In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Far from it.’ He’d looked embarrassed, then. ‘He begged my pardon, I said no, my fault.’

  She’d laughed. ‘Really…’

  ‘Ludicrous. Absolutely…’

  And in slight contrast, seconds later, Schutzpolizei on the corner, watching the flow of traffic and pedestrians around them, one of them focusing on the gazo as Guillaume brought it slowly up to stop at the intersection and wait to turn right. Both with pistols in holsters on their belts. Rosie was on that side of the car, of course – sitting there trying to look prim and proper with her handbag – which Léonie had given her at the last moment, as they’d been leaving the flat – on her lap. The Boches were concentrating their attention on her, she realized: maybe taking in Guillaume too, but she was getting the brunt of it.

  As bad as those few minutes in the hat-shop.

  ‘Damn it…’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She hoped. ‘I think they’re only—’

  ‘I know, I know…’ Craning forward, watching traffic streaming from the left. Meaning he was aware they were only Schutzpolizei, semi-military traffic cops. But they could still read ‘Wanted’ posters. He was drumming his fingers on the wheel… ‘Rosie – if it looks like they’re making any sort of move—’

  ‘My papers are good enough, and the story’ll hold water.’

  ‘I was going to say don’t react, don’t see it. Stop looking anxious, wind that window down a bit—’

  ‘Gap coming!’ Thinking: He can talk – about looking anxious… ‘Guillaume – now—’

  Her blurred sideways view of the two Germans whipped away – out of the corners of her eyes and into memory, history – as the gazo swung out into the busier road. She’d said after a moment, in a degree of relief that was a reflection of how tense she’d been, ‘You’d think they’d be feeling the strain. Boches, let alone – I was thinking yesterday, seeing miliciens down in the street – French collabs and suchlike… I mean, with Allied armies on the move now – and surely they must realize there can only be one end…’

  ‘I doubt they’re hearing much about it. And it does seem to have been a long time practically static – since the landings. Still does… OK, the fighting’s obviously grim… Did you get any news earlier on?’

  ‘Yes – meant to tell you. Yanks have taken Laval and are advancing on Le Mans. Which I suppose could be the thrust that’s going to encircle Paris – Michel’s theory, a long right hook he called it. Around Paris and down the Seine to Rouen. Then let’s hope eastward and over the Rhine. But Laval’s real progress, surely.’

  ‘Are such things as counter-attacks though, aren’t there? And the Boches aren’t bad soldiers. Also “Secret Weapons” – such as your rockets, maybe. They’ll be putting their faith in something of that sort.’ Nodding to himself: ‘I’d say that’s your answer.’

  * * *

  ‘Clear sky, thank God.’

  ‘Yes.’ She agreed. ‘We’re lucky.’

  It was a fact: it could have been overcast, or the wrong time of the month, and the Special Duties Squadrons needed a moon for the clandestine operations. She’d had this in mind all week, remembering there’d been a newish one at the time of the disaster at Thérèse’s place, which meant it would be near-enough full tonight.

  ‘How far now?’

  ‘About half an hour. Smoke?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Gauloises again; she took out two, gave him back the packet. ‘Thought you’d never offer… Light yours, shall I?’

  ‘By tomorrow you’ll be able to buy your own, eh?’

  ‘If I’m to be left here…’

  ‘But now listen – I doubt we’ll be stopped, out here, but if we are I think we should change the story slightly. Forget the cousin in Commercy – too close, a gendarme might come from there himself and ask some question you’d make a hash of. Let’s say I’m on veterinary business, just brought you along for the ride. I still met you when you brought your mother’s cat in, all that business. OK?’

  She’d lit both cigarettes, passed one to him. ‘Along for the ride…’

  ‘Yes – but – if you don’t mind – easily believable?’

  ‘Since I look like a tart anyway?’

  ‘Not at all. You’re very attractive, was what I was implying. Even under a layer of boot-polish. The fact your turnout’s a bit garish—’

  ‘I’ll look better with the stuff I hope Marilyn’s bringing.’

  A sideways glance, through smoke: ‘Who’s Marilyn?’

  ‘Tonight’s courier. My guess is it’ll be Marilyn Stuart, Second Officer WRNS. “F” Section admin, mostly.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure… Here’s our turn, now.’

  Off to the right – uphill, unpaved road, vistas of woodland ahead and on his side. He added, ‘That’s the St Mihiel road we’ve just left, you realize. St Mihiel mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  Luc had been going there, she remembered. Nothing else. The gazo’s tyres drumming noisily on this rough surface; and the thought of Luc bringing a fleeting image of Michel. Guillaume telling her ‘In the last war – September 1918 – there was a battle here, the first large-scale American involvement. There was an enormous German salient – the St Mihiel salient – a bulge westward, in other words – and this first-ever all-American army got the job of eliminating it, straightening the line. Yanks under General Pershing, who was under Marshal Foch of course – and they didn’t see eye to eye, exactly. By the time they’d argued it out, they used only seven US divisions, instead of fifteen – divisions twice the size of ours or the French, admittedly – and six French, and the tactic was to attack simultaneously in two prongs – a pincer-movement – one on the salient’s western flank and the main one here in the south – to squeeze it out like a boil, and trap thousands of Boches in the middle, they hoped. Huge artillery support, nearly three thousand guns, mostly French; and the air element all British, RFC and RNAS. As it turned out, the Boches knew it was coming – everyone in France knew – and began to pull out before it started. So a lot of the bombardment fell in empty trenches and not as many were trapped as they’d hoped. But the salient was eliminated. Wasn’t much resistance, the whole front was crumbling by then. Am I boring you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘General Ludendorff had launched his great offensive too soon, you see. Because the Yanks were coming in. By the time they did, he’d really shot his bolt. Troops exhausted, morale at low ebb. Whereas the Yanks were fresh, keen as mustard, only just getting into their stride.’ Guillaume waved a hand towards the countryside ahead: ‘Where we are now would be where the attack went in, on the salient’s southern flank. The Yanks’ right-hand pincer. Corps commander by name of Ligget – brilliant soldier, finished up commanding their First Army. And up there – see those woods? That’s where we’re going – another turn-off just over this rise. Paved road there again. Déchambaud’s place is – well, a hamlet on a crossroads, just a few dwellings and a blacksmith’s shop, his cottage and small-holding a few hundred metres down the road. He’s a retired railwayman, runs a few sheep and grows vegetables, and his wife has a market-stall in Commercy. His first name’s Fernand, and hers is Ursule.’ A sideways glance: ‘Consider yourself briefed.’

  * * *

  Déchambaud came plodding to meet them. Guillaume had parked his gazo in an open-fronted barn about fifty metres up a track which led up from the lane, beside the cottage. It looked as if space had purposefully been left for him; there was a donkey-trap in the barn and another had been taken out, parked in the entrance to a field on the other side. Unkempt hedgerows crowding over, rickety shed with missing boards, that field-gate held together with baling-twine: now this slightly stooped old man – sunburnt, craggy face, fringe of grey-white hair, and a long arm extended to Guillaume: ‘Monsieur Rouquet!’

  ‘Fernand, mon vieux…’

  Rosie’s turn then to shake his hand.

  ‘Mam’selle…’

  ‘Monsie
ur Déchambaud.’

  Distantly, the sound of a train. Not all that distant. Guillaume commented, jerking a thumb, ‘Be a good day when that goes off with a bang!’

  A grunt: a nod that was upward, like a horse tossing its head. ‘Not long now, please God.’

  ‘Scheduled for destruction.’ Guillaume told her, ‘The Paris to Metz line. Part of Michel’s brief – that and a few others all at once. Fernand will be taking a hand in this one. Do it now, they’d have ample time for repairs – and reprisals, searches and so on. But all at once, and when they’re either running or trying to reinforce—’

  ‘Michel’s set that up?’

  Déchambaud glanced at Guillaume: ‘She knows Michel, uh?’

  The name was effectively a pass-word, she thought – as he’d said it would be with the man in Troyes. If one ever got there. That train was still audible, maybe at about its closest, and she could see it in her imagination: Paris to Metz, whereas the one she’d been on had been Paris–Nancy – and doubtless continuing into Germany. Via Saarbrücken, she supposed; out of memory interpreting the distant hum into the rhythm of the wheels as they’d pounded in her brain all that frightful day – Ravensbrück. Ravensbrück. Ravensbrück… Hour after hour. Hot, urine-scented compartment in which they’d embarked at the Gare d’Est: herself and Lise – long-limbed, dark cropped hair and by that time almost skeletally thin – and the Belgian woman and her daughter, and middle-aged Edna, who pre-war had been a schoolmistress, and Daphne – flame-red hair, as much as they’d left her of it, and in a defiant but also hopeless way still elegant; and Maureen, the baby of the party, who at some earlier stage had wet herself. Chained, doomed, knowing beyond doubt or hope that the end of the road was an extermination camp, Vernichtungslager; if not Ravensbrück, which was the most likely prospect, the women’s hell, then one of the others. Remembering one of her fellow prisoners – it had been Edna – speculating as to where they were being taken, and Maureen holding up her manacled wrists, wondering too ‘Yes, where, in all this finery?’ Suggesting then ‘Ascot, d’you think?’ and Daphne’s drawled ‘Wouldn’t we just wow ’em!’

  All dead, by now. Except for herself and Lise, almost certainly all dead.

  The cottage door banged open. Guillaume urging her, ‘Come on.’ A hand on her elbow: adding in English, ‘Wakey wakey!’ She’d been lost, walking the fifty or sixty metres with them like a zombie. Couldn’t hear the train now: only Déchambaud calling into the kitchen, ‘Ursule, our friends are here—’

  ‘Heavens, haven’t I got eyes and ears?’ Pushing out past him. ‘Monsieur Rouquet – ah, you’re welcome. And the young lady. Please, come in!’

  Short and stout, with enormously thick arms and a hand that felt like a lump of warm dough. Hairs on her chin: nice smile, though. She had supper ready for them, she was saying – pigeon pie. Guillaume thanking her profusely, but checking the time and saying it was important they should hear the nine thirty broadcast of messages personnels. Anyway there’d be time to eat first.

  * * *

  The pie was delicious, and they’d wiped their plates clean well before the time of the broadcast. Plans were discussed, during the meal. Guillaume had an ‘S’ phone here which he’d brought on his Thursday visit and would be using tonight; and Déchambaud had arranged for three helpers – whom he named, and Guillaume evidently knew – to meet them at the Xanadu field at 2300, by which time they’d have reconnoitred the surroundings and approaches. One of them – name of Groslin – would be bringing a gazo van.

  ‘Could have used a cart, Fernand.’

  ‘Too slow, I thought, on this occasion, with so small an interval of time. And Groslin’s used to driving without lights.’

  Ursule nodding: ‘A fox, that man!’

  ‘We’ll need transport anyway – I’ve asked for some stuff for ourselves, as well as the – special delivery, you might call it.’

  ‘A van’s ideal.’ Rosie cut in: ‘Load the stuff into it, and perhaps the courier and I could do our talking in it. Better than in a ditch. Then either transfer it all into the Hudson, or have – Groslin, is it? – drive us and the gear back here.’

  ‘Good…’

  ‘You see.’ Their hostess nodding to the men, and tapping her own head. ‘When you want clear thinking – uh?’

  * * *

  By nine forty they’d had the final confirmation of Gaston’s twins. The wireless went back into its hiding place – some dark hole elsewhere in the cottage – and Déchambaud brought the ‘S’ phone in its green carrying-case. Guillaume checked it over. Webbing harness, headset, microphone, collapsible dipole aerial; all of which, plus its ten rechargeable batteries and vibrator power-pack, were contained in canvas pouches on the harness.

  ‘OK.’ Indicating a Morse lamp, which Déchambaud had now produced. ‘You handle that, Justine?’

  ‘Pleasure. Recognition letter’s R, isn’t it?’

  ‘R for Rosie, maybe. The Stens next, Fernand?’

  Two of them, Stens Mark II, each in its three component parts, wrapped in sacking. Rosie assembled one of them, squinting down its short barrel before fitting it: Guillaume telling her, ‘Sorry we only have these two here. I’ve a pistol with me, though – the Beretta I mentioned. Have that if you like.’

  Madame – Ursule – lent her a sweater to wear under Thérèse’s rain-jacket. They’d be out there several hours, at least until 2 a.m., and with the sun down it was already turning cool. Guillaume strapped on the ‘S’ phone harness, shrugged on a raincoat over it, and slung the Sten over that. One magazine in each gun, two spares each, twenty-eight rounds per magazine. Magazines held thirty rounds, but compressing the spring too far increased the likelihood of jamming.

  ‘All set?’

  She was carrying her own suitcase, formerly Silvie de Plesse’s. She’d put the signal-lamp in it, and the Beretta and one spare clip in her jacket pockets. It was a neat little weapon: might keep it, she thought, take it along as well as the Llama which Marilyn – or someone – should be bringing. If she was going anywhere. Guillaume looked huge in his bulked-out raincoat; she suggested, ‘I could relieve you of the rations?’

  ‘Dare say you could.’ Thermos of coffee-substitute and sandwiches intended for Marilyn – or whoever. The case still wasn’t heavy, and they only had a kilometre and a half to cover, to the rendezvous. Madame Déchambaud kissed them all goodbye – Rosie first, then Guillaume, then her husband. He assured her, ‘I and Monsieur Rouquet and perhaps the young lady will be back by two thirty.’

  ‘God willing.’

  ‘Or say three at the latest. You know how it is.’

  * * *

  Out from the back of the cottage, through a field of low-growing vegetables, and keeping in the shadow of the hedge: Déchambaud leading, then Rosie, Guillaume as rearguard. Cool and quiet, with the almost full moon still low in the southern sky. Over a gate then, into a field that had sheep in it, and following another hedgerow along to a wire-mesh fence, which they crossed and were then entering woods. About ten thirty now, she guessed – visualizing a black-painted Hudson on the airfield at Tempsford, Marilyn in a jump-suit padded out with a sweater or two, parachute harness over all that. Recalling her own similar departure from Tempsford, her one and only action-drop, which had been into woods near Cahors. She’d worn a top-coat over her other clothes, trousers pulled up over the coat’s skirts, handbag on a string around her neck and hanging inside the jump-suit. Sweating inside all that, and with that uncomfortable tightness in her gut, she’d remarked to Marilyn, who’d been seeing her off, that she now knew what a barrage-balloon felt like.

  Jokes as camouflage of inner tension, jumping nerves. It was pretty much the same every time, but at least one had learnt that one could handle it.

  Trees thick all round now, hardly any moonlight penetrating. Déchambaud glanced round now and then, and each time she followed suit, checking Guillaume was still behind her. Shifting her suitcase to the other hand, and forging on. Burdens could start
virtually weightless and get heavier in direct proportion to distance covered: it was a phenomenon with which she’d become familiar during training, especially on Scottish mountainsides. No strain, though, this far – touch wood, no heart problem. Touch wood again – plenty of it within reach – her heart might have slipped back into gear. Wouldn’t have to tell Marilyn any lies, therefore. Lise would have trekked through these same woods, she supposed – when she, Rosie, had still been at Thérèse’s farm. Imagining her here beside her now – tall, long-striding… A surprising aspect of having come out of all that alive – when one thought back to how it had been in the train, that total hopelessness, not so much actual despair in one’s conscious thinking as resignation to the inevitability of it – finality as one fact, and loathing of the creatures who were responsible for it as another – and reminding oneself that when one had gone into training as an agent, one had done so in full awareness that the chances of survival were no better than fifty-fifty. They’d all been told so over and over. So OK, you’d gone into it with your eyes open, and here it was: so shut your eyes, say your prayers…

  Stopping abruptly – because Déchambaud had. He’d looked back – with a hand up. She crouched – as he had now. Motionless, listening. Heart thumping a bit hard but steadily. Seeing him quite clearly, although behind her Guillaume was invisible. Trees more sparse ahead there… But – that train business, and Fresnes prison before that, and the Gestapo in Paris – thinking about it now, and having talked about it with Léonie, was like looking back into a sort of underworld from which one had escaped only by sheer luck – and which was still there, an abyss into which one single stroke of bad luck could very easily see one slipping back.

  Here and now, maybe the darkness and unfamiliarity with one’s surroundings contributed to that feeling. Déchambaud up again, and two others – one already with him and the other just materializing, forming and solidifying out of shadow. She could make out the shape of a Sten in the crook of that one’s arm. It wasn’t just that the trees were sparser there, she realized, that was the end of the wood, edge of open ground under a pale wash of moonlight. Guillaume closing up from behind calling softly ‘All clear, Fernand?’ She’d had the Beretta in her hand, thumb on its safety-catch, slid it back into her pocket as she went forward close behind him.