Laura usually went with him on his nightly rounds, translating what they overheard, gathering intelligence. But this time he had left her behind, saying that what he had to do was best done alone.
She got up and looked out the window. She couldn’t see anything except the yellow glow from the oil lamp hanging on a hook outside Pierre Langtot’s barn. She sat down again. Curel had said that he would have a special job for her soon, and she was looking forward to it. Alain’s hit or miss tactics were wearing her down. She wanted to be focused on something in particular, to do something significant, something that would make a difference.
She opened one of the student books, looked at the jumble of scrawled answers on the first page, and closed it again, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. How could she care about teaching the principles of long division to a bunch of remedial, summer session students, when Alain might be found lying dead in a ditch? If nothing else, the invasion had put the world in perspective for her. Before the war, her life had been simple: love from her family during childhood and adolescence, and after that love from Thierry. Each day had begun with the knowledge that she had a base, a center, supporting what she did. And underlying all of it was the certainty that she was free and could make of her future what she chose. That was gone now, and the grief at its loss was mutating rapidly into a consuming, yet nurturing, desire for revenge.
She had not realized how very much she would want to fight back. While in the United States she had taken her American liberties for granted, but she appreciated them now, when she saw what it was like to live without them. The grinding, daily oppression worked on Laura until her very genes rose up in a silent scream of revolt. The Randalls were descended from people who had braved an ocean in a pitch and timber boat to find religious freedom, and then fought off unfriendly natives and an even unfriendlier climate when they reached their destination. She was Pilgrim stock, by God, and she wasn’t going to submit to this sort of thing without a struggle. For years she had watched the Nazi evil develop like a cancer in neighboring Germany, her outrage at its unprincipled leadership and unconscionable practices growing until the invasion had turned it into something close to hate. And when she thought that the occupation could go on for years, might even become permanent, it made her more determined than ever to end it.
She heard a sound at the back door and shot out of her seat. Alain stumbled inside and collapsed into the chair she had vacated. He looked exhausted and his left arm was covered with blood.
Laura ran to the front of the house, drawing the living room curtain. She looked out at the street to see if anyone had observed him arriving home in this condition, but the roadway was deserted.
She quickly gathered supplies, and when she returned to the kitchen Alain was slumped on the table, his eyes closed.
“Sit up,” she barked, frightened that he might faint, and to her vast relief he obeyed. She worked the pump above the sink to start the flow of water and said, “What happened? It was supposed to be a simple survey of the grounds, how did you get hurt?”
“Got caught in the barbed wire outside the camp,” he replied wearily, wiping his perspiring forehead with the sleeve covering his uninjured arm. “I was trying to sneak a look at the storehouse and the searchlight almost found me.”
“Do you realize that this is the third time this month you’ve come home in this condition? Every time you go out without me you return carved up like a goose. Fat lot of good you’re going to be to Curel, or anyone else, if the Germans pick you up. Blood always attracts their attention very quickly.”
“Don’t lecture me,” he said, sagging with fatigue, and he looked so young and vulnerable that Laura didn’t have the heart to continue. She loaded a shovel full of their precious allotted coal into the stove and filled the kettle at the pump, setting it on top of the cover to heat.
“Why were you so close?” she asked him in a milder tone. “You weren’t supposed to go beyond the road. You should follow Curel’s orders and stop trying things on your own.”
“I made it back, didn’t I?” he asked indignantly, already recovering enough to argue with her.
“Just barely, by the look of you,” Laura replied. He winced as Laura ripped his ragged sleeve down to the wrist and examined the cut.
“Very nice,” she said grimly. “You’ll be lucky if this doesn’t infect. And I wonder how you’ll explain that to your ‘advisors’ down at the factory. I think they’ll notice a cutter with a bum arm, don’t you?”
“What am I supposed to do, go to drinking parties with them like my father?” he burst out, and Laura was sorry she’d been so hard on him.
“I’m not saying you should stop scouting the garrison,” she clarified gently. “You know I don’t want that at all. I’m only asking you to be careful. You take too many foolish risks.”
“I do what I have to do,” he said stubbornly, and she sighed. She inspected the jagged edges of the wound silently.
“How does it look?” he asked tentatively.
“I don’t know if it needs stitches,” Laura observed. “Brigitte should be doing this.”
That reminded Alain of his sister’s presence in Bar-le-Duc and he said, “I don’t like her being at that hospital all the time, with the boche night and day. I wish she’d come home.”
“She wants to finish her training and I think that’s very wise,” Laura said, removing an old sheet from the bureau next to the door and tearing it into strips. “The Germans have disrupted our lives enough.” She got a bottle of antiseptic and poured some into a basin, setting the bowl on the table. “Now hold still while I try to clean this up.”
Alain submitted to her ministrations, allowing her to wash and dress the wound. As she was finishing he asked in a low tone, “Where is Papa?”
Laura looked at him closely for a moment, and then answered just as quietly, “Sleeping upstairs.”
“Are you sure?”
“He was a little while ago.”
“Go and check. I have something to tell you.”
Laura obeyed. When she returned and nodded that he might speak, Alain whispered excitedly, “The American is coming.”
Obviously the very thought was a restorative. The color was back in his cheeks and he had recovered his usual animation.
“What do you mean?” she said. “Of course he’s coming, we’ve known that for a while.”
“No, I mean now. Tomorrow night, late. I just got word to meet him at the old abattoir in the Bois d’or. I’m to go there at midnight and wait until he comes. And you’re going to translate for him. That’s the job Curel mentioned to you.”
Laura didn’t answer, her mind on the danger to her young brother-in-law and her unknown countryman. So the American was about to arrive and help them implement their plan.
“What’s the matter?” Alain asked teasingly, seeing her expression. “Worried about me?”
“Of course,” Laura answered smoothly, going to the stove to move the kettle from the hot center to the edge of the iron cover. She was always aware that Alain’s crush on her could escalate into something more serious with little encouragement. She treated personal remarks neutrally, careful to keep him at a distance without actually hurting his feelings.
But tonight Alain was easily distracted, his mind on the imminent arrival of her compatriot. “I don’t see why we have to import this American to do the job,” he said petulantly.
Laura stared at him. “I thought that you were happy he’s coming.”
“I’m happy we’re getting started, but we could handle it ourselves, without him.” He bent his injured arm at the elbow to test the dressing.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura replied, more sharply than she had intended. “He’s being specially trained with explosives, Curel told you that. Where could we find anybody with that expertise? Stop griping about outside interference and be grateful that he’s coming to help us. My country is not at war with Germany. This man is risking his life to join
our cause. Remember that.”
Alain examined her set expression for a moment, and then said, “You’ll always be an American, Laura, no matter how long you live here.”
This was a statement which required no answer, and Laura gave none. They both looked up as they heard Henri coughing on the second floor and the conversation came to an end.
Laura remained in the kitchen to clean up after Alain had gone to bed. Then she sat again at the table and faced the stack of books to be marked. The summer session was ending that week and final grades had to be computed.
She worked until the early hours of the morning, and finally retired. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that in less than twenty-four hours the man they had awaited would arrive.
* * *
That evening, as the village of Fains-les-Sources slept under its enforced curfew, the plane carrying Dan Harris entered French air space. It was a propeller transport with room for twelve parachutists, but on this night Harris was alone in its cabin, pacing restlessly as the pilot began his descent for the jump. He was as prepared as he possibly could be for the mission, his head crammed full of conversational French and demolitions information, his muscular body in peak physical condition. But still he moved about nervously, listening for the familiar noises of the great machine. Harris was first and foremost a pilot, and when in a plane he liked to be flying it. The status of passenger turned him into a back seat driver, and he started as the pilot slid open the connecting panel and said, “France below, sir. Ever been there?”
Harris shook his head. “Not until now.”
“Great place. Beautiful women. Well, you’ll see.”
“I doubt it, lieutenant,” Harris replied dryly. To preserve secrecy on the mission, the pilot had been told the drop coordinates but little else.
“Two minutes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
Harris checked his gear one last time, going through the routine by rote. He tried the handle of the hatch as the pilot called, “One minute, sir.”
Harris opened the hatch, and the wind rushed in at him like a cold blast from a locker full of dry ice. Below it was high summer, but at an altitude of 13,000 feet, two-and-a-half miles up, the temperature was frigid. All he could see was blackness. He felt the tightening in his gut and scrotum that always preceded a jump, the adrenaline rush that told him he was about to plunge, like Icarus, through the void of space.
“Good luck, sir,” the pilot called, flashing him the thumbs up sign. “Kiss Danielle Darrieux for me.”
Harris reciprocated the gesture, poised on the brink. Then he drew back slightly as anti-aircraft fire began, zipping past the plane with the eerie silence of near misses.
“They’ve spotted us, sir,” the pilot informed him calmly.
Damn. They might look for a jumper now, or else dismiss the flight as reconnaissance and forget it. He fervently hoped for the latter. That was all he needed, every Kraut in the Meuse digging for a phony Frenchman. No matter how he tried his accent was still more Chicago than Chartres.
“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.
“Twenty seconds.”
Harris positioned himself again, and stepped through the hatch as the pilot, switching on the jump light, called, “Go.”
The descent was soundless, with no feeling of falling, which always amazed him now matter how often he jumped. Harris wondered if the pilot would get back safely as he counted off the seconds before he pulled the handle to release his chute. The pilot was a friendly kid, from Brooklyn, Flatbush Avenue right near Ebbets Field. He’d promised Harris some Dodgers tickets when he got back. His uncle worked at the team box office.
Harris was low enough now to see the shadowy outline of the trees rushing up at him, and he hoped he wouldn’t get caught in one of them. That had happened to him once at Cherry Point, and cutting all the chute lines to get loose had been like disentangling himself from a gigantic spider web. But now he overshot the woods, settling a little to the east in a small clearing.
For several seconds he waited, unmoving, his heart pounding, listening for the rapid approach of booted feet, the guttural shouts that would indicate his discovery. But there was nothing to greet him except the warm air of a late August night and the moonless, starlit sky.
Harris rose to his knees, unstrapping his parachute. Don’t think about the big picture, he instructed himself. One thing at a time. Follow procedure. Methodically he glanced at the sky for his bearings, checked his rations, dug a hole to bury his parachute. He desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn’t take a chance on the light being seen. Squatting on his haunches, he closed his eyes and visualized the map he had memorized. The river was to the west, a mile, maybe a mile and a half (he was still unable to think in terms of kilometers, though he knew he must soon learn to do so.) He had to find it, then follow it south, to a hut once used as a slaughterhouse in the middle of a small copse. It was at a place on the bank where the river turned back sharply toward the sea, and should be easy enough to spot. The contact was waiting there, described as a boy in his late teens with fair hair and a rudimentary knowledge of English.
Harris fished in his backpack for a moment to check his papers. They indicated that he was a manual laborer named Jean Leclerc on his way to Paris to look for work. He couldn’t pretend to any skill he wouldn’t actually have if tested, and couldn’t carry any printed material pertaining to his mission that might be confiscated. His French was now good enough to pass in brief conversation. He hoped. His cover was that of a traveling man partly to account for his, uh, unusual accent. He trusted that wherever he was the natives would believe he was from somewhere else.
He sighed deeply and stripped off his jumpsuit, tossing it into the hollow he’d created for his parachute. He changed into the rough peasant clothing he’d brought with him, and then filled in the cavity containing his discarded effects. He broke off some small branches from a nearby bush and dragged them over the earth he had disturbed, finally smoothing the dirt on top and patting it down with his hands. He walked back to the woods and tossed the branches away, returning to cast a parting glance around the clearing. Then, satisfied, he picked up his pack and began to walk.
* * *
In the darkness of the Bois d’or, Alain Duclos waited. His orders were to take the American to Pierre Langtot’s barn and hide him there.
The rest would come later.
Alain shifted his weight, scratched his head, and finally sat on the ground. He had no idea when the Yank would arrive, or if he had even made the jump into France. Many things could have gone wrong. But he would stay until dawn. If the American didn’t show by daylight he wasn’t coming at all.
Alain remained in the same spot for several hours and at length fell asleep. He was totally alone in the isolated spot, chosen for the rendezvous for that very reason, and the fatigue caused by his two jobs (days at the factory, nights with Curel) took its toll. But around four in the morning he started awake, instantly alert.
Footfalls were coming closer. If it were a German patrol, he would have a lot of explaining to do. But it sounded like one person and the Germans always traveled in pairs. His pulses racing, Alain stood, his hand on his new knife.
A figure emerged from the trees: tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a cloth cap, light jacket, loose trousers. Its face was in shadow.
“Ou est le embranchement aller en Fains?” it said, in barely accented French. “Can you show me the road to Fains?”
It was the opening sentence of the planned exchange. Alain moved forward carefully, still not convinced.
“Certainement, c’est ma ville,” he replied. “Certainly, it is my town.”
The visitor faced Alain squarely. He could see a strong jaw, pale eyes flashing in the scant light, and thick dark hair beneath the cap. So this was the American, Alain thought. Bon Dieu! Were they all so big? He stood as high as a bucheron, a lumberjack.
“Good,” the man said. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.” As
he completed the sentence in French, the last three words, “Je suis fatigué,” sounded heartfelt.
Alain could imagine that he was tired. “We’ll go together,” he replied, finishing the ordained greeting, and then added quickly in English, “You have hunger? I brought food.”
The American shook his head. “Brought my own, and took a drink from the river.” He smiled suddenly, and Alain got an inkling of why he’d been chosen for the mission. Confidence radiated from that smile like pure white light from the sun. “Dan Harris, pleased to meet you,” the American added, extending his hand.
Alain shook it, inwardly exulting, and then startled the American by kissing him rapidly on both cheeks. “I am Alain Duclos, and I am having great happiness to see you. The barn where you stay is not far. Please to come with me.”
“You bet.” Harris followed where Alain led, to Langtot’s barn. They made the trip in comfortable silence, each man content with his role in the night’s drama. Langtot was waiting for them with a bottle of wine. Unable to speak English, the old man pumped Harris’ hand, beaming, and offered both travelers a drink. The brief celebration concluded, Langtot conversed quietly with Alain and finally gestured to the loft where Harris was to spend the night. He presented Harris with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a small basket of food. He wrung the younger man’s hand again and said something in French.
Harris looked at Alain and shook his head. Either he was tired, or he wasn’t as fluent as he’d thought.
“He says that it is a brave thing you do to come so far to help us,” Alain explained.
“He’s taking just as big a risk hiding me out,” Harris replied.
When Alain translated this, Langtot shook his head vehemently and said, slowly, so that Harris could understand, “I am an old man, and ready to die. It’s not the same to take such a chance with a young life.” Then, with carefully rehearsed deliberation, he added, “‘Sank you.”
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 5
