Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Harris cleared his throat and backed away from her. “I wish you could take some target practice,” he said, “but this is the best we can do under the circumstances.”

  “I think I have the idea,” she said evenly.

  He opened the barrel and showed her how to load the gun as the others moved around, the tension broken. Laura hoped she would never have the occasion to use the pistol but he was right in saying that she ought to be prepared.

  “Dan,” she said.

  “Yeah?” He put the gun in her bag and took out the sandwich she’d brought him.

  “What are you going to do if you’re picked up after you’re through here, on your way out?”

  “Whistle ‘Dixie’?” he suggested, through a bite of cheese on flat bread.

  “You must have some cover story.”

  “Yeah, but chances are they’ll see through it. The idea is not to get caught.”

  Laura waited.

  He lifted one shoulder. “I’m supposed to say I’m an itinerant laborer on my way to Paris to look for work.”

  “Dan, there’s no work in Paris or anywhere else. I believe you’re a wonderful pilot, but even Lindbergh couldn’t keep a cement lined whopper like that one in the air.”

  “Like I said, the idea is not to get caught,” he replied. He put down the sandwich, wiping his palms on the thighs of his pants. “Okay, guys,” he said to the group at large, “let’s show Captain Danny that he hasn’t been wasting his time here in the fair village of Fains. I want each of you to do the drill with the detonator, in case something happens and you have to blow the plant without me.”

  They obeyed, taking turns. No one referred to the “something” that might happen to prevent Harris from manning the device himself. Afterward they discussed their plans, and Alain kept to his usual pattern of contesting all of Harris’ suggestions. In the past Harris had tolerated this pretty well, but emotions were running high as the night of the raid approached. Every time Alain threw up a roadblock it initiated a time wasting argument, and time was running out for them.

  “Listen, pal,” Harris finally said to the boy, “why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself and let the adults here make the decisions.”

  Alain’s English was quite good enough to absorb the insult without benefit of translation. He responded in a spate of furious French, concluding with, “This is my country! Mine! You cannot tell me what to do in it!”

  “It’s not your country any more, sonny,” Harris answered sarcastically. “You lost it. In case you haven’t noticed there’s a bunch of Krauts goose-stepping through the streets, and if you want to get your patrie back, you’ll quit making baseless objections and cooperate.”

  Alain lunged forward, landing a solid blow to Harris’ jaw before anyone could stop him. Harris made no move to retaliate, already annoyed with himself for losing his temper. Curel grabbed the boy’s collar and pulled him backward, stopping him with a curt command. At the same time Laura stepped in front of Harris, turning on him angrily.

  “How could you say that to him?” she demanded heatedly. “How could you be so unfair?”

  Harris looked away from her, not answering. He heard Curel ordering Alain to behave or he would be excluded from the job. That would be difficult, Curel said, as they needed his input from inside the factory, but Patric and Michel could take over for him if necessary. He told the boy to leave and Laura went with him, glancing over her shoulder at Harris and then following her brother-in-law through the door.

  “That itchy kid is going to get us all killed,” Harris muttered. “He wants to run the whole show himself.”

  He was surprised when Curel seemed to understand him.

  “It is not why he fights you,” Curel said.

  “What do you mean?” Harris asked, as the two men stared at each other across the communication gap.

  “He is...jaloux,” Curel went on, substituting the French word when he couldn’t think of the English one. His recently acquired vocabulary was limited.

  “Comment?” Harris said quickly, not sure he’d understood.

  “He see that Laura...like you. He is jaloux.”

  Jealous. Curel was saying that the kid was jealous. If so, that would explain his puzzling, obstructive behavior. It would also mean that Alain could detect a response to Harris in Laura, a response Harris had almost convinced himself he was imagining.

  He had no time to consider the implications of Curel’s statement further because at that moment Laura returned.

  “Is he all right?” Harris asked.

  “Yes, no thanks to you,” she said flatly.

  He made no reply. They went on with the discussion for another thirty minutes until Curel glanced at his watch and said it was time for them to begin leaving.

  Harris took Laura aside. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “I want to apologize for blasting the kid,” he said to her, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I was out of line.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” she said, sighing. “I suppose he was asking for it and I overreacted too. We’re all as tense as housebound cats. Just forget it.”

  “Is he still with us?”

  “Of course. He’ll get over it,” Laura said.

  “I don’t know if I will,” Harris observed ruefully, rubbing his jaw. “That boy’s got a right like Joe Louis.”

  She had to smile.

  The others had left and they were alone.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Harris said quietly. He didn’t add that it was the last time he would see her, but they both knew it.

  Laura nodded.

  He put his thumb in the air. “Up the rebels,” he said.

  “Vive le revolution,” she whispered.

  He looked down at her, anxious to keep her with him. He didn’t want to say anything that would reveal too much, and yet he knew it wasn’t a time for more casual conversation. The cigarette he held made the air between them aromatic, hazy, and his blue eyes were vivid in the semi-darkness, contrasting with his beard.

  “G’night, Laura,” he finally said softly.

  “Good night.”

  Laura left the barn and ran back to the house.

  Chapter 6

  The following evening was crisp and cool, a precursor of fall. As darkness fell the members of Vipère came to the barn for the last time. The raid was set for the next night, Saturday, expected to be clear and moonless. The workers would be off for the Sunday holiday, and only a few members of the maintenance crew would be on duty to man the furnaces, which ran continuously. Alain was to slip inside and lead them to safety while Harris planted the dynamite.

  The talk was muted, perfunctory. All the preparation was done, and it now remained only for time to pass until the appointed hour, when the men would gather in the wood outside the factory to do their work. The atmosphere was tense. Everyone was eager to act and the waiting was difficult.

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” Harris said, and Laura heard a breathless sigh escape from the others, as if with one voice. They were tired of this, but obedient, willing to go through it again if Harris required it. She stepped forward, pausing at the marine’s side.

  “We meet at 0100 hours at the northwest corner of the trees,” Harris began in English, and Laura fell into her role, changing his military parlance to clock time for the listeners. To make sure no errors crept into the discourse they let him take them through it in his native English as Laura translated almost simultaneously. Each of the men knew his role, and his timing, so precisely that Harris’ low voice reciting the drill, and Laura’s lighter one reiterating it, assumed the quality of a dreamlike chant: the drone of the priest reciting vespers, and the murmured, dutiful response.

  “Any questions?” Harris said in conclusion.

  There were none.

  “Everyone knows what to do?”

  Silence served for universal assent. Curel spoke into the void. “The carriage will be waiting to take you
to Calais, and then my cousin will smuggle you on his boat across the Channel to England.”

  Harris nodded. His escape plans were already made; he was leaving the area immediately after the raid for the French coast.

  “I’ve told you before, I think you should come with me,” Harris said to the men. “Once this thing blows the Germans will rip off the woodwork looking for you. The head Nazis back home are going to be mighty upset about our little venture, and the heat will be on this guy Becker to come up with the saboteurs.”

  They shook their heads without comment. Fains was their home, and they would stay.

  “Then I guess there isn’t much more to say,” Harris concluded. He looked at each man in turn. “Until tomorrow night. Good luck.” Then, with a doubled fist for emphasis he added in their language, “Bonne chance.”

  In the uncertain light from the oil lamps their eyes were zealous, alive. They looked like men who knew they were about to alter their own fate.

  “‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’” Laura said softly, in English.

  Harris glanced at her and smiled, then looked away.

  One by one the members of Vipère filed to the door of the barn. Harris shook hands with each man as he left, speaking to him quietly and clapping him on the shoulder. He said what each one needed to hear, as a leader should. When Alain came last he took him aside.

  “I know we haven’t always gotten along,” Harris said, “but you’ve taken on a man’s job and handled it better than most could have. We wouldn’t have the dynamite if it weren’t for you. I’m honored to have worked with you.”

  Alain felt his smoldering resentment dampen and bank low. He knew this was no time to air petty jealousy and he had to prove to himself that he could rise above it. He grasped the marine’s hand and shook it soundly, murmuring something that Laura couldn’t catch. She felt her throat tighten and she had to look away.

  Alain slipped through the door. He was going with Curel to check out the return route one more time. Harris and Laura were left alone.

  The silence grew and drummed in their ears as Harris lit one of his borrowed cigarettes. He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, his light eyes seeking Laura’s in the semi-darkness.

  “I want to thank you for all your help,” he said. There was no mistaking the note of finality in his tone.

  “You’re welcome,” Laura said simply.

  “It’s funny,” Harris said softly, looking around him. “I think I’m going to miss this place.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Laura asked impulsively, loath to leave him.

  He regarded her thoughtfully, considering. Then he answered, half laughing, “Yeah. I would really like a bath.”

  “A bath?”

  He nodded, rubbing the growth of beard on his chin ruefully. “I’ve been hanging out in this barn for almost a month with nothing but a lick and a promise in Langtot’s wash basin. Have you got a tub at your house?”

  “Yes, there’s a tub, but the idea is too dangerous. You have to cross the field between the barn and the door and someone might see you.”

  Harris tapped ashes onto the barn floor and ground them out with his heel. “Come on,” he said, waving his hand. “You guys have been sprinting in and out of here practically every night. You know how to avoid the patrols by now. Just go out and watch, signal me when it’s safe.”

  Laura hesitated.

  “I can make it across the open area in a few seconds,” he added. “What do you say?”

  Laura was tempted. She knew that Alain would be gone with Curel for most of the night, and Henri was down at the auberge in Bar-le-Duc with the Germans at an officers’ party.

  “Curel wouldn’t like it,” she offered weakly.

  “He won’t know.”

  “All right,” Laura said, making up her mind. “Wait inside here and watch me. When I wave run for the kitchen door. Okay?”

  He grinned. “Okay.”

  Laura went out into the night and Harris remained behind, smoking thoughtfully. He was surprised that she had agreed to take him home, and tried not to read anything into it. She was probably just being kind. He shouldn’t misinterpret the spontaneous gesture of a generous nature. He dropped his cigarette to the earthen floor of the barn and crushed it out, pushing back his hair, acutely conscious of how he must seem to her after three weeks in his self-ordained prison: bearded, disheveled and smelling of sweat and stable animals. He sighed with resignation and moved to the door, opening it a crack so he could see her signal.

  Laura went to the outhouse at the edge of Henri’s property, keeping her eyes on the road, waiting for the scheduled patrol car to pass. If it spotted her she would have an excuse for being outside after curfew. In a few minutes the German staff car glided down the lane, the soldier in the rear seat training a flashlight into the bushes alongside the road. Laura shrank back until it passed, not moving until the sound of its motor faded entirely from the night air. Then she stepped out and signaled to Harris, who sprinted from the barn on a dead run. His long legs covered the field rapidly as he traveled low to the ground, almost crouching, as if under fire. She joined him for the last few feet and they reached the kitchen door together, tumbling inside, exhilarated.

  Gasping for breath, Laura slammed the screen behind them, latching it and the inner door quickly and securely. She didn’t turn to look at Harris until both were locked.

  He was gazing around the kitchen, intrigued. He’d never been in a French home before and it showed.

  “Where’s the Kelvinator?” he said jokingly, and she smiled.

  “No refrigerator here, Captain,” she replied.

  “I guess not.” He studied the massive open fireplace that took up almost one whole wall. “Is that the furnace?”

  “That’s it. No central heat.”

  He looked at the black iron stove, the water pump above the sink.

  “No hot water either?”

  Laura shook her head. “And we passed the outhouse on the way in,” she added.

  “This must have been quite a change for you,” he observed dryly.

  “You’d be surprised how fast you get used to it,” she said. She pointed out the portable zinc tub in a corner of the kitchen, covered by a board and doubling as a table when not in use. “There it is.”

  Harris followed the direction of her finger and said, “Looks like it weighs a ton. Do you mean to tell me you’re lugging that around all the time?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help you if you need it,” she said reassuringly.

  He shot her a look, and then dragged it across the room, closer to the stove. He watched Laura work the pump to draw a large pot of water and then light the coal burner under it.

  “There, that’s started,” she said, stepping back. She turned and faced him where he lounged against the fireplace wall, his hands in the pockets of his borrowed pants.

  “Tell me about home,” she said eagerly.

  “Home?”

  “Yes, you know, the States.”

  A teasing glint came into his blue eyes. “Hmm, let’s see. The Yankees will be in the pennant race again this year.”

  She stared at him, exasperated.

  “Oh, not a baseball fan, huh?” he said, feigning surprise.

  “I was hoping for something a little more substantial,” she said tartly.

  “I see. Well, I left in July, football hadn’t started yet.”

  In spite of herself she smiled. “I can see why you were chosen for this job,” she observed. “No one would mistake you for a fountain of information.”

  He straightened and his expression became serious. “People are getting ready,” he said simply. “They know what’s coming, that we can’t live in isolation and ignore what’s happening in Europe, in the rest of the world.” He took a step closer and gazed down into her face. “You should think some more about leaving here.”

  Laura shrugged. “I do think about it. All the time. I just can’t do
it.”

  He didn’t reply, merely watched her expression.

  “I have to fight,” she explained. “I have to stay here and do what I can. I’m helping you now, and after you someone else will come. What could I do in my father’s living room in Brookline? Am I supposed to desert Alain, his family, because I have a way out of this mess and they don’t?”

  “There will come a time when you won’t be able to get out either,” he said evenly.

  “I understand that,” she replied quietly.

  “Don’t you miss your family, Massachusetts?” he asked.

  “I miss them when I look at you,” Laura replied softly, before she thought about it. “When I hear you talk. When you say my name the way my father used to, two syllables, like the song.”

  His eyes were locked on hers and he didn’t move. “Laura,” he whispered.

  Neither wanted to look away.

  Laura finally did, turning for the hall with a little more bustle than necessary. “I’ll get you Alain’s shaving things,” she said faintly, and hurried from the room.

  Harris strolled over to the stove, where the water wasn’t even rippling yet. He now appreciated the old custom of the once weekly, Saturday night bath. Under these conditions it took the other six days to get it ready.

  Laura returned with a razor, soap and brush in a porcelain basin, as well as a tripod mirror and a small styptic pencil. She deposited these articles on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for him.

  “You might as well sit while you wait,” she said. “It may be the last rest you get for some time, where you’re going.”

  The mention of his mission and impending departure caused them both to fall into reverie. Harris broke the silence by saying, “Your husband’s name was Terry, wasn’t it?”

  Laura looked up, startled, from gathering a stack of towels from the chest by the door. “Thierry.”

  “An unusual name for a Frenchman?”

  “Yes, but it fit him. He was an unusual man.”

  “You must miss him very much.”

  Laura put the towels on the table next to the shaving basin. “I think I always will. You know, people say that time heals all wounds, but I feel like the hole he left in my life will never close.”