Chapter Thirty-One
Maurice and his
six men filtered in from the woods in twos and threes, their backpacks bulging with one-pound blocks of gelignite. We shared what food we had and set out on our journey at midnight. Count Vasseur saw us off, offering a salute as we passed. Switch was nowhere to be seen, having turned even surlier as the evening progressed.
Babcock and Fawcett were reluctant to stay behind, either out of a desire to help or a fear of being abandoned, it was hard to tell. The reality was, I wanted them to keep an eye on Switch. I told them he was looking nervous, and to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. Having a job to do seemed to make them feel better, so I put them in charge of cleaning out all evidence of their stay if none of us returned by noon. I didn't dwell on the implications for themâor meâif that came to pass.
Dogbite couldn't be talked out of coming with us. When I gave him a sense of what we were up against, he took his knife from its sheath and told me to check the blade. It drew blood from my finger and a wide grin from Dogbite.
“Butchered my first pig when I was ten,” he said. “Well, he wasn't rightly
my
pig until I laid hands on him, then I owned that porker. Ain't never been afraid of blood, and let me tell you, when they say bleedin' like a stuck pig, there's a reason.”
To tell the truth, I felt better having him along.
“Your ribs hurt much?” I asked Kaz as we made our way through the woods.
“They are much better, thank you. Sonya wrapped me in a tight bandage before we left. Don't worry, I can manage with the pistol.”
“It looks clumsy,” I said. The thick silenced barrel was over a foot long, anchored by a magazine that doubled as the handle. Called the Welrod, it was good only at close range.
“It wasn't made for looks,” Kaz said. “But the bolt works smoothly. We should have no trouble getting off two or three shots.”
Maurice gave us a stern glance, which meant “keep quiet” in any language. We threaded our way through a grove of thick-trunked trees, the soft, rotting leaves cushioning our steps. Maurice signaled for a halt, his raised hand easy enough to see in the filtered moonlight. Engines revved in the distance and we all instinctively ducked, taking what cover we could. The vehicles drew closer on the narrow forest road. I could make out horizontal splashes of yellow from the taped headlights as they slowly made their way toward us.
I gripped my Thompson tightly, aiming it toward the road. Was it a patrol looking for us, or simply more reinforcements heading for Normandy? Maurice signaled for us to stay in place, and shook his head at my raised weapon. It wasn't time for a fight, and the three canvas-topped trucks rolled past us. Whiffs of cigarette smoke and a sharp laugh flowed from the rear of the last truck.
“Did you see?” Christine whispered, as she crawled back from the edge of the road. “The key insignia?
Hitlerjugend
.”
“The same regiment?” I asked, watching Maurice's reaction. Hate smoldered in his dark eyes as he caught the word.
“Impossible to know,” Christine said. “But Chérisy lies in that direction.” Maurice whispered to her, and she nodded before he set off at a trot down the road. They'd agreed to something, and it probably didn't have much to do with the viaduct. Revenge for Coudray was fine with me, but we had a job to do before we risked our lives a second time tonight.
We stayed on the road, Maurice taking point and two of his men bringing up the rear. It made for faster going, but was more dangerous. If the Germans set up a roadblock, it would be too easy to stumble into it. Soon we took to the woods again, crossing fields knee high in weeds. With so many men taken by the Germans for forced labor, wide swaths of farmland were going to seed. We closed in on a small village, a few farmhouses enclosed by brick walls in various stages of decay, a few cultivated fields showing what little the women, children, and old men left behind could manage.
We ran low along a wall, flanked by a grove of apple trees. At the corner, vague shadows moved across the road as clouds obscured the moon. A row of low buildings sat across the road, the structures blending together in the darkness. A break in the clouds cast a shaft of moonlight directly across from us. A dull reflection gleamed on a helmet. Two helmets.
“Boche,”
Maurice whispered. One of the two Krauts lit a cigarette, cupping the match in his hand for the other to light up as they leaned against the rear of a
Kübelwagen,
Germany's answer to the jeep.
There was no debate about what to do.
I tapped Dogbite on the arm and he nodded, knife already in hand. Crouching low, we edged into the grove of trees, which gave us cover as we approached the front of the vehicle. I glanced at Kaz, who had taken my place at the end of the wall, silenced pistol at the ready.
We had the
Kübelwagen
between us and the Krauts. I signaled to Dogbite that I'd take the one on the left. He gave me a thumbs-up, and we took to the street, crouched low. I willed my feet to be as light as possible, floating on my toes over the pavement. I took a couple of deep breaths and looked at Dogbite. He wore a what-are-you-waiting-for expression, his face as calm as a still lake.
I lifted three fingers and counted down. When I made a fist, we moved.
I looked everywhere but directly at the German ahead. An instructor once told me never to stare at the back of a sentry's head when you're sneaking up on him. It awakens part of our ancient brain, he said, the part that senses hidden dangers in the night. Keep him in your field of vision, but don't lock onto him with your eyes.
My gut twitched. Sweat broke out on the small of my back. I was aware of the rustle of my clothing, the scent of cigarette smoke, the slightly sour smell that seemed to permeate their wool uniforms. Everything went in slow motion, the crisp night air vibrating with images: the vehicle, the man ahead, the village, all vivid and surreal at the same time.
One more step.
As I put my foot down, I grabbed his chin with my left hand, lifting his jaw to prevent him calling out before I stabbed the side of his throat, severing the carotid artery, the jugular vein, and the jumble of nerves I'd forgotten the name of. I pulled the blade side to side and caught the Kraut's rifle with one hand while I let his body settle against me, a soft gurgle marking the last gasp of air escaping his trachea. He was unconscious in seconds, dead by the time I laid him on the ground.
I heard a sharp
clunk
. Dogbite grabbed at his Kraut's helmet, which had fallen and clipped the
Kübelwagen's
fender. He held onto it, letting his quarry drop to the ground slowly by the strap of his rifle still slung over his shoulder. We froze, waiting for a response to the sound, but no one appeared. Murmurs drifted out from the nearest house, a squat red-brick-and-timber affair, with shutters closed tight against the night. The faintest line of soft light showed between the shutters. Dogbite nodded toward the house.
“Officers,” he whispered as we lifted the bodies, careful to avoid the glistening spray of arterial blood. Maurice and two men appeared, helping us to dump the corpses in the back of the
Kübelwagen.
I pointed to the house, and he nodded, sending the two men around the back in case the Germans made a break for it.
Christine approached the vehicle, checking the uniforms of the two Germans. They were the dappled camouflage of the
Waffen
SS, but I hadn't looked too closely at the collar tabs, thick with their blood.
“Hitlerjugend,”
she mouthed, tapping on the right front fender. It was the runic S and key insignia. She raised her Welrod and gave me a questioning look. Maurice drew his own knife, his face full of fury and certain intent.
I raised a finger. One shot. We'd need the others for the viaduct.
“I open the door. You shoot once. Then Maurice and I go in and finish the job,” I whispered. Christine translated while I told Dogbite to stay near the door in case one of them got out. I was confident there'd only be two Krauts inside. The
Kübelwagen
wasn't that big, and it stood to reason the officers would leave the enlisted men outside to stand guard. So two of them. Probably drinking brandy and looking at a map, trying to figure out where they were.
I went to the door, the voices from inside clearer now, definitely German. If the residents were still inside, they were probably off in a bedroom waiting out their visitors.
Or dead.
We were in position. My hand on the door, Maurice to the left, Christine facing the entry, pistol at the ready. I pressed down on the latch, letting the door open. Straight ahead was a stairway, and on the right, a sitting room bathed in soft lamplight.
“Ja, was?”
The voice was sharp, irritated.
Christine walked in, smiling. She lifted her arm, and all I heard was a slight click before the German closest to her let out a gasp and fell against a table. She backed up, working the bolt as Maurice and I rushed in.
There were three of them, damn it. One down, one for each of us. A map was half off the table, the dying German pulling it down with him as he grasped at air, sliding to the ground, wondering what had happened. His pals were open mouthed, in shock at the appearance of Christine as well as the silent death of their comrade.
But not for long. They both reached for their pistols, unsnapping holsters at the same second. I raced at one, lunging with my knife, aiming my forearm at his throat and thrusting the blade at his chest. He backed up against the wall, one hand on my arm and the other on the butt of his pistol. His breath was rank with brandy and fear, his pale skin hot and flushed. I slammed into him, pinning his gun hand between us and shoving my arm against his throat. I couldn't pull back to use the knife for fear he'd get his pistol free. I put my shoulder down and hit hard, the two of us sliding to the floor as I heard a strangled cry from Maurice's man, who stared dumbly at the hilt of a knife buried in his chest. Blood dribbled from his lips as he looked at Maurice's snarl, the last thing he ever saw.
“Halten Sie, bitte,”
my guy pleaded, letting go of his pistol, his hand open wide.
“Bitte!”
Christine stepped forward, taking his Walther pistol. “Outside,” she said.
Kaz stepped into the room as the two
Maquis
from around the back came through the kitchen, trailed by an old man in his nightclothes, his grey hair disheveled but his eyes fierce. He spat on the dead German as Maurice withdrew his knife and cleaned it on the camouflage tunic.
“Aufstehen!”
Kaz said, kicking the live German. He pushed himself up. Confusion flitted across his features as he took in the obvious
Maquis
but also our British and American uniforms.
“Amerikaner? Engländer?”
He sounded hopeful. His light brown hair fell across his face and he brushed it back, the inadvertent gesture making him look young, like a high school kid. But after all, these soldiers were drawn from Hitler Youth.
“A
Leutnant
,” Kaz said, pointing at the three silver pips on the German's collar tab. “These other gentlemen were majors. Or
Sturmbannführer
, in the ridiculous parlance of the SS.”
“What's
his
ridiculous rank?” I asked, stepping closer and staring into those frightened brown eyes.
“
Untersturmführer
,”
Kaz said.
“Please ask the
Untersturmführer
where they were going,” I said. Kaz put the question to him, but all he got was frosty silence.
“Chérisy,” Christine said, after huddling with the old man. “They were lost and didn't know where they were. Monsieur Dablin told them Croisilles. But this is Charpont.” She smiled and patted his shoulder. “They ate all his bread and cheese and drank his brandy. He is pleased you killed them.”
“Chérisy?” I said, standing nose to nose with the Nazi bastard. He shrugged, looking as haughty as he could manage. “I wonder if he knows where Coudray is.”
At the sound of the name, he stiffened.
“He knows,” Christine said. “Take him outside.” She spoke to Maurice, who snapped his fingers. Two men roughly pulled off the camouflage tunic and shoved the German outside. I knew what was coming next, but after what I'd witnessed at Coudray, all I could think about was that Monsieur Dablin had enough blood to clean off his parlor floor, and wasn't it nice that we weren't adding to it.
“Look,” I said to Kaz, pointing to the map as they dragged the SS officer outside. “There are circles to the southeast of Dreux. This one, outside of Maintenon, may have been where they were bivouacked.” From that spot, a line drawn by grease pencil meandered north, ending outside of Chérisy. By the railroad tracks.
“They are boarding a train there,” Kaz said. “Perhaps to avoid the chance of a bombing raid at the rail yard in Dreux.”
“Tonight?” I said.
“I would think so. Otherwise they would be waiting in the open. The trucks we saw must be part of the troop movement. This could mean trouble.”
“Yes, for the
Boche
,” Christine said. “We had word they were hidden in the woods around Maintenon, but it was difficult ground for the attack, yes? Now they come to us, and we will blow them up with the bridge.”
“If they are too close to the viaduct, it will be impossible,” Kaz said. “They would cut us to pieces.”
“I do not think they will be close. The ground near the river is too overgrown, very difficult for loading. But east of Chérisy a small road branches off into the fields, where the ground is level along the rails. It makes sense the train would stop there, don't you think? Here, the bad fortune of these
Boche
becomes our good fortune.” She tossed the SS tunic to Kaz. “Not the best fit, but it will do. We can get very close. We shall drive up and wait for them to salute. Now let us leave.” That took a few rounds of
vive la France
with the monsieur, but as we disengaged, I began to think about it. It could work.