“No!” It was Topper, emerging from the trees, following a blur of white with feet.
“La soie, la soie!”
Cyril shouted, grinning madly.
“We have to bury the parachutes, damn you!” Topper said, the rage in his voice buried beneath a whisper. “The
Boche
, don't you bloody well understand? They'll know there was a supply drop.”
“But it is
la soie
, silk,” Cyril said, as the others arrived, weighed down by the canisters. “The
Boche
will never know unless they take down my trousers!” He translated and the other
Résistants
laughed and clapped him on the back. Kaz joined us, his group carrying four canisters while the women held white silk parachutes neatly rolled up.
“I could not dissuade them,” Kaz announced. “In their village, no one has seen new clothing in three years, including knickers. They promise the parachutes will disappear within hours, never to be seen by any German.”
“They hope,” Topper said. “Let's go before Jean and his pal fall down drunk.” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of the two
Résistants
, staggering as they held an equipment canister between them, passing a wine bottle back and forth.
“
Allons! Prenez-nous à Commandant Murat,”
Kaz said, trying to get the group moving. At the mention of Murat, a cheer went up, followed by evident disagreement that quickly turned into bickering. I didn't understand much French, but I knew slurred words when I heard them.
“They don't know where Murat is, do they?” I said.
“They know of the famous commander,” Kaz said with an exasperated sigh. “But they do not know where he is. At the moment.”
“This moment or any other, I'd wager,” Topper said.
“Where's their village? The place with no knickers?” I unfolded a map of the area around Dreux and shined my red-lensed flashlight on it.
“Coudray?” Kaz asked one of the women. She took a second to trace her finger across the map, then stabbed at a point off the main road to Dreux. It wasn't far.
“Tell them to take us to Coudray,” I said. “We'll hide the canisters and then move on. No mention of our destination.” Kaz and Topper nodded their understanding. These people were enthusiastic, but that might get them into trouble. The less they knew, the better. Better for us, that is. If they were captured and had no information to offer, their torture would only last longer.
Kaz's instructions were greeted by another round of cheers, probably because Coudray was a lot closer than wherever Murat was right now. We set off, leaving the moonlit field for the murk of the rutted lane leading to the valley below. Topper took point, and I had the rear, with Kaz and the precious wireless in the middle of the group. With the six canisters, each carried by two men, and the bundles of parachute silk, our pace wasn't the fastest. But at least the work quieted the assembly as we neared the village of Coudray, where I imagined the inhabitants asleep in their tattered and worn undies.
We halted on a hilltop, the small village below us. In the light of the full moon, I could see buildings along a narrow lane and a couple of farmhouses off in the distance. There were small, cultivated fields close to the village. A quiet country scene. I glanced at my watch. Farmers would be rising soon. Men would be dying on the beaches.
“Hide the canisters here,” I said, pointing to the woods crowning the top of the hill. “Tell them Commander Murat will come for them, and they must wait for him.”
Kaz explained, and was met with a barrage of objections. They must have weapons for their group, he translated. For all their work. They would leave the rest for Murat, but honor demanded they be armed. It was hard to disagree. Topper opened one canister and distributed Sten guns and ammo, explaining how they worked. Pretty basic stuff.
We hid the canisters, all but one, covering them with dead logs and branches, out of sight from the road. Then we had a round of hugs and double-cheek kisses from all, along with shouts of
Vive la
France
and
Vive de Gaulle,
until the glow of lamplight appeared in the window of one house. We extricated ourselves, carrying the remaining canister between Topper and me. We worked our way around the village, not wanting to give our friends a clue as to our direction.
“I hope they stay busy at their sewing machines,” Kaz said as we moved through the thick forest. “They were in no shape to engage in combat.”
“I hope this Murat chap has a more disciplined crew,” Topper said. “I don't mind a drink and a hoot myself, but not in a drop zone on D-Day, for God's sake.”
We stumbled on through the woods, circling homes and staying clear of roads. The canisterâfull of K rations for the aircrew, gelignite, and extra ammo for usâgrew heavier with each step, the narrow metal handle cutting into my palm. Stopping now and then for a compass reading and a glance at the map, we made it to the main road south of Dreux as the first hint of dawn lit the eastern horizon.
“We're here,” Topper said, stabbing at the map. “A half mile up the road is the turnoff for the château. Or we could take this trail through the woods.”
“Should we chance taking the road?” Kaz asked. “It seems quiet.” He was right. I stepped out from the cover of the woods onto the roadway, Thompson at the ready. The road was empty and silent, the damp air heavy and still. It wasn't far, and we'd be able to hear an engine long before it got close. Plus we'd get there sooner. I grabbed my end of the canister and we set out at a trot, counting on a fast pace to keep us ahead of trouble.
Kaz took the lead, his carbine slung and the wireless held close to his chest. I kept one hand on my Tommy gun and the other wrapped around the canister's handle. Everything made noiseâweb gear bouncing against our bodies, canteens sloshing water, and especially the stomp of our boots on the road surface. After the silence of the woods, it sounded like a herd of elephants on the march.
We tromped on, building up a steady rhythm, boot heels striking pavement in parade-ground unison. I saw a bend in the road ahead and figured we were close to the half-mile mark. I told Kaz and Topper to hold up. We halted.
The stomp of boots didn't. It continued, a distant echo from beyond the bend in the road. It grew louder.
Topper moved first, grabbing the front of the canister and dragging me along. We scampered across a drainage ditch and slipped on the wet grass, hoisting ourselves and the heavy load into the spindly trees and grass a few yards in. Kaz followed, falling hard as he slid into the ditch. I reached out a hand to help pull him in and saw him wince.
We went flat behind the thickest of the trees and waited as the marching men came closer. This definitely was not a ragtag group of celebrating
Résistants
.
“You okay?” I whispered to Kaz. He nodded, but I knew he was hurting. Topper and I aimed our weapons toward the road as Kaz gripped the wireless. German soldiers came into sight. A column of twos, rifles slung, moving at a fair pace, their hobnail boots making a harsh metallic sound against the pavement. I counted forty-four of them as the last man passed by.
“Rifle platoon,” Topper said. “Probably coming from Dreux.”
“Early morning calisthenics, or an invasion alert?” I asked. “They didn't seem to be looking for anyone.”
“The map shows a bridge a few miles in the other direction,” Kaz said, giving a small gasp. “Perhaps they are reinforcements. If the local commander received word of the invasion, he would want to guard vulnerable targets.”
“Are you hurt?” Topper asked.
“No, I had the wind knocked out of me when I fell, nothing else. Shall we go?”
“Yes, we shall,” I said, helping Kaz up. “Slow and easy this time. If we'd kept running, we might have barreled right into those Krauts.”
We made it to the turnoff without meeting up with any more of the German army. Now came the hard part. Diana, her SOE partner, and the hidden fliers were only a few hundred yards away. Well hidden and armed. All we had to do was sneak in, find their hiding place, and announce ourselves.
Chapter Fifteen
We circled the
Ch
â
teau Vasseur, giving the three-story white building a wide berth. Tall windows were arrayed along each floor, providing a perfect view of the gardens and the gravel drive. An open lawn provided no cover close to the château. We darted through the trees, taking cover behind large ornamental shrubs along the driveway. By the time we worked our way around the count's digs and caught sight of the stables, the sky was a dark blue with blazes of orange at the horizon. Soft light glowed from a few windows in the château on the lower floor in the rear. The kitchen, maybe.
“I could knock at the rear door,” Kaz said.
“We can't take a chance,” I said. “If we approach the wrong servant, they could betray us. I bet the Germans pay well.”
“It's a foolish Frenchman who sides with the Germans at this late date,” Topper said. “But I agree. We should work around to the rear of the stables and keep watch. Sonya or Juliet might show up.”
“Or not,” I said. “Remember the stable and the château are connected by secret tunnels, which they probably use to go back and forth.”
“What do you suggest?” Kaz asked. “Waiting and watching would be the safest course.”
“Bloody hell,” Topper said. “If we wanted safe, we'd be waking up to tea and crumpets in England right now. Let's visit the stables and knock about.”
We worked our way to the back of the stables and unlatched a door. We stashed the canister in an empty stall and began to look for the tackle room, which led to the hidden underground chamber. Kaz kept a tight grip on the wireless as we moved along, passing by three horses that were too old and thin for even the Germans to steal. Hoping we'd brought breakfast, they raised their long necks and nickered at us. Beyond the stalls was a truck even more broken down than the trio of nags. Engine parts littered the oil-stained floor. We stepped over the debris and opened a door that creaked and groaned on its hinges. Leather bridles and harnesses hung from the walls, covered in dust and cobwebs.
“Where are the stairs?” Kaz whispered. The walls were rough-hewn planks of wood. Farm tools took up any space that wasn't festooned with riding gear. I pressed against the wall, testing for any give or sign of a secret entrance.
“They have to be here,” Topper said, checking the floorboards for a hidden hinge.
“No, they do not.” The unfamiliar voice was followed by the sound of a hammer being pulled back. It was feminine. The voice, not the revolver. “Turn around slowly.”
We did. A young girl with wavy black hair stood behind Kaz, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing a Walther P38 automatic at his head. Her gaze darted between Topper and me.
I held my Thompson low, not wanting to spook her into shooting. “Who are you?” I asked, working to keep my voice calm.
“Never mind. Who are
you
?”
“Parachutists,
mademoiselle
,” Topper said. “We were blown off course and are looking for a place to hide.”
“We have no idea where we are,” Kaz said, trying not to look at the German automatic a few inches from his eyes. “Can you tell us? Your English is very good.”
“You are in a very small room, looking for stairs. Where do you think they will take you?”
She looked a good deal like the picture of Sonya Charlet that Vera had shown us. But the quality hadn't been great, and there was something different about her. The hair? The pistol? I didn't dare say her name in case it wasn't her. If this young lady was a collaborator, that would be a death sentence for Sonya.
“To someplace safe,” I answered, hoping it was both vague and true enough to satisfy her, whoever she was.
“You've dyed your hair,” Topper said, narrowing his eyes as he studied her. Keeping his Thompson hanging loosely from one hand, he took a step forward. “Auburn, wasn't it?”
He was right. In the photograph she'd had longer reddish-brown hair.
“Who told you that?” She moved the pistol a few inches away from Kaz.
“Vera,” Topper said. “You know Vera, don't you?”
“Yes. Now tell me my name.”
“Sonya Charlet. From Toulon. Estate manager for Count Alexandre Vasseur,” Kaz said rapidly. “Now please put that pistol down.”
“We'd almost given up hope,” Sonya said, lowering her weapon. “We can't be too careful, you understand. The Germans have been known to send out false agents in order to infiltrate our networks. I hope that's a wireless set you're clutching like your firstborn.”
“And with as much love,” Kaz said, a flash of pain flitting across his face.
“Come quickly,” Sonya said, heading back to the horse stalls. “We boarded up that door a few weeks ago, in case any of the fliers who passed through here were captured and interrogated.”
Topper and I retrieved the canister and followed. I ached to ask her about DianaâJuliet, I meantâbut I couldn't reveal I knew her. I tipped my helmet low over my eyes, hoping to buy a second or two before she realized it was me. I'd have to signal her somehow and pray that it would work out.
Sonya entered one of the stalls, gently pushing the ancient horse to one side and grabbing a shovel to move a pile of manure and straw. When she pushed hard against a wall board, a section of flooring loosened enough for her to raise it and reveal a steep set of wooden steps that disappeared into darkness.
We waited while she descended the stairs. A muffled conversation below was followed by the glow of candlelight and Sonya returning to beckon us forward. Kaz went first, protecting the wireless, with Topper and me behind him. I made sure to bring up the rear, head low, on the lookout for Juliet. Because that's who she was now. Her life depended on her identity, and my mission depended on mine. Lies were our most trusted ally.
“Thank God,” an unmistakable voice declared. As Topper and I manhandled the heavy canister down the narrow stairway, I heard a sharp gasp and a stifled “Oh!”
“What is it, Juliet?” Sonya asked.
“Nothing. I stumbled, that's all,” Juliet answered. I figured Kaz had been able to give her a sign.
At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves standing in a small chamber with two tunnels barely five feet high running off in opposite directions. It was damp and smelled of chalk. The walls were limestone, and water dripped from the arched ceiling.
“I'll close up,” Juliet said, still hidden in one of the gloomy tunnels. “Excuse me, Lieutenant.” This was addressed to Kaz, a signal that she'd understood the need for secrecy.
“Juliet Bonvie,” she said to Topper as she passed him. She was dressed in a short leather jacket, a brown skirt, and her hair tucked under a wool cap. The butt of a pistol stuck out from her jacket pocket.
“Lieutenant Chapman,” he responded. “This is Sergeant Boyle. We have food for your guests.”
“They'll be pleased, gentlemen. I'll be right back.” She shot me a quick glance, no more. I knew it had to be that way, but I found myself wishing for a brush of her hand against my own, or even a sly wink. But this wasn't a lovers' game, this was war, and her face was set for it.
The trap door shut above me, casting the chamber into an even dimmer light. I heard the sound of a shovel reapplying the manure camouflage.
“Through here,” Sonya said, taking us into a tunnel lit only by a single guttering candle. We stooped sideways, the passageway not even wide enough for our shoulders. Finally the space widened, and we found ourselves in front of a stout wooden door reinforced with ironwork.
“Where's the latch?” Kaz asked.
“It only opens from the other side,” Sonya said, giving the knocker two quick raps, waiting, and then one more. “The door is solid oak. It's been here for centuries.”
Dull metallic sounds echoed from the other side, followed by the creaking of hinges as the massive door slowly opened. Sonya led us from the wet, cramped passage into a long room with a vaulted ceiling and a trestle table. Electric lights were strung along the ceiling, giving the white limestone a soft, bright glow at odds with the darkness outside. Coats hung on pegs driven into the stone, along with rifles and Sten guns.
We were swarmed by a gaggle of airmen, each of them peppering us with questions. “What's happening? Is it true? The invasion? When are we getting out of here?”
“Hold on, boys,” I said, and remembered a noncom would defer to an officer, at least in his presence. “Lieutenant Chapman will explain everything. Give us a second.”
Kaz wearily took a seat as Topper and I set down the canister and opened the latches. The K rations distracted them, and we passed them to the eager takers.
“Who's in charge here?” Topper asked. This was greeted with an exchange of glances among the men.
“Well, Juliet runs the show, her and Sonya here,” one of the men said, extending his hand. “First Lieutenant Harry Babcock, Royal Canadian Air Force, senior officer.” Babcock had thinning blond hair, crow's-feet at the edges of his eyes, and a jagged scar along his jawline that hadn't yet healed. He wore the blue tunic of the RCAF with a
Canada
shoulder patch. So did two sergeants, mixed in with Yanks in leather flight jackets and khaki coveralls.
“Second Lieutenant Pete Armstrong, US Air Force,” said one of the Americans, clutching a tin of chopped ham and eggs. “We're sure glad to see you fellas.” He was tall, with a muscular build and a delicate face that seemed at odds with his body: thin lips, sunken eyes, white skin, and gaunt cheekbones. But that could have been from the diet and confinement. None of these guys looked healthy.
The ground trembled. Explosive
crumps
echoed from above as dust and grit cascaded from the ceiling.
“Damn,” Armstrong muttered. The room went silent. The fliers cast their eyes toward the ceiling as if they could see through the solid limestone.
“What?” I asked.
“That might have been one of ours,” Armstrong said. “Dropping their bombload early.” He looked away, turning the tin of food over in his hand.
“B-26 Marauders from the Ninth Air Force,” Babcock explained, watching as Armstrong sat to talk with his men. “Those guys are from the 323rd Bomb Group. They were shot down not far from here, after hitting the marshaling yards in Dreux. Their pals keep coming back, but the Krauts strengthened their defenses with lots of heavy antiaircraft stuff. That sound you heard was a Marauder dropping bombs short of the target 'cause they were hit.”
“We have to go,” Juliet announced, entering the room via a door at the far end. She was armed with a German Schmeisser submachine gun and carried a bulging pack. Two Frenchmen were with her, armed with German rifles. They wore dark coats, wool caps, and determined expressions. These were not the cheerful
Résistants
who greeted us last night. These had to be the hard men of the
Maquis
, who lived in the hills and woods and fought the Nazis full-time.
Babcock and one of the other Canadians grabbed weapons, along with two of the Americans. Juliet was definitely in charge here, and our mission was taking a backseat right now.
“What's happening?” Topper asked.
“A railroad bridge is about to be blown up,” she said, not giving me so much as a glance. “Join us if you wish, but don't get in the way.”
“I have a supply of gelignite, and I know how to use it,” Topper said.
“But you are also the wireless operator,” Kaz said, a pained look still on his face. “I think I may have damaged the radio when I fell. Not to mention my ribs.”
“Sort it out, then,” Juliet said. “We need that radio. Besides, we have
explosif plastique
, and we know quite well how to use it.
Allons-y!
”
“I'll go with you,” I said, grabbing my helmet and Thompson. She shrugged, a perfect Gallic gesture of indifference. I followed Juliet, Sonya, the two
Maquisards
, and the rest of our little international force out the way we'd come, except when we got to the stairs, we took the other tunnel. The way was lit only by a lantern held by one of the Frenchmen. The ground began to slant down, becoming increasingly wet and cramped as we moved on.
The Frenchman doused the lantern, and I saw daylight ahead, beyond a rusty iron gate that moved surprisingly quietly on its ancient hinges. The opening was less than four feet high, and we scuttled out through thick weeds and down a streambed until we came to a spot where a rutted dirt road crossed the water. I wanted to ask where we were going, but everyone was moving too fast to stop for questions.
On the far side of the ford sat the broken-down truck that had been in the stable. A man stepped out of the cab and held the door open for Juliet, who handed off her submachine gun to Babcock. She got in up front with Sonya, who also relinquished her weapon. The rest of us jumped in the back as the silent driver walked away with an unsteady, shuffling limp. We tied down the canvas flap, and the truck took off with a lurch through the woods.
“Okay, someone tell me what's going on,” I said. I had a lot of questions, like how were we going to blow a bridge in broad daylight, how many tunnels did that château have, why were downed airmen going along on a raid, and was Juliet mad at me? I looked at the Frenchmen. They didn't look at me. “Babcock?”
“We're going for a ride,” he said, pushing back his blond hair. “What did you say your name was, Sergeant?”
“Billy. Billy Boyle,” I said.
“Ronnie Fawcett,” said the RCAF sergeant next to Babcock, extending his hand. He was a small guy, with wiry brown hair and a trace of childhood freckles across his cheeks. We shook hands, and he nodded to the Yank next to him. “This is Earle McCabe.”
“They call me Dogbite,” McCabe said in a slow southern drawl. He rubbed the side of his cheek where scar tissue was puckered up in two semicircles highlighted by black stubble growing around the clear, shiny skin. He made Kaz's scar look like a shaving nick.