Army of Shadows

by John Harris

  ‘Duclos. Guardian Moch. The Henault boy and Jacques Jacquelot. Yves Rapin’s back too, Then there’s Gaudin and his sons, and Vic Letac and Dr Mouillet.’ Reinach sat for a while, thinking. Then he fished out a stub of pencil and began to write on the edge of a newspaper. ‘Thirty-seven,’ he said. ‘Including boys.’

  ‘Against what Klemens has got, it makes poor odds,’ Neville pointed out. ‘And to the two hundred Germans in Néry, you have to add five hundred from St Seigneur and two hundred from Rolandpoint. When they leave they’ll pass through here and move on as a unit. That makes it even poorer odds. What about the other places? Rolandpoint? St Seigneur?’

  ‘Rolandpoint have said they have thirty-nine,’ Urquhart said, ‘That makes seventy-six. It’s still not enough.’

  ‘How many do you want?’ Reinach demanded angrily.

  Urquhart leaned forward. ‘The man who wins the battle is always the man who can bring most soldiers into action at the same time and at the same place,’ he said. ‘We need a lot, or it won’t be humiliation. It’ll be a disaster - for you!’

  Reinach glanced at Father Pol. Then he shrugged. ‘We can contact Courbigny and Araigny and Tarey, I suppose. And I can telephone Drumont at Roches-les-Drapeaux and Armandeau at Dijoine.’

  ‘Go on,’ Neville said. ‘You’re doing better.’

  ‘Do you want the whole damned district?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Reinach looked at Father Pol again and didn’t answer. Why not indeed? Every village that wanted one seemed to be getting a parachutage these days and there were thousands of Frenchmen just waiting for their opportunity to rise up and bash some German’s head in. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘We want men from Luchy and Lingeau,’ Neville went on. ‘And St Verrier and St Bringt and Beauzois and Violet. Even the hill villages round Metz-la-Montagne. All of them.’

  Reinach’s eyes were wide. ‘That’ll be hundreds.’

  ‘We need hundreds.’

  Reinach frowned, suspicious. ‘This is a good plan, Neville?’ he asked.

  ‘Urquhart thinks it’ll work.’

  ‘And that’s important?’

  ‘He’s got to put it into effect. He knows where to site the weapons and what the Germans will do.’

  Reinach shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the Bourg-la-Chattel, Diepape and Pailly men. They have a few scores to pay off. And probably a few more.’ He leaned forward. ‘When do we put this plan into effect, Neville? Soon?’

  ‘When the Americans are closer. So that the Germans don’t have time to turn round and lash out.’

  ‘What do you think they are? Of course they’ll lash out. You’ve heard of Vercors. You’ve heard of Oradour.’

  De Frager shifted uneasily. ‘And I hope you haven’t failed to notice that an SS major’s joined the staff at the chateau. What about the old people and the children?’

  ‘I’ve not forgotten the SS major,’ Neville seemed almost smug. ‘Or the old people and children. And I’ve heard of Vercors and Oradour. This time, though, the Germans will be helping us.’

  ‘I can imagine it!’ Reinach snorted.

  ‘They will,’ Neville insisted. ‘We’ll get them to.’

  Reinach’s eyes flashed. Then, for the love of God, tell us where and when! Are we going to fight like your famous Milord Wellington at Waterloo.’

  ‘No.’ Neville looked young and excited. ‘The battle’s Sedan, 1870.’

  There was a sudden chill in the room and an immediate freezing of expressions. Sedan! There might have been glory in defeat at Salamanca and Waterloo but there was none at Sedan. The war of 1870 against the Prussians had been only blunder, stupidity and corruption, and the hated name of its climactic defeat made them look at each other quickly.

  ‘Sedan!’ Reinach said.

  ‘Sedan!’Dréo echoed.

  Neville’s enthusiasm washed over their indignation. ‘The Prussians got your army into a valley,’ he said, ‘and surrounded them with guns. Moltke said he’d got them in a mousetrap.’

  Sergeant Dréo stared at him, wooden-faced. The French fought well,’ he rumbled. ‘I had a great-uncle there.’

  They were beaten before they started,’ Neville said. ‘Ducrot knew it. ‘We’re in a chamberpot,’ he said. ‘And we’ll be in the shit right up to our necks.’‘ He leaned forward, his eyes alight. ‘We can get the Nazis into a chamberpot.’

  Dréo scowled. ‘Does it have to be a German plan?’ he growled.

  There was a sudden deadlock and it looked as if they’d reject what Neville had to offer. Tears came to Marie-Claude’s eyes, then her face lit up and she rushed to his help.

  ‘What irony if the Germans were defeated by a German plan!’ she said.

  Her enthusiasm turned the trick and there was an immediate lightening of glowering expressions.

  ‘I can just imagine their faces,’ Sergeant Dréo crowed. ‘Tell us what we must do, Neville, and let us get on with it before it’s too late.’

  Part 3: DAY OF GLORY

  Le jour de gloire est arrivé.

  Rouget de Lisle

  1

  Tarnera,’ Klemens said thoughtfully. ‘Have you noticed a new attitude in this village?’

  Tarnera nodded. ‘I have, Herr Oberst. They’re suddenly more approachable.’

  ‘Why is that, do you imagine?’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll also beginning to think we’re losing the war,’

  Klemens stared at the map on the wall. The front line ran now from south of Le Havre through Paris to Chateau-Thierry and Troyes, then back on its tracks north of Auxerre to the Atlantic coast. In the south it probed upwards from Italy, east of Switzerland towards the Balkans, west deeper and deeper into France.

  ‘There’ll be a stand on the German border, of course,’ he observed.

  ‘By that time,’ Tarnera said, ‘we shall have lost everything we ever gained and that in itself will be defeat. I doubt if the regime could stand it.’

  Klemens frowned and Tarnera went on earnestly. ‘People like you and me, sir, will then need to know where our loyalties lie, because the allies will never accept Nazism.’

  Klemens turned. ‘Have you talked to Klein-Wuttig about this?’ he asked.

  ‘We shall get no help from him, Heir Oberst. But I’m a born survivor.’

  Klemens frowned. ‘I hope you are, Tarnera, because Wuttig and this damned SS man are as thick as thieves. I think Fritzi’s keeping a diary.’

  ‘Of his boy friends’ affairs?’

  ‘No, Tarnera. Of yours. The things you say. Take my advice, if Sturmbannführer Frobinius talks to you, be careful not to make comments. I know you enjoy your wit. Sometimes, even I do. But Fritzi doesn’t. And Frobinius won’t. Keep a tight hold on your tongue.’

  Tarnera smiled, and Klemens went on more sharply.

  ‘I know you regard it all as rather a joke,’ he growled. ‘But if you’re a born survivor, then make sure you do survive. It might be worth it because there’s something in the wind.’ He laid a letter on the table. ‘That arrived this morning.’

  The door clicked and Klein-Wuttig appeared. Klemens looked round. ‘We’re discussing the new friendliness in the village, Fritzi,’ he said. He indicated the letter Tarnera was holding. ‘That arrived in my post this morning, marked “personal”. What do you make of it?’

  The letter consisted of a single line of typing – “Look in the cellars” - and Klein-Wuttig stared at it for a moment before studying the envelope carefully. ‘Postmarked St Seigneur,’ he said. ‘But it could, of course, have been posted there by someone from Néry or Rolandpoint.’

  Tarnera’s expression was amused. ‘Think it’s a bomb. Herr Oberst, designed to blow you and me and Fritzi to Kingdom Come?’

  Klein-Wuttig frowned. ‘It’s a possibility, Herr Oberst.’

  Then why warn us?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s from the Baronne’s maid,’ Tarnera suggested. ‘She and Corporal Goehr have been making eyes at each other a lo
t. Perhaps she’s afraid that Goehr’s going to Kingdom Come too.’

  ‘Can we question her?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do much good. She’d obviously deny everything.’

  Klein-Wuttig’s face set. ‘We could ask Sturmbannführer Frobinius -’

  ‘No!’ Klemens’ hand chopped down in a quick gesture. ‘I’m not having Frobinius and his black-collared gentry in this. We’ll handle it ourselves.’

  ‘Very well, Herr Oberst.’ Klein-Wuttig’s expression registered disapproval. ‘In that case, it would seem sense to search the cellars.’

  ‘Which cellars?’ Tarnera was frowning. ‘I’ve never seen any cellars. And that, come to think of it, is odd - don’t you think? - a house as big as this without cellars. Didn’t the Baronne tell us that they once had vineyards? With wine you need somewhere to keep it’

  Klemens smiled. Tarnera, I believe you’re on to something.’

  ‘There is a little wine, of course - kept in the pantry off the kitchen, but that’s hardly big enough to swing a cat round and it has a stone floor, stone walls and a stone ceiling. You couldn’t hide anything in there.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Klemens’ small eyes narrowed and he slapped the table. ‘I don’t think he’s talking about a bomb at all. I think he’s talking about the paintings!’

  That thought had also occurred to Tarnera but with his sympathy entirely on the side of the Baronne, he’d hesitated to state it.

  Klemens had got the bit between his teeth now, and was looking excited. ‘Let’s have the old woman in,’ he said.

  The Baronne looked tired but defiant, and for once Klemens didn’t bother to offer her a chair.

  ‘Madame -’ he sat back, flicking at bis boots as usual with his riding crop - ‘the Corot, the Daubigny, the Madame Lebrun.’ The Baronne said nothing and Klemens looked up at her, smiling. ‘They’re still here, aren’t they?’

  The Baronne’s eyes flickered. ‘They were stolen,’ she said.

  Klein-Wuttig leaned forward. ‘We don’t believe you, old woman,’ he snapped. ‘And you know what we do to liars and cheats and thieves and people who defy the Reich.’

  The old eyes fastened contemptuously on him. ‘I take it you mean roughly what people who belong to the Reich also have done to them when they cheat and lie and steal.’

  Klemens waved Klein-Wuttig aside with a weary gesture and, reaching out to the letter, he tossed it across the table towards her.

  ‘That’s just arrived, madame. There’s no need to read it. I’ll tell you what’s in it. Look in the cellars, it says.’ He leaned further forward. ‘Where are the cellars, madame? We’ve seen no cellars.’

  For a long time the Baronne was silent then she shrugged.

  ‘Are there cellars?’

  ‘Of course there are cellars! You don’t imagine a family as old and powerful as this bought their wine by the bottle from Mere Ledoux, do you ?’

  Klemens sat back, smiling. ‘And the cellars?’

  ‘They’re still there. If they’d been taken away the house would have fallen down.’

  ‘Then where, old woman!’ Klein-Wuttig shouted. ‘Where ?’

  ‘Where cellars are usually situated,’ the Baronne snapped back. ‘Below the house!’

  Klein-Wuttig leaned forward. ‘The paintings are hidden there, aren’t they?’

  The old eyes, still bright and black as jet, settled on his face. ‘Why do you wish to know? So you can steal them when you are defeated?’

  Klein-Wuttig’s face went pink. ‘Germany will not be defeated.’

  The Baronne gave a bark of laughter. ‘Then why is the Wehrmacht running like rabbits? When Hitler is hanging from a lamp-post in the Unter den Linden, will you call that defeat?’

  Klemens began to move the papers on his desk thoughtfully. These cellars,’ he prompted. ‘Where is the entrance, Madame?’

  ‘There was one through the kitchen but that was bricked up years ago. The only one there is now is in the rear courtyard. There’s a pile of hay in front. We hid it because occasionally we kept a pig or two down there that no one knew about.’

  ‘You could be shot for that,’ Klein-Wuttig said triumphantly.

  The Baronne smiled. ‘But I don’t think I shall be,’ she observed dryly. ‘Not with the allies beginning to cry out about war crimes.’

  As she disappeared, Klemens sat for a moment staring at his feet. Then he looked up, smiling, and heaved himself from his chair. ‘Get a torch.’ he said.

  Followed by Tarnera, Klein-Wuttig, Unteroffizier Schäffer and three men, they left the house by the front door and walked in a self-important little procession along the crackling gravel path to the stables. Halting in the courtyard, Klemens stared at the outbuildings and coach-houses. Then he turned and gazed at the hay packed in the arches under the chateau.

  ‘Get rid of that rubbish,’ he snapped.

  The three men behind Schäffer began to pull away the hay. Within minutes one of them shouted. ‘There’s something here. HerrOberst!’

  Klemens moved forward through the fodder piled about his boots. He could see the weathered boards of an old door.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  More hay was dragged away and Schäffer pushed at the door, so that they found themselves standing in a short passage.

  Klemens smiled. ‘I think we’ve found our cellars, Tarnera,’ he said. ‘Very well, Schäffer. You can go.’

  When the soldiers had disappeared, Tarnera moved into the dark passage. Ten yards in front of him there was another door, even more dilapidated, set between crumbling stone pillars. As he heaved on it, it swung back with a groan of rusty hinges. The white beam of his torch probed the darkness and they saw picture frames, dusty and chipped, stacked against the wall. Klemens smiled.

  ‘Let’s have a look at them, Fritzi,’ he said.

  Klein-Wuttig pulled out one of the heavy frames and turned it. Tarnera shone the torch on it while Klemens glanced at the list in his hand. ‘One metre by one and a half,’ he said. ‘That’s a millpond, isn’t it?’

  ‘It looks like one, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘It’s the Corot. I have it here. Try the next one.’

  Klein-Wuttig turned the next frame round. ‘Two girls listening to a minstrel playing a mandolin.’ He sounded as if he were reading the charge at a court martial.

  Klemens slapped the list in his hand. ‘ The Lesson by Lancret! These are the paintings we’re looking for, Tarnera. I’m certain of it. Next.’

  ‘Man in a red coat with horse and servant. The servant looks a bit like that smith, Dréo.’

  ‘ Baron de Frager, with horse and groom . It’s a Greuze. It was painted in this village.’ Klemens grinned. ‘Fritzi,’ he said, ‘in case you don’t know it, you’re handling a. fortune. Get that artist chap down here.’

  When Balmaceda arrived, Klemens was sitting on an upturned wooden bucket staring at the painting of Baron de Frager.

  He looked round. ‘Seen that before?’ he demanded.

  Balmaceda frowned. ‘I have indeed, monsieur.’

  ‘These are the paintings we’re looking for, aren’t they? How did they get down here?’

  Balmaceda shrugged. ‘Monsieur, I don’t know. When they disappeared, we assumed the villagers had hidden them. They’re very parochial and regard them as their own, and we knew they’d turn up sooner or later.’ He glanced about him at the dusty walls of the cellar. They picked a good place,’ he ended.

  ‘They did?’

  ‘Oh, yes, monsieur. I was once an art dealer. I know about paintings. It’s dry down here. Of course, they should be properly wrapped and crated.’

  Klemens considered. ‘If this place is all that good,’ he observed, ‘they might as well stay here. If I take them upstairs your damned Baronne might well organize a raid to have them removed, mightn’t she?’

  ‘She’s a woman of spirit, monsieur.’

  ‘Then we’d better have them under lock and key and place a sentry outside. Could thi
s place be made secure?’ Klemens reached for one of the barred windows and yanked at the bars. One of them came away in his hand. ‘For instance,’ he said. That I We’d better have it bricked up, hadn’t we? We’ll also have a new door here and have the outer one repaired. ‘Could that be done?’

  ‘Of course, monsieur.’

  Klemens thought for a moment. ‘Fix it,’ he said.

  There was a long silence, then Balmaceda coughed.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said. There’s no stone. The quarry’s not been worked for eight months.’

  ‘Very well, work it.’

  ‘We should need your permission, monsieur. Colonel Marx forbade anyone to go near it after the trouble with the Resistance last year. He decided it had been used for hiding explosive.’

  Klemens waved his hand. ‘We can keep an eye on it. What else do you need? Have you a stone-mason?’

  Theyras, monsieur. You’d also need a carpenter for the door. We have a good one: Reinach. He’s from Alsace. They’re well known there for their ability to work in wood. Their carving-’

  ‘I don’t want carving,’ Klemens said. ‘I want a door. And I want crates. Tell Reinach and anybody else who’s involved to come and see me.’

  That evening while Colonel Klemens was dining, Reinach, Théyras, Sergeant Dréo, Ernouf, Dring and Balmaceda were ushered in by Tarnera.

  Klemens wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked down the length of the Baronne’s table. ‘Are you skilled men?’ he asked.

  Every head nodded earnestly.

  ‘Sound at your jobs?’

  More nods.

  ‘Very well, I have work for you.’

  Reinach looked at the others and smiled at Klemens. ‘It’s a long time once we did a decent job of work, monsieur,’ he said.

  ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘Make crates, monsieur.’

  ‘Do you know what for?’

  ‘Unfortunately, monsieur.’

  Klemens smiled. ‘Does it bother you?’

  Reinach shrugged. ‘They aren’t my paintings, monsieur. I’m more interested in wages.’

  ‘How about the others?’