His assistant, Werner Biedermann, who wore the black uniform of the SS, while less sensitive to either his surroundings or the reason for their visit, was clearly equally stupefied by the looks of the woman in front of them. He was a heavy-set, earthy young man, who, although by no means handsome, fancied himself as a ladies’ man.
‘Could be?’ Liane asked. She wore a hospital gown, had been bathed — several times — and medicated where necessary: her feet were still bandaged and swollen. Both she and Joanna had been treated with the utmost care, segregated from the male patients in a separate room — it could hardly be described as a ward — and attended by solicitous nurses in huge starched white hats. As if by smothering them with kindness they could be made Nazi-friendly! In fact, her various aches and pains, if tangible evidence of her ordeal, she knew were transient, and would even be forgotten in time. The great emptiness in her mind might be there for ever. What had happened was outside both her experience and her comprehension. It was not so much the physical aspects: she had had sex with more than one man in her life that she had regretted long before he had even entered her. But those mistakes had been hers; even if she might have been unable to correct them on the instant, they had always been adjustable later, the cold look or word, the complete brush-off, the threat of the wealth and power of her family were the man to make himself a nuisance. And for those reasons she had never before experienced any physical violence.
In Auchamps the physical violence had been overwhelming, and there had been no end in sight. She remembered the panzers rolling by, their crews crowding the cupolas to wave and cheer at the two scantily clad women. She and Joanna had returned inside the bar, half relieved that the Germans had been too busy to stop, half disappointed that there was going to be no ride closer to their own people. But as there was no transport, and the countryside seemed to be full of Germans, they had decided to spend the night, where there was at least food and water and shelter, give their feet a chance to recover, and move on the next day. She had been quite confident that as she was Liane de Gruchy, and Joanna was a neutral whose mother played bridge with Mrs Henry Stimson, any German officer they encountered would be happy to give them a safe conduct through the lines.
They had not reckoned on deserters.
The soldiers had been a happy lot. Presumably like all of their comrades they were in a state of euphoria at the ease and completeness of their victory. But the euphoria had been mixed with bitterness and bloodlust; their unit had apparently been unlucky enough to encounter a French post prepared to resist them, and had suffered heavy casualties, including their officers and NCOs. No doubt after a few hours they would have rejoined the army and been restored to discipline. But in those few hours they had stumbled on Auchamps. By the time they had climbed the stairs they were already drunk, and when they had opened the bedroom door they clearly supposed they had stumbled into heaven.
Both Liane and Joanna had scrambled out of bed, reaching for their clothes, and had been seized and thrown on to the mattress, to lie shoulder to shoulder, on their backs and then on their stomachs. They had been dragged downstairs to amuse their captors while they ate and drank some more, and then dragged back upstairs again.
Joanna, being Joanna, had attempted to resist, and had been beaten. Liane, whatever her instincts, had had more sense. She knew that women only ever overcame men by the use of their brains, their charm and beauty, and their sexuality. Their mystery. There had been no opportunity to use her brains in Aucharfips; because there had been six men and one was always awake, watching them. While their captors, if delighted with their beauty and their sexuality, had had no interest in their charm or their mystery. That had left only vengeance available to her. And that had demanded patience.
‘It would be best for all if this matter could be, shall I say, brushed under the carpet,’ Kluck suggested. Liane looked at him.
‘The culprits are to be court-martial led,’ he explained.
‘And convicted?’
‘Of desertion, certainly.’
‘But not of rape.’
‘Well, you see, Fraulein, they can only be convicted of rape if you testify against them in court, and frankly, my superiors do not feel this would be productive. The end result will be the same,’ Kluck hurried on. ‘They will be executed. Desertion in the middle of a battle is a capital crime.’
‘And the world will never know that the mighty Wehrmacht is composed of men who rape defenceless women.’
‘What happened to you was an isolated incident. No other case of rape has been reported. And I may say, Fraulein, that every army in the world, or ever known to history, has contained certain, shall I say, animal elements. It is the nature of the beast. When these elements are discovered, they are eradicated. This is what we are doing now.’ He paused, hopefully. ‘What is it you want, Fraulein? What will satisfy you?’
‘I wish my friend and I to be returned to Paris.’
‘We can arrange that. If - ’
‘No ifs, Colonel.’
Kluck regarded her for some moments, while Biedermann stood up and slowly walked round her chair. Kluck had no doubt they were sharing the same thought, that what a pleasure it would be to have this woman in one of his cells, beating the screams out of her naked body. But he also knew that when General Rommel gave an order it had to be obeyed. All he could do was try to keep the situation under control while reporting to his superiors and letting them decide what to do. ‘I have said that you will be returned to Paris as soon as you are fit to travel.’
‘We are fit to travel now.’ She was carefully ignoring the presence of Biedermann, who was now standing behind her.
‘Your feet are badly bruised and swollen.’ Kluck allowed himself a smile. ‘I assume you are not going to blame that also on the Wehrmacht?’
‘It was the Luftwaffe that blew up my car and forced me to walk for two days. What you are saying is that you intend to keep us prisoners until every last physical evidence of what has happened to us is gone. And hopefully that our memories will also become distorted. Am I correct?’
Kluck stood up. ‘We are doing everything we can for you, Fraulein. If you are sensible, you will bear that in mind. Good day to you.’
‘I am sure we will meet again, mademoiselle,’ Biedermann said.
‘Perhaps you will hold your breath until that happens,’ Liane suggested.
‘Commanders assemble,’ the radio said. ‘On the double.’
Pierre de Gruchy climbed out of his tank and dropped to the ground. He had not shaved in a week or changed his clothing.
Henri Burstein was no different as he joined him. But at least they were still alive, which could not be said for a great number of their comrades. ‘What happens now?’
There were only six tanks left out of the regiment. At least to be seen. ‘It looks like we lose the war,’ Pierre said.
They walked to the command tank. ‘Well, gentlemen...’ Major L’Orly’s face was as stiff as ever, little moustache neatly combed, looking around the other five faces. ‘The division has been destroyed. The enemy is now to the south as well as the east of us, and I have to tell you that this morning the Belgian army has surrendered.’ He held up his finger. ‘Now is not the time for questions or recriminations. Only for decisions. I have been informed that the British Expeditionary Force is withdrawing to the coast, where it is hoped that some of them may be evacuated. Again, it is not our place to comment or criticize. Their position, with the Belgian army no longer holding their left flank, is untenable.’
‘And our position, Major?’ someone asked.
L’Orly gave a brief smile. ‘We still have an army in being, south of the German thrust. We still have all of France to fight for, and to fight with.’
‘But we cannot get there.’
‘Unfortunately, no. But we are still French soldiers, who will obey orders and do our duty. I have been ordered to assist the British retreat, acting as a rearguard where necessary. So, the first thing we
shall do is make contact with the British and discover what their dispositions are.’
‘Will they be able to provide us with gasoline?’ Henri asked. ‘I have only an hour left.’
‘I also,’ said another officer.
‘We must hope so,’ L’Orly said. ‘Single file.’
The tanks moved off, clattering along a country lane well shaded by trees. But after half an hour they came to a canal. There was a bridge, but this was surrounded by sappers and was clearly about to be blown. ‘Stop,’ L’Orly shouted, standing in his cupola. ‘Let us across.’
At the sight of the tanks the engineers had grabbed their rifles and gone to ground. Now their sergeant stood up. ‘Parlez- vous Anglais, monsewer?’
L’Orly turned round. ‘Anyone speak English?’
Pierre was also in his cupola. ‘I do.’
‘Thank God for that, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Gave me a right start, you did. Thought you was Jerries. Then I thought, the Jerries can’t be behind us yet.’
‘We need to cross that bridge,’ Pierre said.
‘Right you are, sir. But make it quick.’
‘And then we would like directions to your commanding officer.’
‘Well, sir, I don’t rightly know where he is. He told us to blow this bridge and then march west. Then he went off.’ ‘Then will you direct us to your nearest fuel dump?’ ‘There’s a problem, sir. They’re all being blown.’ He gestured to the north. The Frenchmen had seen the clouds of heavy black smoke earlier, without taking in what they had to be.
‘But your own tanks must have a supply,’ Pierre said. ‘Well, sir, they ain’t going anywhere, you see. They can’t be taken off. So, they’re being blown too.’
Pierre took off his beret to scratch his head.
‘What does he say?’ L’Orly asked. Pierre translated. ‘Shit,’ the major remarked. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
The sergeant might not speak French, but he got the message. ‘Tell you what, sir. I have some dynamite to spare. I can give you six sticks, one for each tank.’
‘And what do we do then? We came to fight the enemy. We cannot do that without our tanks.’
‘Well, sir. I’d say your best bet is to come along with us and make for the port. Dunkirk they call it. It’s only about twenty miles away. That’s where they’re evacuating from.’
‘That is where the English are being evacuated from. We are French.’
‘Well, sir, they might give you a ride.’
*
They marched through the afternoon, twenty-four miserable men, trying to forget the sight of their blazing tanks, their feeling of utter uselessness. Without their tanks they were helpless. They did not have a rifle between them; only the six officers had sidearms. Their depression was not lifted by the irrepressible cheerfulness of the engineers, their constant reference to their imminent return to ‘Blighty’. They did not seem to realize that the war was all but lost. From time to time they saw aircraft, but their small group was not worth strafing. They saw sufficient evidence both of aerial attacks and of the demolitions being carried out by the retreating British — burned-out tanks and trucks, some dead bodies, shattered radio equipment — the completeness of the destruction, or the lack of it, being professionally criticized by their friendly sergeant. But they saw almost no discarded rifles. The BEF was still prepared to fight, no matter the odds.
It was near dusk when L’Orly called a halt. By then they were exhausted, and just fell where they stood. They had also accumulated several British stragglers, separated from their units. They exchanged food, and the British appreciated the wine ration carried by their allies. L’Orly sat with his officers. ‘We will be in Dunkirk tomorrow morning. I do not know what will happen then. Perhaps we will be offered berths on the ships, perhaps not. But I must tell you that I can no longer consider myself in command. It is every man for himself, eh? Those of you who do not wish to go to England, well, the decision is up to you. If you decide not to go, you will have to surrender to the Boche.’
‘Are you going to England, sir?’ someone asked.
‘The decisions must be individual, and private,’ L’Orly said, and left them.
‘Will you go?’ Henri asked Pierre.
‘If I am offered a berth, yes.’
‘You will abandon France, abandon your family?’
‘I can’t do either France or my family much good in a German prison camp. Anyway, they will have gone down to Paulliac by now. They will be safe there.’
‘My mother and father will have returned to Dieppe,’ Henri said.
‘That should be safe enough.’
‘Do you not suppose that if the Germans win another battle they will move to the Channel coast?’
‘I would think they’d go for Paris first. Anyway, who says they’re going to win another battle?’
Henri looked at him, and he flushed. ‘If I go to England,’ Henri said. ‘I may never see my parents again. Or Amalie. She will be with them.’
Pierre preferred not to comment on that. He had no doubt that Amalie would have gone south with her own family. ‘You cannot see them either from a German prison camp,’ he said.
‘I am not going to a German prison camp. I am going to Dieppe.’
‘How can you do that? You would be deserting. An officer does not desert. Anyway, you would have to go through the German lines.’
‘There are no Germans on the coast yet. As for deserting, L’Orly has just said it is every man for himself. Once I have made contact with my family, I will rejoin the army. Will you not come with me?’
Pierre pretended to consider. But his decision had already been made. He had been horrified by the way the French army had just fallen apart, the errors of his commanding officers. He had known his tank was superior to any panzer. But not to two or three at once. The German armour had moved as a single immense and powerful force; the French had been split up into separate units, none larger than a regiment, most much smaller, and hurried to and fro as support for the infantry. While the infantry, with a few notable exceptions, had simply not wanted to fight. Even from his privileged position as a de Gruchy, Pierre had been aware of the political crises of the last few years, the increasing Communist infiltration of French industry, French thought. But the army had always been above that, he had supposed. Certainly in an elite corps like the Motorized Cavalry morale had always been high. But now it seemed that the army had also been infiltrated by Communists and pacifists, men who only wanted the war to be over, no matter what humiliation might follow.
If that were true, then the war was lost. But the British were showing no signs of collapsed morale or anxiety for peace. Listening to the sappers’ conversation, if they discussed the war and their parlous situation at all, it was to remark that there must have been the most tremendous ‘cock-up’ somewhere, but their attitude was one of resignation, an acceptance that these things regularly happened, rather than either anger or despair, while there was utter confidence that somehow things would turn out all right and that ‘Jerry’ would be beaten. After all, the reasoning seemed to be, Great Britain had not lost an important war since long before it had taken the name — the American business was regarded as a colonial revolt, and even that had ended without any serious damage to Britain itself. He felt that if France was ever to regain its honour, much less its prestige, it would have to be with the help and at the side of men like these. And he had no fears for the safety of his family, tucked away down in Gascony. ‘I’ll go with the British,’ he said.
Henri regarded him for several moments, but decided against offering an opinion on the decision. He held out his hand. ‘Then I will wish you fortune, and hope to see you again.’
The Intelligence unit was taken off one of the Dunkirk docks by a destroyer. James and Watson stood on deck to look back at the town and the beaches, the sand crowded with men, and more arriving every minute. Lines were already stretching into the water as the soldiers reached for the tugs and destroyers that w
ere nosing in as close as they dared, putting down boats to pick up the soldiers. But there were too many men, and so few ships. ‘Poor bastards,’ Watson commented. ‘Do you think many of them will get off?’
‘Doesn’t look too hopeful,’ James said. ‘And those are fighting men. They should be here, and us there.’
‘You don’t suppose we’re more important than they?’
‘Not now, we’re not. If we ever were. But now, what have we got to offer?’ He had felt this increasingly during the retreat when they had been driven into the town, passing on their way lines of retreating soldiers, plodding onwards, being strafed by the Luftwaffe, but still not reduced to a rabble.
Watson scratched his head. ‘Well, don’t feel too bad about it. We haven’t got there yet.’
He pointed at the row of planes swooping down on them. The sky was scoured by vapour trails, because the RAF was also up there, doing its best to protect the beaches, but it was outnumbered, and this squadron had broken through. The destroyer had just left the dockside and was still in the lengthy channel leading to the open sea. Thus there was no room to manoeuvre; its only defence lay in its anti-aircraft batteries, which opened up with everything they had. Streams of tracer bullets screamed skywards, and one of the attacking planes plunged downwards, smoke streaming behind it, far too low for the pilot to bail out. ‘Poor bastard,’ James said.
‘For God’s sake,’ Watson protested. ‘They’re shooting at us. I’m going below.’
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