Harris frantically searched his consciousness for some brilliant final comment, some pithy remark that would convince Forrest the operation could not possibly proceed without him. But he’d never been a talker and he came up empty.
“Yes, sir, that’s it,” he said firmly, as if reinforcing a point of staggering weight.
Forrest nodded slowly, dropping the cover on the file he held. “All right, son. Fair enough. You’re dismissed.”
Harris rose, unable to look at Forrest for fear of the rejection he might see in his face.
He was notified that he’d been chosen the next day. Elated, he was already packing when Forrest sent for him to inform him of the details.
Lieutenant Gray accompanied him into the hot, bright morning. The two men strolled across the compound, loud with the droning of bees and the incessant chirping of cicadas. They were swatting at the gnats which swirled around their heads like shifting clouds as Gray said, “They wanted God for this mission, Harris, but I guess you’re the next best thing.”
Embarrassed, Harris said nothing.
They stopped outside Forrest’s office. Gray, a slight first lieutenant with the air of a man who could take care of business and keep his mouth shut, extended his hand.
“I envy you,” he said, as Harris shook it. “Good luck.”
Harris nodded.
“At least you’ll be escaping these goddamn bugs,” Gray added, and Harris grinned. Gray trotted down the wooden steps of the building as Harris knocked on Forrest’s door.
Forrest stood up as Harris entered and he too shook his hand. “Congratulations, Captain,” he said, gesturing for Harris to be seated. “In order to reach you we bypassed some very fine men.”
Harris sat in a chair facing Forrest’s desk, and noticed that there was an enlarged map of France taped to the wall behind the major’s head. So it was to be France. His heart began to beat faster. He’d thought so.
Forrest folded his arms and surveyed the younger man. He had a kindly, ascetic face, like the housemaster in a British public school, and behind his back the men called him “Mr. Chips.”
“You’re facing a challenge, Dan,” Forrest began, “but I have every confidence that you’re equal to the job. Relax and just try to take in as much as you can. This is only one of several briefings you’ll receive, but I’ll lay out the general details of the plan today.”
Harris’ gaze shifted from the commander’s face to the map, and Forrest smiled. “As you may have guessed from the decor,” he said, “you’ll be going into occupied France to work with a newly formed Resistance group. The target is in the northeast sector, in an area called Meuse. The Germans moved in there about a month ago.” With a pointer, the major indicated the town of Bar-le-Duc, a dot on the map highlighted by a flagged pin. “Just beyond Bar-le-Duc, here, is the village of Fains-les-Sources. Bar-le-Duc isn’t really a big town, and Fains is nothing more than a village. Neither place would seem to be of much interest to the Germans, and so it is curious that they chose to set up shop in the region.” He turned back and faced Harris. “But there is a glass factory in Fains, and we have reliable information that they plan to turn it into a munitions factory.
Harris didn’t reply, too riveted to speak.
“The head of the resistance group, called Vipère by the way, is an Alsatian named Curel,” Forrest continued. “Very tough old bird, a recipient of the Croix de Guerre in the first war. He comes from a town in Alsace, Merlebach, which was ceded back to the French by the Germans in ‘18. In ‘21 Curel came to Fains to work in the mine outside the town. Now he’s too old to fight, but the hate is still there, and he’s organized this group to do what they can.”
Forrest put down the pointer and sighed. “Unfortunately, his band consists mainly of kids too young for conscription who’ve escaped deportation to the labor camps by one chance or another, and veterans like himself who are past their salad days. That’s one of the reasons they need you.”
Harris leaned forward in his chair.
Forrest held the younger man’s gaze as he said, “We want you to help build the Résistance in the area, develop these people so that they can carry on without you after this mission. They’re eager, and tough, but untrained, disorganized. If you can get them going and show them the ropes, they’ll be able to continue the work against the Germans when you’re gone.”
Harris’s blue eyes were fixed on Forrest’s face. He didn’t say anything, merely waited for the major to continue.
Forrest studied the captain for a moment, then proceeded. “The Germans have established their headquarters in the hospital at Bar-le-Duc. The commander is Colonel Anton Becker, old school, regular army. He’s way out of favor with Hitler’s boys, but his father, now dead, was an aristocrat with an ancient title and plenty of money. The Krauts didn’t want to antagonize the rest of the family, some of whom were contributing heavily to the war effort, so instead of punching his ticket they sent him to France. Ostensibly he’s just babysitting the locals, making sure they don’t get out of line. But Curel and his boys have noticed a lot of activity around the factory lately, the Germans asking questions about the maximum temperatures the furnaces will bear, advisors being sent in, that sort of thing. Last week one of the kids in Curel’s group spotted one of the ‘advisors’ melting metal bars and pouring the liquid into bullet molds. It seems pretty clear what they’re up to, and they’re apparently counting on using the regular staff at the factory as the labor force. All it would require would be some retraining and they’d have a ready-made munitions machine.”
Forrest sat once more at his desk and folded his hands on the blotter. “You were selected for a number of reasons, only one of which is that you’re a crack jumper. You’ll be flown in at night and you’ll parachute into the woods on the shore of the river L’ornain, a branch of the Marne which flows through Fains and Bar-le-Duc. Your contact will be a teenager named Alain Duclos. Curel is so sure he’s right about this German plan for the factory because they’ve allowed this Alain, and a group of other Fains boys who work there, to remain rather than sending them over the border to Germany for forced labor. The Krauts don’t do anything without a reason and Curel is betting that they’ll need the young men for the new scheme. This Duclos kid will hide you out and put you in contact with Curel. Duclos is ideal because his sister-in-law is an American who speaks French and German, the widow of Duclos’ brother, who was killed fighting the Germans last year. Duclos senior, the boy’s father, is the mayor of the town, but a collaborator.”
Harris raised his brows. “Interesting family,” he said dryly. It was the first comment he’d made.
Forrest nodded in agreement. “Obviously the father could be a problem, but Intelligence says the kid and the widow are absolutely reliable.”
“It’s odd that she hasn’t gone back home,” Harris observed thoughtfully. “The American woman, I mean.”
“Not so odd,” the major said significantly. “I’m told she wants to stay and work for Curel.”
“Good for her,” Harris said softly, not looking at Forrest, who seconded the sentiment in silence.
“I know I’m throwing a lot at you,” the major went on, “but all this must be done quickly. You’ll be going immediately to Parris Island for instruction in French. I know you had it in school, but you need to be fluent, conversant with the local idiom of the Paris region. You’ll also receive further training in blind jumping at night, and a crash course in demolitions.” For the first time Forrest’s serious demeanor relaxed. “You, my boy, and this gutsy bunch of Frenchies are going to blow that factory sky high.”
Harris grinned widely. “Yes, sir!”
Forrest permitted himself to smile back. “You’ll be on your own, son,” he warned again. “Officially we’re not in this war yet. If you’re caught we’ll deny any knowledge of your existence. We’ll have to, do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Dan. Get your things together. You’ll be moving out to
day, your language course starts tonight. The Duclos woman will translate for you once you get there, but if you’re stopped en route you have to sound enough like a native to pass, so get on it.”
“I will, sir.” Harris rose, eager to begin, and Forrest shook his hand again.
“Good luck, Captain, and Godspeed. As you said, today it’s the French, tomorrow it could be us. I know you’ll do the Corps proud.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As Harris left the commander’s office, he found it difficult to control his exhilaration. He was finally going on a real mission with a real goal.
He couldn’t wait.
He was back at the barracks, stowing the last of his effects in his duffel bag, when Gamble sauntered up and watched him in silence for a few moments before saying, “So you’re going.”
“Yup,” Harris replied, tossing him a half empty carton of cigarettes. “You might as well keep those,” he said to the other man. “I have enough.”
Gamble shook his head. “I knew they’d pick you.”
Harris half smiled. “Oh, yeah? And how did you know that?”
“You have it. Whatever it is they’re looking for, you have it, and they know it. Even I know it.”
Harris snorted. “You’ve been getting too much sun in this burg, Gamble. You’re babbling.”
“Do you always get what you want?” Gamble asked, ignoring him.
“Not always,” Harris replied. Then he added thoughtfully, “But usually.”
Gamble had to laugh.
“Well, good luck, chump. Better you than me.”
Harris said goodbye and walked out to the jeep that was waiting to take him off the base. Gamble shrugged philosophically and sat down on the empty bunk to smoke one of Harris’ cigarettes.
Wherever they were sending Harris, whatever happened to him, he would survive. And survive in style. The guy led a charmed life.
Chapter 3
On the other side of the Atlantic, Lysette Remy was standing behind her desk in the library of L’Ecole Ste. Pierre when Colonel Becker entered without warning, Kurt Hesse hurrying in his wake. She realized that the German commandant was about to conduct his inspection, and she watched, frozen, as Becker strode up to the bank of low shelves which separated her cubbyhole from the rest of the room.
He was in full uniform, and he faced her with one hand on his hip, his greatcoat draped through the crook of his arm, in the formal posture he’d been taught at the academy. He was an imposing figure, and she remained immobile as he said curtly, in French, “Have I your permission to examine the contents of this room?”
She nodded once, wondering irrelevantly what would happen if she refused him. His request was just a formality, of course, but it struck her as odd that he’d said anything to her at all. She was powerless to stop him from burning the place to the ground if he wanted to do that, and they both knew it.
She stood rooted to the spot as Becker took off his cap and held it in one hand, his fingers locked behind his back. The sun glinted on his black hair, burnishing it, as he walked up and down the rows in the single, vaulted room. He paused occasionally to examine a volume, and finally stopped before her again, with Kurt at his heels.
“I have discovered that I need your advice,” Becker said in his slightly ironic manner, studying her face.
“My advice?” Lysette replied, startled into speech.
“Yes, that’s right,” Becker continued in his formal, stylized French. “Your name is?”
“Remy. Lysette Remy.”
“Madame, or Mademoiselle?”
“Madame.”
“Well, Madame Remy, I find myself with time on my hands these days,” he stated with a hint of sarcasm, “and I’m not very familiar with your French writers. I would like you to select something for me.”
Lysette didn’t answer for a moment, aware that he was playing with her. She could believe that he was bored; he’d obviously been bred to a more active, interesting life than was his lot in Bar-le-Duc. He must have decided to amuse himself by baiting the local librarian.
“We have no German volumes,” she said quietly, her gaze meeting his and locking with it.
Becker nodded, as if she had parried his thrust. “I read French tolerably well, Madame. Why don’t you choose what you yourself would like to read? I’ll wait.”
He continued to look at her. His eyes were brown, and arresting, with thick black lashes and heavily marked brows. She’d only seen him at a distance before today, but heard that he was forbidding, frightening. Yet she wasn’t afraid, she discovered with a sense of wonder; she had been when he first arrived, but not now. It was curious and a little thrilling. Why wasn’t she afraid?
“D’accord,” she agreed, inclining her head, and slipped out from behind the desk. She made her selections quickly, returning to place them on the wooden counter between her and the German officer. Becker studied the stack in silence: Proust, Stendahl, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Zola’s Therese Raquin, and the short stories of de Maupassant. He looked up at Lysette, impressed.
“Perhaps you have already read some of these?” she murmured meaningfully, and Becker couldn’t help smiling in response.
“Certainly, Madame, but it will be a pleasure to reacquaint myself with such greatness. Allow me to salute your good taste.”
“I like to think that we have some to compare with Goethe and Remarque,” Lysette said quietly.
Becker eyed her sharply. “Remarque’s work has been burned in my country,” he said, watching her reaction. “Anti-government sentiments.”
“I have a copy in French translation, if you would like to re-examine his ideas,” Lysette replied, and his lips twitched.
Kurt Hesse watched the byplay in amazement. Becker never unbent with any of these people, he treated them all with same stiff propriety. Yet here he was, smiling at this little librarian with genuine amusement. Becker turned his head suddenly, and Hesse wiped his face clean of any expression.
“Take these for me,” Becker said in German, gesturing to the pile of books, and Hesse stepped forward smartly to obey.
Becker looked back at Lysette. He examined her more closely, intrigued with her handling of the situation. Thirties, light brown hair in a bun, fine lines around mouth and eyes, navy blue cotton dress with cloth belt and short cap sleeves. Nondescript, really, and too slim for his taste. He liked them zaftig, buxom; his wife was a statuesque Brunhilde. Still, there was something about this one: her obvious intelligence, the downcast eyes and folded hands which managed to convey alertness and repose at the same time.
Becker signaled for Kurt to wait at the door. The boy moved away and Becker took a step closer to Lysette.
“Do you have other duties besides this...” he gestured impatiently at the walls.
“I run the school with Madame Duclos,” Lysette replied evenly.
“Ah, yes,” Becker said, as an image of the mouthy redhead with the American passport flashed across his mind. He could well imagine that the two women were friends; the Yankee was probably giving this field mouse impertinence lessons.
“And your husband?” he asked, aware that he was overstepping the bounds of necessary information and entering the realm of curiosity.
Lysette hesitated a beat. “Missing in action. Presumed dead.”
“I see.” The whole area had been decimated by the short war with his country. No wonder these people hated their conquerors. Becker tried to imagine his wife in this woman’s situation, and could not.
“I will exchange these for others when I am finished,” he announced, rousing himself from the unproductive reverie. “Good day.”
Becker whirled for the door and Kurt fell in behind him. As the younger man passed into the hall Lysette sagged against her desk, releasing a long breath.
So that was the commandant. Not exactly what she’d expected, but then, she didn’t share the local prejudices against his kind. To the other villagers the Germans were the oppressors, the hated,
vilified boche. But to Lysette they were the source of her liberation and the solution to her problem: they had released her from the tyranny of her husband.
She filled out a slip for the books Becker had taken, humming under her breath. She had not caused the war and she couldn’t help rejoicing in its result for her. She shared these thoughts with no one, aware that they were selfish, but they colored her attitude toward Becker. She saw him as just a man, like any other. As she placed the “out” card in her file box she wondered when he would be back and shook her head slightly, as if to clear it.
* * *
Four weeks later, while Dan Harris was at Parris Island preparing for his upcoming mission, Laura sat in the kitchen of the house in Fains waiting for Alain to return. She was supposed to be correcting papers, but the copybooks lay piled on the kitchen table, undisturbed, while she listened for the faintest sound that might indicate his arrival. The windows were open to the summer night, and she could hear the crickets out shouting each other in the hydrangea bushes and Henri’s horse chomping grass in the field behind the house. Every half hour, like the tolling of a bell, the sound of the German staff car making its slow, careful way along the road was discernible. It grew late and still the boy did not come. She drained her pot of tea, and the last cup of it, stewed too long in the leaves, was the color of iodine. She drank it anyway for something to do.
The waiting was awful, and she would much rather be a participant on this night, as she’d been on others. Their involvement with Vipère, named for the venomous snake which strikes quickly and with deadly effect, was supposed to be a secret. But Laura guessed that both Brigitte and Henri knew and merely pretended ignorance. Their frequent nocturnal absences were not discussed, and on a couple of occasions when Alain had returned home injured Brigitte had patched him up without asking any questions. Henri was doubtless terrified that his German cohorts would find out what he was harboring in his own house. Henri had always been the type to avoid controversy if he could, so he closed his eyes and did nothing. Thus Alain was free to continue his covert activities, and it had reached the point where he regarded his job at the factory as a mere cover for his real vocation, driving the Germans out of France.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 4
