Down the Rabbit Hole- Into France

by Jason Walker

  DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  Jason Walker

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2018 by Mr F. McLeod (SNV76627792). No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. For more information visit Jason’s website at: https://repulsintechnology.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Into France

  Part Fourteen

  In January 1943, while on a top secret mission to rescue both secret agents and an important soldier in a P.O.W. Camp, several S.A.S Commandos are shot down over the forests outside of Bordeaux France. Seeking help, they move through the woods hoping to meet up with the local resistance.

  Based on true events.

  Chapter One

  BORDEAUX, FRANCE, NOVEMBER 1943.

  Bridgette LeClair was a woman who had not enjoyed the best of lives, and she therefore looked older than her forty-something years of age. Her face was already heavily lined, and her wavy brown hair was smattered with grey around the temples. Being the owner of a bakery, she was a well-known figure within the local community.

  On this particular day, she could not stop herself from glancing out of her shop window every few seconds. What she observed caused her to be worried, and with good reason. Stood just outside the door, enjoying the scent of the freshly baked bread emanating from the shop were three Nazi soldiers comprising of Sgt. Hertz, Pte. Schwartz and Pte. Strauss. Bridgette could hear them talking but did not understand their conversation. They were young, and there was a lot of laughter and back-slapping going on.

  The conversation seemed to come to its natural end, and Pte. Strauss flicked his cigarette away into the gutter. Bridgette’s facial lines became more pronounced as all three of the uniformed Nazis turned, opened the bakery door and entered.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  The Nazis stopped their informal inspection of the bakery, their eyes all focused on Bridgette, and they stared at her in silence.

  “I have fresh bread just out of the oven. Here, try some,” said Bridgette as she tossed the Germans a French stick.

  Strauss and Schwartz knew to leave the catching of the bread to their superior, Sgt. Hertz. He hastily tore the loaf in half, keeping one of the new pieces for himself, and handing his underlings the second piece to share. All three soldiers touched, smelled and looked at the bread as if it was the first time they had experienced the product in any shape or form, while Bridgette stood behind the counter still wearing her fixed plastic smile. Eventually, all three men had given in to temptation and were chewing on the loaf with nods of approval.

  Sgt. Hertz was the first to speak, his mouth still half full. “Your bread, it’s delicious,” he stated enthusiastically.

  Bridgette felt her knees wobble slightly out of relief, and she allowed herself to exhale the air which her lungs had been holding for at least a minute. She then offered to put more bread into a bag for the Germans, and as she turned her back to do just that, they returned to their native language.

  “This is just like the bakeries in Germany!” Schwartz said.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Hertz snorted in disgust. “Everyone knows that German bakeries are far superior to all others.”

  Pte. Strauss’s mind was wandering and was far away from the subject of bread. Nodding to Bridgette, he said, “I hear that her daughter is good for a roll in the hay!”

  Again, Hertz was not impressed. “Ja, as long as you enjoy the feel of skin and bones.”

  Their laughter filled the bakery and Bridgette turned back to them offering a bag which she had now filled with several loaves of bread. Sgt. Hertz, not forgetting the three stripes on his arm snatched the bag and held it close to his chest, protecting it as a wild dog protects her new born puppies.

  “How much?” he asked. It was not so much a question but a polite formality because he knew full well that not one Nazi would ever be asked to pay for anything in France. Sure enough, Bridgette brushed away his question with a forced smile and told them that it was her pleasure to serve them.

  Without needing to utter a word to each other, the three men turned to exit the shop. Before doing so, and in a final insult to Bridgette’s kindness and generosity, Strauss picked up a warm croissant and stuffed it into his mouth while staring at her, almost goading her, knowing that there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop what was essentially the theft of her stock.

  As they left the shop, Bridgette waved them goodbye, and once again exhaled a sigh of relief.

  Her hands were trembling, not only through fear, but raw anger as well. How dare those Nazi bastards come into my shop acting like they own it? She fought the relentless tears which were now rolling down her face, struggling not to completely break down. Bridgette was a strong woman but everyone has a breaking point. Hers would have to wait until another day before she would allow it to win.

  She wiped her tears on her apron, adjusted her hair and looked around at her shop; her life, her livelihood.

  Bridgette walked through to the back of her shop and opened the rear exit, stepping out into the snow covered yard. Looking around, she spotted a bucket by the rear wall. As she walked over and bent down to retrieve it, she heard gunshots echoing through the early winter air.

  Startled, she looked around in all directions trying to help her ears determine the direction from which the shots were coming from. The answer came from the hilled forest situated further behind her shop. She gave a brief look towards the snow-dusted trees before quickly scurrying back inside. The warmth of her shop seemed to offer some level of sanctuary.

  Chapter Two

  Danielle LeClair was in her early 20s, but, like her mother, looked older than her years. She focused on the radio set under her command through her emerald eyes as she competently tapped away in Morse code. Her message completed, she returned the radio set to the wood-lined hole in the ground, placed the wooden panel on top and with her cold hands pushed snow and leaves over the ground’s wound leaving no trace of her presence. Danielle stood up and heard the same gun shots that her mother had, unbeknown to her, witnessed. Like her mother, she decided to hurry away.

  She retrieved her hidden bicycle - which had a box mounted on the back - and headed back home along the dirt track.

  In the distance, there was a checkpoint which was being manned by Cpl. Himmel and Pte.

  Keller. With each turn of her bicycle’s wheels, the distance between her and the two Nazis grew less. She was finding it impossible to hide the fear on her face, but knew that she had to if she were to stay alive. As she approached, Keller stepped out of the hut and signaled to Danielle, instructing her to stop. She obeyed, and came to a stop right by the guards. The two men inspected Danielle from head to toe, glanced at each other and smirked with arrogance.

  The Nazis demanded to see her papers, and shaking nervously, Danielle placed her hand inside her pocket to retrieve them.

  She decided to answer the question before it was asked. “I have been collecting firewood for my mother’s bakery.” She gestured towards the box on the back of her bike, silently inviting the t
wo men to open it up to verify her story, an invitation which was ignored. Instead, Keller leaned in close to Danielle and touched a strand of her hair. “We did not see you leave town. Were you out during the curfew?” Keller took a subtle sniff of her hair, and now, fear was getting the better of her, on top of which, she was on the verge of being physically sick.

  In the firmest and most controlled voice she could muster, she told the two men “No, I was not. My papers are in order, and my mother is waiting for me. Please let me pass.” She attempted to mount her bike and leave, but Keller stopped her, and, clearly enjoying his authority over her said, “What’s the rush? Why do you seem in such a hurry to leave? We’re just talking, ja? I think you are hiding something from us, and I will tell you when you can and cannot leave.”

  Once again, Danielle tried to free herself from the Germans, but this time, they became more forceful. Keller stood at the front of her bike with both of his hands now firmly holding the handlebars, while Himmel grabbed her hair and pulled her off. Danielle started to panic. “No!

  What are you doing? I have just been collecting firewood for my mother, let me go, I have done nothing wrong!”

  Cpl. Himmel ordered Keller to take Danielle inside their guard house for further questioning.

  Danielle tried to resist but her efforts were futile against the strength of the young German soldiers. Her screams became muffled as they entered and the door was slammed shut.

  Danielle would soon learn that questioning was the last thing on the minds of the two Germans.

  Chapter Three

  Back at the bakery, Bridgette was finishing up her chores and preparing to close down the shop for the day. She could still hear the gunshots ringing in the back of her mind.

  Suddenly, the back door swung open urgently. She turned around and saw her daughter, Danielle standing in the doorway looking disheveled and upset. She stared at her mother for a brief moment before turning and walking into the next room, closing the door behind her without saying a single word. Bridgette followed and asked her precious girl, “Are you not going to greet your mother?”

  With her back turned, Danielle hurriedly removed her gloves and coat, and she found a handkerchief with which she dabbed her tear stained cheeks. She replied to her mother, “No,” before running upstairs to the sanctuary of the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her. Her back slid down the door until she was in a crouched position, and she silently sobbed.

  “We will stop them my bichette. Somehow, someday, we will stop them, I promise you,” her mother said in her motherly voice, knowing what had happened. She, too, wiped away tears from her face.

  Once downstairs, Bridgette approached the fireplace which was alight to keep the cold early- winter air out of her living room. She took the poker, and played with the glowing embers, moving them around. She paused, and took an instinctive glance behind her before hanging the poker on the back wall, behind the fire. She twisted the poker, which in turn opened a hidden latch, and the wall slid open revealing a small cavity as well as another hidden wall.

  In the cavity stood Sgt. Paul MacArthur of the Canadian Air Force. His face was tired and weathered, and he looked hungry. Bridgette handed him two loaves of bread, some hard boiled eggs and water. MacArthur handed the food to another man standing below him.

  Bridgette, in little more than a whisper, said, “There has been an escape at the POW camp nearby. The Germans are searching the town and surrounding areas”

  MacArthur enquired as to whether or not Danielle had returned home safely, and Bridgette confirmed that she had, telling him that she was in the bathroom and would be down soon.

  “We thought we heard shots being fired, is she alright?” asked a concerned Sgt. Macarthur. “The Germans are shooting anyone who they even suspect may be helping the escapees. It’s not safe for you here anymore,” Bridgette replied solemnly.

  Knowing the danger that Bridgette and Danielle had put themselves in by protecting him and the other man, Sgt. MacArthur agreed that they would leave as soon as was practical.

  Bridgette, wanting to reassure them, said, “Danielle sent a message to the Resistance earlier today. They will come for you soon.”

  Suddenly, Bridgette heard the front door to the bakery opening. Startled, she quickly pulled and closed the secret wall, turned the latch, and once again pushed the embers of the fire around to cover any suspicious hand or foot marks she may have left in the ashes.

  Danielle, now standing behind Bridgette, looked in the direction of the front door, her face shrouded with fear and worry.

  MacArthur climbed back down his ladder into the secret cellar, only accessible from the cavity behind the fireplace. The man to whom he had passed the bread and eggs to just a few moments ago was there to greet him. Cpl. Hiroa, a handsome dark haired and cinnamon skinned member of the New Zealand Air Force asked in his typical informal manner, “Any news, Serg?”

  “Yes,” replied MacArthur. “The Resistance knows we are here and will be bustin’ us out soon. A few POWs escaped earlier from a camp nearby, and the Krauts are going crazy combing the woods and searching the entire town door by door.”

  “Shit. I guess we’ve got no other choice than to sit tight then,” said Hiroa with a hint of dejection in his voice.

  Sgt. Macarthur sat down on a keg. He leaned back, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.

  His face looked like not one single muscle was relaxed, and it portrayed a man who had the troubles of the world on his mind. He stretched and opened his eyes, staring into space.

  “What’s on your mind, Serg?” asked the inquisitive young New Zealander.

  Sgt. Macarthur sighed once again, while this time allowing his lips to forget where he was and to form a smile. “Oh, I was just thinking of my girlfriend back at home. She’s always on my mind. Maybe someone will write a song about that one of these days. You know, she has the most amazing pair of…” His voice trailed off, and he held his cupped hands up to his chest while giving Hiora a knowing look. “…that I’ve ever laid my hands on. Not too big, not too small.

  They were tailor made for my hands, and my hands only. As I sit here, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see, taste or hold them again.”

  Hiora allowed himself quiet laugh. “Mate, at least you’ve got a pair waiting for you back at home. Me? I don’t even have one waiting for me!” Now, it was the sergeant’s turn to laugh.

  MacArthur, making light of their current situation added, “At this rate, those beautiful tits will be old and saggy by the time I get home. I’ll have to roll them up if I want a go at them!”

  Hiora laughed some more, mindful of making too much noise, and handed MacArthur a boiled egg, which seemed a somewhat inadequate offering considering the topic of the conversation they had just had.

  Chapter Four

  Special Operations - War Office, London.

  The office was expansive and impressive, and was one which was kept meticulously organised. At the end was a huge oak desk behind which sat Vera Atkins. She was a lady somewhere in her 40s whose hair was tied up into a tight and very formal bun, and she wore glasses. Very traditionally dressed, she exuded confidence and authority. She was reviewing files, documents and other paperwork when there was a knock at the door. “Yes?”

  Her younger secretary, Louise Sherington entered, carrying a tea tray and two china cups. She placed down the tray on her boss’s desk, and said, in her East End London accent, “Miss Atkins, there is a Major Turnball here to see you, what would you like me to do?” Atkins instructed her to show the major in, and with a nod of understanding, she turned and left the office.

  Just a few moments later, Major Mark Turnball entered. He was in uniform, a thick-set dark haired man with an immaculately groomed moustache which only a major could wear properly. He stood to attention and saluted Atkins. “Good day, Ma’am,” he greeted her formally.

  Atkins acknowledged and welcomed the major to her office, gesturing for him to take
a seat in front of her desk. She too sat down. Both she and the major sat with their backs ramrod straight; he because of his years of military service, she because of who she was.

  Atkins opened the meeting. “Thank you for meeting with me, Major. I have requested you personally because I am aware of your experience and background with the Special Air Service and Special Operations Executive as well as the various Resistance groups fighting for their country and freedom in France.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Atkins stirred her tea, and, over the rims of her glasses, looked at Major Turnball seriously. “Then, you will be aware of how serious the situation is in Bordeaux, Major?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “You were scheduled for a rescue operation in the area next week, were you not?” enquired Atkins, knowing the answer already.

  “Yes, Ma’am. May I as enquire as to why you are asking me the question in the past tense, has the operation been cancelled?”

  “No, Major. The rescue operation will still go ahead as planned. There is, however, just one more thing that I need to ask of you.”

  “Anything, Ma’am.”

  Atkins slid a manila folder over to the major. “The Gestapo are shooting the escaped prisoners, as well as anyone they suspect of helping them in any shape or form, Major. Our intelligence tells us that our man did not get out of the camp with the others.”

  “He’s still inside, then?” asked the major with a grim look of shock and surprise.

  “That would appear to be the case, yes,” confirmed Atkins. “The Gestapo are searching the town for the ones who did make it out, which is making life extremely difficult for one of my operatives.”

  Atkins took another sip of her tea as the major opened the file which she had placed in front of him moments earlier. Inside was a photo of one Danielle LeClair and one typed page containing information on her background.