by Alan Evans
The girl paused, her eyes on his, looking for some change of expression but seeing none. She said quietly, simply, “But I’m human. It had been a year. I wanted you, needed you. So I let you think I was single.”
The long, mournful whistle came faintly from beyond St. Jean and Chris Tallon spun around, “It’s coming!” He saw Suzanne and said, “You should be on your way. Sergeant!”
“Sir!” McNab rose from where he crouched by the track and his little group of commandos rose with him.
The girl still looked up into David’s eyes but now she said, “I’m sorry.” She stepped past him and walked away quickly towards the lock gates and the river. McNab followed close behind her and a pace to one side so he could see ahead, while his men fanned out on either side.
David Brent watched her go: another man’s wife. The whistle had trailed away into nothing but now he could hear the distant rumble of the train.
*
Albert had led his small party of commandos across the foot-bridge of the lock-gates and then along the path at the side of the river that curved around to the right to run into the harbour. They moved at a trot, a stiff-legged canter in the case of Albert. When they came in sight of the bridge and the harbour beyond, they halted. Albert was glad to catch his breath as they stared at the bridge, looking for sentries and patrols.
They stood on the old port side of the river. Across the bridge was the new town, an open square surrounded by buildings and the openings of streets. There was not a soul nor a crack of light to be seen, the town and port blacked-out and under curfew. On the far side of the bridge was a small hut. Albert pointed to it and wheezed, “Soldats.”
The corporal commanding the group nodded, “Right-oh, mate.” He muttered to the rest, “Sentries in the post t’other side o’ the bridge.” They all glanced in that direction, the five carrying the big rucksacks and the two with their Thompson guns at the ready; the latter were the protection party.
He said, “Looks like they’re inside having a smoke. Come on.” He started towards the bridge a hundred yards away, the two Thompson gunners trotting ahead. The river lay to their left and they ran in the deep shadow of a retaining wall rising on their right, until the gunners swerved in to flatten themselves tight against the wall and the others followed suit. A sentry had come out of the hut and now he walked to the parapet of the bridge. He stood there, facing upriver and towards them, one hand holding the sling of the rifle hung over his shoulder. They only saw him in dim silhouette against the night sky but they could make out the big helmet, that one jutting elbow and the barrel of the rifle poking up above his shoulder. They could picture him as if he was brightly lit; they had stood that way themselves.
They waited, tense, breathing softly as the seconds ticked away. The corporal whispered, “Bugger off, will you?” They had work to do and dared not move.
“If he doesn’t go soon we’ll have to do it the hard way,” the corporal said softly. By shooting the sentry and trying to hold the bridge while the work was done.
Nobody fancied that.
The breathing stopped as the soldier on the bridge turned full-circle, looking over the old port, the harbour and then the square of the new town. It started again as he walked away from the parapet and disappeared inside the hut. By then they were running.
They halted again under the bridge, its web of supporting steel girders criss-crossing a yard above their heads. The two Thompson gunners of the protection party knelt on either side of the shadow of the bridge and against the wall. The corporal whispered, “Remember, he said this was vital.” He referred to Brent. “If we cock this up, Jerry’ll be all over us.”
He shrugged off his rucksack but kept the Thompson gun still hanging on his chest. He set his back against the wall, cupped his hands and the other four commandos with packs climbed up him as if he were a ladder, one boot on his clasped hands then another on his shoulder. The last two to climb up waited above him, grabbed the corporal’s pack as he lifted it at arm’s length, then gripped his hands to haul him after it.
Albert was left with the two gunners — and his thoughts. They were not pleasant. He listened to the faint slithering sounds in the steel mesh above him as the corporal and his men went about their business, and thought about Brent’s plan. Suzanne had explained it to him in French, twice to be sure it was clear to him. He understood it, but did not believe it could work. A handful of men thrown ashore in enemy-held country? No.
He hoped Suzanne would be all right, that was all.
The corporal working above called softly to the others, “How are you lot getting on?”
He listened to the whispered answers as he worked, moulding the explosive, inserting the detonator, attaching the fuse: “Four done, four to go... Five done... Three done... Three done.”
Then the rustling whispers again as one asked, “What do you think of our chances?”
And another countered cynically, “What chances?”
The corporal hissed, “Shut your traps and get on with it!” Then in the silence that followed they heard the distant whistle of the train.
*
Suzanne led Sergeant McNab and his men across the foot-bridge made by the lock-gates, and then the quarter-mile of rough pasture beyond, soaking her legs to the knees once more. She turned left when she reached the wood, skirted its edge and so came to the old port. From there she led them through the narrow, twisting streets and alleys, keeping always a score of yards ahead. Before McNab took his men into another street he watched for her to signal from the next corner that the way was clear.
He watched her now and the signal did not come. The girl stood rigid, pressed against the wall. McNab pleaded under his breath, “Get down, lass! You’re right in our field o’ fire if they come round that corner!” As if in answer to his prayer he saw her slide down the wall to lie at its foot, her face buried in her arms. He lifted a hand, pointed with two fingers and a pair of his men silently crossed the street to hide around the opposite corner. That would double their rate of fire. But they did not want a fire-fight yet.
McNab still watched the corner at the end of the street where the girl lay. The patrol appeared, four soldiers crossing the end of the street in single file, pacing slowly, not talking. The leader and one of the others glanced into the street and McNab caught his breath as their heads turned, but neither saw the slim body prostrate in the deeper darkness by the wall. When the last soldier had gone from sight and the thud of their boots had faded away, the girl rose to her feet. She looked around the corner again and this time gave the signal, a beckoning lift of her hand. McNab started along the street as she moved on and the others padded after him.
They halted at the end of one last alley, crouching in its cover and looking out onto the quayside and the harbour. To their left and a hundred yards away lay the bridge across the river to the new town. An equal distance away but slightly to their right ran a terrace of buildings facing onto the quayside and the harbour. The buildings were of a height though they all looked to have been built at different times and in various styles. Some had windows like shops or chandlers, others had the look of offices. Suzanne pointed: “The second one.”
McNab nodded. So that was the butcher’s house, the S.S. headquarters. All, so far, as he had been briefed. He stared along the quay at the sentry outside the house at the end that faced him. In the night the sentry might have been just another shadow, but McNab had been told where to look for him. He muttered, “See him, Jacko?”
A thickset commando answered, “Aye.”
“Get that one first off when we go.”
Jacko set the Thompson gun to his shoulder and took a practice sight along the quay, then waited, ready.
McNab was a professional soldier. He accepted that jobs would be thrown at him without warning, but they should be the exception to prove the rule. An operation of this kind, to have any chance of success, had to be meticulously planned to the last detail and rehearsed. This was all being play
ed off the cuff. He thought grimly: Definitely not on, Jock. Mind, that big lad Brent seemed to know what he was doing and made sure everybody else did. And there was surprise on their side. But still... He turned to the men lined behind him and whispered to the only one carrying a rucksack, “Sure you’ve got enough, Phil?”
The rucksack swayed as Phil shrugged his shoulders inside its straps. “Enough to flatten one or two of those shops, if you like.”
McNab faced out onto the quay again, measuring the distance to the butcher’s house. It wouldn’t be long now.
Suzanne thought that she should have told David before, told him in Paris. But she had shied away from admitting she had led him on and lied to him. He must have hated her, must hate her now and it was too late to put right. Her head lifted, listening to the rumble of the train.
*
Tallon licked his lips and glanced at Brent. The train was still hidden from sight around a curve but they could hear the steady beat of its engine and see the advancing plume of smoke lifting in the night sky. Tallon thought that what had started as a planned and comparatively simple operation had turned into a succession of leaps into the dark. Now they were about to take the biggest.
Grundy turned and eyed Cullen, who thought: He’s not going to tell me to stand to attention or get a flamin’ shave. Not now. But Grundy said, “Keep close to me and the old man, and watch out for yourself.” He grinned at Cullen, winked, then moved on to give his message to Dobson and the other men from the “old man’s” crew.
The old man, David Brent, saw the train sway around the curve in the line and then it was running down on him. He was conscious of Chris Tallon just a yard away, lifting his Thompson gun. He heard the commando next along the line call to Tallon, “Ready, sir!”
That was the report passed down from the demolition engineer sent further up the line. Tallon answered, “About bloody time!”
Brent heard that above the panting of the train, still muted by distance but growing with every second. So that when Tallon called some order, Brent saw his mouth open and close but the words were drowned as the train pounded towards them. He felt a rhythmic tremor in the earth beneath his feet, the locomotive lifted high above him and the roar and rumble were deafening.
Then the train was roaring by with a sliding of pistons and a hissing of steam, a smell of coal-smoke and engine-oil. David Brent glimpsed the driver standing on the footplate, and his fireman lit by the glow from the open door of the fire-box as he shovelled coal onto the flames. When the locomotive had passed the box-cars came clack-clacking by.
The last coach rolled past Brent and Tallon. They swore and started after it. Commandos on both sides of the track were up and running hard, cursing. Then, above the noise of the train, they heard the explosion and a long, rolling, thunderous crash and screech of metal as the train ground to a halt. The box-cars and coach jumped the line but stayed upright.
Far up the line the demolition engineer, rucksack slung from his shoulders, turned his head to watch. The locomotive lurched drunkenly and slid to a halt as it left the rails cut by the explosion then came to rest tilted almost onto its side as the box-cars behind crashed into each other and jack-knifed. The train concertinaed and box-cars swung sideways across the line with the force of the impact. The engineer ran on back down the line.
Tallon and his commandos pounced on the last coach from both sides, men reaching up to grasp handles and tug open doors, others lobbing in grenades. The doors slammed shut again and they all crouched, waiting until the grenades burst inside, a succession of orange flashes and ear-ringing detonations. Then they yanked open the doors and went in. They found no one alive. The coach was catching fire in several places so they hurriedly dragged out the bodies and laid them clear of the track.
Max Neumann was sitting on the floor of the wagon when the train stopped dead and he was thrown flat. His shoulder was bruised and the breath knocked out of him. For a moment he was dazed and bewildered, then the screaming broke out all around him and the black box of the car became a bedlam. That was no good. He shouted, “Stop that row! Keep still and you’ll be all right! Listen to me!” And because they recognised his voice now, and trusted it because they had nothing and no one else to trust, they became quiet.
He did not get time to say more. He heard the locking bar knocked off on the outside of the box-car and then the door was dragged open. He saw a man standing at the door. He wore a close-fitting woollen cap pulled down on his forehead and carried a submachine-gun. He bellowed, “Out! Out!” He gestured with the gun and Max set an example and led the way, swung his legs out of the door and dropped down to stand by the side of the car. The rest scrambled out after him, as the others were scrambling out of the next box-car, so Max became the centre of a rapidly growing crowd. And the man with the gun stared at them and said, “Jesus Christ!”
Tallon stared at them in disbelief then turned to David Brent and said, “No trouble in identifying our man.” Private Johnson was leading Max Neumann out of the crowd.
David answered, “No.” Max was not a tall man but his head and shoulders lifted above those around him. Then he stood before Brent and Tallon. David asked him, “You are Max Neumann?”
“Ja”
“And these?” David gestured at the crowd, huddling close to each other and silent.
Johnson put the question in his native German and translated Neumann’s matter-of-fact answer in his guttural English: “He says they are Jewish children being taken to a camp to die.”
Tallon jerked out, “Die?” He looked at his watch, then at Max: “What do you mean?”
Johnson again asked, listened, answered: “They will die from cold, beating, starvation.”
That was monstrous, beyond credibility, but there had been reports... Chris Tallon looked past Johnson at the children. He judged them to be aged between five and ten but that was only deduced from their varying heights. In the night and crowded together they were a shapeless, dark mass with a grey surface of pale faces and huge eyes. He thought that there were more than fifty of them, maybe getting on for a hundred.
The fire in the coach was gaining and now flared, shedding light that reached out to show the common expression on the faces and Tallon saw it was fear of him and his men. His eyes shifted to Max Neumann, shabby, dirty, unshaven, bruised — and meeting his gaze. Tallon said reluctantly, already seeing the awful decision to be made, “I believe him.” He looked at David Brent.
*
Ilse asked, “What was that?” They stood in the narrow hall of the house and she looked from her father to the Major.
The men, in urgent conversation, paused and exchanged glances. Kurt Ritter said, “I didn’t hear anything.”
Ilse frowned, “It sounded a long way off, but it was a — a crash.”
Erwin König shook his head, “Never mind. Whatever it was, it will be reported.” He shrugged into his greatcoat as his servant held it, then told him, “Fetch the guard. On the double.”
“Ja, Herr Oberst!”
König called after the old soldier as he hurried away towards the guardroom at the back of the house, “And bring your own rifle as well!” He buttoned the greatcoat, telling his daughter, “I’m taking every man. We don’t know how many of the enemy have landed.”
Ilse smiled reassurance, “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.” Kurt Ritter agreed confidently, “It may become a little noisy, but we’ll roll them up.”
König had strapped a pistol around his waist and now took the Luger from its holster, checked the load and then smacked the magazine back into the butt with the heel of his hand. He looked from the pistol to Ilse, then said quietly, “There is another gun in the drawer of my desk. I wouldn’t leave you if I thought you would need it, but you know it’s there and how to use it.”
Ilse said again, “Don’t worry. You take care.”
The Gefreiter came running, the other two soldiers of the guard behind him, all with rifles held across their chests. They h
alted and the servant joined them, rifle slung over one shoulder while he pulled on his cap. He was old in soldiering with twenty years of service behind him, but still only forty and younger than his commander. Ilse looked at them and was glad her father was taking them all. They were a tiny force, hardly a bodyguard for him, but he would join the company from the barracks and Ritter’s assault troops at the end of the quay by the bridge.
She went with them to the door and there her father bent his head to kiss her. He told her, “Lock it when we’ve gone.” She obeyed, hearing him call to the sentry outside, “You, too. Come on!”
*
Schleger and Ostmann had eaten leisurely and well in the restaurant of their hotel in the new town. They were relaxed and at ease. The manager was not; he and his staff stayed up to serve the two officers of the S.S. because they had to.
Early in the meal Schleger ordered food to be taken to his headquarters for Louis. Ostmann waited until there was no waiter in the room, then said of Louis, “Our French friend is very co-operative. And a little bit smug tonight, though he tries to hide it.”
Schleger smiled, “He has to be co-operative but shouldn’t be smug. He thinks he is going back to Paris, but he isn’t. He stays here until I have no more use for him.”
Ostmann twisted a mouthful of bread from a long stick with his thick fingers. “Think he might sulk?”
“You mean drag his heels, not try as hard as he should?” Schleger’s smile widened. “He’ll work as if his life depended on it. He’s wanted by the French gendarmerie. That’s why he needs the papers and the protection we give him.”
“What do they want him for? He didn’t kill that Wehrmacht soldier, did he?”
Schleger shook his head, swallowed, drank wine and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “He started working for us in the autumn of 1940. He found a family hiding a British officer and turned them in. As part of the deal with him we — that is our section in Paris — fitted him up with some false papers in the name of Labrosse. He was using them when he committed the offence the gendarmerie want him for. I believe that was not the first time and the other victims kept quiet for one reason or another, embarrassment, not wanting to talk about it.”
