by Jim Eldridge
I soon caught the mood of the village – who was anti-German, and who seemed to support them. The most prominent of the German supporters we met was the village mayor, a small, pompous man in his sixties with a pencil-thin moustache and a superior air. We came face to face with him on the street as we walked out of the haberdashers.
“M’sieur le Maire,” said Madame Megris respectfully. “Permit me to introduce an old friend of our family, Miss Céline LeBlanc from Rouen. She is staying with us for a while following …” She hesitated, the lowered her voice as she added: “a family tragedy.”
“My condolences, Mam’selle,” said the Mayor, though there was little in his tone of voice to suggest real sympathy. His manner was brusque and self-important. “Are you a patriot?”
The question took me by surprise for a moment. Then I nodded.
“Yes,” I assured him. “I am.”
“You wish France to survive and prosper?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I understand that in Rouen the criminals of the Resistance have been murdering good people who would make France strong,” he said, his tone challenging as he looked at me questioningly, searching for my reaction.
“The criminals of the Resistance will not win,” I said.
He nodded, my answer satisfying him.
“I am glad to hear you say that, Mam’selle,” he said.
With that, he nodded at Madame Megris, and walked on.
“What a horrible little man,” I whispered.
“You did well,” Madame Megris whispered back. “He is dangerous. And protected by the Germans.”
Chapter 17
That evening, after our meal, Pierre and I finally got the chance to talk about my mission: the destruction of the railway bridge over the River Clemel.
“The British want the bridge blown up by the fourth of June,” I told him.
“Why?” asked Pierre. “Is something big happening then?”
I shrugged and shook my head.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Even if there was, they wouldn’t tell me.”
Pierre looked suddenly angry and desperate at the same time. “Five years this has been going on!” he burst out. “Five years living under Nazi control! Sometimes I think I will just get a gun and go out and shoot them all myself! This cannot go on!”
“It will end,” I assured him. “The British and the Americans are doing all they can to free France.”
“But it is taking so long! You can’t know what it has been like for us here!”
For all of us, I thought. I wanted to say to him: my parents are dead, too, Pierre – killed in this war. My father died here in France. But I said nothing.
“The fourth of June,” said Pierre. “The day after tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“We’ll do it tomorrow night,” I said. “I need to go out and see it this evening, to check things out.”
Pierre nodded.
“We’ll take the bikes. You ride Mimi’s. We’ll make a visit to my Aunt Marie, taking her some bread and other provisions from my mother. The road to her house goes near the bridge.”
And so later that day Pierre and I set off on the bikes, the baskets at the front loaded with a loaf of bread and tubs of jam and chutney. On our way we passed a German patrol car heading towards the village, but they didn’t stop us: we were just two young people running an errand on our bikes.
The railway bridge was about two miles outside the village. We stopped and pulled the bikes off the road and sat on the edge of a wooden fence. To anyone watching, we were just taking a break from our cycle ride.
A patch of wasteland, filled with weeds, was between the road and the single railway track. This wasteland continued on the other side of the railway track and ended at a small, dark wood, which then dipped down and disappeared.
“The wood goes down to the river,” explained Pierre. “Do you want to get nearer to the bridge?”
I shook my head.
“If anyone sees us going to it, it might arouse suspicion. I just needed to see the real location. I’ve got a good idea of the actual bridge from the photos we were sent.”
Pierre nodded.
“M’sieur Lemaître’s son, Andre, took them,” he said. “He’s good with a camera.” He smiled. “He pretended to be taking photographs of birds and animals on the river.”
“I guess he took some of those as well.”
“Of course.” He looked towards the railway bridge, a hundred yards away across the patch of wasteland. “How many people will you need?”
“Three,” I said. “You, me and one other to keep watch.”
“Are you sure that’s enough?”
“The more people who are involved, the more chance there is of word leaking out,” I reminded him. “I’ll fix the explosives to the bridge. You run the detonator cables from the bridge to our hiding place. The other person will keep a look-out and signal if anyone’s coming.”
“What about transport?” asked Pierre. “Monsieur Lemaître’s van?”
“These bicycles,” I told him. “Easier to hide than a car. We can carry the equipment in the baskets.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
“Tomorrow night.”
…………………………………..
The next day was strange. On one level it seemed to rush by at the realization that, at last, I was going to be blowing up a bridge behind enemy lines, and for real, not just a practice, with Germans everywhere. At the same time, the day seemed to drag, the minutes going by so slowly. I was eager to get into action, but at the same time I was nervous. I’d seen from my training that so many things could go wrong. The detonators could fail. The cable connections could fail. We might be spotted by a passing patrol. The thought of all the things that could go wrong terrified me, and I had to work hard to try and keep myself calm, taking lots of deep breaths and telling myself that all my hard training would see me through and make this operation succeed.
I did my best to try and appear normal, going with Berthe to the village for supplies. Taking Mimi to school. Forcing myself to take part in pleasant conversations with people we met. And all the time running through the mission in my head: planting the right amount of explosives in the correct areas, setting off the detonators.
We had to wait until after midnight before it was dark enough for us to go on our mission. A man in his thirties, who Pierre called Martin, arrived at about ten that night. He spent most of the time in the house sitting in the kitchen and regarding me suspiciously, as if he was doubtful that a girl like me could carry out this sort of work. I recognized that look, because when the others girls and I had been training, I’d seen that same expression on the faces of some of the male soldiers we’d met, who obviously viewed us with suspicion.
I went out of the back door to watch the sky and listen to the sounds of the night, alert for the sound of vehicles on the road. Everything in the immediate area seemed quiet.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Martin, Pierre and I hauled the bags down from the attic, and then loaded them onto two of the bikes which had baskets on the front: Pierre’s and Mimi’s. Martin had his own bike, and the three of us set off. The road was quiet and empty, and with enough of a moon for us to be able to see as we rode. About half a mile before we reached the bridge, Pierre pulled his bicycle to a halt and gestured at a gap in a fence by the side of the road.
“This way,” he said.
We pushed our bikes through the gap, then rode across the bumpy wasteland towards a small wood that went down to the River Clemel. Once we reached the wood, we pushed the bikes into hiding in the trees.
“Whistle if you hear anything,” Pierre muttered to Martin, who nodded.
Pierre took one bag, I the other, and we made our way towards the bri
dge, keeping just inside the wood. I could see the moonlight glinting on the metal of the railway lines that ran across the area of wasteland.
“Where do you want these wires?” asked Pierre, taking the reels of wire out of the bag.
“Leave the ends hooked over that branch,” I said, pointing to a small tree close to the bridge. “Make sure there’s enough wire for me to run them to the middle of the bridge. Then take the other ends back as far as you can. And make sure the two wires don’t touch.”
Pierre slipped back into the trees, while I carried the bag with the plastic explosives and detonators to the bridge. I was just about to open the bag and start taking out the explosives, when I heard an owl hoot. It was almost the sound of an owl, but not quite. Martin was signalling a warning.
I grabbed the bag and rushed to the cover of the trees in a crouching run, getting there just in time as lights cut through the darkness and I heard the sound of a car engine. A vehicle was bouncing across the wasteland, its headlights half-covered at the top to stop them shining too brightly.
The vehicle pulled to a halt some distance away, close to the railway line. I peered out from behind the cover of the trees and bushes, my heart thumping as I saw the doors open and two soldiers get out, both carrying rifles.
What had happened? Had the Germans got word of what I was planning? But the only person I’d told about my mission was Pierre, and the only person he’d told was Martin. Had Martin betrayed us? No, because he’d just given the signal to warn us.
I racked my brains for how the Germans might have discovered what my mission was; but unless there had been a leak from inside London HQ, I couldn’t think how. The Resistance hadn’t been alerted beforehand to the target of my mission, just that I would be arriving.
I cursed myself for not bringing a pistol with me. I’d been told I wouldn’t need one for this mission, but if I’d gone with my instincts and brought one, I could silence these two Germans and go ahead with blowing up the bridge.
I ducked behind a tree as the Germans clicked on torches and walked beside the railway line towards the bridge, following their beams of light, all the time getting closer to my position. Nearer and nearer they came and then, as they reached the bridge, they stopped. They moved forward, and I heard their boots clattering on the wood and metal. The lights from their torches shone along the rails, and from side to side of the bridge. Then one of them said something brief in German, with the other giving a grunt that sounded like agreement, and they turned and walked back beside the railway line to their vehicle.
The torches went out, the doors opened and shut, the vehicle started up and they drove away.
I let out a long sigh of relief. Just a routine inspection, then.
I waited until the red tail lights had disappeared, then I grabbed the bag and hurried back to the bridge. I slid down the earthy slope until I got to the support nearest to this side of the river. The support was old, made of stone. This bridge had been there for years. It looked as if an old road bridge had been added to to make it wide and strong enough to take railway trains. I moved beneath the bridge, running my hands over the place where the stone support met the timbers of the bridge, searching for what’s known as ‘the keystone’. It’s the core of the construction in most buildings, most bridges, the focal point of the pressure. The aim of demolition is to find this focal point and blow it, and let the rest of the construction collapse under its own weight.
I found the keystone and pushed the plastic into the crevices and around it.
When I was satisfied that was done properly, I carried the bag up to the bridge itself, and walked along the railway lines until I was at the centre. I forced the plastic in between the cracks of the old timbers, then packed more on either side of the metal railway lines.
When all the plastic was in place, I pushed the detonators into the plastic.
My last action was to collect the ends of the wire Pierre had left dangling over the branch and carry it to the different detonators, then strip the plastic covering off the wire and connect the ends to the detonators.
I scooped up the empty bag and hurried back through the wood, watching out for Pierre and Martin. I saw them waiting for me. Pierre was sitting on the ground, guarding the end of the reel of cable and holding the ends of the wires firmly apart.
“Right, let’s do it,” I said.
I took the ends of the cables from him.
“What happens if it doesn’t work?” he asked.
I weighed up his question.
“If it doesn’t, I go back to see why not,” I told him.
“It should be alright, but sometimes a connection can
come loose.”
“And if it clicks back in place when you’re there?” asked Martin.
I forced a grin I didn’t really feel.
“In that case, I’ll have done my bit for the war effort.” I looked at them. “You two might as well get off. I can do this.”
“We’re staying with you,” said Pierre firmly.
“Okay,” I said.
I stripped the ends of the two cables, then pushed the bare ends into opposite ends of a metal tube.
“Here we go,” I said.
I pressed a switch, completing the circuit.
There was a brief pause, and then a huge WWHOOOOMPPPPFFFF! from the bridge, followed by another, and then another. The sky lit up orange and yellow, and then the acrid smell of burning came to us, followed by the sound of a massive rumble, the earth around us shaking.
“It’s going!” said Pierre excitedly. “The bridge is going!”
From this distance, and in the darkness, even with the moon, it was hard to see, but there was no doubt that parts of the bridge had collapsed. How much? I wondered. Had enough of it collapsed to make it impossible to repair?
“Time to go,” I said. “They’ll have heard that in the village. The Germans will be along any minute.”
“What about the cables?” asked Pierre, pointing at the electric wires.
“Leave them,” I said. “No time to grab things up. Let’s go!”
We grabbed up our bikes.
“We stay off-road,” said Pierre. “Otherwise we’ll run into the Germans. I know a way across country. It’s rough, but safer.” He turned to Martin. “The Corpse Road.”
“Good,” nodded Martin.
I followed them on Mimi’s bike as we rode over the wasteland, and then took a detour into woods, over bumpy tracks, carrying the bikes over fallen trees, through swampy ground. In the distance we could hear the sounds of sirens and vehicles, see lights on the road through the trees.
Finally, after a series of detours, we made it to the back garden of Pierre’s house. Martin carried on, while Pierre and I headed indoors, muddy, tired, but exhilarated. We’d
done it!
Chapter 18
Before we went to bed, we cleaned the mud off the bikes, just in case the Germans spotted the tracks and came round the village inspecting bikes. We threw some dry earth and dust on them, so they didn’t look too clean.
Next morning, we were up early for breakfast. Neither Berthe nor Mimi asked us what we had been up to while we were out, and we didn’t offer any information to them. Everyone knew the rules: say nothing.
Pierre was just putting on his coat to go to work, when there was a banging on the front door. Immediately, we all shot worried looks at one another. Was it the Germans?
Berthe opened the door, and we breathed a little as we saw it was the next-door neighbour, Madame Peroux. She was in a terrible state, panicking.
“Madame Megris! Something terrible has happened!”
“Oh?”
“Someone has blown up the Clemel bridge!”
Berthe stared at her, open-mouthed, shocked. Berthe was a good actress, but the news might well have shocked her.
“Are you sure?” she gasped.
Madame Peroux nodded, fear showing clearly on her face.
“It’s completely destroyed! The Germans are furious! They are going through the village, questioning everybody. Some say it’s the Resistance, but others say it’s the Maquis.” She shook her head, then asked beseechingly. “What are we to do?”
“Nothing,” said Berthe firmly. “This is nothing to do
with us.”
“But we will suffer!” said Madame Peroux, and she began to cry.
“It will be alright,” Berthe tried to calm her down. “You won’t be in any trouble. Come in and sit down.”
And Berthe brought Madame Peroux into the kitchen, where Mimi was getting her things ready for school.
“Leave that,” Berthe told Mimi. “Things are going to be bad in the village today. You’d better stay home. I’ll write a note saying you’re not well.”
“But Elise and I are making an island!” protested Mimi.
“You can do it tomorrow,” said Berthe.
“I’ll call in at the school on my way to work and tell them,” said Pierre. “I’ll say it’s a cold.”
“You’d better be careful today,” Berthe warned him.
“I will,” he promised her.
After he’d gone, I shot a glance at Madame Peroux, sitting at the kitchen table, twisting a handkerchief nervously between her hands, and whispered to Berthe: “I’m going into the village to see what the Germans are up to.”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Berthe,
“I have to. I need to report back.”
“They will suspect you. You are a stranger.”
“They will be looking for men, not a girl,” I told her.
“They will be suspecting everyone,” said Berthe.
“I will be fine,” I said, but I could see doubt in her face. “You’d better get back to Madame Peroux.”
