by David Gilman
‘How many Germans in this area?’ said Mitchell. ‘I saw some in Saint-Audière.’
‘Maybe another twenty or so at La Basson. Wehrmacht conscripts mostly.’
‘There are SS out there as well,’ said Mitchell, looking at the German prisoners, seeing how much of a threat they might pose. The two wounded men were only slightly injured and were supported by a comrade either side. That left six able-bodied men who could rush them. Mitchell considered them – two might be foolhardy and dangerous enough: a young lieutenant; and a sergeant who looked to be the most professional of them all – an older man who had probably fought on the front line at some stage. They had been part of the patrol that had gone down the line.
‘You know somewhere we can hide for a few days?’ Mitchell asked Chaval.
‘Yeah. Anyone comes looking they won’t find us.’ He nodded towards the nervous prisoners. ‘And them?’
‘How far for them to walk anywhere?’
‘Fifteen kilometres one way to Saint-Audière, twenty-odd to La Basson the other.’
Mitchell looked at the maquisards. ‘Anyone search them?’
It was obvious no one had yet got round to stripping the Germans of the yokes that held their bayonet scabbards and ammunition pouches and the lieutenant still wore his belt and holster.
‘Laforge, Drossier do it,’ said Mitchell. He turned to Chaval. ‘All right. Get going. Check the way ahead is clear; we’ll follow. Take Bucard.’
‘You can manage this?’ asked Chaval.
‘I’ll send them on their way without boots and trousers. That’ll slow them down.’
‘All right. We will go no further than a kilometre ahead, OK?’
Mitchell nodded and Chaval and Bucard turned away. Mitchell covered the surrendered Germans as Laforge and Drossier did a quick body search, instructing the Germans to drop their equipment yokes and for the lieutenant to unbuckle his sidearm.
‘Take your boots off. Your boots,’ said Mitchell to the uncomprehending prisoners. He pointed downward with the Sten gun and they quickly understood and began pulling off their boots. Mitchell glanced back to see the direction Chaval and Bucard had taken. In that moment the sergeant looked at his officer, who nodded. Laforge and Drossier were talking like two men out on a fishing trip, carelessly not watching their prisoners as they bent and gathered weapons. Arms full, their own weapons slung on their shoulder, they walked back towards Mitchell. No one saw where it came from but the sergeant suddenly had a knife in his hand and as Mitchell turned his attention back to the men, the sergeant ran at him, blocking the lieutenant from his view. It was a sudden and frightening silent attack. As the sergeant lunged at Mitchell the officer bent to retrieve his fallen sidearm.
Mitchell spun around. ‘Look out!’
Blind panic and fear swept over the two maquisards, a stumbling confusion that flashed by in seconds. Drossier and Laforge fumbled for their weapons, throwing themselves aside as Mitchell raised the Sten gun. Sergeant Major Laughlin’s training kicked in. Mitchell had field stripped the Sten a hundred times. Blindfolded. Found every push/pull spring. Had been warned time and again that the Sten could be an unreliable weapon, as unreliable as Mitchell’s desire to kill. It could misfire. Time and again. Jam. Thirty-two bullets snuggled each other in the magazine, side by side. Dirt could clog it. The spring in the magazine could be damaged. But this weapon did not jam. Time and again he had been drilled. He pressed the selector button to automatic, and as his finger squeezed the trigger gunfire shattered the air. His hands vibrated with the staccato energy that tore through the barrel. Rate of fire: 550 rounds a minute. Time and again Germans fell. He fired – and kept firing. Something shut down inside of him as the blurred images pirouetted in front of him. Bullets tore into the sergeant’s chest; another caught his face and his skull shattered. As he fell the lieutenant was suddenly exposed. He was levelling his pistol. In time-stopping moments the soldiers around him fell. Some were standing rooted in shock as Mitchell’s fire caught them. Some were shot in the back as they turned to run, others where they stood. Mown down around the lieutenant who somehow was not hit. He fired twice, one of his shots wounding Drossier. No sooner had he done so than Mitchell’s sustained fire tore into him. He arched, legs buckling, arms thrown wide as he crashed to the ground. A part of Mitchell’s brain calculated the rate of fire and the time it took to kill the ten men. A fraction under four seconds.
Chaval and Bucard had turned and sprinted back at the first shots, stunned to see the last few men going down. The position of the bodies showed them what had happened.
‘Christ. He executed them,’ muttered Chaval.
Neither Maillé, Laforge or Drossier had responded quickly enough; they looked dazed and then Drossier sank to his knees gripping the top of his bloodied shoulder. Maillé, who had been disarmed by Mitchell, had cowered, hands over his head. Mitchell stood stock-still in shock, the Sten still smoking in his hands. The weapon had fallen silent, the thirty-two rounds in the magazine fully used.
For what seemed a long time no one moved, no one spoke. The Germans were all dead, sprawled across the clearing. It was eerily silent.
Chaval reached Mitchell as Bucard went forward and picked up the fallen knife. ‘Pascal?’ he said gently, and then again: ‘Pascal?’
‘I hear you,’ said Mitchell, finally coming back to himself.
‘You all right?’ said the poacher.
Mitchell nodded as Bucard tucked the sergeant’s knife into his belt.
‘Drossier?’ said Mitchell. His ears were still ringing, his voice barely a whisper.
‘A flesh wound,’ Laforge told him.
The men looked at Mitchell.
‘What the fuck do we do now?’ said Drossier.
Maillé picked up the officer’s small Walther automatic and gave the wounded Drossier a gentle kick. ‘Stupid bastard. You didn’t search them properly.’
‘Pascal?’ said Bucard repeating Chaval’s question. ‘What do we do?’
Mitchell gazed at the slaughter and then something kicked in and whatever it was that had shut him down released him. He collected his thoughts.
‘Bury them,’ said Mitchell.
‘Bury them? Bury them?’ Maillé snorted. ‘We don’t have time for that! And with what? Our bare hands?’
‘Down the track,’ said Mitchell. ‘We take them down to the sheds.’
‘We can’t carry all these men, Pascal,’ said Bucard reasonably.
‘I know. Down at the shed, there’s a …’ he struggled to find the word he wanted, ‘A… handcar,’ he said in English, then remembered. ‘Voiture de chemin de fer.’
‘And then?’ said Laforge.
‘Just do as I say,’ said Mitchell.
*
Hours later Waffen SS-Sturmbannführer Ahren Brünner pulled the goggles off his dirt-streaked face and stepped down from his open-top vehicle. He examined the area around the torn rail track – there was no other sign of damage. Behind him his motorized company stayed alert; some scanned the hills and trees in case of ambush. Men and vehicles were spread out tactically as his men searched the area. He took a good look around but the damage seemed minimal.
‘Major?’ one of his men called.
He turned towards the soldier, who pointed to a group of his men halfway down the embankment in the trees where they had pulled aside the cut branches that had camouflaged the overturned handcar.
‘There’s a lot of blood on the handcar, sir. Looks as though the men were killed and taken somewhere.’
‘There’s no sign of fighting here,’ said the major. ‘No bullet holes, no signs of explosions other than one section of track.’ He walked further along the rail yard. ‘No, it’s the other way around. They were killed elsewhere and brought here.’ His eyes scanned the area until they fell on the gravel hopper, its lid open, the hopper empty.
‘Here!’ the major commanded. ‘Dig here.’
The men nearest to him began scraping away the piles of gravel
with their rifle butts; others grabbed shovels from their vehicles. As the gravel in the mound tumbled a dirt-laden hand flopped out.
17
Mitchell and the others walked steadily behind Chaval, who led the way across the rough animal tracks that he knew so well. The stress of their action at the railway shed and the subsequent killing of the German patrol began to slowly sap their strength. Mitchell was hobbling but he was determined not to be the one to call a halt. It was the poacher who signalled them to rest in a sheltered enclave of ferns and boulders.
‘We stay here. Move on tomorrow.’
Mitchell had no desire to talk to the men and found himself a comfortable patch a few metres away. He unlaced his boots and peeled away the blood-encrusted sock. The cool air bathing his sore feet was a welcome relief. The men sat drinking and muttering quietly among themselves. Drossier’s wound was only superficial and Laforge passed around a few cuts of meat, cheese and stale bread. The warmth and comfort offered by a fire would have to be forgone. Mitchell ran through the events in his mind. How had he come to kill so many men? It was as if someone else had kept their finger on the trigger. The images of the men’s bodies being struck and torn were still vivid; they still nauseated him. Bucard sidled up and offered him a half-bottle of some liquid obscured by its dark green glass.
‘It helps,’ said Bucard. When Mitchell didn’t accept, he pushed it into his chest. ‘When I first went into action I was too scared to even throw up but after my first killings... it got easier... with practice.’
Mitchell took a sip and felt the brandy burn his throat and then settle its warmth into his knotted stomach. Bucard nodded.
‘Good. Don’t let the others see what you’re feeling. Maillé was right... Some of us did run at Lille... but not all of us.’
He tugged out a dry pair of socks from his knapsack and took the sweat rag from his neck. ‘Rinse your feet, wipe them dry with this and wear clean socks. A soldier has to look after his feet. Didn’t they teach you anything in basic training?’
Mitchell gratefully accepted the gifts and the advice. ‘I never got that far,’ he said.
Bucard smiled. ‘You’ll learn quickly enough. You’re not doing too badly.’ He made his way back to the other men as Mitchell attended to his feet. When he had done as much as he could and strapped his boots back on he stood and slung the Sten over a shoulder. The men looked up at him.
‘I’m going back to Saint-Just. Jean Bernard has arranged for me to go north.’ He stood a moment longer and, with a final nod in farewell, started walking.
‘North? What about us?’ said Laforge.
Mitchell stopped. He had been briefed never to ask favours of men he was to lead in the field. An invitation always worked better than a direct order. ‘If you want to come with me then you’re welcome. If not, they’ll send someone else,’ he said. As he turned his back the others clambered to their feet.
‘Screw that, Pascal. We stick with you,’ said Drossier.
There was a murmur of assent from the others. Bucard’s grin had ‘told you so’ written all over his face.
‘As long as you’ll have us,’ said Chaval.
Mitchell looked at the sorry-looking bunch. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said and walked away.
*
At Saint-Just Gendarme Marin and Gustave stepped into the street from the bar at the sound of rumbling vehicles in the distance. They looked up the street where the trucks had spread out. Marin stared across the open countryside. The SS were experts at boxing in a village and securing every escape route. A line of soldiers was advancing.
‘What the hell are the SS doing down here?’ said Gustave.
Somewhere in the distance the shrill repeated blasts of a whistle brought the SS troopers down from their trucks and they quickly began taking over the street.
Marin swallowed nausea that stung the back of his throat as he looked up at Juliet peering out the window of her upstairs bedroom. Fear etched her face. She held Marin’s gaze and saw the look of resignation cross his features. He shook his head. And when screams from the top of the village were followed by the sharp crack of rifle shots she turned and yelled for her daughter.
Terrified, Gustave ran back inside his bar. Marin stayed where he was and fatalistically reached for his sidearm.
18
Chaval led them across the hills. Drossier slowed their pace; his injury still hurt like hell and the uneven terrain jolted the wound. Mitchell let the soreness of his blistered feet chastise him like a flagellant monk’s penance. The pain was there to be endured.
As they crested a rise Chaval and Mitchell stopped dead in their tracks. The others quickly caught up.
‘Mother of Christ,’ said Chaval as they gazed at the pall of smoke that hung in the distance.
They stumbled, lungs heaving, into the ruins. Laforge sank to his knees; Drossier retched. Bucard and Chaval took a few more steps into the carnage that had once been Saint-Just.
The village was destroyed. A blanket of death covered it like the thick black smoke still swirling into the sky. A dead horse lay in its traces. Personal possessions from the houses had been thrown out on to the street – including Simone’s piano, smashed and on its side. Jean Bernard’s car still smouldered, its paint stripped to bare metal. Bodies of men, women and children lay where they had fallen – shot at random as they tried to escape. Dogs too. Killed for sport. Or were they simply victims of the sport of shooting the villagers? Eight men hung from the village trees, among them Marin and the bar owner, Gustave.
‘Juliet! Simone!’ Mitchell called.
There was no response. He and Chaval walked among the dead looking for the brave woman and her daughter. After identifying several of the corpses they stopped, gripped by despair. Mitchell looked at the hanged men.
‘Cut them down!’ he said, his voice hoarse from smoke and grief. Turning his back on the maquisards’ efforts to lower the men Mitchell stumbled into the remains of the burnt shell of what had been Juliet Bonnier’s house. Charred timbers glowed and acrid smoke stung his eyes. Here and there items had partially escaped the blaze. A half-burnt child’s doll. A dress hanging forlornly from the upstairs room whose floor had caved in and where the wardrobe now balanced crazily half in space half on the broken floor. Simone’s bicycle, a twisted skeleton. Her school notebook with its singed pages turned by an invisible hand. The same breeze wafted the stench of death in from the street.
Something moved on the periphery of his vision. He shifted his weight quickly; broken masonry barked his shin. A brick-built coal bunker’s door swung open and a smoke-blackened and exhausted Juliet, Simone and Jean Bernard emerged. At first they didn’t see him, their gaze held by the horror of the scene. Mitchell stumbled towards them, relief forcing another cry from his parched throat. They turned and Simone ran the few paces and wrapped her arms around him. He embraced her, pushing his face into her blackened hair.
‘Thank God,’ he whispered.
The child kept her face buried in the rough comfort of his jacket. ‘Pascal... Pascal... they didn’t stop shooting.’
‘All right, all right,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. He raised his eyes to look at Juliet. She was holding it together – just – nodding that she was all right, but tears had already cut through the dirt on her face. Jean Bernard went among the corpses in the forlorn hope that someone might still be alive.
‘They’re all dead,’ Maillé called. ‘Don’t waste your time.’
Jean Bernard ignored him.
‘Doctor, you can’t help them,’ the mechanic called again.
Jean Bernard swung around, tears streaming down his face. ‘Shut up! Leave me alone!’
Maillé looked aggrieved, then shrugged and turned his attention back to helping Chaval lower one of the hanged men.
‘What do we do now?’ Juliet asked Mitchell.
*
They salvaged what supplies they could find. The indifferent wind had picked up, already pushing at their backs, ur
ging them to leave the desolation.
‘This is your fault, Pascal. They won’t stop hunting us now,’ said Maillé, throwing down a blanket roll and a haversack. He pointed at Juliet. ‘She said she saw the bodies of the men you shot. In the back of a truck, covered in dust. They dug them out, for Christ’s sake, and then they came here to find you.’
Chaval finished packing food supplies. ‘Shut up. He had a reason to kill; you’d have done it in cold blood. And he saved your life, you stupid bastard.’
Mitchell ignored the belligerent Maillé as he looked through the clothing that Juliet had salvaged for Simone. ‘Take only what you can carry. These are fine. This, and this, leave here. Keep the warm jacket – you’ll need it.’
‘I don’t want any more to do with this,’ said Maillé. ‘Let’s hoard what we can. We bury the dead. The SS won’t come back again. Why risk moving on?’
Mitchell checked his own knapsack and tucked the automatic into his waistband. ‘You give up now and it means they died for nothing.’
‘It means the SS won!’ Maillé spat.
‘You give up now it means they died for nothing!’ he said again, punching the lesson home. ‘You survive. You take the fight to them. You do it for whatever reason you want. You decide. You take responsibility for what you do! Like the rest of us.’
Maillé’s arm swept across the village. ‘They had no choice!’
Mitchell squared up to him. ‘What? You thought fighting them was some kind of game? Well, take a good look around! This is what it’s about! You thought the SS wouldn’t come here? They were always going to come!’
‘Sooner or later, this would have happened,’ said Juliet. ‘We knew the risks from the beginning.’
‘Because they believe they’re right,’ said Mitchell. ‘Whatever they do they believe they’re right!’ He threw one of the captured Schmeissers into Maillé’s chest and glared at the uncertain survivors. ‘You want to stay with the dead, that’s up to you. All of you. I came here to do a job – with or without you.’
