“You must let the patients rest.” The nurse mustered all the power inherent in her uniform. “This man has a high fever and needs to sleep if he’s to recover.”
“I’ll do as I please, and when I please.” He sat back down on the appropriated bed. “And it’s all the same to me if this one never recovers. Once the Gestapo gets hold of him he’s not going to feel quite so coddled.”
“Then think of the rest of these patients. They need their rest, as well.” She went to Ryan’s side. “Sir? Are you doing any better?”
Ryan’s head throbbed from the incessant dry heaving. He had tried to conserve what little energy he still had, knowing the clock was ticking. Any escape would have to come before daybreak, for Horst’s men were sure to arrive by morning. But he was sensing that the worst had passed, his bowels no longer clenched, his sweats and chills had abated.
“Madame, a request, if I might?” His voice as weak as possible to still be heard.
“What is it, monsieur?”
“You have bathed me as best you could. Do you suppose I could get a quick shave so I’m more presentable for the interrogation?”
She couldn’t help but pity the poor wretch and what he would endure at the hands of these police brutes. Everyone knew what the Gestapo was capable of inflicting; everyone feared the police, no matter which branch. “Of course, monsieur. One moment, please.” She lit the metal lamp beside his bed and gathered supplies from the wall cabinet in the corner of the ward.
“What the hell are you doing?” The guard had overheard the exchange and wasn’t about to let her pamper this criminal any further. The man rose to block her path back to Ryan. “He gets no special treatment, is that clear?”
“Young man, I’ve sons your age, interned somewhere as POW’s. I taught all three of them to respect women, all women, and especially their mother. Your parents obviously failed in that regard. If you lack the common courtesy to allow me to do my job, I shall report you to your superiors. Now go sit and stay out of my way.”
The man scowled and muttered under his breath, but returned to his place on the hospital bed. He watched carefully as she set the basin of warm water and mug of shaving soap on the side table. She propped Ryan up with an extra pillow, lathered his face, and skillfully scraped at his two-day growth with a safety blade.
Damn, Ryan thought. He’d hoped for a straight razor. “Please remove the mustache, too, madame.” His pitiful half-smile confirmed his weakened condition.
“You’re certain, monsieur? It does look rather dashing.”
“I’m afraid there’s little use for ‘dashing’ where I’m headed, madame.”
“Very well, monsieur,” and she scraped off the remnants of the Hervé Delacourt persona, rinsing the remnants of soap with a warm washcloth.
The guard had had enough. “No more nonsense, now. He’s done, and so are you.” He consulted his watch. “With any luck we’ll be out of this piss pot of a hospital in under an hour.”
“Madame, if I might, I’d really appreciate a visit to the WC to get out of this diaper. You’ll understand if I can’t face interrogation looking like this.” He gestured to the gown and loincloth.
“Of course, monsieur. I’ll take you there, but first the police agent will have to free your hand.” She turned to the sullen guard.
“No way,” the gendarme was on his feet, “he goes nowhere without me.”
“Then take care of it now, please.”
The man grasped Ryan’s wrist tightly while he released the cuff from the bedframe. Ryan swung his feet off the bed, but light-headedness overcame him and he fell back to get his bearings. The guard clamped the loose cuff on Ryan’s other wrist and chuckled. “Better now, diaper-boy? Must Maman here make sure you clean yourself properly?”
Ryan’s eyes met those of the nurse and he gave her a quiet nod of thanks. The guard yanked hard on the handcuff chain to pull Ryan to his feet, forcing him to stagger through the doors leading to the hallway. Outside the men’s room he put his hand on his holstered pistol and took a brief look inside the chamber. “If you think I’m about to wipe your ass, think again. Get your business done, and quickly. If you’re well enough to shit on your own, you sure don’t need a hospital, and it’s back to the station with you.”
He shoved Ryan to his knees over the toilet and slammed the door behind him. Ryan got to his feet, reaching for the wall to steady himself, and surveyed what tools were at hand. Despite the queasiness, he was feeling stronger than revealed, hoping his show of weakness would buy a few extra minutes.
The toilet was a square porcelain basin with two footrests for squatting and a drain in the middle. He had hoped for a heavy tank lid to use as a weapon. High on the wall hung a water reservoir with a pull chain, but there was no cover. The window above his head was far too small to climb through, even had the many coats of paint not sealed it shut. Ryan removed the pull-chain for the flushing mechanism. He wrestled off the hospital gown and ended up with the thin fabric twisted tightly around one arm, since he was still hampered by the cuffed wrists. He kicked the diaper into the corner. Free range of movement would be a must for a successful escape. With one end of the chain wrapped around each palm he silently waited beside the door, his hands above his head.
“What the hell’s taking so long?” The guard rattled the door loudly.
Ryan’s voice was weak and desperate. “Help me! Come quickly, I’ve fallen!”
The door immediately opened and the guard pulled up short. Ryan waited less than an arm’s reach away, but it was enough. With one quick motion, he swung the loop of toilet chain over the man’s head, pivoted to the side while kneeing him in the gut, and shoved him to the floor with his face over the toilet hole. Ryan cinched the chain taut as he dropped down heavily on the policeman’s back, restricting all movement. The cop struggled to rise but the doorway was too narrow and he couldn’t dislodge his attacker. The man desperately sought to break the hold of the garrote which was quickly strangling him. Another minute of struggle, and he went slack.
Ryan slowly released the tension on the chain and found a pulse, weak but present. An angry welt encircled the man’s neck. He dragged him into the narrow room and shut the door. Setting aside the police weapon, he used the key to remove the handcuffs. Once finally free of the gown restricting his arm, he went to work, removing the man’s shoes and socks. The police cap had narrowly missed the toilet, and Ryan set it aside. He unbuttoned the man’s jacket and pulled off the trousers, ignoring the undergarments. Only a few minutes elapsed before he was fully in uniform, the fit adequate if not perfect. Ryan scanned the man’s identity papers and badge before stuffing them back into the jacket. Last of all, he belted on the holstered revolver and placed the billed cap on his head.
The gendarme began to stir and cough repeatedly from deep in his throat. Ryan clubbed him across the base of the skull with the pistol butt. It wouldn’t do to have him wake up anytime soon. He took the cuffs and cinched the man’s hands behind his back.
The nurses might come looking soon so Ryan had no time to waste. He opened the door to peer down the hallway in both directions. A nurse was maneuvering a gurney into another ward through distant swinging doors, but no one else prowled the halls in the early morning hour. Facing him was a closet marked “supplies.” He dragged the unconscious guard across the hall, flicked on the light, and closed the door. Using bandages from the supplies shelf, he gagged him with gauze and wrapped his lolling head in linen, then tied the man’s feet together with the toilet pull chain. Two roll-away beds sat in the back of the closet, and Ryan shoved them aside to stash his captive against the wall, then rolled the beds back into position and checked that no one would spot the change. Satisfied at last with his work, Ryan opened the door a fraction, saw he was still in the clear, and headed for the exit.
On the street he tossed the handcuff key into a rubble pile and set out to put as much distance as possible between himself and the hospital. His head throbbed, his face
shone damp despite the cool morning air. He knew he was running on the rush of adrenaline and that he might collapse soon, but he was free at last.
After only a few blocks the pit in his stomach and his weakened condition demanded a break. He would need something to eat before finding a way out of town. An empty café up a side street appeared promising. In the pockets of his stolen trousers were ration coupons, a few crumpled francs, and a coin or two, not enough for train fare but adequate for a slice of bread, a little butter and coffee with milk. He greeted the proprietor, then took a table close to the front window with his back to the wall and invisible to vehicle or pedestrian traffic. To his great relief the first bite of bread stayed down. Once certain his stomach was done rebelling, he finished off the light breakfast. The street beyond the window remained quiet and he began to relax.
Would they be searching for him yet or even have discovered the missing guard? Had the nurse alerted the police? Should he try to get to Paris now, or make his way to Nantes after all? And where was Nicole—headed south, or still in town? No, gone for sure. He had enough money to phone the embassy in Vichy and leave a coded message for Ed. But what could his brother do, and at what risk to State Department neutrality in the Occupied Zone? He thought of David Bruce’s caution: “You get in trouble, you’re on your own—we’ll have to deny all knowledge of you, understood?” Ryan understood.
A slight man in a herringbone jacket, gray tie and faded beret leaned a rust-red bicycle against the bricks out front. As he entered the shop he greeted the proprietor and took a newspaper from the rack. Ryan received a casual glance before the man abruptly averted his gaze. Too abruptly. Ryan knew at once that the uniform had disconcerted the customer. Certainly fear was justified for those living in a police state, but this man had something to hide and wasn’t good at disguising his nervousness. The new arrival fumbled his order to the café owner and then stared straight ahead at an unadorned wall, his eyes avoiding his newspaper, the front of the coffee shop, and the curious policeman staring at him.
Ryan took the seat beside him. “Ça va, monsieur?”
“Well enough, monsieur l’agent.” He took a noisy slurp of his coffee, his eyes darting nervously, a cornered animal. “And you?”
“Très bien, monsieur. But listen—I’ve a small favor to ask of you.” Ryan placed both hands on the table and closed the distance with the anxious man.
“How can I be of help? You name it, I’m yours—I’ve always been a big supporter of our police.” The poor man’s hands trembled, a tic pulsing in the corner of one eye.
“I need to borrow your bicycle, but just for a short while. My ride hasn’t shown.”
The man sighed audibly. “Of course, of course. I regret it’s such an old one, but it does ride well.” He forced a smile.
“Excellent!” Ryan sat upright again and returned the smile. “Now give me your address—phone number, too—and I’ll get it back to you when I’m done. Agreed?”
“No problem, officer, a pleasure. Always glad to help.” He spoke quickly, jotting down information on the back of a napkin, his fingers barely controlling the pencil. Ryan knew the address would be false.
With directions to the train station from a passer-by, Ryan pedaled away as fast as his weakened legs would allow. The café proprietor appeared only too happy to have the policeman leave his shop. The same could be said for the bicycle’s owner.
The intimidation inherent in his uniform had given Ryan a brilliant idea. He recalled playing the Gestapo officer on the train near Kassel back in ‘38, and rehearsed his new French role. It seemed unlikely he would even have to pay for that train fare to Nantes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nantes and Tours, Occupied France
22 August 1941
The first clandestine meeting with the Nantes partisans did not get off to a smooth start. René and Erika felt very much the outsiders, having to meet with them cold. The contacts provided by Jacques in Bayonne had facilitated this rendezvous in an abandoned warehouse north of the Loire. Two young men frisked them at the door, and Erika suspected one partisan took his job too seriously as he ran his hands over her body. René gritted his teeth but remained mute, understanding the need for security and the necessity of establishing trust in this new group.
A young man code-named Jean-Philippe had closely-spaced eyes and an aggressive attitude. “Why the hell should we need your help? I don’t give a damn what you’ve done elsewhere, you’re both Boches!” He glared at René. “Just what can you bring to the table that we don’t already have?”
René attempted to appease. “Perhaps you don’t need our help, monsieur, but you’ll never know till you hear us out.”
Erika jumped in the young man’s face. “Just how long have you battled the Nazis? A year? A month, maybe? A week?” The partisan took a step back as she continued unchecked. “Yes, we are Germans—Germans who’ve been fighting Hitler’s bastards tooth and nail for years now.”
A middle-aged man with the arms of a blacksmith stepped between them. “Please take it easy, madame.” Introduced as the group leader under the name Maurice, he tried to soothe Erika’s outrage. “Jean-Philippe may be young and new to this battle, but he is committed to our cause. His father and brother fought at Dunkerque and are still in a prison camp, and now he must care for his family on his own.”
Despite René’s gentle hand on her forearm, Erika’s tirade continued unabated. “The fact remains that the two of us have suffered great losses at the hands of these Nazi criminals. We’ve already killed for the cause, we’ve sabotaged and undermined and risked all to help both France and Germany slow down these beasts. And now we offer to share what we’ve learned, what works and what doesn’t. And yes, our being German might just help turn the tables for you, since we’ve spent years dealing with the Nazi bastards.” Her anger calmed as she finally sought common ground. “We understand that you’ll also have much to share with us, to teach us, but never question our determination or our skills.”
Now the young Raymond, so industrious just minutes before in patting down Erika for weapons, voiced his opinion. “I for one vote we hear them out.” His glance suggested hope that the attractive blonde would value his support. “Face it, we can use colleagues who look and sound German—just imagine the possibilities.”
René made his case. “Look, we’re all in this together, and if our help isn’t needed we can simply form our own group. There’s plenty of work for everyone. But we do come here with the support of the Verneuil network.” Several nodded in recognition at mention of the respected Bayonne group. “Let’s face facts—as long as we all operate piecemeal across France and duplicate our efforts, we’ll step on each other’s toes.”
Introduced as Cerberus, a short, balding man spoke up. “We’ve heard the Communists have just unified under a single banner. Liaising with them might be a good place to start.”
René saw his opening. “Come on, my friends—just imagine our strength if we follow that lead, if we share and cooperate across France! Our factory workers sabotage armaments production. Our transportation people misdirect deliveries. Our counterfeiters forge impressive identity papers and our tailors assemble convincing disguises. And most important, our shared lines of communication mean intelligence reaches our Allied friends while it still has some value. Can we ever really make a difference without cooperation?”
Laura, a brunette with intelligent brown eyes, spoke up. “I like what they bring to the table—I say we explore this further.” Married to Maurice, the very pregnant Laura received Erika’s smile of thanks.
“And I say we kill more.” The young Henri spat on the floor. “What the hell are we doing here, anyway? I say we take out some leaders, kill some soldiers, make the Boches fear our streets! Without firing our weapons, we’re just old ladies chatting over tea and biscuits.”
“But what of the hostages they hold?” Laura held a hand to her rounded belly. “We start shooting as Henri demands, and innocent
people die before a firing squad.” Her chin jutted. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Who the fuck cares?” Henri lit the stub of a cigarette, allowing the callousness of his comment to sink in. “What’s war without death? We all face it, some of us even welcome it, whether we admit it or not. I say let’s get on with it.” He exposed a pistol tucked in his belt. “Let’s see how much the fuckers enjoy bleeding France dry once their own blood clogs our gutters!” He closed his jacket and stormed out, Jean-Philippe on his heels.
The others looked after them, a few shaking their heads in dismay.
A slight smile crossed Maurice’s face. “Don’t worry, they’re young and mean well…and they always come back.” Laura nodded.
“And they may have a point,” added Raymond.
Erika exchanged glances with René. “So?”
René’s eyes polled the remaining partisans. “Are we all in the same club?”
At eleven that morning a black Citroën sedan braked to a quick stop before the gendarmerie in Tours and two men in suits and fedoras raced up the steps to the reception room. The young policeman at the desk saluted smartly, knowing Gestapo when he saw it. His forehead already glistened. He knew the reason for the official visit, and the secret police weren’t going to be pleased with his report.
“You’ve detained here a certain Hervé Delacourt, correct?” A mustache bisected the secret policeman’s slender face.
“C-c-certainly, monsieur, but there’s been a bit of a problem…messieurs.” The young gendarme stared down at his log book. How he wished to be anywhere else, and that his sergeant hadn’t ordered him to receive these troublesome visitors. That coward now hid in the back.
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