by John Wilcox
Gladwin’s brow furrowed but a little further away he noticed de Vitrac. He walked over. “Well, Henri, it looks as though we must soon part. No doubt you will be glad to see the back of us.”
The Frenchman did not catch his eye. “Not at all,” he said. “Certainly, I know that Marie will be sorry to see you go.”
Gladwin regarded him sharply. But de Vitrac stayed looking up at the sky to the east, no half-smile on his lips, no distant air of sarcasm in his voice. He was tense, as he had been in the van, but it also seemed as though he did not wish to talk at all to this Britisher and that their earlier moments of near intimacy – their discussions of history and all that – had not occurred and that he was merely observing the need now to be well mannered. The two stayed together in silence for a moment or two and then Gladwin shrugged and walked back to Proctor. As he did so, his ear caught the faint strum of an aircraft engine to the east.
Silently, shadows emerged from either side of the clearing and materialised into two lines of men. They looked at Chauvin who shook his head negatively. He was, Gladwin noted, in complete command. The faint sound from the east gradually grew louder and the Welshman recognised the hum of a single radial engine. Heavy breathing revealed that Proctor was now standing by his side and both men strained their eyes over the fringe of tall conifers that marked the eastern end of the clearing. Was it – it must be – the Lysander?
The two lines of men were still standing close to the trees marking the long – but not too long – rectangle that was the clearing in the forest and they kept switching their heads first to look into the sky from whence the sound came and then towards Chauvin. But the big man did not move.
Eventually, a black speck could be distinguished from the light grey of the sky. It was approaching steadily, directly in line with the clearing and descending gradually. Gladwin mutely gave thanks for the skill of the pilot who, depending on no one but himself, had to fly the aircraft, keep a keen watch for enemy fighters and navigate the machine accurately to find this spot in the black forest below him. Now his main and most difficult task lay before him: landing the machine at night in the narrow break between the trees.
Chauvin barked an order and the waiting men advanced towards the centre of the clearing, formed into two lines some fifty yards apart, and switched on their hand-held electric torches, raising them towards the incoming aircraft to form a flight path for the landing.
“Shit,” whispered Proctor. “He’ll never see them in this light. He’ll end up in the trees burnt to a cinder and then where will we be?”
Gladwin could not help but noting the New Zealander’s complete lack of thought for the brave man piloting the Lysander. Brave, yes, but also skilful. The distinctive silhouette of the plane – high gull wing, fixed spatted wheels, big round radial engine – was now clearly defined and, when he saw the torches switched on, the pilot wiggled his wings for a moment in recognition and continued his slow, sure descent. The noise of the engine now filled the clearing.
The perfection of it all – the smooth organisation of Chauvin, the professionalism of the British pilot – was suddenly shattered when, from the end of the clearing furthest from where Gladwin and Proctor stood, a powerful light flashed from between the trees and above the sound of the aircraft’s engine a machine gun stuttered into life.
Chauvin whirled towards his companion with the Very pistol. “Abort, abort, vite!
,” he shouted. The man pulled back the safety catch on the clumsy hand gun and pointed it towards the sky.
“Non, non,” another voice screamed. It was de Vitrac, who rushed across the grass and grappled with the man holding the Very pistol.
The two Frenchmen stood locked together, swaying for an instant, de Vitrac’s hand gripping the wrist of the firer, attempting to prevent him from pulling the trigger. Then a single shot rang out and de Vitrac, still gripping the other’s arm, froze for an instant before slumping to the ground, his head shattered from the bullet fired so close to him. As his lifeless body hit the grass, the Very light whooshed into the sky, breaking into a red crescent that bathed the little clearing in a satanic scarlet. Immediately, the Lysander banked to the left, its wing tip almost brushing the tree tops and its engine roaring at full revolutions, before it disappeared away into the night.
Chauvin, his pistol still smoking, stood for a split second looking down at de Vitrac’s body.
“You bastard,” shouted Gladwin and sprang at the giant Frenchman, catching him above the knees in a rugby tackle so that both fell to the ground with a thud. The Welshman was the first to regain his feet, and was briefly conscious of the sound of heavy machine gun fire from the far end of the clearing before a heavy weight crashed into his head, and blackness descended.
CHAPTER 9
Bill Gladwin regained consciousness slowly, like a man wading through a swamp of pain in which every step seemed to break open his head anew. The hurt was accentuated by the fact that his body was being jolted violently and his ears were filled with a high-pitched noise. He moaned and put his hand to his head and touched something sticky and wet.
His stirring activated Proctor. “For God’s sake, Taff.” The New Zealander’s voice hissed in his ear and yet it seemed to come from far away. “Don’t do anything else bloody stupid or they’ll kill both of us. Just lie quietly.”
Gladwin tried to open both eyes but the lid of his right eye seemed to be stuck down. He turned his head slowly and realised that he was lying on the floor of the van which, from the way the vehicle was bouncing and jumping and from the whine of the engine, was being driven at very high speeds in low gear over unmade roads. Slowly, he eased his elbows to the vibrating floor and half sat up. Proctor was cringing – there was no other word for it – on the floor beside him and opposite, swaying with the motion, sat a Maquisade, the barrel of his Sten gun pointing directly at the two flyers and his eyes regarding them without expression. Turning his head, Gladwin saw the unmistakable bulk of Chauvin sitting next to the driver, whose shoulders were working hard as he struggled to keep the little truck on the road. Bringing his hand to his face, Gladwin realised that it was covered in blood. He rubbed his right eye gently and was able partly to remove the crusted blood that had gummed his eye shut, but nothing could stop the pounding pain in his head.
“Bloody hell. What hit me?”
Proctor leaned down, but did not move his gaze from the gunman opposite. “That chap did. It bloody well served you right, for charging across and throwing yourself at the boss there.” He gestured towards Chauvin.
Gladwin pulled himself into a sitting position and felt the back of his head. It was still wet. “All right,” he murmured through gritted teeth, “but why did they kill de Vitrac? Eh?”
“I don’t know, Taff, but don’t start trouble again. These blokes seem as though they’d kill their mothers for tuppence.”
As though to disprove the assertion, the man opposite pulled a remarkably white piece of cloth from inside his blouson, laid down the Sten gun and poured a little water onto the cloth from a water bottle at his side and offered it, wordlessly, to Gladwin.
“Thanks – merci beaucoup,” said the Welshman and began carefully wiping his face, neck and, more gingerly, the wound at the back of his head. Tentatively, he examined his skull with his fingers and exerted a little pressure. The pain intensified, causing him to breath deeply to prevent another lapse into unconsciousness, but he held on. Good, there seemed no fracture there, just a damned great bump already rising. There were no windows in the enclosed rear of the vehicle but he could sense that it was still dark outside. He looked at his watch: 12.43. He must have been unconscious for nearly half an hour. His tongue felt huge and seemed to be filling a mouth lined with sandpaper.
He handed back the cloth with a mouthed merci and gestured towards the water bottle. “Any chance of a drink, monsieur? Un boisson, eh?” Wordlessly, the Frenchman handed him the bottle and Gladwin took a deep draught and began to feel a little better.
He returned the bottle with a nod and turned to Proctor. “Now tell me exactly what happened after I was thumped.”
The New Zealander licked his lips and, still eyeing the Sten gun, began to speak in a half whisper. “It seems that the Germans had laid some sort of ambush and had known that there was going to be a landing, because they had crept up at the end of the clearing and were spreading out to take the aircraft – and us – as soon as it had landed. At least, that’s what I’ve surmised. D’you remember those men with the Stens that Chauvin sent off before we heard the plane?”
Gladwin nodded his head and then wished he hadn’t.
“Well, it looks as though he placed them at the far end as a kind of safety screen and they saw the Germans fanning out through the trees and fired at ‘em.” Proctor licked his dry lips at the memory. “I thought that we were for it then, I can tell you. Anyway, the bloody general here,” he nodded to the broad back of Chauvin, “gives the order to abort the landing by firing the Very light. But your chum, de what’s-is-name, then tries to stop the alarm being given to the Lysander and gets shot by the boss as a result.”
“But why on earth would de Vitrac try to stop the warning being given? Did he want the Lysander to be captured – along with the rest of us…?”
“Search me, mate. I’m lost in all this, I can tell you.”
“So what happened then – and where are we going now?”
“All hell breaks out at the far end of the clearing but, at least, the Germans were stymied. D’you know, these blokes here had got mortars? Amazing.”
Gladwin’s blood-caked face now wore a puzzled frown. “So it looks almost as though they knew the Germans would attack, and they came prepared?”
“Could be. But how would I know?”
“Yet they surely wouldn’t risk the life of the pilot and the loss of his aircraft, just to set some sort of trap for the Germans. They could have organised a pitched battle at any time, I would have thought. Anyway, what happened next?”
“The French blokes were clearly holding off the Germans and the Chief Froggie here orders what seemed like an orderly withdrawal. Suddenly, the place was full of motor bikes and old trucks all pissing off out of the woods. They push me into this van again and… er… I think they were going to leave you where you had fallen but the boss tells ‘em to throw you in the truck with me. But I don’t know where we’re going. One thing’s for sure – it’s not home. I might have known it. Taffy, I told you we should have given ourselves up. We’ll probably all buy it at the next check point.”
Gladwin shut his eyes and let his head slump forward onto his chest. His brain – his whole head – was hurting too much to attempt to sort out the puzzle. Then he jerked his head back. Marie! Where would de Vitrac’s death leave her? Would she be implicated somehow in this business? She must stand uneasily between the two sides, the Germans and the Maquis. And how would she take his death? He knew she was fond of the man: her husband, her brother – her whatever – even if she did not love him in the same way that she loved… She would grieve and her grief would be compounded, he knew, by her concern for him. What could he do…? Oh shit! It was all too much for the moment. He would think what to do about it all when they reached wherever they were going and when his head stopped pounding.
The passengers in the little van realised that the vehicle must have left forest or country roads, for the ride suddenly became smoother. Then, however, the bumping resumed and Gladwin presumed that they had turned off onto another country track, perhaps in more wooded terrain because the driver proceeded with more caution now. After another fifteen minutes they halted. Chauvin twisted around and gave an order. The guard pulled open the twin doors at the back of the van, jumped down and gestured for Gladwin and Proctor to do the same.
The night was much darker here, or perhaps the trees were denser, and it was difficult to make out their surroundings. However, it was clear they were in a very small, overgrown clearing against what appeared to be a mountainside, for a face of seemingly sheer rock rose at one side of the clearing. A noise behind him made Gladwin turn and he saw dark figures with brushes removing the tyre marks of the van and sweeping leaves over them. Wherever they were, he realised that they had arrived at a Maquis stronghold.
Beckoning the others to follow, Chauvin began to climb up an almost indistinguishable series of steps that wound up the face of the rock wall until, some hundred feet above the ground and partly obscured by a clump of bushes, the opening of a large cave was revealed. Ten paces inside, the big man carefully pulled aside a heavy curtain and waved for the others to pass through quickly.
Despite his pounding head, Gladwin looked around him with interest. The cave was not wide but it was deep. Candles perched on ledges in the rock wall gave a low, flickering light and revealed a series of bunks set against the walls and a long wooden table and rough chairs set in the middle of the cave. About a dozen men were dozing or sleeping beneath blankets in the bunks and two others sat at the table, playing cards. Against the walls, between the bunks, a series of weapons – rifles, Sten guns, two heavier calibre machine guns and what looked like anti-tank mortars – were stacked and in a corner near the entrance a portable wireless transmitter and receiver sat on a small table. Opposite to it, on the other side of the entrance, was a blackened cooking grill that obviously was used in the clearing below. The room’s atmosphere was heavy with stale tobacco smoke and this was thickened as the sweepers from the woods joined the others in the cave and immediately lit their own cigarettes. It was, of course, a Maquis barracks. To Gladwin, however, it seemed like the setting of a robbers’ den in a pantomime and his mind’s eye summoned up a Victorian engraving that used to hang in his mother’s sitting room. It depicted a young, anxious girl being ushered down steps by grinning, swarthy men into just such a cave. It was entitled, he remembered, ‘Stolen by Gypsies’.
Chauvin gestured for them to sit at the table and walked over to one of the sleeping figures and shook him awake. The two men exchanged brief words and then the sleeper, a slender young man, threw aside his blanket, washed his hands at a bowl in the corner, dried his hands and walked over to Gladwin. At the same time, Chauvin sat down on the bench beside Gladwin and produced a small bottle of cognac and two glasses. He poured the golden liquid into the glasses and offered one to the Welshman, completely ignoring Proctor.
He gestured to the young man. “’E is not a doctor but ‘e is, or was, a medical student. It is as good as we ‘ave ‘ere. Let ‘im look at your ‘ead, eh? And drink the cognac. We all need it after such a night.”
Silently, his brain in a whirl, Gladwin accepted the glass and sipped it. The young medico began carefully wiping his charge’s face and matted hair with a soft, wet sponge. The coldness was welcome to Gladwin, whose head seemed to be on fire.
“Do you play rugby?” asked Chauvin suddenly.
“Of course I play rugby. I’m a Welshman.”
“Ah oui. It was a good tackle. But you took me when I was not looking. If I ‘ad seen you coming, I would ‘ave ‘anded you off. I used to be a second row forward.”
Proctor winced as the young man probed the wound. “You took de Vitrac when he wasn’t looking. Why did you kill him? He was one of your own.”
A hard light came into the Frenchman’s eyes. “No monsieur. ‘E was not. ‘E was a traitor.”
Proctor’s voice broke the tension. “Any chance of a little of that brandy, d’you think?”
Without taking his eyes off Gladwin, Chauvin pushed the bottle towards Proctor in a move that was almost contemptuous. The New Zealander grabbed it and drank from the bottle, replacing it on the table with a cough and a splutter.
Gladwin sighed and held up his head as a bandage was wrapped around his scalp and then down and under his chin. “I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”
The Frenchman grunted and rose to his feet. “Comrade, there are many things I do not understand.” He tossed the remainder of the cognac from his gla
ss down his throat in one movement. “But that man betrayed us and ‘e betrayed ‘is country. Of that, you can be sure. Now, when Bertrand ‘ere ‘as finished with you, the two of you must sleep.” He nodded to the far corner of the cave. “We do not ‘ave beds for you because this is not an hotel, but there is good clean straw over there and blankets. Sleep tonight and I will try and explain in the morning. “Bonne Nuit.”
Proctor raised his voice. “Yes, but what’s going to happen to us? What are you going to do with us?”
Chauvin gave a mirthless smile. “We shall shoot you, of course,” he said and walked away, pulling aside the blanket with care to go outside.
Proctor turned his terror-stricken face to Gladwin. “Oh shit, Taff! We’re done for…”
The medical student tied the knot of the bandage with a flourish and bent his head between the two flyers. “Our commandant ‘as a good sense of ‘umour, my friends,” he whispered. “Do not worry. We need all our cartridges to fight the Germans.”
Light headed from the blow and the effect of the strong spirit, Gladwin needed no encouragement to stretch out on the straw. From his pocket he pulled the green silk scarf and knotted it round his throat. Then he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the rough greatcoat he had bundled into a pillow.
