by Ariel Lawhon
“Yeah?”
“When you get through to London next, I want you to request that they order Gaspard to withdraw. Ask that they apply leverage through de Gaulle’s Free French forces. That’s the only authority he feels answerable to.”
“Think that will work, Duckie?”
“It better. If Gaspard won’t take direct orders from de Gaulle, he won’t take them from anyone.”
By now I am so exhausted that I can’t take another step. I throw myself onto the bed at the back of the bus and groan. It feels as though all my muscles are separating themselves from the bones, like they’re peeling away in revolt. I try to count how many hours of actual sleep I’ve gotten in the last seventy-two hours and come up with five, but that seems wrong. It seems impossible. How can anyone survive on so little sleep?
“Really?” Denis asks. “You’re sleeping in this ruckus?”
“At this point I could sleep anywhere. I just need a kip, or I won’t be able to function at all. Wake me when you get through to London.”
Denis doesn’t argue with me again, so I take off my boots and both revolvers. I loosen the belt on my trousers. The only thing that could keep me awake right now would be an armed German soldier right in front of me. Even then it might take Obersturmführer Wolff. I am asleep before I can even begin fantasizing about putting my knife against his throat.
* * *
—
I’m woken sometime later by a gentle nudge from Denis.
“We’ve got it, Duckie!” he says, and I don’t miss the triumphant note in his voice. “London has given the order for Gaspard to evacuate!”
I’m up, then. Boots on. Belt tightened. Revolvers strapped in. “Let me see it.”
He hands me the message and I read it carefully. “Will you do something for me?” I ask.
“What?”
“Type it again and this time sign it Koenig.”
Denis blinks at me a few times. “As in Marie-Pierre Koenig? De Gaulle’s second in command? Why?”
“Because if we sign it de Gaulle, Gaspard will know we’re bluffing. But he respects titles and authority—at least French titles and authority—and an order from Koenig should do the trick.”
Denis bends over his machine and begins typing. “And I suppose you’re going to deliver this to him?”
“I wouldn’t miss the chance to see Gaspard back down for anything.”
I am a bit sad to abandon my bus, particularly my mattress, but time is of the essence. I grab my pack and the little crate that came through in last night’s shipment and I say good-bye to Denis, who is leaving to meet up with Jacques, then head to our rendezvous point at Fridefont. I watch him load his Renault with radio equipment and speed away from the encampment. And then I’m off in the truck to put Gaspard in his place.
* * *
—
It’s even more satisfying than I expected. Gaspard is a mile away, atop the plateau, and it takes only a few minutes to reach his group. I march past a visibly frustrated Hubert and offer him one sly wink before handing Gaspard the message with all the pomp and circumstance due such an official communiqué. He reads it, slowly.
“Koenig,” he whispers, in awe. Then he looks at me and I don’t see even the hint of suspicion in his eyes. “When did you receive this?”
“Less than fifteen minutes ago.”
Gaspard turns to the horizon and squints at the sun. “We don’t have much time.”
And that is all it takes for the most stubborn man in all of France to begin giving the word for his men to retreat.
“We will see you in Fridefont tonight! Fournier will be waiting for us there,” I say as I jog toward my truck.
“How the hell did you do that?” Hubert hisses as he trots along beside me.
“Just a bit of lying and forgery. All’s fair in love and war, you know.”
“Where’s Denis?”
“With Jacques, on the way to Fridefont.”
“Excellent! I’ll see you there.”
Hubert turns to his car and I turn to the truck I’ve been using all day, and before long we’re both speeding through two separate clouds of dust along the ridge toward Fridefont. But Hubert has the advantage of a lead foot and the little Renault, so before long I’ve lost sight of him.
* * *
—
I make it no farther than the outskirts of Saint-Martial before I’m spotted by the German Henschels. I’ve been driving for several kilometers along the winding, exposed mountaintop road when I hear the incessant buzzing of a plane engine. Five aeroplanes zoom above the forest in front of me, skimming the treetops, headed for Gaspard’s group. Then they pass over me with a roar and I gun the engine, trying to get as much distance between myself and them as possible.
A nervous glance in the rearview mirror proves that it was indeed too much to hope that they would consider me a worthless target. One of the aeroplanes peels out of formation and circles back. It swoops around in a wide arc until it’s parallel with my truck and then accelerates. I watch the plane, knowing exactly what it’s going to do. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I have no one to fire on the plane and no good place to pull off the road. No cover to speak of whatsoever. The best I can hope for is to get farther into the valley, where it will be difficult for the Henschel to maneuver.
But it’s too late. The plane is in front of me once again, barreling toward me, lower now. There is a ferocious roar and then machine-gun fire on the road fifty yards in front of me. I can see the sand pop up in the little puffs as it absorbs each bullet.
“Merde. Merde. Merde.”
Terror is a strong thing. It comes upon you instantly and consumes all thought and reason. I cannot speed up or I will meet the gunfire sooner. I cannot veer off the road or I will find myself tumbling, ass over teakettle, down the cliff into the valley below. And I cannot slam on the brakes or I will give the Henschel a sitting target. Conscious mind paralyzed, I lift my foot from the pedal, and the truck slows down. Miraculously this does the trick.
The Henschel barrels toward me, firing, and the last spray of bullets stops just feet from the front of my truck as he roars overhead once more. And then I am gunning the engine, flying down the mountain road and into the valley. I have bought myself only a bit of time, however, because the Henschel has turned and is coming at me again. Only this time it’s decided to make short work of me and is approaching from behind.
I can hear the screeching whine of the plane in a sharp descent. It levels out, lining my truck in its sights for a merciless strafing. I have thirty seconds at most and my overwhelmed, exhausted brain will not tell me what to do.
And that is when I see the young maquisard standing in the middle of the road in front of me, waving his arms.
“Louis?”
I slam on the brakes, spitting sand all over him.
“Get out!” he shouts. “Bazooka sent me.”
One quick glance in the rearview mirror, and I’ve thrown the car door open. Louis grabs my arms and pulls me toward the ditch before I remember something.
“No! Wait!” I yank my arm out of his and run back to the truck, where my pack, Sten gun, and the package I received from London are sitting on the seat.
I hear the wicked popping of machine-gun fire. I smell exhaust and the harsh scent of gasoline settling into the air. I grab my things and throw myself toward Louis just as the clatter of bullets hitting metal explodes around us.
I am thrown none too gently into the ditch and then all the air is knocked out of my lungs as Louis lands on top of me. His hands cover my ears and his face is buried in my shoulder. My belongings are scattered on the ground in front of us. “What the ever-loving hell did you do that for?” he screams. “What is so important that you would risk your life to get it?”
I would like to explain myself, but he
is heavier than he looks and my mouth flaps open and closed like a dying fish as my lungs struggle to expand. As soon as he rolls off of me the truck explodes and I am silenced, not by lack of oxygen, but by the giant fireball that roars a few measly feet above us. The heat is immoral, something straight from the first circle of hell, and I fear it will descend on us and burn us alive. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of burned hair. Louis won’t need a haircut anytime soon.
“Quick,” he says, yanking me to my feet. “We need to get to the woods. He’s circling back around.”
FRIDEFONT
By the time Louis and I reach Fridefont, our rendezvous spot has been abandoned. Given that my truck is now a burned-out shell on the side of the road, we had to make the trip on foot. And what should have taken two hours has taken fifteen instead.
“They left without us.” I look around a clearing filled with nothing but crushed grass and cigarette butts.
“Not everyone.” I turn to find Anselm emerging from the tree line. “Denden left with Fournier’s group and Hubert with Gaspard’s. Young Louis here was charged with making sure you arrived safely—though I daresay the two of you could have been a bit quicker about it.”
“There was a bit of an incident,” I tell him.
“I figured you were out there, courting trouble.”
“It was the other way around, in fact. Trouble takes great delight in courting me. But we made it.” I am pleased to see my old friend. “You stayed behind?”
He grins, and the effect is quite comical given that his hair is wild and his face so dirty it looks like he’s been rolling around a coal bucket. “I did say I would make sure you were looked after.”
I throw myself at Anselm and give him the tightest hug I’m capable of in my exhausted condition. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I pull away when I hear Louis laughing.
“What?”
He’s got his back turned to us, his face lifted toward the plateau we’ve just fled. “Think about it,” he says. “The damn Boche are up there, wondering where the hell we are. They thought we were putting up such a bloody fight because they had us surrounded. And now they’re wandering around the top of that hill, scratching their heads, baffled that a group of French farmers and factory workers evaporated into thin air.”
“There’ll be time for patting ourselves on the back later,” Anselm says, picking at a scab on his chin. “We have to get to Saint-Santin and reconvene with the others. They’ve got a day’s head start and a far better idea of where they’re going than we do.”
Louis shakes his head. “Not entirely true. I helped Fournier set up the river crossings. I know where to go.”
Anselm squints at him. “River crossings?”
“The Germans patrol all the bridges along the River Truyère, along with any sections of the river that can be crossed on foot. For the most part it’s deep and treacherous, with rapids and rocks at every turn,” Louis says.
Anselm does not look encouraged. “Then how are we supposed to cross?”
“Fournier surveyed miles and miles of river along the plateaus, looking for the most dangerous crossing points, places the Germans would never think we’d be stupid enough to try. Then we installed layers of heavy stone slabs across the river at ten different points. They are buried eleven inches beneath the water’s surface, so you can’t see them from above. All we have to do is remove our boots, roll up our pants, balance ourselves with a walking stick—which we’ve kept in bundles at all the crossing points—and walk to the other side.”
“I’ll be damned,” Anselm says. Then he motions to Louis. “Lead the way.”
* * *
—
The river crossing is not quite as simple as Louis made it sound. Moss has grown across the rock slabs and, in our bare feet, they are slippery as greased ball bearings. But with only a few minor wobbles, the three of us make it across without falling in the drink. And a good thing too, because with all the spring rains and snowmelt higher in the mountains, the Truyère is moving at such a ferocious clip they’d likely find our corpses bobbing in the Garabit Viaduct two months from now.
“How far from here to Saint-Santin on foot?” I ask Louis once we’re safely on the other side of the river.
“About four days,” he says. “But only because we have to go south first, cross another mountain range, then loop our way north to avoid the German patrols. The Maquis have been separated into groups of fifty and are each taking different routes to avoid capture.”
“Excellent idea,” I mutter. “I wonder who thought of that.”
We take a moment to put our shoes back on and arrange our clothing. I dig around my pack, looking for a bit of food, and find a half-eaten package of biscuits and three squares of chocolate that I share with Louis and Anselm. Sadly, after having risked my life to save that package from Buckmaster, it contained only tea, toothpaste, and two cans of sardines. Louis and I ate the sardines last night for dinner. Everything else is crammed into my pack.
“Ready?” Anselm asks.
“I suppose lying right here and sleeping for two days isn’t an option?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Then help me up.”
SAINT-SANTIN
The German Luftwaffe crisscrosses the entire area during our four-day march. Sometimes they drop bombs, hoping to hit random groups of Maquis, and sometimes they scream low over the treetops trying to flush us out. I imagine it’s harder for the larger groups to avoid detection, but we just stop and rest beneath a tree until they’re gone.
We sleep beneath the stars, drink from streams, and eat what roots and herbs we can find this early in the summer. In desperation one evening I eat a handful of green strawberries that I find beside a creek, then spend the rest of the evening with a bellyache. The nights are chilly, and we huddle together for warmth. Finally, just after noon on the fourth day, mud-splattered and bug-bitten, we stumble into the Maquis encampment outside Saint-Santin. The entire area is thick with trees and the Maquis remain hidden from the German bombers beneath the sprawling canopy.
Gaspard is the first to spot us. I would have liked a bit of warning before facing him. I would have liked the chance to wash my face, brush my hair, and put on lipstick. However, I root myself to the ground, straighten my back, and stare him down as he stomps toward me.
“Salut, Andrée!” he shouts across the clearing. I see a flash of teeth and think, for a moment, that he’s ready to bite. But then I realize he is smiling. In all the months that I have dealt with Gaspard, I have never once seen him smile. The effect is rather disconcerting. I take a step back.
He stands before me, nodding. “You were right,” he says.
Then, before I can protest, he drops one heavy arm across my shoulders and guides me into camp. Gaspard says nothing else, but I think this is his way of communicating that he respects me, that we are comrades-in-arms. I’d shake him off if I didn’t fear it would break this fragile truce. I need him to cooperate now more than ever.
Gaspard leads me to where Hubert is lying on his back, arms behind his head, fast asleep.
I kick Hubert’s boots. “Wake up! This is no time for a nap.”
He startles awake, takes one look at me, and leaps to his feet. Hubert is not an emotive man. He’s not affectionate either. But he pulls me away from Gaspard and tight into his chest. “We thought you were dead.”
“Ha! It will take more than a Henschel, a blown-up truck, and a bit of machine-gun fire to kill me. I’m made of sterner stuff than that, you know.”
“I don’t even want to know,” Hubert says, throwing his hands up.
“Good. Because I’m too starving and exhausted to explain. What do you have in the way of food around this place?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Haven’t you radioed
for provisions?”
“About that, Duckie,” Denis Rake says. I turn to find him, hands stuffed in pockets, looking rather abashed. “I had to bury my radio and transmitter before we left Fridefont.”
“Why the bloody hell would you do a thing like that?”
He greets me with a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Protocol, darling.”
“What about the codes?”
“Chewed them into paste and swallowed them.”
“Are you saying that we are a four-day hike from where London believes us to be, with no means of communication and no way to feed or continue to arm seven thousand French Resistance soldiers?”
“What I’m saying, Duckie, is that we are absolutely, catastrophically buggered without a radio.”
Lucienne Carlier
GARE DE MARSEILLE-BLANCARDE
December 7, 1942
As the occupation has worsened, the daughters of France begin fighting back in their own way. For every ten German men who have poured into the Côte d’Azur, three German women have followed. Wives. Girlfriends. Lovers. All of them eager to escape the shambles of their own country and take advantage of the beauty and luxury of Marseille. The French hate these impostors, of course, and do everything possible to make their lives a living hell. Observing that most Frenchwomen go without hats, the officers’ wives stop wearing them as well. Within days the women of Marseille rally and begin wearing hats again, but, determined to thumb their noses at the Hausfraus, they all stick green feathers—nicknamed les haricots verts, our rude term for the Germans—in the bands and walk, head high, knowing their rivals will not follow suit because, now, simply wearing a hat is to spit at the Third Reich.
However, the daughters of France save their deepest ferocity for fellow countrymen who choose to collaborate with the Germans. The men are categorically ignored—on the street and in the bedroom—which is considered to be a fate worse than death to a Frenchman. But it is the women who are found to be in league with the Germans who are treated ruthlessly. They are shaved bald and thrown into the streets with a swastika painted on their foreheads in red lipstick. It marks them as traitors on sight. A shameful excommunication.
