In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  Events proceeded apace, but they couldn’t move fast enough for Alex, who felt penned up at Champdemergue where there was little to do besides follow reports of action elsewhere, attend to the dull daily requirements of life in a Resistance camp, and train incessantly. The only part he liked was target practice.

  Rightly or wrongly Alex couldn’t wait for another chance to use his rifle against the enemy, having gotten a taste of fighting at La Rivière. He couldn’t say for sure whether any of his shots had struck any German but he was ready for the next fight. Let André keep the remnants of his pacifism to himself.

  Enormous rapid progress was made in the Normandy campaign, but Alex felt so stagnant he almost wished he were back at Le Tronc. At least there he could do something. The only advantage to camp life was ongoing reports from elsewhere in France due to the resumption of shortwave radio use. The Resistance no longer felt so threatened by local Fascist forces. No more need for invisible ink.

  More than three hundred thousand Allied troops on French soil had linked up across the established beachheads, creating a fifty-mile-wide front secure enough to allow separate visits by Britain’s King George VI and General Charles de Gaulle. Emboldened by what he saw, the Free French leader began taking steps to restore civilian government in the retaken territory. The RAF launched raids from French airfields for the first time since 1940.

  But the retreating German military still did terrible things. Some six hundred fifty inhabitants of the small village of Oradour-sur-Glane near Limoges had been ruthlessly killed. All had been locked inside a church and burned to death. The few who somehow managed to escape were gunned down mercilessly.

  Meanwhile, more young men poured into the Maquis camps emboldened by Allied advances and Nazi panic. Hoping to help complete the defeat of their oppressors, the new recruits were more anxious for battle than the elders recently rotated into Vimbouches and Champdemergue from other locations, including men who had seen fighting in the Spanish Civil War and on the Eastern Front in the early days of this World War. Their tales of wounding, maiming, and death could not deter youthful enthusiasts from wishing to enter the fray.

  Despite his years, Alex felt more like the would-be warriors than the experienced and dismayed. And it seemed they might soon get their wish. The mayor of La Rivière had quickly reestablished Resistance operations in a rebuilt outpost and had just broadcast to his scattered underground forces, “They’re pulling some units out of Nîmes.”

  “You think they’ll come through here?” young Maquisards asked each other.

  “Let’s set up barricades on all the roads leading north.”

  “We’ve already blown up all the bridges.”

  “And we’ve wrecked trains in their tunnels, removed and hidden the rails.”

  “I understand the Germans lost a full convoy carrying away their guns and tanks.”

  Strolling by and overhearing the young ones speak boastfully of what they would do in firefights they hoped and prayed for, the chief told them, “Easy, men. The leadership makes those decisions. That’s why we’ve been so effective.”

  One young man piped up, “I hear a lone gunman shot at a German convoy and stopped it for a whole day by himself.”

  “And killed a lot of Nazi scum,” another put in gleefully.

  “When can we conduct another ambush?” a young farmer who had left the fields for a different kind of harvest wanted to know. “I’m busting to do something.”

  “You’ll have your chance,” Roger assured them. “Most Germans near here are heading up the Rhône Valley but a whole group may soon leave Alès for Mende by way of Florac. If so, you won’t have to wait much longer.”

  The young men and Alex were cheered by this news, but when the chief left, André, listening from a short distance away, ambled over.

  “Don’t be so anxious,” he suggested, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I know it may not seem so to you but war is a bad business no matter what.”

  “We need to kill Germans,” the young farmer declared. His friends clapped and cheered.

  “I understand,” André said, worrying his forehead. “But don’t forget they also want to kill you. And I’m not sure you realize how terrible it is to be shot or to watch someone on either side bleed and moan and die. That doesn’t leave you feeling triumphant. It leaves you feeling dead inside.” The youngsters jeered but André persisted. “It may be necessary to fight,” he insisted, feeling the full toll taken by the last four years, “but there is no glory unless you’re the one to survive.”

  Alex and the young men went off to distract themselves and blow off nervous energy with a game of pétanque. Walking by himself, André was surprised and delighted to bump into Max Maurel, who had just arrived.

  “Have you heard the latest?” Max asked, suddenly darkening after warmly greeting his old friend. “About the roundup of Resistance workers in Alès? The Milice turned them over to the Gestapo, who tortured them for information and then shot all fifteen.” André bowed his head and shook it slowly. “They were betrayed by collaborateurs and killed as an example. Their bodies were thrown down a flooded mineshaft at Celas, about a dozen kilometers north of the city.”

  André breathed evenly, his eyes sad and sunken. “It’s cruel. Beastly. Barbaric.”

  “The few who weren’t betrayed know who did it,” Max said heavily. “After our liberty is attained, the responsible parties will be called to account. As will many more.”

  “Good to see you, Max,” Roger said when the young man checked in at his office. “I may have need of you.”

  “Expecting injuries?” Max asked fearfully, never sure of his limited medical knowledge. How he regretted not completing his education and training.

  “Not immediately, no. But there’s an action you can help with.”

  The chief sent for André, with whom Max exchanged a quizzical look.

  “Time for another raid,” Roger explained, closing his office door. “This time for money. We can’t ask the farmers for more food—they’ve already given us as much as they can and more than they should. But we still need to eat—and for that we need cash.”

  “How will we get it?” Max asked.

  “We’ll take it. From the government.”

  André and Alex looked at one another again, more puzzled than before.

  “You know the office of the mining company at La Grand-Combe?” Roger asked.

  Max was shocked. “Where they threw the bodies?”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the last place they’ll expect us now, even though other raids have been staged there for shoes, clothes, gasoline, even food from the storage sheds. But this time…The government owns the mine. So we won’t be stealing from a person though it will be a bit like picking Pétain’s pocket.” Roger snorted derisively. “The central office of La Compagnie des Mines de La Grand-Combe handles the payroll for five thousand miners. They pay out twice a month. ‘Friends’ have told us that the sum for the first two weeks of June—which is considerable—will be brought in today. Once we grab it this section of the Maquis should be able to subsist on the proceeds until our liberation.”

  “Those coal mine warehouses are heavily guarded,” Max objected. “We’d have to go in with guns, maybe take and even kill hostages. Why would you want André or me for this mission?”

  Roger turned to André. “You’re the cover. Since you don’t look like the typical Maquisard your very presence will help deflect suspicion.” Then he addressed Max. “You know the area and the mine office. You’re intelligent and quick. I don’t want any shooting, particularly since we’re going in in broad daylight—and I know you won’t be in a hurry to pull the trigger.”

  “Those miners are going to be awfully upset when they don’t get paid,” Max pointed out.

  “Their distress is just a side benefit.” The chief grinned wickedly. “We all know who they really work for. They’re no innocents. Many are full-fledged collaborators, so be glad for
this chance to stick it to them.”

  “Are you going with us?” André asked.

  “This time Émile’s in charge. He’ll give you all the details tomorrow.”

  “Chief,” André said politely. “Could Alex come with us? He gets upset when he’s left out.”

  Kindly but unshakably Roger said, “No. Frankly this scheme is a bit dangerous and except in cases like the attack on La Rivière when I absolutely need every available hand, I won’t run the risk of losing both the Sauverin family’s men at once.”

  This time the resistants traveled as a small brigade in three light trucks and two cars. Things really had changed since the invasion of Normandy. There was little chance of being stopped along the way what with the Vichy government on the verge of collapse and the Milice and the Gestapo rarely moving about anymore without a reason.

  As the Maquis headed south, several trucks showed up on the road ahead of them—old cranky vehicles sputtering and fuming…just farmers bringing produce to market. When the towers of the mine works finally appeared, Max led the way, turning off the main road, rounding a small hill, heading for the main office. The trucks stayed behind to block the entrance.

  Soon Émile, André, and Max were inside, anxiously watching over several clerks. Three other resistants were in the back room with another clerk retrieving the money.

  The clerks out front seemed calmer than the Maquisards. They sat quietly at their desks as if being robbed were an everyday occurrence and if they just waited patiently this little drama would end quickly and well.

  Only the men in the trucks were armed. The chief’s prohibition against weapons in the office had seemed a sensible precaution back at the camp but Émile realized now that he and the others had no way to defend themselves if anything untoward happened except with their fists. That’s why he kept his hands in his pants: if someone with evil intent came in suddenly he would point his concealed index fingers pretending he had a pistol in each pocket.

  After what seemed an eternity but was only three minutes, the back-room door swung open with a bang. The mild-mannered clerk came out first followed by Émile’s deputies.

  “Here,” the last man called to Émile jovially, holding up a large cloth sack stuffed to bursting. “Every franc we were told to expect.”

  “Let’s go then,” Émile ordered, annoyed that his deputy had spoken incautiously, thoughtlessly disclosing the fact that the resistants had an informant. “Hurry.”

  “Wait!” the clerk who had been forced into the back room shouted. “That’s the workers’ wages! They need to be paid!”

  Émile sneered, suspecting the clerk was truly concerned only with his own pay packet. “Don’t worry. You’ll all get what’s coming to you soon enough.” Émile motioned his men to get out. When they were gone, he turned back to the clerks. “No funny business now. No running for help. Not that it matters. By the time you find someone we’ll be far away.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” the youngest clerk assured him from behind the farthest neatest desk. The other clerks glowered at him until his face turned red. “What?” he grumbled, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do about this. It’s not our responsibility and it’s not our money either.”

  “You got that right,” Émile said, leaving happily.

  Back in a car with André, Max pressed down on the accelerator, employing greater speed going out than in. Passing a telephone pole neither had noticed before, both were surprised to see wires dangling uselessly to the ground.

  “I guess Émile and his crew cut them to prevent a call to the authorities,” Max surmised.

  “I still don’t understand why we never ran into any guards,” André said.

  “They’re probably all over at the warehouses,” Max speculated. “Too late now.” Departing the grounds of La Compagnie des Mines, André and Max felt relaxed, even elated. When they reached the outskirts of La Grand-Combe, they saw a German troop transport rumbling north. Too bad. A little more time to celebrate the successful heist would have been lovely before being forced to face grim reality again.

  They proceeded with more caution and less speed. Fortunately they didn’t see any further evidence of reinforcements or the various police forces that could have stopped and challenged them.

  The roads were considerably more trafficked than at daybreak, mostly with pedestrians and bicyclists. And why not? The sun was high in the sky. It was the kind of extraordinarily fine day that reminded Max why he loved the Cévennes so. Though much better-traveled André was equally enthusiastic.

  “Any idea where the chief got his information?” André asked after a while. “How could he know how much money there was right down to the franc?”

  Max laughed. “It was one of the clerks.”

  “No!”

  “That’s what the chief told me this morning.”

  A short time later André was perplexed again. “This doesn’t look right,” he said. “Is this the way back to the camp?”

  “No,” Max said, beaming. “We’re going to Le Tronc. For a little break. The chief suggested it as a gesture of thanks for a job well done, assuming we would pull it off. And we did.”

  Yvonne Guin was glad to go inside her farmhouse for lunch, not just because she was hungry but because she was physically exhausted from the heat. Her black dress was not well-suited for work in the fields but all her dresses were black. It might have been better had she put her long hair up in a chignon as intended but she simply hadn’t had time that morning what with Léon yelling at her to hurry hurry hurry—and for what? The weeds would wait. But Yvonne always did her best to keep her husband’s temper in check if only to protect herself from further verbal abuse. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail was the best she could manage.

  Thankfully it was cool and dark in the house. Yvonne had left the shutters closed not out of habit but because Léon had rushed her to get out and get to work. Now she was glad he had been so intemperate.

  But opening one set of shutters to let a little light into the otherwise gloomy interior—what a shock! Where had André and Max come from and what were they doing standing out in the bright sunshine, grinning impishly, especially at a time of day when anyone happening by could see them large as life?

  “Don’t just stand out there dripping in the midday sun,” she admonished, ushering the two men into the kitchen, ranging extra chairs about the round table and setting out milk, cheese, and chestnuts.

  The guests launched into the tale of their daring raid, laughing as if it had been a farce and not a bold, dangerous action. Yvonne laughed along, impressed.

  “Serves them right,” she said, offering her visitors mugs of tea. Then she gave them an earful about the way her religious faith and the Communist ideology she shared with Léon made it possible for her to view their exploit at the mine offices as a justified act of righteous retribution rather than simple thievery.

  In turn André and Max told her how brave they thought she was to take them into her home without the slightest hesitation—wanted men who might be hunted at that very moment by the Milice and the Gestapo. Taking the situation more seriously, they assured her they had stashed their car in the barn and shut the doors. As long as they remained indoors they were unlikely to be much of a threat to the Guins’ security.

  “As if we care,” Yvonne hooted. “We’re every bit as crazy as our Huguenot forebears. They didn’t worry about taking risks for what they believed and neither do we.”

  “Who are we sticking our necks on the chopping block for this time?” Léon growled coming in. Seeing who was there, he smiled crookedly. “Good. Extra hands.”

  “Now Léon,” Yvonne clucked. “These two have done yeoman service for the cause. They need and deserve some rest, so you just let them rest.”

  For once Léon gave his wife no back talk.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  INVASION

  AUGUST 15, 1944

  During the third week of June a Br
itish officer parachuted into the Cévennes. Toward the end of July, the captain, sequestered with Roger Boudon in his office at Champdemergue and waiting for someone the chief had recommended to him, talked about local conditions. The heat was oppressive, 1944 being one of the hottest summers ever in the Lozère. But worse than the heat was the cutback in rations for the adult population. All French citizens between twenty-two and seventy were now restricted to seventeen hundred calories a day, potentially beneficial for the severely overweight but not for the typically wiry inhabitants of the Cévennes.

  The captain described what he knew of the complex operations with which the Allies captured Cherbourg in a week. He spoke about the longer, harder-fought action to take Saint-Lô in Lower Normandy, forcing a German withdrawal toward the Seine. On July seventeenth, German Field Marshal Rommel, riding in a staff car on a country road outside of Livarot, had come under an airborne strafing attack that killed his driver, causing the car to spin out of control and hurl Rommel into a ditch, resulting in head injuries, hospitalization, and a return to Germany for further recuperation. Then an attempt had been made on the Führer’s life at his command post on the Eastern Front.

  Earlier in July, Charles de Gaulle had gone to Washington to talk about the Free French forces’ need for aid. The United States had formally recognized de Gaulle’s London-based administration as the de facto government of France.

  “That’s all well and good,” the chief interrupted, “but what about southern France? When can we hope to see these mythical Americans?”

  The captain smiled knowingly. “I can’t tell you specifically about Champdemergue but another invasion has been scheduled for August fifteenth.”

  A knock on the door made them both jump in their seats and stop talking. Roger relaxed as the door swung open. “This is the young fellow I was telling you about,” he told the captain, bringing Max Maurel to him. “He’s okay.”