Staying Alive

by Alexander Fullerton

  She was glad she’d held her peace. Acknowledged, ‘You know your business, Alain.’

  ‘Hope so. But so did Fernier – according to Loubert.’

  ‘Fernier did, you say.’

  ‘Well. Some of ’em might’ve got away. Not all though, and odds-on not the leader. Maybe none. Boches’ll be well off for Stens and nine-millimetre, sod ’em. Schmeisser and Sten magazines are interchangeable, too. Pity Fernier didn’t have his boys break out a few Stens. If he had, odds are we’d have heard ’em.’

  ‘I suppose… Where are we now?’

  ‘We’ve passed what they call the Bourrets. Little hamlet coming up, I’ll take us through it on tippy-toes. Don’t want ’em saying Oui, Mein Herr, salauds passed about one-twenty heading east or even Sure, know that old camionette anywhere – bugger fixes pumps an’ that.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘Maybe not. Not even ones that aren’t my friends. Sooner not be involved either way. Neighbours who are friends might hear about it and take it out on ’em.’

  ‘Would you say you’re a natural optimist, Alain?’

  ‘Certainly not. Realist, more like – knowing what I have been able to get away with. Might sound like over-confidence, but… Oh, here, now. Forget what they call this place, but—’ Slowing: and almost unbelievably, a faint miasma of moon penetrating cloud. The rectangle of a house black against it, farm sheds and a cottage materialising beyond that. Even sidelights off now: but slowing further for the corner. A single-storey building which she thought might have been a blacksmith’s, and a cottage close to it on the other side. Turning left, into a fair width of country lane as distinct from narrow unmade track: another chaumière on the right. Dog barking – and another joining in – but that was behind them now.

  Picking up a little speed…

  ‘Next thing you know, we’ll be coming to the 628. Which they might keep an eye on.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘If they’ve got their heads screwed on. Anyway when they’re organised, which maybe they aren’t yet. You’d watch the main cross-country roads because you can’t watch all these little ones. Way we’re doing it now, sticking to little winding lanes – fine, but we still have to cross some main roads, even use some. The 919 for instance, when we get that far. This 628 now, you could think of it as open ground the game’s got to cross before it can – hell, get to its water-hole, whatever… Hey, see that?’

  ‘Yes. On the 628, was it?’

  ‘Sooner than I’d reckoned. But you see…’

  A light – or lights, a shifting blur of them – had glowed briefly, passing from left to right a hundred or so metres ahead. Déclan braking again. Whatever it was it was travelling comparatively fast, forty or fifty kph she guessed. And lights bright enough to show up from this distance. Whatever the distance was – or had been. She’d got her window down again, but there was nothing to hear, although engine-sound would have been drawing away on this side. Passed now anyway, gone. Unless it had seen them and stopped. Couldn’t have, though. The truck down to no more than ten or twelve kph, Déclan still coping without lights: she’d been slow winding the window down, and the truck itself was rattly enough to smother other more distant sound.

  Déclan muttering, ‘Wouldn’t usually expect much traffic on it, this time of night.’

  ‘Forces of law and order then, d’you think?’

  ‘Could’ve been. Headlights an’all, not curfew-breakers’ style.’

  ‘What I thought too. Near miss, eh?’

  ‘Another minute – if we’d met him at the corner—’

  ‘Or if he’d spotted us en passant. Which since we’re showing no lights…’

  A grunt. Throttled right down, more or less free-wheeling. Muttering, ‘Dead lucky. In the midst of life, might say… There’s a bit of a village at this crossing, I’d forgotten. Called Campagne-sur-whatever the river’s name is.’

  Hardly needing to brake, to stop there at the crossing. Buildings looming on the other side, all silent as the grave and no glimmer showing. Into gear therefore and edging forward, watching carefully both ways before chugging on over and through this minuscule habitation. Mightn’t be more than a dozen inhabitants, she guessed, tucked up in their beds, not hearing anything except each other’s snores. Would definitely not have heard the gunfire, fifteen kilometres away at least, but like the rest of the countryside might well have been woken by the Lanc, and stayed awake, might hear them creeping by? Might be better to drive normally, rather than the way they were doing?

  Perhaps not. This time of night, any traffic would probably be suspect. And the peasantry most likely inclined to mind their own business. Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! Who wrote that? Masefield? Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark – Brandy for the Parson, ’Baccy for the Clerk; Laces for a lady, letters for a spy… Not Masefield – Kipling, must have been. She asked Déclan, ‘Are you religiously inclined, Alain?’

  ‘Me?’ Straight, narrow lane now, that handful of buildings already lost astern; but still dead slow, keeping the speed down. ‘Why?’ She quoted him – ‘In the midst of life we are in death?’

  ‘Religious, is that? Comes to mind. More like – well, observation, how it is, I mean… Suzie, listen – three kilometres from here we’ll turn left – Carla-Bayle would be straight on, bearing left’ll take us clear. Junction of four or five lanes, sort of place might be gendarmes posted. And from where we turn, roughly ten kilometres’ll bring us around the back of Le Fossat, put us on the 919 somewhere north of that. An hour, say, taking it careful like we’re doing now. Sense?’

  ‘More than I’d make.’

  ‘But listen. Kilometre or two north and east from where we’ll join the 919 there’s a village called St-Ybars – biggish church, priest called Father Duhourceau. If I fouled up some way so you found yourself on your tod, could do worse than knock him up. House behind the church – ask him for shelter and to send word to Jean Samblat. If you’re stuck, that is.’

  ‘Father Duhourceau, in St-Ybars. You’re not likely to foul up though, are you?’

  ‘I mean not just tonight, any old time.’

  Rough diamond, she thought, my foot.

  * * *

  After the left turn he’d mentioned she’d dozed, woke feeling ashamed of herself about five kilometres further on, at another left turn in a hamlet which he said was called Pigailh and had to spell to her. They were in a narrow little high-banked lane then, but only for a kilometre or so, where a turn to the right brought them on to a less confining track.

  ‘Glad to be out of that ditch.’

  ‘Beats me how you do it, Alain.’

  ‘We’re spitting distance from the 919 here. And we’ve bypassed Le Fossat. Reckon I’ll get on the 919 at a place called Ste-Suzanne – give us about 15 kilometres to Lézat- sur-Lèze. Remember what happens at Lézat?’

  ‘We get off the main road.’

  ‘That we do. Turn off it and heave sighs of relief.’

  ‘If it’s like that, is it worth getting on it in the first place?’

  ‘If we didn’t we’d lose an hour or more, and we can’t afford it. A lot more little lanes, through an area I’m not familiar with. See it on the map, you’d realise – wouldn’t bother getting a torch out, but—’

  ‘I’ve enormous faith in your navigation.’

  ‘Happens we been dodging through country I know well enough. Elsewhere I could get us lost easy as pie, you’d lose all your faith. May be a dicey fifteen kilometres on the 919, but things being as they are it’s our best bet.’

  ‘Fingers crossed, then.’

  ‘You’re a great girl, Suzie. Have you thought how you’ll make out without the transceivers?’

  ‘Well – standard routine, and taking a lot of care. Out of town to send and chez moi to receive. Means lugging the set around with me, which – well, can’t be helped, can it.’

  ‘The out-of-town trips, you’d travel with me or Marc, depending w
hich of us is—’

  ‘I think I’ll do it mainly solo, thanks all the same. Limits the range, but arguably more secure. You have your own work anyway, especially with Hardball coming up – if it still is. By more secure I mean – well, that van of Marc’s a bit conspicuous, isn’t it? Whereas just another female on a bike—’

  ‘About four hundred of ’em to the square mile – in daylight. But at night, and wanting to cover a lot of ground—’

  ‘A lot of pedalling. And sleeping in ditches sometimes. Not so bad in summer, but – anyway, can be done. Incidentally I’ll have to go on the air tonight, for starters.’

  Friday, this was now. One of her listening-out nights, but no reason she shouldn’t also transmit. Maybe from not very far out of town, on this occasion. See Jake, compose a report to Baker Street and encypher it, get some rest if possible, and a meal – count on Berthe for that – and be somewhere or other listening-out by eleven. Take in whatever Sevenoaks might have for her, and strum out her report on the parachutage, mixture of good news and bad.

  More bad than good: sum total of the good being that three containers of Stens and whatever else Loubert had asked for were safely in his hands.

  Were now, anyway. Touch wood, still would be by Lézat-sur-Lèze – and beyond. She asked Déclan, ‘Think Hardball’d be at risk through the loss of those containers and Fernier’s team?’

  ‘Can’t tell until we know the score, but I doubt it. I guess the personnel’d be easy enough replaceable. I’ll have that on my plate, you bet. But Loubert’s got what he needed and I reckon he could put a few more in the field if St-Girons can’t. Jean’ll want me to do a recce down that way, for sure. Be more grist to your mill then – at least if there’s doubts.’

  ‘Up to Baker Street to confirm it or call it off, you mean.’

  ‘If there was any question of calling it off, yeah.’

  ‘A recce of the band at St-Girons – whatever’s left of it?’

  ‘Not actually at St-Girons. They shifted not long ago. There’ll be plenty left of it, main question’s who’ll take over from Fernier if he’s had it. Mind you, if it doesn’t look good, there’s alternatives.’

  ‘You mean other bands.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And en route to St-Girons or wherever, will you call in at Legrand’s?’

  ‘Not unless I hear he’s got your stuff.’

  ‘That was what I was wondering. But you’re really on the go, aren’t you? I mean on top of the job you’re supposed to make your living at?’

  ‘Yeah, well. Happens they sort of complement each other. Suzie, we’re going to need lights again any minute now.’

  ‘I was thinking we might.’

  ‘Cloud must’ve thickened. What you were saying, though – what’s time-consuming is the hours on the road and working on machinery. Calling in on Maquis hideouts here and there’s usually just minutes, half an hour maybe – get the local gossip, hear what they want from us – cash, mostly. Well, always, but sometimes paradrops, so forth. Tell you one thing, Suzie, having you along to chat with’s really nice. Any time you want, girl, only too glad.’

  ‘Except if I wasn’t with you you’d have Loubert up front here, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Never. Michel’s known – and not hard to recognise, eh?’

  ‘To the gendarmerie, you mean?’

  ‘On the wanted list for sure. Wouldn’t care to be seen hobnobbing, neither – so no, I wouldn’t put him on display. Light’s not getting any better, darn it. Get round this corner though, then—’

  ‘Must have cat’s eyes…’

  ‘Raw carrot’s supposed to help. But after this it’s a straight – oh, kilometre, say, to our road.’

  ‘Do we go through Ste-Suzanne?’

  ‘No, don’t go into it, it’s off on the east side of the road, turning left we put our backs to it.’ He’d switched on his sidelights, their small radiance enough to light up the verge and hedgerow on her side. ‘Trouble with using lights is it’s not easy to turn ’em off again.’

  ‘Doesn’t the glow from your burner show up about as much as sidelights do anyway?’

  ‘Not in a forward direction, no.’

  ‘Will you use headlights on the main road?’

  ‘Have to, I’d guess. Look less like what we are, what’s more.’

  ‘Sorry for all the questions, but one more – do we pass through other villages before St-Lézat?’

  ‘None I can think of. No, there’s none that’s right on the road.’

  ‘Good… Smoke, Alain?’

  ‘Now that’s an idea. Here, use mine?’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ Crouching right down, hearing him say it would be roughly four kilometres to the St-Ybars turn-off, but the village itself was well clear of the road. They’d’ve built the road to bypass it, he guessed. Rosie reflecting that (a) she’d only have a couple of cigarettes left after this, (b) she’d never been scared of a road before. Not in fact that it was the road that scared one, only what might be on it. But the hell, only fifteen kilometres of it – twenty, twenty-five minutes say? Then home and dry, more or less. Eyes half shut at the flare of the match: then back up.

  ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thanks. I was thinking – good news for you, won’t be as much as fifteen kilometres, more like twelve.’

  ‘Better and better. Almost at it, are we?’

  ‘I reckon.’ A nod, in semi-profile against the faint, close radiance from that sidelight. Exhaling smoke. ‘But another thought I had – if they were putting a block on it they’d do it at Lacroix Falgarde – where the road from Auterive and Pamiers joins. Two main roads, one block – eh?’

  ‘If they had reason to think we’d be making for Toulouse—’

  ‘Not we, Suzie, they don’t know we exist. Coming up to it now though. Nice empty thoroughfare, you’ll see.’

  ‘The smoke was a good idea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly was.’ Easing down: sidelights still burning. ‘Certainly was.’ Darkness fairly total out there, but he was braking, had to be seeing something. Hadn’t had the flare of that match under his nose, of course, to spoil his night vision.

  Stopping. Rosie keeping her hand cupped around the cigarette, to hide even that small pinpoint glow. Sidelights putting a just-visible gleam on paved roadway around the forefront: otherwise only dark night in both directions. A lurch as he edged the truck forward, shifting gear, and the hand with the cigarette in it reaching to switch on headlights – which were not all that bright. Accelerating slantwise across the road, the fag now in his mouth brightening as he inhaled.

  ‘Here we are then, Suzie.’

  ‘And we have the place to ourselves. Must say I’m glad I’m not under that tarpaulin.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re not, too.’

  ‘Not only the discomfort, but not knowing where the heck one is.’

  ‘Michel Loubert’s own choice. They could have done it on their bikes, and I’d have delivered the containers to that yard.’

  ‘He’d have wanted to stay with them, I imagine.’

  ‘And I’d have needed help with the unloading. That or waited there half the night. Thing is, one doesn’t bring more people into it than one has to. The fewer in the know, the safer.’

  ‘Which is why we had so few maquisards at the drop, I dare say. How many’ll be needed for Hardball?’

  ‘I honestly couldn’t tell you, Suzie.’

  She laughed. ‘Bet you couldn’t.’

  ‘A lot’ll be up to the guys who’ll be at the sharp end – our visitors, uh?’

  ‘Ah. Right… What are we doing now – forty, forty-five?’

  ‘Forty-four. Might coax her up to fifty on the flat.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, say.’

  ‘About that – and a couple gone already.’

  ‘If we were stopped – OK, we won’t be, but if we were—’

  ‘I’ve been servicing pumps at a couple of farms they could check on if they wanted, I’m on my
way home to Léguevin, taking a chance on sneaking by as far as curfew’s concerned because I should’ve been home hours ago and there’s a job I must get to tomorrow – and I’m giving you a lift back from Foix – oh, my God—’

  ‘Christ!’

  Lights ahead: a whole lit-up section, abrupt entry to perdition: to her mind, finish. They’d come round this shallow left-hand bend, and – floodlights, road-block, vehicles and – Christ, four or five hundred metres ahead, no more…

  ‘Hold tight.’ He’d switched his lights off. Road straight as a ruler here, he had those others to sight on, was heading straight at them – at fifty or thereabouts, to Rosie’s expanding horror, foot hard down – aiming to ram, crash through them, end up smashed and burning? He’d yelled again, ‘Hang on!’ But dragging the wheel hard right then, the truck juddering and on the tilt as well as turn, stink of burning rubber and actually travelling sideways – level again, back on four wheels for the moment – Déclan having wrenched the wheel back into the skid, Rosie just hanging on in her seat as far as she was able, ‘as instructed’ was her way of putting it, hearing a thunder of destruction from the rear, visualising containers crushing bodies, bicycles…

  * * *

  ‘No such thing.’ Telling me this, old Rosie had been wide-eyed, shaking her head and sounding at that stage more Australian than French or Anglo-French. ‘Believe me – he had the truck back under control some bloody how, heading east now mind instead of north, we’d been sort of rocking to a halt right out of that spinning skid but he had her steady then and picking up speed, headlights on – such as they were, didn’t make all that difference – then off again after a couple of seconds as if he’d seen all he needed. I hadn’t seen any turn-off, but here we were on it, a side-road leading to the place with the funny name where Father Whatsit’d help out if called upon to do so, eh? St-Ybars, right. It was a fair-sized turning and country road with another right turn, a lane, about a hundred metres up, and Alain swung into that without taking his foot off the gas, after which – me having suppressed a shriek – I hope suppressed it – we were heading south, almost but not quite parallel to the 919 – and the gendarmes or Boches, one car or more, I’ve no idea – never saw ’em, but Alain thought there’d have been at least two – most likely roared on into St-Ybars and I suppose right on through it. I remember as much as I do – or think I do, if you know what I mean – because it truly was a heck of a near squeak. Alain explained it to me afterwards on the map and bloody years later I told Ben about it.’