Death Ray

by Craig Simpson

  ‘As the French say, we’ve préparé le feu!’ Loki announced. ‘Do you want to do the honours, or shall I?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Striking a match, I waited for its flame to glow strong and bright and then flung it down into a puddle of paraffin. The flame fizzed and died. I tried again. Once more the match fizzled out.

  ‘Try holding it just above the floor. Let it ignite the fumes.’

  Third time lucky. A sheet of orange-blue flame unfolded and crept across the floor, then climbed the walls. It crackled and spat nicely. I could feel the heat against my face.

  Hurriedly tumbling out of the door, Loki whispered, ‘Now let’s wake everyone up!’

  Running through the streets, we hammered on doors and shouted, ‘Au feu! Au feu!’ Making for the churchyard, we leaped a wall and hid ourselves in dense bushes. At first, nothing. Then I saw lights come on. Then a voice. More voices. Then shouts of panic. Frantic footsteps hurried to and fro. I heard someone shout to fetch buckets, lots of buckets.

  The hall was ablaze! Even from our place of hiding we could see the glow. Several motorbikes roared into the village, followed by trucks. Within minutes, the yells from men with thick rural French accents were joined by others speaking German. Eventually Loki couldn’t resist. He had to take a peek. Rising up, he parted the branches of the bush, looked out over the wall, and gasped. Tapping me on my shoulder, he encouraged me to look too.

  The fire had taken hold and was tearing through the building. There were two lines of villagers, one strung out to the trough of water in the square, the other towards the river, each frantically passing buckets, pots and pans to one another. The men nearest the building were flinging the contents at the blaze – theirs was a hopeless task. But what amazed me most was that amid their lines stood Germans. Loads of them. They were helping!

  Feeling jubilant, I realized my plan was working better than I could ever have hoped for. Fritz wasn’t just distracted, he’d been roped in. They weren’t questioning people, or inspecting papers, or searching anywhere.

  Just as Loki began congratulating me, we heard a terrifying scream, the sort of scream that leaves you cold, as if death is tapping you on your shoulder. It was a young girl’s scream, and it was twice as loud as anybody else’s voice. Loki pointed to a small window in the eaves of the building. ‘Oh my God, Finn. Look! At the upstairs window! There was somebody in there. We didn’t check upstairs. What have we done?!’

  Chapter Twenty

  Sofie’s Choice

  ‘SAUTE, SOFIE! SAUTE!’ a woman cried. But the little girl was hysterical and refused to jump. I could see the flames flickering and licking the walls behind her. She just kept screaming, even when briefly disappearing in clouds of black smoke.

  ‘What on earth was she doing in there?’ I whispered angrily. ‘The place looked empty to me.’

  ‘We should have checked, Finn.’

  ‘There wasn’t time.’

  The hurriedly moving chain of men and buckets, pots and pans looked like some sort of giant centipede, and reminded me of the party game, Pass the Parcel. Only this was no game. The horror of seeing the little girl at the window caused the conveyor belt to stop abruptly as everyone looked up. More villagers began calling out, encouraging the little girl with shoulder-length flaxen-coloured hair to swallow her fear, close her eyes and jump, before it was too late. Three men braved the searing heat to stand beneath the window, their arms held wide, coaxing her, telling her they’d catch her and break her fall, that it was safe to leap, that she must jump.

  The frightened girl sobbed. Women turned away and covered their faces in anguish. Just as all seemed lost, the unexpected happened. A young German soldier rushed forward, grabbed a large pail of water from the hand of an onlooker, lifted it and tipped the contents over his head and over his heavy grey trenchcoat. Throwing the bucket down, he ran into the roaring, spitting inferno and was gone. A second later, part of the roof to the rear of the building gave way with an almighty crash, and sparks and cinders rose high into the night sky. People were forced back. Without explanation the girl suddenly vanished from view. Everyone stood so still, so silently, it was as if they were made of stone.

  Staggering, blackened and smouldering, the young soldier emerged carrying the girl in his arms. The crowd rushed forward and surrounded him. I heard cries of ‘Dieu merci!’ and ‘Grâce au ciel!’

  She was alive! My heart leaped. The young soldier tore off his helmet as men jostled for their turn to pat him on his back and shake his hand. Although the corporal’s hair was matted and singed and his face blackened by soot, I could tell he was probably only a couple of years older than Loki and me.

  Someone – an elderly man with a stoop, I think – began to clap. The crowd joined in. The applause and accompanying cheers grew louder and louder, especially when the other soldiers added their whistles, hoots of delight and appreciative boot-stomping for good measure. For one precious moment I don’t think any of them were thinking about the reason why they’d come to this village. It was hardly what I’d envisaged, but with everyone safe I hoped it would last. ‘Over there, Finn.’ Loki pointed.

  A senior Wehrmacht officer was standing beside his staff car, hands on hips, surveying the scene. I could sense what he was thinking. Was the fire an accident or deliberate? If deliberate, was the Resistance to blame? Was it simply a diversion? I hoped he’d arrived at the conclusion I was praying for – that either way no partisan would be stupid enough to hang around. Squinting slightly, he looked in all directions and then said something to his driver, who merely shrugged and pulled a face. The officer then barked his orders, waved a glove dismissively and climbed back into his car. In minutes the motorbikes and trucks were revving their engines and pulling out, winding in convoy through the small square, into the narrow streets, heading for the open country beyond. I sank down to my knees and blew a huge sigh of relief. ‘That took guts,’ I whispered, the image of the young soldier emerging from the hall still firmly stuck in my mind.

  ‘Yes, and now they’re all pals with the locals. If anyone finds out it was us who set fire to the place, I reckon they’ll either string us up from the nearest tree, or gladly turn us in.’

  ‘I doubt it, Loki.’

  ‘Huh! I don’t want to take the chance.’

  The villagers set about dousing the worst of the flames. When there was little left of the hall and it seemed unlikely the fire would spread, they gradually abandoned the task and drifted off back to their homes. One elderly man stayed behind to keep an eye on the smouldering remains. Carefully working our way through the churchyard, we found an old shed hidden in thick overgrown brambles and bushes. We quietly forced open the door and took shelter inside. The shed was full of rusty tools and dusty cobwebs. It had a heartening forgotten feel about it, as if no one had paid it a visit in months. It felt safe. We removed our wet sweaters and hung them on hooks to dry alongside the hoes, forks and spades, and found some smelly old cloth sacks to wrap round our shoulders for warmth.

  Exhausted, all Loki wanted to do was sleep.

  ‘How’s your head?’ I asked.

  ‘Better,’ he replied. ‘A bit sore, but at least the bleeding’s stopped.’

  We shared some of the water and biscuit rations from the bag and pondered what we were going to do once dawn approached.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Loki, smacking his lips after a swig of water, ‘I suppose we have to head for Rochefort even though we’ve no idea where Jacques and Amélie live. Maybe we can ask around once we get there.’ He wiped the rim of the bottle with his hand and passed it to me.

  ‘Sounds a bit risky. It will expose our poor French and just mentioning the Lefebvre family will draw attention to them. It could prove a death sentence if we’re caught.’

  ‘True.’ We sat in silence for a while before Loki was struck by an idea. ‘Hey, I’ve got it! That man in the boat. The one Jacques was uncertain about. Didn’t Amélie know him? What did she say his name was?’


  It came to me instantly. ‘Of course, Henri Blanc!’ I replied. ‘She said he was a butcher in Rochefort.’

  Loki was euphoric. ‘Then we have a contact, Finn! Someone we can trust. He’s our first port of call. He’ll hide us and get in touch with the others. Brilliant!’

  As my best friend settled contentedly onto his back, folded his arms and tried to grab forty winks, I think he believed all our problems were solved. Yes, Monsieur Blanc’s butcher’s shop was probably safe. The problem was – how the hell were we going to get there? Our clothes were a mess, we were a mess. We’d not last long out in the open. Spotting us crossing muddy fields, people might just look at us and think two lads were larking about in the mud. But once we were in a town we’d have no chance.

  In truth we had few options to deliberate over. Loki’s idea of putting ourselves at the mercy of the local church’s priest was possibly the simplest. We would become someone else’s problem. They’d have to make the arrangements, take the risks. But could we trust our fate to others, to total strangers? Another possibility was to make for the coast, steal a boat and head back to England. It wasn’t too far away. Getting out of enemy territory as quickly as possible certainly had its appeal. But we’d abandoned the Heinkel for a reason – to help Freya and the others, and although I had the feeling they’d probably got away safely, we couldn’t be sure. No, we had to stay, we had to find out. Loki began snoring. I gave him a sharp prod in the ribs. ‘Shush!’

  I didn’t know how he could sleep. My brain was buzzing. I tried to use the time productively. Our biggest problem remained our clothes. They were filthy and torn. We had to get some clean ones. But how? I could think of only two ways. We could look for stuff hung out on washing lines to dry and steal what we needed. But that would be risky, even if we could find a house occupied by two people of our age and size. Or we could do a spot of burglary. That struck me as being even riskier – although, of course, we knew how to do it. That was what some of our training at Arisaig and Mulberry had been about – surviving on the run. I laughed to myself. X had told us we were embarking on a career not far removed from that of the common criminal. How right he was.

  As the hours passed I found my eyes wanting to shut, my chin desperate to rest itself against my chest. The desire to sleep was so powerful it felt as if I’d been drugged. I forced myself to remain awake. My mind wandered over many things, including Véronique and Renard. I shivered when I thought of how the smartly dressed Renard had brazenly walked the streets of Britain as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I pictured him standing before the German High Command in Berlin, gleefully handing over the blueprints while saying how easy it had been. And here I was, hiding out in an old shed somewhere in rural France, clad in sodden, filthy clothes, barely able to speak the lingo. We were both secret agents but there the comparison ended – abruptly. I suddenly felt way out of my depth, a rank amateur. I drew up my knees tightly and wrapped my arms about them.

  At five o’clock in the morning I woke Loki. ‘Best if we move on. There’s about two hours before daylight and I reckon we can put some healthy distance between us and the village in that time.’

  The air was breathlessly still and damp, and filled with the horribly sharp, acrid smell of a wood fire extinguished with water. Reaching the wall of the churchyard and peering over the top, we soon realized that we weren’t going anywhere for a while.

  The elderly man who’d stayed to keep watch on the remains of the hall was talking to another man sitting astride a bicycle. Their rural accents made it doubly difficult for us to work out what they were saying, but the cyclist pointed in various directions and grew quite animated. However one word I did recognize, peppered his sentences like the lead pellets from a shotgun cartridge – barrages.

  Roadblocks!

  Fritz wasn’t giving up quite so easily. For now, it was simply too dangerous to move. Quietly we crept back into the shed and closed the door. We decided to spend the day cleaning our weapons. It was also a good opportunity to rest up and regain our strength. But we remained on edge, continually listening out for approaching footsteps. With the arrival of spring I dreaded that someone might think it was time to tidy up the churchyard, to cut the grass, to trim the bushes. Or maybe some old dear had died and a fresh grave needed to be dug. I prayed our luck would hold, that we’d remain undiscovered.

  I lost count of the number of times I peered at my watch. It felt as if it would never get dark; as if the hour and minute hands were deliberately going slowly just to torture us. Apart from a few vehicles and occasional distant voices and the whistles of approaching and departing trains we heard virtually nothing all day. The trains came and went regularly, arriving at exactly ten minutes past and twenty minutes to the hour. As far as I could work out, those arriving just after the hour were heading in the direction of Rochefort. It was cruel music to our ears. Based on how far we’d run from the drop-off point, we couldn’t be more than fifteen miles from Rochefort. Less than half an hour’s train ride away. Half an hour and we could be in Rochefort! Only we couldn’t. We’d never make it. As soon as a soldier spotted us, the game would be up. And all the stations and trains were bound to be guarded.

  As the light began to fade, I risked taking a peek out of the shed and was heartened to see that a heavy veil of mist was forming. At last something was in our favour. We began gathering up our gear.

  ‘So, our plan is to cut across country, Finn, avoiding the roads. With luck we’ll reach Rochefort well before dawn. I don’t want to spend another night hiding like this,’ Loki said.

  ‘Agreed.’

  When the village lay in darkness, the mist thickening nicely into what the English call a pea souper, we slipped out of the shed, reached the wall to the churchyard and, checking the coast was clear, climbed over. Lights glowed from windows and there was noise coming from several café-bars in and around the square. A few people went about their business in the streets, although thankfully none loitered in conversation on corners or doorsteps. Darting from one dark passageway to the next, we desperately tried not to make too much noise. My heart quickly began racing, fearing that at any second we might stumble across someone. How would they react? How would we react? What could we say? What could we do? But for now Lady Luck remained on our side.

  Having left the village square and bridge well behind, we pressed on and were soon tantalizingly close to open countryside. With only fifty yards to go, just one more corner to negotiate, Loki froze, grabbed me and threw me against a wall. Soldiers!

  We dived for cover behind some bushes. ‘Bloody hell, Finn!’ he whispered into my ear. ‘They’ve still got the roadblocks in place. We’ll have to go round.’

  I surveyed the scene through the thick, leafy branches. The sight of heavy grey trenchcoats, tin helmets and weapons made me swallow hard. There were three of them huddled beside a wooden bus shelter. Behind the shelter stood a tall lamppost, its light casting a ghostly glow through the billowing mist. The soldiers smoked and chatted, their machine guns draped from shoulder straps, their breaths adding to the mist. They looked cold, damp, bored and miserable. They were far from home and had been given the dullest of jobs. They didn’t strike me as being eagle-eyed or intent on looking out for trouble. I guessed if anyone came past they’d probably stop them and merely glance at their papers. Possibly subject them to a quick, half-hearted search. Probably the last thing they expected was to encounter agents from Special Ops! It would be a case of whiling away the hours until someone came to relieve them of their duties and they could go back to barracks or to a bar for a nice cool beer. One looked quite old – in his fifties at a guess. He spoke and laughed in a gratingly loud and gruff tone. The other two were younger – eighteen or nineteen, I reckoned.

  Loki tapped me on my shoulder, leaned forward until his lips were an inch from my ear and whispered, ‘Best if we go that way. We’ll double back around those houses and come out further along.’

  ‘Wait,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got
an idea. Remember what Briggs said to us during our lessons at Mulberry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes you do. When he was teaching us about improvising and disguising ourselves, he said that we should take risks, be daring, use whatever is to hand.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this, Finn. What did you have in mind?’

  I slipped back a little further into the bushes and turned to face him. ‘Listen: as long as we’re dressed like this the odds are stacked against us. It’s hell of a long walk to Rochefort. And our French isn’t brilliant.’

  He grew impatient. ‘Get to the point, Finn.’

  ‘Although our French isn’t completely convincing, our German’s pretty good. I reckon it’s certainly good enough to get us to Rochefort.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘This might sound crazy but don’t dismiss it. Hear me out, OK? What if we take them on, use surprise to get the better of them? We steal their uniforms and catch the next train to Rochefort.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s the craziest plan I’ve ever heard, Finn. I mean, just how exactly do you think we’re going to get the better of them?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. Like this …’ I cupped my hands round Loki’s right ear and whispered my plan. As I did so, a wickedly broad grin formed on his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Hände Hoch!

  ‘LET GO, IT’S mine,’ I said in French, praying my best attempt at an authentic accent would do the trick.

  ‘No it isn’t, it’s mine. Mine, I tell you. Give it here!’

  Behaving as if we couldn’t give a fig about stumbling across the enemy, Loki and I jostled each other along the road towards the soldiers, pushing and shoving, both with one hand on the strap of our bag. It was a pretend tug-of-war, two lads fighting over possession of it. Although startled at hearing us approach, on seeing we were just two boys arguing about something, the soldiers didn’t even bother lifting their weapons. Instead, they watched us with more a sense of amusement than suspicion. Loki had loaded our revolver and wedged it behind his back in the belt of his trousers. The Sten machine guns were safely tucked in the bag, placed on top of everything else in readiness to be whipped out when the right moment came. And that moment was fast approaching.