Death Train

by Levinson, Len

  Richter smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Very good,” he said. “A direct hit.”

  The air was filled with the chatter of submachine gun fire and the thunder of explosions. Like an ocean wave, fear and terror swept across the little town of Rouget.

  Chapter Thirty

  Underneath the cathedral, Mahoney slept peacefully, his nose burrowed between the breasts of Odette. Suddenly, the secret door opened. Mahoney snapped awake, reaching for his carbine. Odette was scrambling for hers too, and nearly everyone else in the subterranean hideout grabbed for their weapons, ready for the worst.

  The door opened wide and Father Henri entered, carrying a kerosene lamp. Behind him was Doctor Lambert, carrying his little black bag.

  “Get up, everybody!” Father Henri said. “The Boche are here!”

  Mahoney got to his feet, covering himself with a blanket. “Here in this town?” he asked.

  Doctor Lambert stepped forward. “There are a few hundred SS troops and twelve Panther tanks. They passed my house and were headed toward the center of town. I heard a shot of some kind. I think they’ve already killed somebody.”

  Mahoney thought for a few moments. “They might simply be passing through, or they may intend to bivouac here for the night. It might be a good idea if we all got dressed and ready, just in case. That shot you heard might have been nothing more than the backfire of a tank engine. They do that sometimes, you know.” He reached for his pants as the others pulled on their clothes. Just then they heard the muffled sound of an explosion.

  Doctor Lambert pointed at the ceiling. “Did that sound like the backfire of a tank engine to you?”

  “No,” Mahoney admitted, lifting his shirt off the floor. “It sounded like artillery. Is anybody dressed yet?”

  Leduc stepped out of the shadows. “I slept with my clothes on.”

  “Go upstairs and find out what’s going on, will you?”

  “Yes, Perroquet!"

  As Leduc left the room, Mahoney buttoned on his shirt. That explosion definitely had been artillery, and his mind snapped into its fighting mode. He no longer was the lusty chaser of women or a barroom brawler. He had become a soldier, with strategies and countermeasures stacked neatly in his mind. Snatching his beret off the floor, he planted it on his head over his eyes, and then donned his brown leather jacket. Taking out a cigarette and lighting it, he looked around the room. Tension hung in the air, but everybody was ready. He looked at Louise and saw her buckling on her cartridge belt. Cranepool was in the shadows, pacing back and forth like a tiger, his carbine held in his right hand. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Sister Nathalie and Sister Marie entered the underground chamber. They wore their black and white habits, and their cheeks were flushed with excitement.

  “The Germans are killing everyone!” said Sister Nathalie.

  “They’re blowing up all the houses!” added Sister Marie.

  “Are you sure?” Mahoney asked.

  “I saw them with my own eyes!” said Sister Marie.

  “I wonder what they’re so mad about?” he said.

  Leduc returned accompanied by Father Henri and twenty Frenchmen. “It’s true,” he said. “It’s the SS and they’re destroying the town.” He turned to one of the Frenchmen. “Tell him what you told me.”

  The Frenchman was twenty years old, with black curls hanging over his forehead. “I saw them kill the mayor and his family,” he said. “A German officer with a bandage on his nose told the mayor that he knew the town was harboring Resistance members who’d arrived sometime last night. He ordered the mayor to tell him where the Resistance members were, and the mayor refused. That’s when the officer told his men to shoot the mayor and his family.”

  “The children, too?” Father Henri asked.

  “Yes.”

  Father Henri crossed himself and pressed his lips together. Like all Catholics, he believed in the forgiveness of sins, but how could anyone, even Jesus Christ himself, forgive such a terrible crime?

  Mahoney had something else on his mind. “I wonder how they knew we were here.”

  Everybody shrugged their shoulders or shook their heads. The room became crowded as more men and a few women arrived.

  “The only people who knew,” Mahoney said, “were Father Henri, the two sisters, and that’s all, isn’t it?”

  “What about Louise’s husband?” Leduc asked. “Remember that she went out and got some bread from him?”

  All eyes turned on Louise.

  “It wasn’t him,” she said. “I know it wasn’t him.”

  “How do you know?” Leduc asked harshly. “You haven’t seen him for a long time, so you can’t say for sure which side he’s on these days?”

  “I know him,” she said emphatically. “He would never betray Frenchmen, and certainly not me.”

  “Are you sure?” Mahoney asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “He’s probably just as sure of you, and we know how wrong he is about that.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “That has nothing to do with anything!” Mahoney didn’t avert his gaze. “Then how do the Germans know we’re here?”

  Leduc cleared his throat. “Did anyone see you going to your husband’s bakery?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, and then she remembered seeing old Picard on her way back to the church. “Ah yes—I bumped into Picard on my way back here.”

  “Who’s Picard?” Mahoney asked.

  “A landlord and a busybody,” Louise replied.

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “No—I didn’t even think he saw me.”

  Doctor Lambert went limp. “I just remembered something. On my way back home after treating Cerizet, I saw Picard on the street. He came over and asked me questions. Now that I think of it, he seemed very suspicious.”

  “Oh-oh,” Mahoney said.

  “It must have been this Picard,” Leduc said.

  “Yes,” Father Henri agreed. “I’ve suspected he was a collaborator for a long time. He makes no secret of his sympathies for the Vichy Government and his admiration for the Germans.”

  Mahoney puffed his cigarette. “That man is a threat to us. I want him killed. Who’ll do it?”

  Louise raised her hand. “I’ll do it. The Germans are here because of me. It’s my duty to execute him.”

  “It’s not your fault that the Germans are here,” Mahoney said. “They’re here because of the fucking war, but you can kill him if you want to. I don’t want you going alone, though. Take somebody with you.”

  Louise looked at Cranepool pacing back and forth in the shadows. “Can I take Corporal Cranepool?”

  “No, you can’t take Corporal Cranepool,” Mahoney snapped. “You’ll take Baudraye.”

  Baudraye stepped forward with the German submachine gun he’d stolen at the railway tunnel. He was nearly as tall as Mahoney, and considerably heavier around the waist. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and Mahoney thought Louise would be safe with him.

  “What are you two waiting for?” Mahoney asked. “Get the fuck going.”

  Louise and Baudraye headed for the door. Louise made a little wave at Cranepool, who attempted to smile, but he wasn’t in the mood for cutesy stuff. He knew that his ass was going to be on the line pretty soon, and that was all he could think about.

  “All right,” Mahoney said, stubbing out his cigarette butt in a tin ashtray, “the next problem is those tanks. We’ve got a chance against the SS soldiers, but not unless the tanks are knocked out. Do we have any anti-tank weapons?”

  “I have two American rocket launchers,” Father Henri said, “plus two crates of rockets.”

  “Get them for me.”

  Father Henri picked up his cassock and ran to another door. As he opened it Mahoney glimpsed a long dim corridor lined with crates and stacks of rifles. Two of the Frenchmen helped him drag out the crates and rocket launchers.

  The rocket launchers were the standard G.I. issue 2.8
rocket launchers, better known as bazookas. They came in two pieces and you just screwed them together. You put it on your shoulder, aimed through the sighting mechanism, and pulled the trigger.

  ‘They look brand new,” Mahoney said.

  “They’ve never been used before,” Father Henri admitted.

  “Well they’re gonna get used now, because those tanks have got to go.”

  Quickly and efficiently, Mahoney organized two anti-tank units. The first consisted of him, Cranepool, and Agoult; the second would have Leduc, Sommervieux, and the young Frenchman with the black curls, whose name was Philippe.

  “All right,” Mahoney said, “the rest of you load up with hand grenades and try to knock out those tanks. Throw the grenades in the treads or where the turret joins the body of the tank. If the Krauts open their hatches, lob the grenades in. Take your rifles and submachine guns and kill as many of the bastards that you can. And don’t be shy about it, because they’re going to kill every man, woman, and child in this town if we don’t stop them. Are there any questions?”

  “Can I go too?” asked Doctor Lambert.

  “You’d better stay here and run a hospital, if you can. This is where we’ll bring the wounded, if we have time. Any other questions?”

  Everybody looked at each other grimly, but no one said a word.

  “Okay,” Mahoney said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The guerillas loaded up their equipment and filed out of the room. They were solemn, for they knew death was waiting for them up out in the streets. Father Henri watched them go, his heart filled with apprehension. There always will be wars, it said in the Bible, but it was hard to realize it until war erupted in your backyard.

  Doctor Lambert bent over the still unconscious Cerizet and took his pulse. He’d already removed the bullet from Cerizet’s stomach, but a lot of blood had been lost. He didn’t think Cerizet would last another day, and he knew there’d be a lot more like him very soon.

  Father Henri, Sister Marie, and Sister Nathalie looked at each other, consternation on their faces.

  “We must be strong,” Father Henri told them. “We are going to be on the cross with Jesus for the next several hours, and maybe even longer than that. We must steel ourselves to behave like Jesus.”

  “Father,” said Sister Marie, “would you let me go too?”

  Father Henri looked down at her pretty young face. “You mean go up there and fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I need you here.”

  “You have Sister Nathalie—you don’t need me. I should take my place with the others and fight for our town.”

  “But you’re only a child, Sister Marie. You don’t know anything about guns. You’re not a soldier, and they’ll kill you.”

  “Men and women younger than I are up there,” Sister Marie answered, “and they’re not soldiers either, but we have no soldiers so everyone must fight. And besides, I know how to fire a gun. Philippe taught me.”

  Father Henri didn’t know what to say. He knew it was morally wrong to fight and kill, but yet it could be considered equally wrong in certain situations not to fight and kill. Christ said to turn the other cheek, but he didn’t turn his own cheek when he threw the moneylenders out of the temple. “I won’t tell you to go and I won’t tell you not to go, Sister Marie,” he said softly. “It’s a matter for you and your conscience to decide.”

  “Then I’m going,” she said.

  She dashed into the tunnel and plucked a carbine from the wall. Slinging bandoliers of ammunition around her shoulders, she ran out of the tunnel and past Father Henri, then stopped suddenly and turned around to him.

  “Pray for us, Father Henri,” she said.

  “That’s what I’m doing right now, Sister Marie.”

  “You too, Sister Nathalie.”

  Sister Nathalie was an emotional woman, and she burst into tears as young Sister Marie moved swiftly out of the room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Richter stood beside his limousine, watching sheets of flame shoot into the sky. War surely is the most beautiful spectacle in the world, he thought as tanks fired at homes at pointblank range. The tanks continued firing until the homes were rubble; then they rolled over the stones and charred bodies and commenced firing at the next home.

  Bodies of men, women, and children lay everywhere. SS men stormed into houses, herded out occupants, and shot them in the street. Richter’s eyes darted everywhere, not missing anything, exulting in the great victory. He felt like Genghis Khan and realized what it was like to be a great warlord. I am the King of Death and this city is mine, he thought. For the first time in his career he wished he’d taken a commission in the army instead of the SS, because this was much more to his taste than pulling out the fingernails of suspected spies in the dungeon of La Roche-Guyon, or shooting recalcitrant Frenchmen in the head.

  Children screamed and the sound of machine gun fire echoed through the night. Piecke sat beside Grunwald in the front seat of the Mercedes-Benz, feeling as though the top of his head was missing. He realized he was having a nervous breakdown of some kind, but didn’t know how to stop it.

  “You’d better pull yourself together,” Grunwald said, placing his hand over Piecke’s. “This is no joke. If you want to go crazy, this is no place to do it.”

  Piecke shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It’s too awful,” he said.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” Grunwald said, “but the way I look at it, better those Frenchies than me.”

  “But it’s so wicked, so wrong, so terrible. Things like this shouldn’t happen.”

  “Of course they shouldn’t, but they do. You can’t stop it and neither can I. All we can do is try to save our own skins.”

  Piecke looked at him, his lips trembling. “But is it worth it, Grunwald?”

  Grunwald wrinkled his nose. “Is what worth it?”

  “Our skins.”

  Grunwald chortled. “I don’t know about you, fellow, but my skin is worth anything.”

  Piecke covered his eyes with his hands. “I can’t take it anymore!”

  “Stop that!”

  “It’s too much for me!”

  “Quick—take your hands down before Richter sees you. He’s crazy and he’s a trigger happy son-of-a-bitch. Look at him out there—he’s having the time of his life. You’d think he was in a Paris whorehouse with his pockets filled with francs.”

  Grunwald grabbed Piecke’s wrist and pulled down one of his hands. Piecke dropped the other one. He had no strength left. “I want to die,” he moaned.

  “Stop talking like that.”

  “The blood ... the dead children ... the pregnant women ... the old men ...”

  “Piecke!” screamed Richter.

  “He’s calling you,” said Grunwald. “You’d better get out there.”

  “Out where?”

  “Where Richter is over there. Get moving you damned fool!”

  Piecke thought he was a robot as he opened the door of the limousine. He stumbled toward Richter, carrying the radio with him.

  “Give me the radio,” Richter said, too excited to notice the turmoil in Piecke’s face. Piecke handed over the radio, and Richter brought it to his ear. He pressed the button and spoke the call letters of the tank commander, who soon came on the airwaves.

  “There’s a church at one hundred and twelve degrees—I can see the steeple in the glow of the fires. Is it visible from where you are?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to head in that direction—can you do that?”

  “We can go in any direction you like, sir.”

  “Good. Get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richter handed the radio back to Piecke. “Stay here in case I need you, idiot,” he said, looking at the steeple in the distance.

  How beautiful it will be to see that church come crashing to the ground, Richter thought. Like many Nazis, he held a particular h
atred for the Roman Catholic Church. He was personally responsible for sending a lot of priests and nuns to concentration camps. Now he rubbed his hands in anticipation, then reached for his silver cigarette case. He was observing a group of SS men firing their rifles into the windows of a house, when suddenly one of them dropped to the ground, his hands grasping his stomach. Richter held his cigarette case in the air, transfixed, as another SS man fell, blood spurting from his neck. A bullet whizzed over Richter’s head, and he lowered himself quickly to the ground.

  ‘They’re shooting back!” he screamed. “After them!”

  Piecke looked at Richter squirming on the ground, covering his head with his hands. Taking out his service revolver, Piecke cocked it and aimed it at the center of Richter’s back. Something prompted Richter to look up, and his eyes bugged when he saw Piecke with the gun.

  “Piecke—what do you think you’re doing!” Richter screamed.

  “I’m going to kill you, sir,” Piecke said, a faraway tone in his voice.

  Richter began trembling from head to foot. “Put that gun away this instant!”

  “I’m sorry sir, but I’ve got to shoot you because, you see, you are the devil incarnate.”

  Richter reached for his pistol, as Piecke squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out and Piecke’s jaw was shot away. Piecke closed his eyes and toppled to the ground, dead as a doornail. A young SS lieutenant came running up, the barrel of his pistol still smoking.

  “Are you all right, sir?” he asked Richter.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” Richter replied, looking about him cautiously.