiable chemical agents. Judging from the distant activity, the Todt Organization was still keeping its round-the-clock schedule for completing the final bunkers.

  The hollow feeling in René’s stomach was not hunger—he rarely ate before a mission—and it certainly wasn’t fear. This sort of danger was old hat. But the enormous crypt-like structure felt menacing, and surreptitiously killing soldiers and sailors went against his grain. SS thugs preyed on innocents and Gestapo bullies destroyed civilian lives, but the targets this night would be service personnel who might as willingly have overthrown Hitler as sworn an oath to him. Many had no choice in the matter, or felt they were doing their patriotic duty to the Fatherland. He couldn’t know for certain.

  Perhaps his customary composure would have settled in by now had Erika’s farewell been more encouraging. Leo and Sophie had already gone to bed as he’d headed for the door, his billed officer’s cap stowed in a satchel, an everyday overcoat not quite hiding his uniform. A Walther P-38 semi-automatic was strapped to his waist. He would ditch the overcoat shortly before his rendezvous with Malraux.

  Leo had unexpectedly slipped from bed and run to him, pulling René down to whisper in his ear: “Be careful, Papa,” a quick smile, “and please don’t get shot in the butt again.”

  René sent the boy back to bed with a teasing swat and a laughing suggestion: “Better keep an eye on your own rear end, young man.” Leo had giggled, and René was amazed at how easily Leo accepted the family’s strange lifestyle.

  At the door Erika had kissed him and wished his mission success. In her glistening eyes he’d seen unspoken fears, and he worried for her. She was changing. Where was that combative spark fanned by years on the run, that determination to see any challenge through? Some part of her no longer fully engaged in their common struggle. Perhaps the events since Bayonne had simply exhausted her, following so closely on the heels of the warehouse battle. Holding her in his arms, he sensed some deeper concern, something unexpressed that might endanger the night’s mission.

  Erika had always been a wonder, so calm and wise in everything she undertook and willing to do whatever necessary to protect those she loved. He found her more beautiful now than that first day he’d seen her on Ryan’s arm. That she had grown to love him, the “clumsy Alsatian,” still baffled him. And now she had taken on the care of a second child in this insane world. Perhaps he’d read too much into her mood. Perhaps she was simply hiding her frustration at no longer fighting by his side, knowing they had always been stronger together.

  Yes, perhaps it had something to do with Erika. Or perhaps he might actually be afraid. Never before had he faced such a well-armed foe, on its home territory, and with such a small crew to back him up.

  But what the hell, life or death—it’ll sort itself out soon enough.

  Early that morning Malraux had helped the partisans construct their mines of putty explosive and practice placing the pencil fuses. The four men would work in teams of two. Each swimmer would submerge with an explosives package strapped to his waist and bind it as close as possible to a rudder shaft. A French submariner from the Great War had suggested this as the most vulnerable spot on the U-boats. René recognized guesswork supported by hope. Malraux had drawn sketches of what the saboteurs should expect to find below the waterline, and within the next hours they would know if the attempt had been worthwhile.

  The directive to call on every available partisan had worked. Their assault team had increased by three, each prepared to risk his life for the cause of freedom. The leaders clarified the assignments and the squads rehearsed action plans using new diagrams sketched by René. He, Malraux and Maurice answered last-minute questions to the best of their abilities, given the many unknowns in such an operation. Now all was in play.

  Their turn at the gate came and they approached with the confident stride befitting senior officers. The guards saluted and gestured them on without demanding written identification. Steiner had obviously made arrangements for his important visitors from Command West. René knew the two young men would soon lie dead, and felt a deep sorrow at what was to come.

  Malraux’s words distracted him from the morose and disabling thoughts. “It seems we’re becoming quite well-known around here, my friend.”

  René straightened his shoulders, suddenly conscious of his limp and aware of having mentally cringed in the face of the coming slaughter. “And a few hours from now we’ll be even better known, though not by our true names, I can only hope.”

  The guard at the door saluted, acknowledged the password, and stepped aside for them to enter. René found the biting odor of curing concrete even stronger inside the structure. They passed half a dozen men relaxing over a game of cards, their Schmeisser machine pistols hanging from the back of their chairs. The men didn’t look up as the intruders moved past the wide opening to the guard room and followed the long corridor toward the pens. The next reinforced door opened to reveal the long bays. René felt the vastness of the building and searched the darkness above for the unseen ceiling.

  The far southern bay was awash in activity—the thump and throb of pumps and compressors, uniformed men shouting orders and small squads rushing through last minute checklists and tasks. Evenly spaced pools of light led the eye out to the dark portals where the berthing channels met the waters of the basin. René counted only seven U-boats berthed along the empty piers. All appeared unmanned at this late hour. Off to their left, the two darkened craft targeted for sabotage rocked gently in the wash from the basin.

  They moved south, guided by the flare of a welder accomplishing some last-minute task on the conning tower of U-593. Workers rewound fueling lines, diesel fumes soured the air, and junior officers with clipboards moved about the decks. Empty torpedo racks were already stationed on the far wall. The closest sub emitted a deafening blast as vents cleared, luminous bubbles disturbing the dark waters like so many fireflies.

  René checked the time. Quarter to midnight. Sailors stood by to release the lines. Crews mustered and dropped below deck. The welder stowed his torch and rolled his equipment ashore as gangways withdrew. A whistle gave a final warning, first from the far sub, then repeated by the nearer. In a great hurry now, the sailors still topside slid into the belly of the boats as the berthing crews loosed the final lines.

  Officers and two sailors remained topside as U-552 rumbled to life, its exhausts spewing fumes. It slipped away toward the entrance, trailing a gentle phosphorescent wake. Minutes later U-593 followed into the blackness of the basin. Once the boats cleared the portals the docks fell silent. The bunker crews stowed their equipment and retreated, chatting quietly. A few workers washed down the concrete before heading toward the crews’ service exit.

  René and Malraux remained out of the glare of the overhead lights, seemingly deep in private conversation. They would give the first submarine fifteen minutes to enter the South Lock. The lock crews would be on watch for the arrivals, a procedure Maurice had covertly observed from an Old Town window overlooking the waterway. Although U-552 had headed out a few minutes before schedule, their timetable should still hold. By now the partisan team would have placed charges at the caissons, the fuses set to blow at quarter past midnight. Those men would now be long gone from the targeted area, having joined the assault team gathering in a side street near the main entry. There they would be waiting for a signal from René and Malraux.

  René again checked the time: ten after. The swimmers would have left the water, their explosive bundles now strapped to the target subs, their fuses timed to blow in less than two hours. By then the Germans would still be scouring the complex for damage after the partisans’ assault. Perhaps more unsuspecting Boches would die when the plastique at the rudders finally blew.

  At quarter past, with no explosion or alarm sounding outside the compound, Malraux remained calm but René tensed. They compared watches. At twenty past, having allowed time for fuse delay, the men agreed to rendezvous with the waiting swim
mers. Even if the diversion had been botched, their task remained the same: open the front entry to the raiders, take out as many defenders as possible, then meet Félix’s skiff at the portal.

  At the northernmost bay they searched the length of the pier. The saboteurs should have left the water by now, hunkering down in the shadows, prepared for the assault on the guard room. No one responded to René’s quiet signal. There were no damp footprints on the concrete. He and Malraux reversed course in silence, their pistols up as they approached the passage to the hall. René slowly lowered the handle and squinted down the empty corridor. Nothing stirred. Still no sign of their men. René exchanged a look with Malraux, who appeared equally puzzled. What had gone wrong?

  They approached the guard room. The narrow corridor remained eerily silent. René led the way, his back to the wall, his limp forgotten. Leo’s teasing admonition came to mind. No bullet in the rear this time. Pressing up to the door jamb, he listened for the chatter of men relaxing inside, the slap of the cards on the table. He heard nothing. A trap? He hesitated, unsure.

  Muted bursts of gun fire abruptly rattled outside the compound, followed by muffled shouts and commands. René tensed as his eyes shot to the entrance. The steel door stood slightly ajar, allowing the sound to intrude into the vault of the bunker complex. He knew at once a street battle raged beyond the thick walls. They’d been compromised, a traitor in their midst.

  A pistol, tapping at his shoulder, demanding attention. His first thought was betrayal. He dropped to a crouch and turned, ready to fire, but Malraux was looking away, staring at the access door to the pens. Its handle moved downward, slowly, tentatively. Malraux’s voice, barely a whisper, “We’re sitting ducks here—let’s go for the guards!”