Death Train
Page 7
Finally they had the boiler half full and a fire was roaring inside the furnace. Agoult told them that was enough, that they’d get whatever else they needed outside. He said he knew where everything was. All they had to do was take it and hope nobody thought anything suspicious was happening.
Agoult closed the petcocks and looked at the dials. He turned some knobs and pulled some levers.
Mahoney thought Agoult looked like he knew what he was doing.
“Everybody aboard!” Agoult said.
Those who weren’t in the cab climbed on. Agoult pushed a lever and steam shot out of the smokestack of the train. Mahoney noticed that some steam came out the side of the engine, too.
“What the hell is that?” Mahoney asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Agoult replied, smiling happily.
“Is it supposed to do that?”
“Well, no. But this is an old engine.”
“Oh shit,” Mahoney groaned.
“Are we all set to go?” Agoult asked.
“I don’t know,” Mahoney replied. “You tell me.”
“Get everybody ready, because we’re pulling out of here.”
Mahoney looked at the others. “Okay, you heard the man. We’re gonna start moving and if anybody tries to stop us, give ’em some of this.” He tapped his carbine.
“Here we go!” said Agoult.
He pushed a lever and pressed a pedal. Needles wiggled nervously on the dials. The locomotive began to inch forward. Mahoney couldn’t believe it was moving. The old hunk of machinery screeched like a cat in heat and shivered like a dog shitting razor blades. Then there was a horrible thunk sound and it came to a sudden halt.
“I knew it,” Mahoney said. “This fucking piece of junk isn’t going anywhere.”
“Wait a minute—wait a minute!” Agoult shouted, jumping up and down with excitement. “It’s nothing. I assure you it’s nothing.”
He picked up an old rusty wrench affixed to the old rusty wall and jumped down from the cab. Walking sideways next to the engine, with steam blowing out all around him, he looked into the machinery as though he’d lost a diamond in there. Then with a sudden movement he reached in with the wrench and twisted something. Another thunk was heard. Agoult jumped up to the cab and returned to the engineer’s area. He shifted a lever and the locomotive screeched as it moved forward again. This time it kept on going. Mahoney couldn’t believe it. It passed among the other old wrecks of locomotives and railroad cars, blowing billows of steam up toward the high ceiling. It came to an old railroad car blocking its way, and pushed it onto another track. The locomotive was making terrible squeaking sounds, as though it needed oil. Agoult found an empty coal car and backed up to it, hitching it to the locomotive. Then he steamed to the section of the garage where the coal bins were, pulled a thick iron chain that made a chute come down. Coal poured from the bin into the empty car, coal dust filled the air, making everyone cough and darkening their faces. The din of falling coal was terrific. When the coal car was filled Agoult let the chain go and the chute rose straight up in the air where it was before.
Agoult climbed down from the cab and took an oilcan as big as a gallon milk can from a shelf on the wall. He proceeded to oil the fittings of the engine, opening little petcocks and squirting the thick amber fluid in. He also oiled the fittings around the wheels.
When the oilcan was empty he filled it from a green barrel and resumed oiling the locomotive. When he finally had oiled all the fittings, he filled the oilcan again and carried it up to the cab.
“We’re all set to go,” he said. “All we need now is more water, and we can get that outside. I think everybody should hide except for Baudraye and Cranepool, so no one will be suspicious.”
Mahoney told the guerillas to hide in the coal car, and not to peek out. He would stay in the cab with Agoult, Cranepool, and Baudraye, and pretend to be the assistant engineer. He told the guerillas in the coal car to come out fighting if they heard him firing his carbine.
The guerillas climbed into the coal car. As Odette and Louise went up the ladder, Mahoney admired their rear ends. Lurid thoughts entered his mind, and he wished he could be alone with them someplace.
“Here we go,” said Agoult.
He shifted the lever and the train moved again through the murky darkness of the huge garage. The engine made considerably less noise now and Mahoney was beginning to have faith in Agoult. They steamed around the garage, pushing other cars and locomotives out of their way, and finally came to the huge doors. Agoult stopped the train and Mahoney jumped down from the cab, walking ahead and pushing open the creaking wooden doors.
It still was raining hard in the railway yard, but morning had come and everything was blue and gray. There was no movement out there and Mahoney thought that the deserted railway yard looked like the end of the world. He was glad for the rain, because that kept activity in the yard to a minimum.
He got out of the way and Agoult chugged the locomotive out of the garage. Then he stopped while Mahoney closed the doors. After he jumped back into the cab Agoult got the locomotive moving again. Cranepool and Leduc stood at both sides of the cab and Mahoney took his position beside Agoult, who was pushing levers and twisting knobs frantically.
“Oh-oh,” said Agoult.
“What’s wrong?” Mahoney asked.
“Look.”
Mahoney poked his head out the window, and saw that the length of track ahead of them had been blown apart by an Allied bomb.
“It won’t be easy getting out of here,” Agoult said, “but we’ll do it somehow.”
He backed up and then moved forward on another track. After going for a while on that one, they came to another bombed-out section of track, and had to back up again. Finally they came to a water tower, and Agoult got out of the cab to stick the rubber hose into the tank of the locomotive to fill it up. Then he returned the hose to its hook, and climbed back up to the cab again.
“We’re ready to go,” Agoult said. “Shovel some more coal into the furnace, will you?”
When Mahoney opened the furnace door he had to squint because of the heat and light. He shoveled in more coal as Agoult piloted the locomotive out of the railroad yard.
Chapter Eleven
Major Kurt Richter stood in the pouring rain at the foot of the bridge between St. Lo and St. Jean-de-Daye and looked at the two naked guards sprawled on the ground.
“This is just the way we found them,” said Captain Hess, the officer of the day for the guard mount in that area.
“Hmmm,” said Richter, frowning. Private Otto Piecke stood behind him, holding a black umbrella over Richter’s head.
“Evidently they were killed shortly after they came on duty.” Hess said.
“Hmmm,” said Richter.
“One can’t help wondering what the terrorists wanted,” Hess said. “They didn’t damage the bridge one bit, and I can’t imagine they killed these two guards just for their uniforms. They could have got uniforms some other easier way, I’m sure.”
“When did you say they were found?”
“At four o’clock, sir.”
Richter looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock now. The message concerning this latest atrocity had arrived at La Roche-Guyon at five, for it had come through many command channels. Richter had been asleep, and it had taken him an hour to get dressed and have breakfast. Another two hours had been required to navigate the muddy, bombed roads between La Roche-Guyon and this bridge. Now he was here, baffled by what he found.
He pushed the umbrella out of the way and looked up at the bridge. He’d been told that the bridge had been bombed and rebuilt by engineers yesterday. It was an important bridge from a strategic point of view and Richter didn’t know why the terrorists hadn’t attempted to demolish it. Had something scared them away? Had they lost their nerve?
He looked at Captain Hess. “Are you absolutely sure there are no explosive charges on any of the trestles of this bridge?”
“Hmmm.” He looked down at the naked guard lying at his feet. The rain had washed away all the blood and the skin of the corpse was pale and shriveled. There was a nasty gash on the man’s throat and it reminded Richter of a butchered pig he’d once seen in a market owned by a friend of his when he was a boy. His eyes fell on the finger that had been chopped off, lying a few feet from the body.
“Brutal swine,” Richter murmured.
“What can you expect from a bunch of criminals, sir?”
“Hmmm. You’re right of course. Well, that will be all for now, Captain Hess. Please contact my office directly hereafter if any other incidents of this nature occur.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richter turned to Piecke. “Take this down.”
“Yes, sir.” Piecke’s pen quivered between his fingers.
“I want the nearest SS detachment to arrest one hundred Frenchmen living in this area and execute them in a public place as punishment for the murders of these fine German soldiers, and as a warning against this sort of thing happening in the future. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I also want all units within the vicinity of this railroad line to post special guards along its length and report any suspicious activity.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frowning and kicking a stone out of his way, Major Richter marched back to his Mercedes-Benz as Piecke followed behind him, trying to hold up the umbrella and continue writing down the information at the same time. Not able to watch his footing, he tripped over a boulder and fell to the ground, the umbrella knocking off Richter’s hat on its way down.
“Idiot!” Richter screamed, bending over and picking up his hat, which had become muddy.
“Sorry, sir,” Piecke shuttered. “I beg your pardon, sir. Please forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean it, sir.”
“Dolt!”
“A thousand pardons, sir,” Piecke said humbly, climbing up from the mud.
Richter wiped off his hat with the sleeve of his raincoat, grumbling about inefficiency and stupidity. He returned the hat to his head and walked quickly to the parked Mercedes-Benz, wondering whether, if he got rid of Piecke, he’d wind up with somebody worse—though it was hard to imagine someone worse than Piecke.
Richter opened the rear door of the Mercedes-Benz and dove inside. When is this damned rain going to stop? he asked himself as he unbuttoned his raincoat and rearranged himself on the seat.
"There’s been a message for you, sir,” said Grunwald, his driver.
“Let me see it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grunwald handed over the piece of paper on which he’d written down the message. Richter read it, the muscles in his jaw working as he did so. Two guards had been found with their throats slashed in a guard house at the big railway terminal in St. Jean-de-Daye. No damage had been reported in the yard and nothing else unusual had occurred there, as far as was presently known.
While Richter stared at the message, Piecke crawled sheepishly into the front seat beside Grunwald.
“Where would you like to go, sir?” Grunwald asked.
“Shut up—I’m thinking.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richter absentmindedly fingered the paper. He wondered if the incident at the bridge was linked in any way to this murder. Could some lawless guerilla band possibly have designs on the railway network in this part of France? This seemed likely to him, because railroads would be of strategic significance when the Allied invasion finally came. Though the actual date of the invasion and its landing area could not be determined by him, the railway network fell within the purview of his command. Thus, he’d better do something about it fast. Because if the guerillas staged some spectacular feat of sabotage, Major Richter could very well find himself being court-martialed for inefficiency and transferred to a concentration camp someplace, where he’d have to look at Jews all day long, and what could be worse than looking at Jews all day long?
Whatever the guerillas were up to, evidently it had something to do with the railroad at St. Jean-de-Daye. Richter decided he’d better proceed there forthwith. He leaned forward in his seat. “Grunwald—take me to the railway terminal in St. Jean-de-Daye. You know where it is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get going.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Twelve
The old locomotive sped through the French countryside, with Agoult at the controls. The wind blew so hard Mahoney thought it might be a hurricane. He pulled his beret down to his ears and puffed a cigarette. His hands were filthy from shoveling coal. A train coming from the opposite direction passed them with a big swoosh, its wheels clanging along the tracks.
“How much farther to the tunnel?” he shouted to Agoult.
“About forty kilometers.”
Mahoney looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock in the morning. The locomotive wasn’t going too fast and he estimated that it would get to the tunnel in around two hours. That was an awfully long time, and a lot could go wrong. The locomotive might break down or they might run into a German roadblock or something like that. Sooner or later some German some place would have to realize that this locomotive was not on official business. Mahoney hoped that would come later than sooner.
Cranepool lost his balance and fell to the floor of the cab. He was supposed to be on lookout at the other window, but he’d been dozing and the old locomotive had given a shudder that knocked him on his ass.
Mahoney looked at Agoult. “What the hell was that?”
“A bad length of track. Maybe it had been bombed recently and repaired too quickly.”
Cranepool got to his feet and yawned. “I’m tired,” he said.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Mahoney told him. “Climb up on the coal car and give the uniform to Sommervieux, then get some sleep, got it?”
“Yes, sergeant. Thanks a lot.”
“Get moving and cut out the bullshit.” Mahoney looked at Leduc. “You might as well take a break, too. Change uniforms with Baudraye.”
“No, that’s all right,” Leduc said. “I got enough sleep last night, but you and Cranepool didn’t. Maybe you should take a break.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Mahoney figured he could trust Leduc to keep everything under control in the cab. Leduc had been a Resistance fighter since the earliest days of the movement, and had dealt competently with numerous tight situations. “If anything comes up, give a shout.”
Mahoney followed Cranepool up the ladder into the coal car. They saw the others dozing amid the piles of coal in the huge car. Cranepool awakened Sommervieux and told him to take his place in the cab. Then Cranepool sleepily removed the German uniform he’d been wearing, happy to be getting out of the damned thing. He gave it to Sommervieux, who cursed Hitler and all Germans everywhere as he put it on. Sommervieux climbed out of the railroad car and descended the ladder to take his place in the cab of the locomotive.
Mahoney found a level place on the coal and lay down upon it, wrapping his poncho around himself in an effort to keep dry. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He’d get wet anyway, and they’d all be lucky if they didn’t die of pneumonia. Fortunately, with the wind blowing as hard as it was, the walls of the coal car protected them from most of the rain. Mahoney had the old combat soldier’s ability to fall asleep under any circumstances, and within minutes after closing his eyes, was in slumber land.
Cranepool, however, did not possess this ability, although he too was a seasoned combat soldier. He didn’t mind the hard lumps of coal jutting into his body, but the filth of the coal car disturbed him. He was afraid that he’d inhale a lot of wet coal dust and get some kind of terrible lung disease. His mother, back in Ottumwa, Iowa, always had kept their home spotless, and he was used to that high level of hygiene. In basic training, at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, he didn’t mind all the cleaning he had to do
in the barracks, because he truly believed that cleanliness was next to godliness. Therefore he was most uncomfortable in the filthy coal car and could not fall asleep. He tossed and turned uncomfortably and wished he could pass out.
Meanwhile, watching him intently from the other side of the coal car, was Louise, her pretty features smudged with coal. Louise had been infatuated with Cranepool for the past two weeks, ever since she’d been assigned to the guerilla garrison at St. Pierre. To her he was Clark Gable and Gary Cooper all rolled up into one: the quintessential good-looking American guy. She was attracted to his languid easygoing manner and his shyness whenever she spoke to him. He’d told her that he had a girlfriend somewhere in America whom he wanted to marry. Many times Louise was tempted to run her fingers through his blond hair, even though she herself was married to a baker who resided in the town of Rouget.
The truth was that Louise had not been a particularly faithful wife. Her husband was fifteen years older than she and though she’d loved him when they were married, she subsequently got occasional cravings for men her own age. She’d never had a great deal of willpower, so whenever she found herself alone with a man she found attractive, she could not resist his advances if he made them. And if he didn’t make any, she flirted until he did.
An average man with no moral feelings would most probably not turn away from the very considerable charms of Louise. She had a nice figure and a rear end that maybe was more than she needed, but many men found it attractive. It was a good thing that this was so, because the war and all its dangers had caused Louise to seek refuge in sex even more than usual. She knew that she could be killed at any moment, and figured she should enjoy herself as much as she could.
So now she found herself staring thoughtfully at Cranepool, who was shifting about uncomfortably on the coal. She thought that maybe she should go over and ask if she could do anything to make him more comfortable. Looking around, she noticed that all the others were still. The brute Mahoney was snoring like a foghorn. What an animal he was, she thought, although she’d heard rumors that he was an exceptionally good lover. But what woman would want to make love to a gorilla like that when she could have a sweet poetic young man like Corporal Cranepool of the United States Army?