As she’d learnt in her SOE training, a parachutage field should ideally be level, minimally about seventy-five metres wide and a hundred long – and high, so as not to be overlooked from any nearby ground that might be higher. It should also be bordered by forestry as cover for the reception party and their vehicles. In fact this field of Legrand’s was about 300 metres long, which was fine, but more like fifty than seventy-five in width, had a stand of conifers on its western side but was open on the other to a scrubby, rock-strewn down-slope – scrubby enough with gorse, brambles and assorted saplings to stop any containers that might fall that far out of line. Containers being six feet long and heavy, torpedo-shaped, and dropped on cotton parachutes, which were less reliable than the nylon ones used for human loads.
‘I’ll be at this end, out in the middle, uh?’
‘Right. Me and Legrand opposite each other this side and that about halfway along, two others ditto on the start-line. Loubert and Fernier probably. The rest stay put until I blow my whistle – when the plane’s gone over, that is, and I’m sure there’s no more to come. Otherwise could be dangerous – damn great loads crashing down, you need to watch it, Suzie.’
‘And you’ve a torch I can use. Mine’s only a titchy one I use sometimes when I’m transmitting.’
‘What we need is a moon.’ Looking up at what was still hundred-per-cent cloud-cover. ‘Fat hope. Although by eleven or half-past – well, say our prayers. But while there’s a few spare minutes, I’ll just refuel.’
* * *
Rosie’s scant memories of the hours of waiting were colour-washed by a brazier’s glow and a storm-lantern’s yellowish light, scented by the smell of both and centred on an old box-shaped wireless with a fretsawn front panel and unsafe-looking cables connecting it to the battery of a Ford tractor. There was also a crowd of mostly bearded faces – a whole barn-full of them, was her visual recollection, and since in fact there were no more than about a dozen men including Déclan and Legrand one might assume the barn wasn’t all that spacious. A detail was that the trestle table on which the lantern and the wireless stood was jammed right up against the tractor; she’d concluded that this would be so the wires would reach, eliminating any need to remove battery from tractor, Legrand’s motivation being less laziness than caution – in emergency such as a raid by gendarmerie or Boches the set-up could be instantly dismantled.
There was evidently a recognition of that danger. Hence the posting of guards outside.
She thought Loubert must have been there with Legrand when she and Déclan returned from their inspection of the dropping-zone and refuelling. He’d have left Montgazin early, in that case, well ahead of his fellow maquisards who arrived one by one during the next hours. Déclan had told him about the Wehrmacht convoy on route 64 that afternoon, and he’d said yes, there’d been movements of that kind all day, he’d seen some of it, and yes, he would contact Déclan when he had responses to enquiries he’d initiated.
He was a big man, actually quite fat, which had surprised, even rather disappointed her – there’d been no fat men as far as she remembered in the pages of Beau Geste. Although he did have what looked like a bayonet scar on one side of his face.
The maquisards from St-Girons, about six of them including their leader Emile Fernier, must have arrived in their lorry, the gazo hired by Déclan at SOE’s expense, at about six-forty or forty-five, were certainly there by the time Legrand switched on the wireless, fiddling with its knobs until he got the BBC’s French service and set himself to cutting down the static. This must have been ten minutes or so before the first lot of messages personnels were due and please God would include mention of Véronique the dancer. Would or would not: it really mattered quite enormously, for the obvious reasons including the effect of any postponement on Hardball, and for Déclan on his own account since from the Maquis point of view he’d set all this up and involved them in it. He’d mentioned this to Rosie earlier in the day as his own particular concern, the effect of postponement or cancellation on his standing with the Maquis in general and long-term, and she could see the anxiety in him now. He was in desultory conversation with Loubert and Fernier – a scrawny, dark-complexioned man with one wild eye – close to the brazier, all three of them smoking and with their eyes on Legrand who’d just turned the shrieks and crackling down to practically nothing and was crouched with his ear against the fretwork. Déclan moving to join him, with a wink at Rosie; Loubert also then lumbering over – into range of the sound presumably, but also into her field of view, blocking her sight of Legrand, of his expression if it changed…
Still a minute to go, probably. Or half a minute. He was making as sure as possible of being tuned-in, in particular not missing those few words that mattered, had only to turn up the volume when the moment came. Even then, nothing was guaranteed, with all that interference, some of which was most likely Boche jamming. Seconds to go, and one of the two maquisards they’d had outside on guard was in the doorway asking had they heard yet – Fernier snapping at him to shut his face, get back out there, Christ’s sake, and Legrand had turned the sound up to a Frenchman telling them from London through continuing, maddening howls and crackles, ‘Now here are some personal messages. Marcel and Marianne are to marry in the spring. Marcel and Marianne are to marry in the spring. The strength of a chain is the strength of its weakest link. The strength of a chain is the strength of its weakest link. Jeanette sends her love to all the family. Jeanette sends—’
Rosie thinking miserably, The drop’s off, damn it. Might have known. Oh, have known all day…
‘Véronique—’
‘Hah!’ Loubert had thrown up his arms. ‘Ça va!’ There were a lot of such body movements – exclamations, whistles, and the man in London had said it again, ‘like an angel’. Véronique was tops all right, and not just for her dancing. Rosie crying with the relief of it, Déclan surprising himself and her by hugging her, Legrand meanwhile switching off the wireless then hushing them with a reminder that confirmation at nine o’clock was still essential, boys…
* * *
‘Long enough wait, Rosie – seven to nine, then I suppose nine to eleven or thereabouts?’
Shrug of her pleasantly rounded shoulders. ‘I got special treatment, though. After the nine o’clock confirmation I was let into the house. Through the front door, would you believe it? By Legrand, obviously with his wife’s sanction. Not exactly tout confort as the hoteliers put it, but warmer than the barn and a lot quieter and I slept – on a hard chair at the kitchen table, kitchen was probably the only warm room in the house. I’m sure Madame was happier for me to sleep alone in her kitchen than in a barn with a dozen men, or however many there were, all snoring and God knows what else. The Legrand children would have been upstairs in bed, of course, and there wouldn’t have been a spare bed, no more than there’d have been a comfy chair or sofa. Madame gave me some coffee and a piece of cake, then excused herself, and I must have gone out for the count, woke with a start and maybe a stiff neck when Legrand came to tell me it was – I don’t know, some time before eleven. Déclan had left his truck up there in the trees, we’d walked back to the barn – six-thirty, whenever that was – and I remember wishing he hadn’t. At least I think I remember that – longish plod in pitch darkness, using our torches as little as possible. There was no moon, that’s for sure. A lot of this – when I say I remember it’s mostly how it must have been, how I’ve thought it out in the course of deciding what’s worth telling and what I simply don’t remember. To get it as near right as possible’s the great thing, after all. Especially as you’ll be applying your novelist’s licence to it, I imagine.’
‘Well – where that seems justifiable.’
‘I’ll be seeing the script before it goes to your publisher, won’t I, we agreed on that, didn’t we?’
‘We did indeed, Rosie.’
‘That’s all right, then. And as for the parachutage that night – well, you know the routine, you described a couple
in the earlier books – in Into the Fire for instance—’
‘Where your Mauritian colleague gets killed and the Gestapo gets you. And in In at the Kill – with the Maquis group run by that man we met in your pub.’
She’d nodded. ‘So you know the form. Us lot waiting in the dark, straining our ears for the first sound of the Lancaster s four engines, me at pointe ready to flash the recognition signal, morse letters PC, and four others with red lamps – hurricane lamps with red cloth over them – marking the flightpath left and right, and – oh, the rest of ’em spread around listening and watching out for – you know, trouble, such as did happen that night outside Rouen, you got that about right, one of my nastier recollections… This night though’ – her hand closed on my wrist – ‘God, the sheer thrill of it, that I really do remember. Catching that first whisper of distant sound that built through a hum into a roar, knowing that after all the doubt and waiting here it was, deafening great black shadow hurtling at us, me and my winking torch, smack over the top of us at five hundred feet with containers spewing out—’
‘You’re writing the story for me, Rosie!’
‘Oh, the most exciting thing. Far more so than the repeat message we’d had at nine. One heard only the last of the containers thudding into the ground because of being deafened by the blessed Lanc pounding over – blessed’s the word for it too, those marvellous guys who’d come six or seven hundred miles and now had the same distance back – well, one felt so darned grateful, you know? Sound falling away though, Déclan’s whistle like a ref’s blowing time, and the rush of maquisards – in fact all of us—’
‘Rushing to locate your goodies.’
‘Yeah, and finding all of them except mine. Five for the St-Girons band marked P and three for Loubert’s marked C. None marked as promised L for my code-name Lucy. First thoughts were OK, so it was out there in the dark someplace, the ’chute might have failed and it could more or less have buried itself in the soft ground – or rolled away some distance down that incline. But – hadn’t, simply wasn’t there. The whole crowd of us finally combed the area in line-abreast with torches, but – no go, nothing. The Maquis had their Stens and ammo and whatever else, but I did not have my spare transceivers. Sort of thing one does remember.’
9
‘Can’t hang around, Suzie. Sorry.’
‘No. I mean, sure.’ They were back at the truck, Loubert’s men preparing to embark. ‘Thanks for the efforts anyway – and for yours, Monsieur Loubert.’
‘Regrettably, mam’selle, for nothing.’
It was past midnight, and they should have been on their way by now. The St-Girons team had loaded their five containers and rumbled off down the track some while ago, but Déclan had proposed one more quick search, since Rosie did have serious need of the transceivers, and one more try might strike lucky. Loubert had reluctantly agreed to accept the delay – which had been kind of him and possibly, Rosie thought, unwise. The Lanc having woken the entire populace including gendarmerie and doubtless a fair number of Boches, the sooner one could get away with the night’s spoils the better. The main purpose of the operation had after all been achieved. Legrand would search every square metre of this high ground at first light, and if he found the missing container would transfer its contents to some secure hiding-place before burying it and contacting Déclan.
‘Thanks for all of this, François.’
‘If you don’t hear from me it’s no go, stay away.’
Because there’d be patrols out in the morning if not before, and probably descents on farms here and there, especially to those whose occupants’ loyalties might be in doubt. Which might well apply to Legrand: except he’d done this before and was no fool, wouldn’t advertise his politics. He’d be up most of the rest of the night, she guessed, clearing out the barn, maybe running his tractor up here to obliterate other tyre-tracks.
Knowing it wasn’t just his life that would be at stake, but his whole family’s. You had to hand it to them, Rosie thought. You really did.
Loubert’s three men were in under the tarp, already complaining about the cramped conditions, the big man himself crawling in behind them. There wouldn’t be all that much room, with five bicycles and three containers as well as Déclan’s tool-chest and fuel locker – full width of the truck and a metre deep. Now Loubert himself, about the size of a fourth container. Déclan slamming the tailgate up and fastening it, then joining Rosie in the cab.
‘OK?’
She shrugged. ‘Main object achieved.’
‘They cocked up in England on your gear, is my guess. Missed the bus.’
‘In which case it’ll be an age before I get them. And considering I had it set up before I left—’
‘Yeah. You said. Hold tight…’
Down to the yard and across it, turning right into the lane and soon afterwards right again into one so narrow that if you met another vehicle one of you’d have to get off into a gateway or the ditch. Driving slowly and with only side-lights that wouldn’t be visible to oncomers at more than a few metres’ range, muttering to Rosie, ‘Won’t break any records, but we’ll get there, eh?’
‘I’m sure we will, Alain.’
‘Without passing even a house let alone through villages – at this stage. Over the 628 by and by, then one large village – Carla-Bayle – and on to the 919 at Le Fossat.’
‘You’ve lost me already.’
‘The 919 takes us north to St-Sulpice-sur-Lèze.’
‘Ah. Where we drop our friends.’
‘Not exactly. Nearer Montgazin, sort of between them. We’ll turn off in fact at Lézat-sur-Lèze. Farmyard near there, we offload the containers, the lads take to their bikes and come back with a donkey-cart after dark tomorrow. Well, today, now. Important thing for us is getting shot of ’em before dawn. And listen, once we’re on the 919 we’ve come from Foix and we’re headed for Toulouse – OK?’
‘On the road in these early hours, curfew notwithstanding?’
‘Safe enough because I’m known. One job takes half the night, I’m held up – need to get to the next where I should’ve been already – and only using – well, mostly very minor roads, and places where I’m welcome, none of ’em’s going to let me down.’
‘But with the Boches here now, Alain—’
‘Yeah. There’s that. But then again, this isn’t happening every week, not every month. More like once in a blue moon, eh?’
‘You’re not known to the Boches though, are you? And how d’you explain me?’
‘Well – gendarmerie’d explain me to them, and when a man has a girl with him, Suzie, especially a very attractive one—’
She snorted. ‘Marc’s notion too, that was, and frankly—’
‘I know, I know – it’s nothing I’d go for, only the assumption they’d make. You start in about looking for your ex’s old aunt in Foix, and they’re letting you think they’re taking it seriously – while I’m naturally embarrassed—’
‘In a nutshell I’m a tart on the road with a man infringing curfew, uh?’
‘Suzie, the simple answer is we don’t get stopped. Fact is, I never have been. Like I was saying—’
‘What’s that?’
Winding her window down fast. He’d heard it too, was doing the same on his side, foot off the gas, listening to machine-guns’ distant chatter. Machine-pistols, she thought – as heard in night training exercises at and around Arisaig in the west of Scotland. Schmeissers’ fast high-pitched shortish bursts – and grenades now – two, three explosions then more Schmeisser-scream. Déclan concurring with her terse analysis of it while stopping the truck with her side flattening the thorn hedgerow, a lot of it right in the window. He’d told her ‘Stay put’, had kicked the door open on his side and was clambering out: conversing out there with Loubert – sounds of action meanwhile thinning and petering out. Loubert and Déclan agreeing that it must have been five or six kilometres away south-westward, where Fernier’s lot would have been on their way
south to St-Girons; and Déclan now urging him to open one container and have his men arm themselves with Stens and a couple of magazines apiece. Now – and quick, so he could get going. No, not for himself and Suzie, in the cab they were too open to inspection. Loubert was having his lads get on with it: Rosie wondering how much sense it made – that brief action having been at some distance, and not obviously suggesting any threat to this party in the maze of lanes. One guessed at a Boche patrol having been sent out after a general alert caused by the Lanc, the patrol striking lucky by running slap into the St-Girons crew who might have been taking it too easy, not with Déclan’s caution. Rather than getting Stens out, better surely to crack on, put more distance behind them? She could hear the maquisards clattering around in the rear of the truck – and Déclan’s voice outside asking, ‘All set, then?’
Loubert’s answer was inaudible but must have been affirmative. Half a minute later Déclan was climbing back into the cab.
‘All right?’
‘I am, but—’
‘Poor sods.’ He wasn’t wasting any more time, had the truck in reverse, backing out of the hedgerow. She’d been on the point of asking about the Stens – was there reason to think there might be some threat here or where they were heading – but instead deciding to keep quiet; it was done with, they were on their way, very little time had been lost, and he’d been in the business a lot longer than she had, what was more had been a soldier before that, even – as had Loubert, for heaven’s sake…
Back in the middle now, lurching along at about twenty kph. Glancing her way for a second: ‘No panic, Suzie. Having Stens handy is only a precaution. We know one patrol’s out – or road-block, whatever – and there could be others – over a wide area maybe and could spread wider after that fracas. Patrols and/or road-blocks. Our Lanc having stirred things up, they’ve straffed that one lot and they’d guess there might be more, right? So, I’m going to skirt around Carla-Bayle, and give Le Fossat a miss too, but I’ve got to get on that 919 at some fairly early stage so as not to have this crowd on board in bloody daylight.’
Staying Alive Page 15
