by Hilary Green
Several miles to the south, Cyrano, with Christine sitting beside him, drove up to the front of the château of Lentilly. It was typical of its type, with an elegant grey stone façade topped by pointed towers at each end, surrounded by a moat and set in a formal garden, which now showed signs of neglect.
‘M. de Labrier was killed in the fighting before France capitulated,’ Cyrano explained. ‘Madame has never forgiven the Vichy government for giving in and rendering his sacrifice useless. That’s why she is a fervent supporter of the resistance. Come along, I’ll introduce you.’
They found Madame de Labrier in a salon decorated with silk wallpaper and Louis Quinze furniture, but she herself presented a much more down-to-earth image, dressed in rather shabby tweeds and carrying a pair of secateurs.
‘M. Cyrano! We were not expecting you. Forgive my appearance. I was busy pruning the roses. Have you come to give Colette a lesson?’
‘No, Madame. We have come to ask for your assistance.’
Without going into details about Christine’s background, he explained that she had been forced to leave her own clothes behind and was in need of the loan of something more suitable than her current attire. ‘I think Colette is very much the same build as she is,’ he concluded. ‘I wondered if she might be able to help.’
‘Of course!’ was the immediate response. ‘I will call her. I’m sure we can find something that will do very well.’
At her mother’s summons, a slim, dark-haired girl appeared from the garden and Christine was introduced. When the problem was explained to her she caught hold of her hand.
‘You poor thing! It must be horrible to lose everything like that. Come upstairs. I’m sure I’ve got things that will fit you perfectly.’
In her bedroom, she pulled open a wardrobe.
‘I haven’t got anything very up-to-date, I’m afraid. With clothes rationing, it’s impossible to keep up with fashion. But you’re welcome to anything you like.’
‘I don’t need anything fashionable,’ Christine said. ‘I just want to look … well, ordinary. So no one will notice me.’
‘Oh?’ Colette looked puzzled for a moment. Then she said, ‘Of course. You’re with the Maquis. I should have realized when Cyrano brought you here. How brave of you! Well, let’s see what we can find.’
It was obvious that before the war and the advent of clothes rationing, Colette had acquired an extensive wardrobe and she pulled out garment after garment, laying them out on the bed for Christine to examine. It took a little persuasion to make her understand that most of her offerings were too good, too expensive looking, to serve the purpose; but eventually they settled on a simple blue pinafore dress with a white blouse and a grey and green plaid skirt with a dark green blouse. She put on the dress and Colette exclaimed:
‘Oh, it suits you! You look better in it than I ever did. Now, what about shoes? It’s too warm for those boots now.’
Christine’s feet were larger than hers, but a search produced a well-worn pair of sandals that could be adjusted to fit; and Colette insisted on providing her with underclothes and ankle socks as well. Eventually, feeling unusually self-conscious, she made her way downstairs to where Cyrano was waiting with Mme de Labrier. She saw his eyes widen as she appeared.
‘Well, look at you! You look great!’ He took her hand and spun her round, laughing, and she found herself responding with the kind of girlish giggles she would have despised in anyone else.
In the hall on the way out, she had a sudden thought.
‘Madame, do you have a shopping basket I could borrow?’
The basket was quickly forthcoming and with it, a small handbag.
‘You must have something to carry your money in, and your papers and your ration card,’ Madame pointed out.
Christine transferred the items from the pockets of her dungarees and, on reflection, left her penknife and the other bits and pieces she had carried with her since she left home where they were. They hardly fitted with the new image she wanted to present, and there was always the possibility of being searched.
Back in the car, Cyrano said, ‘Do you have any money? If you are going to go shopping you will need some.’
‘Not much,’ she confessed, and he reached into a pocket and handed her ten francs.
As they approached the outskirts of Montsauche, they were suddenly confronted by a German road block.
Cyrano said quickly, ‘You have your papers, don’t you? If they ask why you are here, you are visiting Mme de Labrier. Make out she’s a relative of some kind.’
A bored soldier took their identity cards and glanced from the photographs on them to their faces.
‘Where have you come from?’ he enquired in heavily accented French.
‘From the château of Lantilly.’
‘What was your business there?’
‘I am a music teacher. I was giving a piano lesson to the daughter of Mme de Labrier, the châtelaine.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I am going to Duns-les-Places to see another of my pupils. Mademoiselle here is going shopping in Montsauche, so I offered her a lift.’
The soldier transferred his attention to Christine.
‘You don’t come from these parts. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m visiting Mme de Labrier. She is my godmother.’
He handed back their documents without comment and waved them on. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then she said, ‘Well, that seemed to work OK.’
‘Yes,’ Cyrano agreed, ‘but it tells us something. The men of the Maquis can’t drive around the area with impunity any longer. They will either need a very good cover story or someone will have to scout ahead to check for road blocks.’
He dropped her at the edge of the town, saying, ‘I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour. Try not to be late.’
Christine took her shopping basket and strolled as casually as she could manage down the main street of the old town. The swastika flew over the Town Hall and German soldiers were everywhere. Sentries stood on guard outside the entrance and an armoured car was parked opposite. Other soldiers, off duty, were sitting at the pavement cafés or strolling through the streets. She joined the queue outside the butcher’s shop, trying to eavesdrop on the conversations of the other women waiting. There were plenty of grumbles about the presence of the Germans, but no concrete information.
When she reached the head of the queue, she bought the small piece of boudin noir to which her ration card entitled her, and said quietly, ‘Xavier sends his greetings.’
She saw his expression change and he glanced quickly around the shop.
‘Give my regards to Xavier and tell him it is not convenient for him to visit at this time.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ she promised and turned away, feeling she had learned nothing she did not already know.
At a café round the corner, she ordered a lemonade and when the proprietor served her she repeated the mantra she had been given. ‘Xavier sends his greetings.’
This time the reaction was more helpful.
‘You come from Xavier?’
‘Yes. He has sent me to find out what is going on.’
‘We’re overrun with Boche, that’s what.’
‘I can see that. Do you have any idea why they are here?’
‘They are looking for the Maquis. Already they have interrogated the mayor and all the members of the council. They are threatening reprisals if the Maquis commit any more acts of what they call terrorism.’
‘Will anyone tell them what they want to know?’
‘Never.’ He raised his eyebrows and his hands in a gesture of innocent puzzlement. ‘Maquis? What Maquis? We know nothing about any Maquis.’
‘Have they said how long they are staying?’
‘Who knows? Maybe they will decide they’ve hit a dead end and move on. But for God’s sake tell Xavier to keep his head down for a bit. We don’t need him making the buggers angry.’
‘One more thing. Have you seen any radio detector vans about? They would have big aerials on top.’
The man shrugged. ‘Never seen anything like that around here.’
She finished her drink and paid, and set off to explore the rest of the town. On a street corner, two German soldiers were lounging against the wall, smoking. As she approached, two young women attempted to pass them but with one coordinated movement they blocked the pavement. Christine heard them saying something. She could not tell what it was but the reaction of the two women gave her a pretty good clue. They both ducked their heads, stepped aside and scurried off down the road. As she drew nearer, the men performed the same manoeuvre and one, the older of the two, said, in execrable French:
‘Bonjour, mam’selle. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?’ and gave vent to a bray of laughter, like a schoolboy passing on a dirty joke. Christine guessed it was probably the only French phrase he knew.
Instead of side-stepping and ignoring him, she gave him a level stare and said, ‘Give me one good reason why I should want to sleep with a brute like you.’
He gawped at her and it was obvious that he had not understood. Not so his companion, who addressed her in good French.
‘Please excuse my friend, Mademoiselle. He has no manners. But we are not all brutes. Some of us are actually quite human, and we long for a bit of feminine company. Would there be any point in my asking if I can buy you a drink?’
Her first reaction was to say that she would never dream of fraternising with the enemy, but she looked at his face and something made her pause. He was very young, younger than Luke probably, and something in his eyes told her that he was lonely and probably frightened. Besides which, it occurred to her that this might be useful.
‘Not today,’ she said. ‘But I have the afternoon off on Saturday. I might be able to meet you then. If you’re still here, that is.’
His lips parted in surprise. He looked like a child who has been given an unexpected present.
‘Oh, we’ll be here, no doubt about that. Next Saturday? That would be wonderful! Oh, my name is Franz, by the way.’
‘I can’t promise,’ she hedged. ‘But you can wait for me here next Saturday, if you like.’
Across the street, two older women glared at her and one of them hissed ‘Whore!’
Christine ignored them.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, and the two men stepped aside without demur.
‘Till Saturday!’ the one called Franz called after her. She hurried on without looking back. Her mind was whirling. Did she really intend to meet him? Was it even possible? And what purpose would it serve? But at least she had one piece of information: the Germans would be in Montsauche at least until the end of the week.
The afternoon was warm, and normally it would have been pleasant to lounge in the shade, but none of them felt able to rest. Gregoire got the explosives out of the boot and carefully made up a series of charges. Then they moved the cars to a position closer to their objective. From that point, it was necessary to proceed on foot. As the sun went down, they ate the provisions they had brought with them and Gregoire distributed the equipment among the men.
‘What do you want me to take?’ Luke asked.
‘Nothing,’ was the reply. ‘Your job is to stay here and guard the vehicles. We don’t want to get back and find someone has gone off with them.’
‘No! Let me come with you. Please! Can’t someone else stay on guard?’
Gregoire looked at him severely. ‘I allowed you to join in on the understanding that you would obey orders without question. Remember? I’ve given you an order. That’s the end of it.’ He paused and went on more gently, ‘Someone has to keep an eye on the cars. This job shouldn’t take much more than an hour, but don’t worry if it turns out to be more like two.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s coming up to ten o’clock. We should be back by midnight at the latest. If we’re not here by dawn, take one of the cars and get back to the Bois de Montsauche and tell Xavier. You can drive, can’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Luke said. He had driven a car belonging to a neighbour a couple of times, but he was by no means sure that he could drive either of the vehicles they had come in – even supposing he could find his way back to the Maquis camp.
‘Right.’ Gregoire picked up his pack. ‘Let’s move. See you later, Luke.’
There was no more to be said. Bitterly disappointed, Luke watched the others move off into the growing darkness. Initially, he could hear the occasional crunch of pebbles underfoot or the rustle of fallen leaves, but soon those sounds faded and he was completely alone. He moved a short distance away from the cars and found a dip in the ground screened by bracken from which he could look down onto the pale ribbon of road. There was no sign of movement, but with the curfew in place that was to be expected.
Time passed with frustrating slowness and he found himself checking his watch every ten minutes. Now that his ears were attuned to the night-time sounds of the forest, he could hear faint rustles and snufflings; an owl hooted somewhere nearby and made him jump and then, even more disturbing though further off, came the blood-chilling scream of a vixen on heat. Then silence fell again.
Luke was getting chilled and cramped, and his eyes were beginning to feel heavy. He shifted his position. The last thing he wanted was for Gregoire to get back and find him asleep at his post. He looked at his watch again. Five minutes to eleven. The others should be back soon.
Suddenly all drowsiness was banished and he literally felt the muscles behind his ears twitch. Far away, down on the road, he could hear an engine. He craned forward. Round a bend away to his right, an open car appeared, heading towards Voutenay: the area where Gregoire and the others were operating. Even in the moonlight, there was no mistaking who the vehicle belonged to. He could see the light reflecting faintly off the helmets of four German soldiers, and the outline of a gun of some sort.
For a moment, Luke’s head spun. If the car continued on its way, it might catch Gregoire and his men in the act of laying the explosives. They would hear it coming, of course, but would they be able to conceal themselves and their equipment in time? Could he do something to stop it? He raised his rifle and drew back the bolt. He could perhaps take out one or two of the enemy, if he was lucky, but the others would come after him and he was not sure he could hold them off for long. And they would summon reinforcements; dogs, too, probably.
Then he had an inspiration. He rested the rifle on the rim of the bank and took careful aim. He remembered what he had learned when his father had taken him pigeon shooting before the war. That was with a shotgun, of course, but the principal of shooting a moving object was the same. Estimate speed and distance and fire a little ahead of the target. He aimed, held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
He saw the car swerve and skid to a standstill, its front nearside tyre flattened, and let out a silent whoop of triumph. The four men jumped out and he could hear them swearing, their voices carrying clearly on the night air, as they examined the damage. None of them looked in his direction. As he had hoped, the sound of the bursting tyre had masked the crack of the rifle. Then, somewhat belatedly, two of them took up defensive positions with their Schmeisser automatics at the ready, while the other two changed the wheel.
Luke looked at his watch again. 11.15pm. Gregoire and his men must have finished their work by now surely, and be on their way back. The Germans were working very efficiently. It would not take them long to get the new wheel on. What should he do if they were ready to move off and Gregoire was still not back? If he tried another shot, they would undoubtedly return fire and his rifle was no match for their automatic weapons.
The wheel was on, but to Luke’s relief, the Germans leant against the bonnet and lit up cigarettes, obviously convinced that they were in no danger. He was concentrating so fiercely on them that he did not hear the noise of his companions returning until Gregoire dropped into the hollow beside him. He swung round in a panic, b
ringing his rifle to bear at short range, but Gregoire pushed the barrel aside.
‘Easy! It’s only me. Fine sentry you are! I could have made off with one of the cars by now.’
‘I was watching them!’ Luke explained defensively. ‘I was afraid they were going to get started again and catch you in the act.’
‘They might well have done,’ Gregoire agreed. ‘What stopped them? A puncture? That was a bit of luck.’
Luke removed his rifle from the other man’s grasp and directed it towards the Germans on the road. ‘It wasn’t a puncture.’
‘What?’ Gregoire leaned closer and stared into his face. ‘Are you telling me you shot the tyre out on a moving vehicle?’
‘It was a fluke,’ Luke mumbled, disconcerted by the intense examination.
‘A fluke?’ Gregoire sat back with a low chuckle and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It was bloody good shooting, that’s what it was! Forget what I said just now. You’ve done a good job.’ He squirmed back out of the hollow. ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’
‘Did you get the explosives in place?’ Luke asked.
Gregoire nodded. ‘They’re on five-hour time pencils, so they should go off,’ he consulted his watch, ‘just before dawn.’
‘Oh,’ Luke said. ‘I was hoping they might go up just as the Germans were going through.’
‘No, we don’t want that. If the ambush is going to work, the obstruction has to come as a surprise. Hopefully, our Jerry friends will be safely in their barracks and none the wiser when the balloon goes up.’ He swung himself into the driving seat of the lead car and turned over his shoulder to the two men in the rear seat. ‘Meet our new sharp-shooter. I bet neither of you could hit a target the size and speed of an elephant, let alone a single tyre on a moving vehicle.’
As they drove back along the forest tracks, Luke had the satisfaction of hearing his feat described to an appreciative audience, with the knowledge that it would be all round the camp by morning. He was just beginning to doze off when the car came to a halt.
