“Yes, sir.”
Richter returned the microphone to Piecke, then took out the railway map he’d obtained from Niekish and began to study it. He located the length of track between Vernisset and Athanase and realized that it was on the same line as the bridge where the two guards had been found. If I were a terrorist, he said to himself, and I wanted to sabotage a railway line, why would I steal a locomotive and drive it in that direction, and then switch over to the other side of the track?
“Hmmm,” Richter said, studying the map. He placed his finger on the bridge between St. Lo and St. Jean-de-Daye. And if I were a terrorist, he continued, why would I kill two guards at this bridge and not do anything to sabotage it? Richter pondered this as the car sped through the rain, the windshield wipers slapping back and forth. “Hmmmm.” He arranged possible alternatives in his mind and finally came up with only two: Either the terrorists had been scared away, or they decided they could do more damage to that railway line at another point.
All right, Richter thought, if I assume that band of terrorists was the same one that killed the guards at the railway terminal at St. Jean-de-Daye, and assuming they stole an old locomotive, and further assuming they drove it in a westerly direction and then switched over to the track coming from the opposite way, what would they be up to?
Suddenly the answer came to him, and sent a chill up his back. If everything he’d assumed so far was true, then they only could be up to one thing: they were planning to ram a train coming from the opposite direction! Something had prevented them from blowing up the bridge, forcing them to take other measures. The rail line certainly had strategic importance. His assumptions possibly could be completely correct.
That meant he had to take appropriate measures himself. Like what? He didn’t want to do anything too dramatic, because if he were wrong, he’d look like a fool, but on the other hand, if those terrorists actually rammed a train, and he didn’t do anything about it, he’d not only look worse, but he’d also be in trouble with his supervisors in Berlin.
“Hmmm,” he said.
“Did you say something, sir?” Piecke asked.
“Keep quiet and stop bothering me!” Richter answered.
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”
Richter drummed his fingers on the armrest affixed to the door. He heard a gigantic squish as the car drove through a huge puddle. He decided that he should determine whether or not a train might be headed west on the line that he believed the terrorists were seeking to sabotage.
“Piecke,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me Lieutenant-Colonel Niekish at the rail terminal in St. Jean-de-Daye.”
“Yes, sir.”
Piecke lifted the telephone off the dashboard and began talking to the radio operator in La Roche-Guyon. Richter took out a cigarette and lit it up. He blew smoke at the ceiling of the limousine and unrolled the window a few inches. He thought about his native town of Munich and wished he could be there right now, eating wiener schnitzel with his mother and father, and drinking Rhine wine in the dining room. Maybe afterwards they could go out and hear a speech by a local party leader, or maybe Richter could even give a speech himself, now that he was a party leader of high rank, too. He’d come a long way since he was a student at the University of Heidelberg, and he still had a long way to go, for he was an ambitious man. Once he had even received a personal phone call of congratulations from Heinrich Himmler himself for his efficient round-up of Jews in Brittany.
Piecke handed back the microphone to Richter. “I have Lieutenant-Colonel Niekish,” he said.
Richter took the microphone and pressed the button. “Colonel Niekish?”
“Speaking,” Niekish said wearily.
“I’m calling in reference to your report about the switching of tracks between Vernisset and Athanase. Can you tell me if a train is scheduled to pass through that district within the next four hours?”
“Let me check the schedule,” Niekish said. There was silence for a few moments, and Richter puffed his cigarette, tapping his foot nervously on the floor. “Ah, yes,” Niekish said. “The three-fifteen from Lyons should be passing that district in about an hour and a half.”
A chill went up Richter’s spine. “I see,” he said. “What kind of train is it?”
“A supply train. There’ll be some oil cars for the 372nd Panzer and some repair parts, plus the usual foodstuffs.”
Richter’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Oil cars!”
“Is there anything wrong, Major Richter?”
“That will be all, Colonel Niekish. Thank you very much for the information.”
“You’re quite welcome, Major Richter, and by the way, I wouldn’t worry too much about that rail switching if I were you,” Niekish explained. “The signal we received was caused by a short circuit in the wires. There’s been so much rain, you know.”
“Over and out,” Richter replied, handing the microphone back to Piecke. “Stop this car!” Richter said to Grunwald, his driver.
“Yes, sir!”
Grunwald pulled over to the side of the road and yanked up the emergency brake. Richter looked at his map, trying to figure out which SS detachment might be closest to the train route. Perspiration dotted his brow. He realized the situation had taken a turn for the worse. If the terrorists rammed a train loaded with oil cars, there could be a terrible catastrophe and conflagration. Then his finger came to rest on the town of Tours. There was an SS company there, about one hundred and sixty men. If he could get them to stop the train and board it, and if he could board the train farther on near Chateau-Renault, then he could personally take charge and foil any attempt the terrorists might make to sabotage the train.
“Give me that microphone again,” he said to Piecke.
“Yes, sir,” Piecke said, lifting it off the dash and handing it to Richter.
Richter took out his little black information book and found the call letters of the SS company in Tours. He pressed the button in the microphone and told the operator to put him through to the company. There was some static over the airwaves, and then the radioman in the SS company answered the call.
“Let me speak to your commanding officer immediately,” Richter said. “This is Major Richter calling!”
“Yes, sir,” said the radioman.
There was a click and then a new voice came on. “Lieutenant Heilbronn speaking, sir.”
“Heilbronn, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to round up all your men and have them board the three-fifteen train from Lyons, when it comes through your town. Is that clear?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the voice coming from the dashboard, “but I only have one platoon of my men in garrison right now. The others are out on assignments all over the province right now and it would be impossible to get them back.”
“Very well. Take what you have and stop that train, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Board it with your men and take a field radio with you, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will meet the train somewhere near Chateau-Renault. Be on the lookout for my car, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you see anything suspicious, stop the train. Be on the lookout for a locomotive coming from the opposite direction, is that clear?”
“A locomotive coming from the opposite direction?”
“Yes.”
"I'll watch for it, sir.”
“Good. Carry out your orders, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richter handed the microphone back to Piecke. “Grunwald, get moving to Chateau-Renault.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grunwald let the emergency brake go and shifted into gear. He accelerated down the muddy road, sending stones and mud flying in all directions. Richter stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and thought that if he could stop the terrorists from sabotaging this crucial rail l
ine, it might merit another personal phone call from Heinrich Himmler, and he might even get a promotion. And if he couldn’t stop them, it would be a very serious black mark on his record.
“Hurry, you fool!” he shouted at Grunwald.
“Yes, sir,” replied Grunwald, depressing the accelerator pedal a bit more. As the big black limousine thundered over the road, Richter was hoping he could catch some of the terrorists alive so that he could torture them and perhaps extract some important information about when the invasion would take place.
If he could do that, he’d get a promotion for sure.
Chapter Nineteen
In the radio room at St. Pierre, old Topinard sat with the headphones on, listening to the airwaves and reading a copy of Liberation Soir, which was published by a Resistance group in Paris. Suddenly dots and dashes flew into his ears. He dropped the newspaper and began writing on the pad. The message was brief, and the sender signed off.
Topinard decoded the message. It was from the OSS in Bletchley and said:
Request immediate information on Parrot and the progress of his mission.
Captain Montegnac wasn’t at his desk. Topinard, who thought he might be in the mess hall, debated whether to leave his radio and deliver the message. This was the third such message from Bletchley that afternoon. The big shots certainly were nervous about something. Topinard decided he’d better give Montegnac the message. If anybody called during the brief period of time that he’d be away from his desk, they’d surely call back.
Topinard took the headphones off and left the radio room. Walking swiftly down the corridor of the old monastery, he was the prototype of a French bourgeois: a roly-poly little man wearing a black sweater and a black beret. He, along with everyone else at the outpost, was wondering what had happened to Mahoney. Had he been captured or killed? Topinard couldn’t imagine Mahoney as a prisoner of the Germans. That American maniac never would let himself be taken alive. He seemed like a volcano about to explode. Topinard was intimidated by Mahoney, who had never threatened him in any way or even said a harsh word, although he’d said numerous harsh words to Captain Montegnac. The two of them had hated each other from the moment they first met, and relations between them had been verging on open warfare ever since.
Topinard entered the mess hall and saw Montegnac sitting among some other Resistance fighters at the long table, dipping a piece of bread into his bowl of stew. Topinard approached and handed him the message. “This just came in for you, sir.”
Montegnac looked at it, frowning. He was annoyed that Mahoney had not made contact with St. Pierre since he left the outpost last night. “Radio back that we don’t have any word yet, and that we’ll notify them as soon as we do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Topinard turned and walked out of the mess hall. Montegnac bit a chunk off his piece of bread. Bletchley was putting pressure on him, and he didn’t like that. And it was all Mahoney’s fault. When I see that son-of-a-bitch again, I’ll shoot him, Montegnac said to himself.
Chapter Twenty
“Anybody got a fuckin’ cigar around here?” Mahoney asked.
Everybody shook their heads just like he knew they would. The rain was coming down worse than ever and his feet had been wet for so long he thought he’d get trench foot before long. What a miserable life! He looked around at the other guerillas, who were as gloomy and soaked as he. Taking out a cigarette, he snuggled against the boulder and lit it with a match, then wrapped the book of matches in cellophane and returned them to his shirt pocket.
He puffed the cigarette and looked at the railroad track that headed west before it disappeared into the wind and rain. If it were nice out, this operation wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. All the shit happens to me. If he were back home in New York right now, he wondered, where would he be on a day like this? Probably in a whorehouse on Eighth Avenue, drinking whisky and sucking the boobs of the best-looking hooker on the premises.
He blew smoke through his nostrils and shivered at the sensation. He wished that goddamn train would hurry up and come, because the longer they had to stay here, the longer they were sitting ducks for any SS patrol that happened along. His watches read 5:30. In a couple of hours it would get dark, which would be most welcome. Mahoney loved the dark; it always made him feel safer.
He debated whether or not to stay at the tunnel with Cranepool and send the rest back to St. Pierre.
He couldn’t imagine why he’d need the others, but he had to stay to find out if their trick actually worked, so he could report the success or failure of his mission to the folks at Bletchley. What a name to give a place! Bletchley. It’s like the sound a person makes when he’s throwing up, he thought.
Puffing the cigarette, he decided that if the train didn’t come within the next hour, he’d dismiss the French people and stay behind with Cranepool. Actually he really didn’t think he’d need Cranepool for anything, but if he was going to be miserable, he thought Cranepool ought to be, too.
Rank has its privileges, he thought with a grunt. And one of them was the right to make other people suffer alongside you even when it wasn’t necessary. He looked at Cranepool, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground about ten yards away. Louise was kneeling in front of him, gesticulating wildly with her hands. It looked like they were having an argument, and he grinned. Put a man and a woman together, and pretty soon they’ll be fucking, he thought. Then as soon as they stop fucking, they’ll start fighting.
“What’s so funny?” Odette asked drowsily from under the hood of her poncho.
“Shaddup,” he replied. “I’m trying to think.”
“Who told you that you know how to think?”
“I said shaddup!”
Mahoney strained his ears, trying to overhear the argument between Cranepool and Louise. Cranepool felt betrayed and taken advantage of by Louise. “You should have told me that you were married!” he said accusingly.
She brushed back her damp hair from her cheek.
‘There was no reason for me to tell you.”
“I thought you really cared for me, but you were just playing games with me,” he said bitterly. “I don’t mean anything to you at all.”
“Yes, you do mean something to me. I love you very much, you foolish little boy.”
“I’m not a little boy. I’m older than you.”
“You’re not older than me.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m not telling you, but I know that I’m older than you. And I also know that even if you were older than me, you’d still be a child, because all you Americans are.”
“That’s an insult,” Cranepool shouted. He was a very patriotic young man and he considered her remark a slur on the national honor of the United States of America.
“It’s the truth,” she retorted.
“Women like you don’t know what the truth is.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, women like me?” she asked, a sharp edge to her voice.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Please explain it to me.”
“Married women like you who cheat on their husbands.”
Louise put her hands on her hips. “How dare you talk to me that way!”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
With an angry scream, Louise pounced on him, kicking, punching, scratching and biting. Cranepool was unable to protect himself, because he couldn’t hit a woman. Then she tried to kick him in the balls but he moved his leg in the way. Baudraye and Bixiou, who had been sitting nearby, tore them off each other.
“Now, now,” Bixiou cooed.
“Save it for the Germans,” Baudraye said, struggling to hold Louise back.
Mahoney got up and came stomping over, a little smile playing on his face. “Hey whatsa matter with you two!” he shouted. “Are you nuts or something!”
“She hit me,” Cranepool complained, his voice choked from the headlock of Bixiou.
�
��You poor thing,” Mahoney said with false compassion. He looked at Louise. “Leave him alone, understand?”
“He said bad things about me.”
“You probably deserved them. Hereafter I want you two idiots to stay away from each other. You,” he pointed to Louise, “go over there,” he pointed to the far left side of their line, “and you,” he looked evilly at Cranepool, “go over there.” He pointed to the far right side of their line. “Got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Cranepool said dejectedly, wiping some blood from a deep scratch on his nose.
Mahoney looked at Louise. “Any questions, Cleopatra?”
“No.”
“Good.” Mahoney turned around and sat down again. He took out another cigarette and lit it up, then turned to Odette and grinned. “Ain’t love grand?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Private Piecke stood in the middle of the tracks and waved his arms. Far off in the distance, its one light gleaming like the eye of a monster, the three-fifteen from Lyons could be seen heading in his direction. Major Richter had ordered Piecke to go out and stop the train, and Piecke hoped the train engineer would stop when he saw him. Otherwise Major Richter would get awfully mad, and Piecke was afraid of Richter when he got mad.
Piecke had come to realize that he’d made a terrible mistake in enlisting in the SS. He’d thought that the food would be better than in the Wehrmacht, and that he’d have more prestige, and although he’d been right on both these counts, he still wished he was in the Wehrmacht. There were too many crazy people in the SS, and they scared Piecke. You never could know what they’d do next. He’d seen SS officers and noncoms shoot French people like it was nothing. One moment the French person was alive and the next moment he or she was dead. He’d seen Major Richter do this many times.
Piecke also had been in the dungeons of Gestapo headquarters on the Avenue Foch in Paris, and had seen things that still gave him nightmares. He could hardly believe his eyes, and he knew if he told any of those things to his family and friends back in Düsseldorf, they’d never believe him. Piecke had never cared much for Jews, but he’d never realized things would go as far as they had. Although he was a staunch nationalist, sometimes he found himself yearning for the good old days of the Weimar Republic.
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