Operation Kingfisher (17 page)

Luke was blushing.

‘Luke Beauchamps, Madame.’

‘
Enchanté
. A new recruit?’

‘Just a temporary one, I’m afraid.’

‘What a pity. And you,’ she looked at Christine, ‘you are…?’

‘Christine Beauchamps, Madame.’

‘Ah! You are
en masquerade, n’est-ce pas
? Playing the breeches part. How droll!’

One of the men from the other side of the room called, ‘Adrienne, your drink is here.’

She made a little grimace. ‘Such a bore! But one must be polite.
Au revoir, mes amis
.’

As she drifted away, Christine muttered fiercely, ‘Ghastly woman!’

Luke responded, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought she was rather … attractive.’

‘Oh, really!’ She wanted to kick him, but realized this was not the time or the place.

Isabelle felt almost light-hearted as she walked back towards the house. She had been tasting the new vintage with her head vigneron and it promised to be good. The men had come as promised and removed the barrels of stolen explosives and, though she preferred not to think about what they intended to do with them, it was a relief not to have them on her premises.

Best of all, she knew that her children were safe, even if their whereabouts was a mystery. She hummed to herself as she entered the kitchen. She was about to start preparing the evening meal when she heard a car draw up outside and then the voices of her two German lodgers. They were back earlier than usual.

Hoffmann came into the kitchen and she saw at once that his breathing was laboured.

She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

‘Sit down, Leutnant. Is something wrong?’

‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘Not exactly. That is, I fear the time has come for me to say goodbye. I have to leave early tomorrow.’

‘Leave?’ To her surprise, the news was unwelcome.

‘Yes, my company is being redeployed. I shall be very sorry to go. You have been most kind. But I expect you will be glad to see the back of us.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I can’t pretend that you were welcome guests, when we first met. But in the event, we have been good company. Don’t you agree?’

‘I do, Madame, most heartily. I shall miss our conversations – and your hot milk!’

‘So, where are you going? Or am I not supposed to ask?’

‘We are being sent to a place called Saint-Nectaire.’

‘Saint-Nectaire!’ Isabelle turned away to the stove, so that he could not see her face.

‘It seems there has been some Resistance activity in the area and we are charged with rooting it out.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I know we are supposed to be enemies, but I think if the roles were reversed and your people were occupying my country, I should admire these brave young men.’

‘Which way will you go?’ She had to struggle to keep the tremor out of her voice.

‘By the shortest route. It is cross-country, but my captain thinks that is where the
Maquis
are hiding out. He wants to make a reconnaissance.’

‘You should stick to the main roads,’ she said quickly. ‘That other route is very hard to follow. You could easily get lost.’

He shrugged. ‘It is not for me to decide, Madame. I go where the captain orders.’ He got to his feet. ‘I think I will sit outside for a little while. Schulz is packing my things and I feel better in the fresh air.’

When he had gone, Isabelle dropped into a chair and put her head in her hands. The mental image she had had when Louis told her what the
Maquis
intended, of twisted metal and broken bodies, came back even more vividly. To imagine it happening to some unknown enemy soldiers was bad enough, but to let it happen to the gentle soul who had come into her care was unthinkable. But what was the solution? To warn him would immediately expose her as an associate, however unwilling, of the
Maquis
and he might feel it his duty to report the fact to his superiors. What was more, if the Germans became aware of the ambush that was being prepared, they would be able to surround the
Maquisards
, who would become the victims rather than the aggressors. This would result in the death of many and the arrest of the others. She could not be responsible for doing that to her countrymen. There was only one solution: somehow Hoffmann must be prevented from joining that convoy.

As she racked her brains, she heard him cough outside the
window and the germ of an idea came to her; if he were to become too ill to report for duty, the convoy would leave without him. She knew that he was allergic to certain things and exposure to them would bring on an asthma attack. What were the things he had mentioned? Horses! He had said that he had been forced to join the infantry because being with horses made him ill. She had a horse, an old cob which had provided motive power for various appliances until the advent of the tractor, and which had now been called into service again. But she could hardly invite Hoffmann into the stable. Whatever pretext she gave, he would refuse knowing the consequences. Would it be sufficient to walk the horse past him, perhaps to stop with it and chat? He would certainly avoid being anywhere close to it. Then she had an inspiration; there was an old blanket in the stable, which they used to throw across the horse’s back when the weather was cold. It was thoroughly impregnated with horsehair. If she could somehow smuggle that into his room, even replace the blanket on his bed with it, that might do the trick.

She paused, wondering. How severe might the effects be? Did she have any right to inflict more suffering on her unfortunate guest? But would that not be better than letting him go to almost certain death?

She got up and took a carrot from the vegetable rack as colour for her actions, then strolled across the yard to the stable, where the old horse accepted her offering with alacrity. The blanket was on the hook where it was kept. She took it down and rolled it into as small a bundle as she could manage. Now, how to get it back to the house without him seeing? To her relief, he was writing something, his head bent over a pad on his knee, and he did not look up as she passed.

The next problem was Schulz. Hoffmann had said he was packing for him. She left the blanket just inside the door of Christine’s room, which was opposite the one now occupied by Hoffmann, and tapped on his door. Schulz was stuffing clothes into a kitbag. He looked around as she entered.

‘Madame?’

‘Fritz, could you do something for me?’ (She had abandoned the formal Herr Schulz long ago.)

‘Of course, Madame. I have almost finished here, then I am at your service.’

‘Thank you so much. I’ve run out of water. Could you bring another bucket from the well?’

‘Certainly. Give me one minute.’

Isabelle returned to the kitchen and took the bucket from under the sink. It was still half full so she poured the contents round the rose that grew by the door. When Schulz appeared she handed it to him, saying, ‘The lieutenant tells me you are leaving tomorrow. I shall miss having you to help with jobs like this.’

‘I shall be sorry to go, Madame. We both will. But I will bring up the firewood and fill the water bucket again before we leave.’

She thanked him and watched him go off towards the well. Then she hurried back to Hoffmann’s room. She retrieved the blanket, stripped back the quilt, tucked the blanket in place and covered it with the quilt. It was too much for a warm evening, but Hoffmann seemed to need warmth, so she hoped he would not notice the difference. Then, torn between relief and guilt, she returned to the kitchen and got on with preparing the evening meal.

Isabelle slept badly. Her room was at the other end of the house so she could not hear anything that went on in Hoffmann’s, but suddenly she was woken from a light doze by the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. Schulz was stoking up the fire in the range, and he had pulled the big iron kettle onto the hotplate.

He looked around as she entered.

‘Madame, forgive me for waking you. The lieutenant is very poorly. His asthma is worse than I have seen it for a long time. Sometimes it helps to inhale the steam.’

‘You must do whatever is necessary,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

‘There is very little we can do,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes the
attack passes off. Otherwise we shall have to get the doctor to give him an injection. Can I bring him in here so he can sit close to the kettle?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Let me help.’

Hoffmann was propped up on his pillows, and Isabelle was horrified by the sight of what she had brought about. His lips were blue and he was breathing in short gasps, as if every breath was a struggle. Between them, Isabelle and Schulz half carried him to the kitchen and sat him by the steaming kettle, but there seemed to be very little improvement; she was terrified that her actions were going to result in his death.

‘Fritz, you must go for the doctor straight away. Leutnant Hoffmann needs help.’

The batman looked at his officer and Hoffmann gave the faintest of nods.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

For Isabelle, the next half hour was one of the longest of her life. She sat by the young German, rubbing his back in a vain effort to relieve the symptoms, and refilling the kettle so that there was a continuous supply of steam. At last, she heard a vehicle draw up outside and a uniformed officer came in, followed by Schulz.

He clicked his heels formally.

‘Kapitän Doctor Müller, Madame. I am the medical officer for the battalion.’

Isabelle got up. ‘I’m so relieved to see you, doctor. Please, can you do something for this poor young man?’

The doctor bent over Hoffmann, listened briefly to his chest, then opened his bag and took out a syringe. ‘Fortunately, the condition responds well to an injection of adrenalin.’

He inserted the needle into Hoffmann’s arm and slowly depressed the plunger. The result, to Isabelle, was almost miraculous. Even before the whole contents of the syringe had been delivered, the young man’s breathing began to ease and she saw the tension go out of his shoulders. Abruptly, she remembered that
the offending blanket was still on his bed. She excused herself and hurried back to his room. She had just had time to extract the blanket and throw it into Christine’s room when Hoffmann came back, supported on each side by Schulz and the doctor.

When he was propped up once again on his pillows the doctor said, ‘There should be no recurrence of the problem tonight. But he will need to rest. I will sign a certificate releasing him from duty for the next three days. Then we will see how he is.’

‘But I understood he was supposed to leave tomorrow,’ Isabelle said. ‘He told me his unit was being redeployed.’

‘So they are,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But he will not be with them.’ He looked at Hoffmann. ‘Don’t worry, boy. You’ll be able to rejoin your men in a day or two.’

When the doctor had gone Hoffmann said weakly, ‘It seems you will have to put up with us a little longer, Madame.’

She smiled at him, relief flooding through her.

‘I’m very glad you are staying. You must rest and take all the time you need to get well.’

The following evening, Schulz returned from duty, the habitual creases in his face deeper than ever.

‘Terrible news, Madame! The company being redeployed to Saint-Nectaire was ambushed by the bandits who call themselves resistance fighters. Hardly any of them escaped.’

Isabelle put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how awful!’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed. He met her eyes, and for a moment she saw a wild speculation in them. Then he shook his head in wonder. ‘And to think, the lieutenant and I should have been with them’.

T
he next two days at the
Maquis
camp were spent in training with the new equipment. Luke spent long hours at the improvised firing range and Christine swotted away at the Morse code. By the second afternoon, she was able to convince Cyrano that she had a good grasp of it and he unpacked his radio set and showed her how to use the Morse key to transmit the dots and dashes.

‘Don’t worry, you won’t actually transmit anything,’ he assured her. ‘This is just practice.’

It was more difficult than she had imagined and while she was still struggling with it, Gregoire arrived in camp. He called Xavier and half a dozen other men, including Luke, and they hunkered down in a circle while he opened the pack he was carrying.

‘What are they doing?’ she asked Cyrano.

‘It looks as though he’s teaching them how to use the plastic explosive,’ he replied.

‘Could I watch?’ she asked eagerly.

He hesitated a moment, then grinned. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Gregoire glanced up as she joined the group, craning to see over the shoulders of the men around him, but he made no comment.

‘I want you all to listen very carefully to what I am about to say. This stuff is perfectly safe if you treat it properly but it can be lethal if you don’t.’ He unwrapped a package to expose a lump of material that reminded Christine of green plasticine. The smell of almonds wafted through the clearing. ‘Its proper name is Nobel 808 but it’s called
plastique
because that is what it is. When it is
warm, you can mould it to any shape you want, so it is ideal for fixing to parts of machinery, for example, or metal supports. The best temperature is about body heat, so the most convenient way to carry it is here.’ He opened his shirt and lifted his arm to show a chunk of the explosive nestling in his armpit. He removed it and handed it to one of the men. ‘See how easy it is to mould it to any shape you want.’

The man took it gingerly and bent it, then gaining confidence he rolled it into a sausage and joined the two ends.

‘That’s the way,’ Gregoire approved. ‘Pass it round so everyone can have a try. The only snag with this is, as you will have noticed, the smell. The
Boche
are perfectly familiar with it, so if you happen to be stopped while carrying it, they will know exactly what your intentions are. And it clings. It takes a lot of washing to get rid of the smell. Now,’ he reached into his pack, ‘in order to detonate it, you need one of these. You can’t detonate it by setting fire to it; it will just burn. Even a rifle shot won’t do it. You have to have a proper detonator. This is what we call a time pencil. You can see why: it’s just about the same shape and size as an ordinary pencil.’ He held up a brass tube. ‘Inside this end, there is a glass capsule containing acid. Running alongside it is a wire, which is connected to a spring holding back the striker. To activate the device, crush the end of the tube with a hammer or under the heel of your boot so that the glass capsule breaks. The acid then eats away the wire, which releases the spring and the striker then hits the percussion cap at the other end of the pencil, which you have pushed into the plastique. The thickness of the wire determines how long that process takes, so different time pencils give different delays between breaking the glass and the detonation. You can have pencils with a ten minute delay or up to 24 hours. They are accurate to within a couple of minutes with a ten minute delay, and an hour if set for twelve hours or more. Any questions?’

‘Yes,’ Xavier said. ‘What’s our first target and when do we start?’

‘That’s something we need to discuss,’ Gregoire said. ‘I have identified several possible targets. The main objective is to disrupt the enemy’s lines of communication or hamper his ability to rearm or reinforce. So, railways will be a prime target, but also factories, fuel dumps, electricity supplies and so on.’

‘What about the canals?’ someone said. ‘The
Boche
use them to transport materials.’

‘We could blow the lock gates at Marigny,’ another voice joined in.

‘No chance!’ Xavier said. ‘The
Maquis Serge
tried that outside Tannay a few days back and the
Boche
were waiting for them. They lost four men. The
Boche
must be guarding all the locks.’

‘No!’ Luke said. ‘Not all of them. The
Boche
knew something was going to happen there and they were waiting.’

‘What do you know about it?’ the first speaker enquired irritably.

‘We were there,’ Luke said. ‘We had just gone into the lock, when the firing started. Luckily for us, the lock was emptying so we were able to shelter at the bottom until it was over. But it was obvious that the lock-keeper had tipped the Germans off.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Gregoire asked.

‘After it was all over, we saw him chatting to the officer in charge. They were obviously on good terms.’

‘The swine!’ Xavier exclaimed. ‘The filthy collaborator!’

‘Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine,’ someone shouted. ‘We’ll blow up his lock and kill the bastard.’

There was a general yell of agreement and Xavier grinned broadly. ‘OK. That’s our first target settled.’

‘Oh no!’ Christine had kept silent with difficulty but she could hold back no longer. ‘Please don’t do that!’

‘What’s the matter?’ someone jeered. ‘Don’t like loud bangs? Don’t worry, you won’t be able to hear it from here.’

‘It’s not that!’ she shouted back. ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea to attack the canals.’

‘Why not, Chris?’ Gregoire asked.

‘Well, what about the boat people who earn their living there? It’s not fair on them. And they help to move refugees, like us, and downed airmen, so they can get back to carry on with the fight. If you blow up the locks they won’t be able to do that.’

Gregoire shook his head, not unsympathetically.

‘I understand your point, but it is true that the canals are used to transport vital construction materials for enemy bases and airfields. I’m afraid we can’t let the possible rescue of one or two airmen weigh against that. And as for the men and women who work on the canals, what about the people who work on the railways, or in the factories that we want to target? We shall do our best to avoid civilian casualties, but I’m afraid they have to accept a certain amount of disruption in the fight for freedom. The canals are a legitimate target.’

‘Then we go tonight!’ Xavier said and his men cheered.

‘There’s just one thing,’ Gregoire put in. ‘I appreciate how you feel about the lock-keeper, but you can’t go shooting him out of hand. We are not bandits. We have to abide by some kind of law. Everyone is entitled to a fair hearing. Capture him and bring him back here and you can try him, and if he’s found guilty then it is in your hands to punish him as you think fit. Besides, he may have some useful information for us.’

Xavier grunted. ‘OK. We’ll bring him back and you can see what you can get out of him. But it’ll come to the same thing in the end.’

‘That’s up to you,’ Gregoire responded. ‘But bear in mind, you are fighting for freedom – and that includes the freedom to be given a fair trial. Now, let’s have a look at the map and I’ll show you the other targets I have in mind.’

The two men retired to the tent where Cyrano worked, and Xavier summoned the two others who seemed to be accepted as his lieutenants. Soon all their heads were bent over the maps. The rest broke up into groups, eagerly discussing their own suggestions.

Christine caught Luke’s sleeve as he was about to join one of the groups.

‘Luke, do you think he’s right? Are the canals legitimate targets?’

‘Of course they are,’ he said crossly. ‘I do wish you’d stop putting your oar in. It’s not up to us. We’re just hangers-on as far as the
Maquisards
are concerned.’

‘You put your oar in, as you put it,’ she said. ‘You told them about the fight at the lock.’

‘That’s different,’ he insisted. ‘That was useful intelligence. And besides….’ He trailed off.

‘Besides what?’ she demanded.

‘It’s different, that’s all,’ he mumbled lamely.

‘You mean it’s different because I’m a girl and you’re one of the chaps now.’

‘No! Well, yes, sort of. I mean, I wish you’d behave more like a girl. Some of the men … I’ve heard them making jokes. It’s embarrassing.’

She looked at him, swallowing back tears. Then anger came to her rescue.

‘Well, I’m sorry if I embarrass you! I’ll keep out of your way in future.’ She turned away and walked off to the far side of the camp, wishing there was somewhere she could go to be alone. He did not come after her.

By sunset, all the preparations had been made and the men were ready to leave. Luke had asked for and been given permission to join them. Christine had not even bothered to ask. The whole party assembled at the ‘garage’ and piled into the assorted vehicles parked there.

She had been tempted to stay in the camp, but she realized that it would look as if she was sulking, so she went along to wish them luck. The two gazogène vans had been started some time before, as they needed a long time to warm up; the rest burst into life with gratifying promptness, except for one of the elderly Citroëns.

Jean-Claude hailed her. ‘Mademoiselle Christine! Come here, please. We need your expert help.’

Christine peered under the bonnet. A quick check showed her that no leads had come loose and she had cleaned the plugs herself. She pulled out one of the points.

‘This is the problem. They are so badly pitted, it’s no wonder the car won’t start.’

‘Can you mend them?’

‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. They need replacing.’

‘
Merde
!
’ exclaimed the would-be driver of the car. ‘We’ll have to leave it. Come on, lads! We’ll just have to squeeze in with the others.’

They hurried away and Christine looked around for her brother. He was just about to swing himself over the tailboard of one of the trucks. It suddenly came to her that he was about to set out on a dangerous mission. She called his name and he paused and waited until she reached him.

‘You will be careful, won’t you? I mean, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’

His face, which had expressed barely controlled impatience, softened and he touched her arm.

‘Don’t worry, Sis. I won’t take any risks. You’ll see. I’ll be back in an hour or two.’

He climbed aboard and she watched as the whole convoy drove away down the forest track and disappeared from sight. Then she wandered back to the almost deserted camp. Cyrano had just returned from his nightly ‘sked’ and was at work decoding the messages. She was tempted to join him, but she had learned that he hated to be distracted from a job that required total concentration. So she sat by the camp fire, gloomily contemplating her lot. After a while, he came to sit beside her.

‘Penny for them?’

She shrugged. ‘Not worth it.’ To her annoyance, her voice sounded husky.

‘Hey, come on! What’s the matter? You’re not worrying about Luke, are you? He’ll be all right, you know. Gregoire knows he’s inexperienced. He’ll make sure he’s kept well out of the firing line.’

‘I suppose,’ she muttered and added, ‘I keep thinking about the Pasquiers, and Bernard and Marie who helped us before. How will they earn a living if the canals are closed?’

‘Oh,’ he chuckled softly, ‘you needn’t trouble yourself about that. The Germans can’t afford to have them closed for long. Xavier and his men may blow the lock tonight, but by tomorrow the
Boche
will have a working party out there repairing it. In a few days, it’ll be fixed.’

‘It’s a bit of a waste of time, then, isn’t it?’

‘No, because while the
Boche
are putting right any damage we do, they can’t be using the same resources to build new airstrips or other infrastructure. The busier we can keep them, the more men and materials we tie up.’

‘I see.’ She made an effort to smile. ‘That makes sense.’

He looked at her closely. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there. What is it?’

She turned her face away. ‘Nothing. Just.…’

‘Just what?’

‘Oh, I’m fed up with being a girl. Everybody thinks I’m useless, just because I’m not a man.’

‘That’s not true!’ he exclaimed. ‘You serviced all the cars, didn’t you? None of the men had any idea how to do it. And you pulled your weight on the
parachutage
. Gregoire was very impressed.’

‘Was he?’

‘Certainly. And if it’s any help, as far as I’m concerned, you’re an honorary chap.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. ‘There. Feeling better?’

She glanced into his face, then inched a little further away.

‘Yes, thanks. Much better.’ And for the life of her she could not understand why that was not true.

The sabotage party arrived back just after midnight and she could hear them singing as they parked the vehicles. They trooped back into the clearing, bringing in their midst a pathetic figure whom she recognized as the lock-keeper. He was visibly shaking
and begging for mercy. Luke came to find her, his face flushed and his eyes glowing.

‘Success?’ she asked, unnecessarily.

‘Oh yes. Piece of cake, really.’ His casual tone belied his expression. ‘Not a shot fired. Xavier and three of the others just knocked at the door of the lock-keeper’s cottage and when he opened it they shoved the muzzle of a rifle in his gut and marched him back to where the rest of us were waiting. Then we fixed the explosive charges with a ten minute fuse and got well away before it went up.’

‘So, you didn’t actually see what happened?’

‘Yes we did. We parked up on the edge of the forest, where we had a good view down to the canal. There was a bit of a delay and then boom! A big flash and terrific noise. I bet it shook the locals, and any German patrols that were around.’

‘But you couldn’t tell how much damage it had done from there, could you? she queried.

‘Oh, it blew the lock gates off all right. We could see the water flooding the banks of the canal downstream. The moonlight reflected off it.’