Attack at Night

by Robert Jackson

  She came to the shore and walked along it past the beached boats, stooping every now and then to pick up a shell or a shiny pebble — the sort of thing a young woman might do, if she were in no particular hurry. One or two of the fishermen who were busy with their nets glanced up at her as she strolled past, but showed no particular curiosity.

  She reached the village and walked on down the main street. From a small café came a tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee and croissants. Her mouth watered. Dare she risk going inside? She had some Occupation currency on her, money now valid throughout France which was issued to every SOE agent. Why not? she asked herself. If she ate now, she could be more sparing with her small share of rations later.

  She stood outside for a moment, peering in through the window, acting the part of a young woman who was alone and feeling lost. Then she pushed her way through the door, starting a little as a bell clanged rustily.

  The only occupants were two old men, who sat smoking and drinking coffee at a corner table. They took no notice of her. Uncertainly, clutching her headscarf, her bundle of bread and cheese in front of her, she took a few steps into the room and looked around. The old men continued their low drone of conversation. She coughed twice, the second time more loudly than the first.

  On the second cough, a formidable-looking woman emerged from a room behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. The severity of her appearance was heightened by the fashion in which she wore her iron-grey hair, pulled tightly back and fastened in a bun. She looked at Colette through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yes, mademoiselle?’ she queried brusquely.

  ‘Please, madame,’ said Colette in a timid and quavering voice, as befitted her appearance, ‘I should like a bowl of coffee, with a little milk if you please.’

  The woman stared at her distrustfully. ‘You have the money with which to pay?’ she asked. Colette nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, madame. See.’ She fished in a pocket of her dress and pulled out a handful of small change, which she held out. The woman stared at it for a moment, then poked it with a finger, as though expecting it to disintegrate. Then, without a word, she disappeared into the inner room, returning a few moments later with a steaming bowl. Placing it on the counter, she extracted some money from Colette’s outstretched palm. Colette knew full well that it was too much, but said nothing.

  ‘You also wish for a croissant?’ the woman asked, her features softening slightly. Again, Colette nodded, and took the one offered to her. Like the coffee, it was piping hot.

  ‘I regret that there is no butter,’ said the woman. For the first time, Colette smiled. She said that it did not matter.

  She took the food and drink to a table and sat down, looking out of the window as she ate. From here she could see the railway station, such as it was: little more than a short platform with a ticket office attached, perched on top of the slope above the village. It was only a short walk away. With luck, Conolly would not have to wait long for her return.

  Finishing her coffee, she eyed the counter. There were some sticks of bread on it, together with a round of cheese and what appeared to be dried figs. She decided to buy some, to take back to Douglas and the others. It would be a welcome supplement to their meagre rations.

  Going back to the counter, she placed her empty bowl on it and called hesitantly for the woman. The latter came out, again wiping her hands on her apron, and asked what she wanted.

  ‘Please, madame, is it permitted to buy some bread and cheese?’

  The woman looked at her with even greater suspicion. ‘You have a ration card?’ she asked.

  This was the real test, Colette knew. ‘Certainly, madame. One moment.’ Turning aside from the counter, she reached down the neck of her jumper, bringing a snicker from one of the old men, and drew out a card, which though tattered and stained with use, was in fact less than a fortnight old, carefully forged amid the secret labyrinths of SOE in London.

  The woman took the card from her and scrutinized it carefully, turning it over in her hands several times. At length, she placed it in a pocket of her apron and said, ‘That will be quite in order, mademoiselle. Please come through to the kitchen. I have fresh bread there.’

  Colette breathed an inaudible sigh of relief and followed the woman behind the counter into the room beyond. When they were both inside, the woman closed the door and said in a loud voice: ‘There is the bread, mademoiselle. Please choose what you wish to buy.’ Then in a quieter tone meant only for Colette’s ears she added, ‘This card is a forgery, mademoiselle.’

  An icy chill clutched at Colette’s stomach, yet her brain, thanks to her special training, remained completely calm. Already, she was calculating how long it would take to draw the commando knife, concealed behind her other garter, and use it to cut the woman’s throat.

  She deliberately put fright into her voice. ‘Madame — what do you mean? I do not understand.’

  For the first time, the woman smiled. ‘My child, your ration card is a forgery. I know, for I have seen others like it. But do not worry; it is God’s will that you came here. You see, this village has no mairie, where new ration cards are usually issued, and so the authorities entrust me with the job. Wait one moment.’

  She flourished Colette’s useless card, then went over to a metal box that stood on a table by the kitchen window. Taking a key from her apron pocket, she opened the box and extracted a new card, upon which she wrote Colette’s fictitious details. Then she rubber-stamped it and handed it back, smiling.

  ‘There! Now you are once again legal, mademoiselle. Tell me — you are with the English, are you not?’

  Colette gaped at her. ‘Excuse me, madame? Again, I regret that I do not understand.’

  ‘Pah!’ The woman snorted and waved her arms. ‘It is well known that a party of English commandos has landed in these parts — well known to all but the Boches and the Milice, that is. You come here, a stranger with a forged ration card, and therefore I deduce that you are not what you appear to be. But you do not trust me, and that I understand, on such a short acquaintance. Come a little closer.’

  Colette leaned forward, still keeping her hand close to her dagger. The woman whispered certain words into her ear — words known only to key Resistance members in southern France, and to the agents sent to support them. She relaxed, and was immediately conscious of sweat trickling down her back.

  ‘You are right, madame. I am with the English. And we need all the help we can get.’

  Briefly, she outlined what had happened on the previous night, telling the woman that the commandos had come ashore to help the Maquis in acts of sabotage — but omitting to mention the real target. That would be stretching confidence too far.

  She told the woman that she had come to Carry-le-Rouet in search of food, then added: ‘I should like to take a look around the place, particularly at the point where the railway enters the tunnel. It may be the line can be blocked there.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ The woman looked a little doubtful. ‘Will you return later?’

  ‘Here, you mean? Yes. I should like to take as much food as I can carry. And’ — she smiled, a little wickedly — ‘I have the money to pay for it!’

  The woman laughed. ‘Well, you had better take the bread you have just bought with you now, or it will seem a little strange to those old fools out there.’

  Colette left the little café with her heart considerably lightened. It was as though she had just found sanctuary. Clutching her sticks of bread, she made her way up the slope towards the rail halt. An elderly railwayman — who, she suspected, also carried out every other function around the place — was sweeping the wooden platform. She went up to him hesitantly.

  ‘Good morning, monsieur,’ she said politely. He looked at her and gave a non-committal grunt before returning to his task. ‘Excuse me,’ Colette persisted, ‘can you tell me the times of the trains to Arles?’

  He straightened his back with difficulty and fixed his watery gaze on her again. Leaning on hi
s broom, he leaned forward as though to see her more clearly.

  ‘Trains to Arles? Trains to Arles? Everyone knows the times of the trains to Arles.’ His voice was petulant, as though he resented this sudden intrusion.

  Colette flinched away from the old man’s stale breath and said, ‘But, monsieur, I am a stranger. I set off to walk from Marseille to Arles in search of work, but I grew tired and, besides, I hurt my foot. I have enough money for the fare from here, but I regret that I do not know the times of the trains. Must I wait all day?’

  The old man cackled. ‘Mademoiselle, you may wait until hell freezes, but it is unlikely that you will catch a train from here to anywhere. The Boches have suspended the rail service until further notice. It is to do with their confounded troop movements.’ He turned and spat, aiming the gobbet carefully over the edge of the platform.

  Colette’s mind became icily alert. For a moment, her peasant girl disguise almost slipped, but she regained control of herself and said timidly, ‘But, monsieur, I do not understand. Why should they do this?’ She managed to squeeze out a despairing tear. The railwayman’s gaze followed its course as it trickled down her cheek, and his heart softened. He reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Why, ma chère? Who knows why those swine do things. I know only that I was summoned from my bed early this morning by the telephone, to be told by my superior in Marseille — that fat pig Martineau — that there would be no more trains except German ones, full of troops, which would be moving north from eight o’clock tonight. That is the time the first one will leave Marseille. So’ — he tapped his finger craftily against the side of his nose — ‘so, I telephoned my old friend Bertrand at Miramas, who had also telephoned his friend Henri in Arles, to find out what he knew. Yes, he told me, the troop trains will go only as far as Arles, and then return.’

  ‘Will there be many?’ Colette asked, ‘I mean, will it be long before our own trains will be running once more?’

  The old man shrugged and turned his palms outwards, forgetting that he had been holding his broom. It fell to the platform with a clatter. He bent down creakily to retrieve it. ‘Who can say, mademoiselle?’ he said. ‘I have told you all I know. You are welcome to use my ticket office in which to wait, if you so desire, but I fear it may be a long wait.’

  Colette adopted a crestfallen expression. ‘Thank you, monsieur, for your kindness, but I think I must begin walking once again. These are terrible times. Good day.’

  ‘Terrible times indeed, mademoiselle. Good day to you. And a safe journey.’

  She turned and made her way back down the slope towards the café, her mind racing. In London, she had been thoroughly briefed on the disposition of the German forces in the Marseille area. The garrison there consisted of 7,000 officers and men of the 244th Infantry Division, commanded by a General Schaeffer. Now it appeared that a sizeable portion of that force was being moved up to Arles, and to Colette there could be only one possible explanation. The Germans were about to launch an all-out offensive against the force of Maquisards assembling in the area. They were using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, but that was their way. They would use hundreds, even thousands, of troops in a bid to encircle the Resistance fighters, throwing a cordon around the whole area and then systematically sweeping inwards, tightening the net. It was the type of operation at which the Germans excelled.

  Somehow, the Resistance had to be warned. Colette hurried back to the café, quickening her steps. The grey-haired woman looked up from the counter in surprise as she came in. Colette noticed that the two old men were still there, but as yet there were no other customers.

  ‘Back already, mademoiselle? Have you seen all the sights?’

  ‘Yes, madame. I wonder … have you some water with which I may wash my face and hands?’ She inclined her head towards the kitchen door, and the woman understood at once.

  ‘Most certainly, mademoiselle. Please come through.’

  In the kitchen, Colette told the woman what she had learned. She hesitated, then asked, ‘Madame, have you heard of a man named Auguste?’

  The woman nodded slowly. ‘I have heard of such a one. He is an Englishman, they say. I have heard those of the Maquis speak highly of him.’

  Colette nodded. ‘Madame, Auguste is in great danger. So are many of our Maquisards. I believe that those Germans are going to try and eliminate them. If that happens, it will not only be a tragic day for the Resistance in this part of France; it will also gravely compromise certain plans which are afoot plans that could affect the course of the war. Madame, I beg of you, is there a way that we can warn our men in Arles, to avert a disaster?’

  The woman thought for a moment, then said, ‘There may be a way. Wait here, mademoiselle.’ She took off her apron and went out through a small back door. Colette waited anxiously for her return; she felt apprehensive and a little ill with anxiety. She prayed that she could trust the woman, although she spent each one of the fifteen minutes or so that she waited in an agony of suspense, half expecting the Milice to burst in at any second.

  Instead the woman came back, bringing with her a tall, gangling youth with a spotty face and shrewd eyes. ‘This is Louis,’ she informed Colette. ‘He has a bicycle, and runs errands all around this area. Everyone knows him, and he is completely trustworthy. On many occasions he has acted as a courier for the Maquis, and knows where people may be contacted.’

  Colette looked at the youth earnestly. ‘Louis, you are willing to help?’

  ‘Certainly, mademoiselle.’ The boy had a quiet and surprisingly cultured voice. ‘Please tell me what it is you wish me to do.’

  ‘I would like you to go to Arles,’ she told him. ‘You know some of our people there?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes, mademoiselle. I have delivered messages to them on several occasions.’

  ‘Good. Then go to them and ask to see one Monsieur Etienne Barbut. It is certain that he will be there by the time you arrive. If something has happened to him, find the most senior among the Maquis and give him this message.’ Briefly, she outlined what she knew about the enemy troop movements. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. She was conscious that she was about to make the biggest decision of her life. She only hoped that Douglas would agree with it.

  ‘Tell him also’, she said, looking hard at Louis as though to imprint every word into his memory, ‘that the English will try and hold up the Germans. And that the main operation must be brought forward. It must happen tomorrow night. He will understand. Is everything clear to you?’

  Louis nodded. ‘Yes, mademoiselle.’ He repeated it almost word for word. As he spoke, the woman who owned the café prepared a bundle of bread and cheese for him. ‘Go now,’ she said, thrusting the bundle into his hands. ‘There is no time to be lost, and it is a long ride to Arles. May the good God go with you.’

  The youth turned and left the café without a word, and Colette knew instinctively that he would do his utmost to fulfil his mission. She faced the grey-haired woman and took both her hands in her own.

  ‘Madame,’ she said softly, ‘how can I ever repay you?’

  The woman smiled. ‘I am an old woman,’ she answered, ‘with not many years left, I think, before I go to join my dear husband. But before I die, I want to see my country free again. It was providence that brought you here. Now you must go, and do what it is you have to do. And some day, when this is over, come back to my little café, and drink my coffee and eat my croissants. And on that occasion, you will need no money.’ She pressed some more bread on Colette, together with some cheese, and pushed her gently through the café, past the two muttering old men. Colette kissed her on the cheek, then turned and hurried away down the cobbled street, towards the shore and the place where Conolly was waiting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘You were right to make the decision you did,’ Douglas said to Colette. ‘Absolutely right. We’ve got to bring the operation forward. There’s no other way.’

 
; He turned to the Rhodesian signaller, Trooper Mitchell. ‘Mitch, try and raise London on your radio. Send the code “Forensic minus 72.” ‘Forensic’, he explained to Collette, ‘is the code we agreed on for a substantial change of plan. What I’m telling London is that I am bringing the operation forward by seventy-two hours. There’s absolutely no alternative. Tonight we do everything in our power to disrupt the German troop movements, and tomorrow night we hit the airfield. God knows how we’re going to do it; we’ll just have to find a way. Sansom and Willings, come over here a minute.’

  The two troopers looked at him expectantly; ‘Colette says that there’s a tunnel just to the east of Carry-le-Rouet,’ he told them. ‘Do you think you can blow it, preferably with a train inside?’

  ‘We’ll have a damned good try, sir,’ Willings told him. ‘But we’d need to have a good look at it first, to find out exactly what we need.’

  Douglas nodded. ‘Right. We’ll move out right away. We’ll probably need to blow the road bridge near Fos-sur-Mer, too, later on.’ He called to the sergeant-major. ‘Stan, get everyone together. We’ll move east, keeping to the woods.’

  Douglas was sure, by now, that if the enemy was searching for them after the shoot-out of the previous night, he was looking in the wrong place. If the Germans still believed that they were dealing with a party of French saboteurs from Corsica, they must also have assumed that the raiders had gone north, to join up with the Maquis near Arles. So much the better.