by Conor Bender
“You are far too cautious,” Talia had said in annoyance. After spending four days in the cottage with nothing but each other for entertainment, they were both ready to step out into the sunlight.
Cutter couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the bitter irony of being locked in a house for multiple days with a pretty woman. Any other chap would have a tale of promiscuous sexual escapades; all he had was a tale of loss playing Faro, Belote, Old Maid, and Cribbage.
On the fifth day, they ambled out into the sun like a pair of golems. The smell of rain on the air and the feel of a soft spring breeze on their faces were welcome.
Talia stretched and looked about. “Maybe the Gestapo are hiding behind that flowerpot waiting for us to step away from the cottage,” she teased.
Cutter looked over and shook his head. “Doubtful. I’d suspect they’re behind that oak over there.”
“Five days in that house was a bit much.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
They made their way through the town, taking their time to stretch their legs. The town was still deserted, but for Cutter it didn’t feel as desolate as before. He wondered if it was because of their self-imposed exile in the house. Coming out of the stiflingly cramped quarters made everything enjoyable in comparison.
The two of them meandered down the street, the heels of Talia’s shoes clicking against the cobblestones of the main road, their fingers interlocked intimately. As bad as things were, Cutter was happy. In the past five days the friction between him and Talia had slowly eased. The lack of trust Talia had for him had ebbed away and was replaced by the foundation of a strong, workable relationship. It hadn’t been easy, but Cutter had earned Talia’s trust by being honest. He looked over at her, a happy grin filling his face. “I’m sure Claude will have something for us.”
Talia’s eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. She was less exuberant than Cutter, and by the look on her face wasn’t as optimistic. “No doubt. Let’s just hope it isn’t bad news.”
Cutter nodded, the grin dissipating from his face. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”
The pair of them made their way up to Claude’s bakery and found him somberly sitting behind the counter.
Cutter nodded to him and his eyes narrowed as he caught a whiff of the pungent smell of bourbon. He looked at Claude and noticed his eyes were red. He was drunk. Cutter exchanged looks with Talia but said nothing. This can’t be good. Claude’s behavior was uncharacteristic of him. Cutter had rarely seen him not in control of his emotions, let alone drunk.
“Bonjour, Claude. What’s wrong?”
Claude shook his head, his speech slurred as he said, “Durand has gone missing.”
“What?” Shock covered Talia’s face, she shot Cutter a concerned look.
Cutter motioned for them both to calm down. “Are you sure he didn’t just leave for a few days?”
“His brothers don’t know where he is.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“A day and a half.” Claude pulled a half-empty bottle of bourbon from below the counter and poured a heavy glass. “Herr Amsel has snatched him up.”
“We don’t know that.” Cutter drummed his fingers on the counter, fear rising in the back of his mind, but he quickly stifled it. If Durand was captured, they had little to no time before Amsel would be coming for them. Cutter started to go through the contingency checklist in his head of what he needed to do if capture was apparent. For the most part, the majority of the list was completed or inapplicable. He and the Resistance operated off different code books and Cutter would need to destroy it once he sent one final transmission on the radio, before destroying that as well. He looked over at Claude. “Where is the radio.”
Claude took a hefty draft from his glass and gave Cutter a dead-eyed look. “I already destroyed it.”
“What?”
“I told them we were compromised and I was preparing to destroy the radio.” Claude recharged his glass. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Before I destroyed it, they sent me this message for you.” He raised the glass to his lips but Cutter stopped him, grabbing his wrist. “Stop drinking. We don’t have time for this.” He deftly took the paper from Claude and pocketed it. He would decode it at Talia’s house.
Talia looked at Claude in confusion. “What will we do now?”
“We?” Claude shrugged off Cutter’s grip and downed the glass of bourbon. “There is no ‘we.’ We are done, finished. I’ll head south to Toulon in the morning. I have a cousin there.”
“And what about Durand?”
“You and I both know if he isn’t already dead, he will be soon.”
“I assume this is goodbye?”
“Were you expecting us to sing “Auld Lang Syne”?”
“Well, no need to be a prick about it Claude,” Cutter said with a hint of annoyance. “Best of luck. If you get captured, burn Durand, don’t burn us.”
“How can you say that?” Talia looked at Cutter in horror.
“Durand is burned; no harm in throwing him under the bus at this point.”
“You really are an ass, Olivier,” Claude said heatedly as he stood up, “but you are right.” He tentatively extended a hand. “Good luck.”
Cutter took it, his icy demeanor thawing a little. “Claude, I hope to see you after this war so we can laugh and cry about it. Good luck.”
Claude gave a weak smile and nodded. He turned to Talia and kissed her on the cheek. “Be safe. Watch over her.”
“I will.” Cutter gently grabbed Talia by the arm and motioned her to the door.
“This is happening too fast.”
“I know, but we need to stay calm,” Cutter murmured under his breath. They walked back to the house. Cutter pulled the message from his pocket, grabbed his code book, and started to decode it. It was a short message and didn’t take long to translate. When he read the message he slumped back in his chair. “Christ almighty.”
Invasion tomorrow. Await retrieval at safe house B.
Talia looked over his shoulder and read the message. “Which safe house are they referring to?”
“Madame Renault’s. We’ll leave tonight.”
“We will?”
Cutter looked up at her. “You’re coming with me. I meant what I said.”
“Will your supervisors let me?”
“I don’t think they can say no when you’re standing on English soil,” Cutter said glibly as he stood and walked over to the fireplace. He put a log and tinder in and quickly lit them.
“What do we need to do?”
“Just grab some warm clothes you can move in. Everything else should be prepared,” Cutter said as the fire caught and started to blaze. He grabbed the code book and the message, threw both in the fire, and watched as they ignited.
CHAPTER 15
JUBILEE
The steady churning of the Channel was the only other sound Parker could hear over the din of the gunboats’ diesel engines. The fleet had left England hours ago and had been at sea for roughly three hours. Parker absently toyed with the shoulder straps of his Thompson as he went through a mental checklist. It was too late to do anything if he had forgotten something, but he felt confident in his men. He had ensured his team had done sufficient gear checks of each other prior to their departure and was confident they would do their job adequately. Their training had been rigorous; he had made sure of that.
After experiencing Saint-Nazaire, Parker had added a few additional training requirements to his troop. Marksmanship, squad tactics, and advanced explosives training had been emphasized by him, and he had pooled resources from No. 4 Commando to ensure the instructors were professionals in their respective fields. He shivered as the spray of jetsam doused his clothes. The gunboat bucked violently as it hurdled over a swell, the prow rising with the wave and crashing back down into
the surf, showering Parker’s team in cold Channel water. Parker ignored the cold wet as best he could and looked around his gunboat. The two men nearest to him were rangers, First Sergeant Adams and Corporal Murray. The rest of the boat was comprised of British commandos. Hardly a word was spoken by any of them. They all kept their heads up and out, keeping an eye out for land.
“Any minute now,” Murray muttered.
Parker took a deep breath and steadied himself. Adams eyed him calmly. “We’ll be alright, sir. The lads are ready.”
Parker nodded in agreement and looked back up. He could barely see anything in the dark, but as he strained his eyes he spotted the beaches of Normandy. Moment of truth, he thought. As he gazed out at the dark silhouette of land, silent recognition permeated the gunboat like electricity as raiders anxiously shifted their weight and started to do quick checks of their weapons. No one spoke, but there was an implicit communication among them that their work was about to start. Parker instinctively reached for the grenades on his web belt, double checking that the pins were taped and secured. He had heard stories of pins falling out of grenades accidentally at the worst possible moments and was terrified of the thought of it happening to him.
He ran his fingers over the tape strips and made sure that the adhesive stuck to the metal pins. As he did so, a thunderous crack echoed overhead as the guns of the four destroyers supporting the raid started their barrage. Orange explosions lit up the sky in front of them as the ships’ rounds exploded around Dieppe. As plumes of light from the explosions filled the sky, Parker quickly scanned the beach, doing his best to get his bearings. He could see that it was low tide; a large stretch of pale sand was exposed. Parker bit his lip. It was a lot of open beach. If there was just one machine gun nest overlooking the beach, his men would be cut to pieces.
“Everyone wake up,” Adams shouted, shaking everyone out of their daze. “If they didn’t before, they know we’re here now. Guns up, heads down!”
Parker looked around; he could make out the other gunboats plugging away toward shore as explosions flashed. He looked back down and double-checked his Thompson submachine gun. He pulled back on the charging handle and chambered a round and made sure the safety was on.
“Three minutes!” the helmsman shouted.
Parker nodded and looked over at Corporal Sykes. The commando manned the Browning machine gun that was secured to the gun rails. Parker had selected him to stay with the boat to cover their retreat. He had taken solace in leaving Sykes with the boats. If all else failed, Parker knew Sykes would scuttle a gunboat before letting it leave without his troop.
Sykes scanned the horizon, his finger hovering over the trigger. He caught Parker looking at him and shot him a grin, an ugly scar curving across his upper lip twisting his smile into a chilling sneer. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll be here when you get back. I’m not repeating Saint-Nazaire.”
Parker nodded but said nothing. He ran a hand over his vest and absently checked his web gear again and made sure everything was secure. He had three grenades, seven magazines, a compass, a map of the region, two canteens, two K rations, and a flashlight. He adjusted the straps to his helmet and brought his Thompson up and aimed it at the shore.
“Thirty seconds!”
“Alright, boys, clear the beach quickly and get to cover,” Parker said as he felt the bottom of the boat begin so slide against sand.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Parker and the rest of his team emptied from the boat into the waist-deep water. Sloshing through the surf, they sprinted up the beach as fast as they could.
The sand gave under Parker’s weight with each step and made running across the beach difficult. By the time he dove for cover by the dunes, he was gasping for air. He struggled to steady his breathing and looked around. Silhouettes of rangers and commandos came out of the darkness like phantoms as they sprinted from the surf and dove behind the dunes next to Parker. Their forms rose and fell in the darkness as Parker listened to their ragged breathing.
We need to do more beach training, Parker thought absently, making a mental note, if there ever is a next time. He looked up and down the beach, searching for any stragglers, but found none. He waited a moment and listened. He couldn’t hear anything other than the roll of the surf and barely, from a hundred feet away, the muted rumble of a handful of diesel engines.
If any Germans had been on the beach, their landing would have been much different. Parker stood up and in a low crouch ran across the beach, searching for his team leaders. The white sands reflected the moonlight well and made it easy for Parker to spot his commandos and rangers. A bulky body came up to him in a crouched run. “Captain Parker?” the commando asked in a loud stage whisper.
Parker recognized Corporal Tarbor before he even started to speak in his thick Scottish accent. His bulky figure was difficult to miss, even in the moonlight. Parker planted a knee in the sand and nodded. “Yeah, where’s your team?”
“Both mine and Sergeant Callum’s are assembled down that way.” Tarbor jerked his thumb back the way he had come. “Captain Carver is formed up further down the beach. Lieutenant Colonel Lovat wants a situation report, but Captain Carver is having trouble with his radio.”
“Okay, we need to move fast. I’ll talk with Lovat on my radio. I need both your and Callum’s teams to push over the dunes and set up security. Once secured, Carver and I will bring up the rear. We need to get moving.”
Tarbor grunted and shifted his weight, adjusting the Boys anti-tank gun on his shoulder. “Got it, sir.” He turned around and jogged back over to his team and started to issue orders. They quickly shouldered their machine guns with a few strained grunts and started to move over the dunes with Callum’s team.
Parker turned and looked around and spotted his radio operator and First Sergeant Adams. He duck-walked over to them and motioned for the headset.
“Looks like we’re in the right place,” Adams said as the radio operator handed Parker the radio headset.
“Yeah, but we need to get off this beach. We’re fish in a barrel if any Germans see us on those cliffs,” Parker said, nodding to the steep hill to the west as he put the headset to his ear. “Whiskey 1, this is Baker 6. Orange II is open for business, moving to secure assembly area.”
The crisp British accent of Lieutenant Colonel Lovat replied on the radio, “Roger, Baker 6. Proceed with seizure. Orange I is open for business; Charlie 2 is conducting reconnaissance of Objective 1.”
Parker nodded; satisfied that everything was going as planned. Nothing wrong yet.
“Be advised, Baker 6, we have received word that our armor is floundering in the Channel. As soon as Objective 1 is secured, be prepared for follow-on assignments.”
“Roger, Whiskey 1. Baker 6 copies all. Baker 6 out.” Parker handed the headset back to his radio operator. He wondered what follow-on assignment Lovat was talking about but quickly dismissed it as he watched both Tarbor’s and Callum’s teams move over the dunes.
Parker turned and spotted his two other team leaders, Sergeant Carter and Corporal Ferguson. “Carter, Ferguson, as soon as the assembly area is secured, I want your teams over this dune. Make sure to check your mortars and make sure they’re clear of sand.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Sir, Tarbor just radioed. They’re over the dune,” the radio operator said, pointing in their direction.
“Alright, let’s go. Carter, get your guys moving.”
Parker clambered over the steep dune with Adams and his radio operator in tow. As he slid down the back side of the dune, he found Corporal Murray waiting for him at the bottom.
“Sir, the rest of us are spread out right here as a base of fire if anything comes our way. F Troop is up a ways,” Corporal Murray whispered, the twilight glinting off the scope of his Springfield sniper rifle.
Parker nodded. “Hold here. The rest of Baker will be coming over the dune. Get them sorted and ready to move.” He turned and quickly surveyed this side of the
dune. The sand quickly gave way to lush green vegetation as rolling hills swept the landscape. Their objective wasn’t far away, but as the sun started to rise, Parker became more aware that they needed to move quickly. Soon the cover of darkness would be gone and the element of surprise along with it. Parker made his way up past Tarbor’s and Callum’s teams and started to see members of F Troop scattered among the brush and foliage doing their best to remain invisible against the encroaching sunlight.
He spotted Carver and duckwalked over to him.
“I think we have everyone,” Carver said.
Parker nodded and looked up. The naval bombardment had ceased as they came ashore, but for some reason cannon fire could still be heard.
“That’s the Germans. We need to get going,” Carver said, and pointed down at his map. He traced his finger along the meandering river that fed into the Channel. “We follow the Saâne river two kilometers, then swing north to hit the battery.”
Parker nodded. “I’ve spoken with Lovat. A Troop has landed along the beach to our north and is proceeding as planned. One of my teams will scout ahead. Yours provide rear security?”
“Sounds good. My radio is limited in range, but I think I can send traffic now.”
“We’ll conduct radio checks prior to our turn north,” Parker said motioning for Murray. Murray scampered over, making a point to keep his rifle and scope out of the sand.
“Murray, we’re pushing out for the river. Get us on the west side of it. Roughly a kilometer down we will be swinging north for the battery.” Parker circled his finger around the region of Le Mesnil on the map. “We suspect the battery is in vicinity of this village. Realistically, follow the cannon fire; if it gets louder, we’re going the right way.”
