The Hazards of War

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Almost there. If there was anything that Cartwright could latch on to that would get him through another bout of wracking convulsions, perhaps it was the knowledge that they were very nearly at the edge of freedom.

  “Stefan. Stefan…”

  Summoning up all the strength he had left, Cartwright forced his upper body off of the ground and into Gabrielle’s waiting arms. She squatted near his back and hauled him vertically up until he was standing. The pain in Cartwright’s leg was like shooting knives slicing flesh off of the bone and he very nearly toppled over into the wine barrels in front of him. Gabrielle’s arms remained tightly around him, but the Englishman knew instantly that his legs would bear no weight and that he would crumple back to the ground.

  Yet he didn’t fall. Gabrielle held him firmly and pushed him forward until he was within arm’s reach of the wine barrels, at which point he could stretch out his arms and try walking his hands along the wood and maybe help with their progress. Slowly they moved toward the end of the barrel wall. There was definitely more light here, Cartwright was sure of it. Hope began to resurge and gave him the strength to fight the pain down to where it could be tolerated. They were getting closer to the edge of the wall. If they could just keep this going a little while longer, Cartwright dared to think they might have a chance.

  The brightness dimmed suddenly. Cartwright turned his head to see the dark shape of an SS officer standing not five feet away staring back. He had a pistol pointed at them.

  31

  Cartwright froze.

  They were dead. The only thing that he could think of to do in his injured condition was to not make any sudden moves that might provoke a shot a few milliseconds earlier than when it would come anyway. He gritted his teeth and waited for the bullet.

  Gabrielle tugged one more time on his arm before noticing the enforced stillness. Desperate, she turned to her right and saw the SS man for the first time. Cartwright felt her terror through her hands as she jumped a half step away from the German before freezing herself.

  And yet, the shot did not come.

  The German had a wide stance, with his right arm extending straight from his body so that his pistol was well aimed. He clearly looked as if he had jumped around the corner with the intent of killing the person he found on the other side. But the man’s savage expression changed to one of surprise, then chagrin. Were they to become prisoners again? Or was the German dreaming up elaborate schemes of torture to punish one who dared escape from their captivity?

  “Wieder kein Glück, meine Freunde,” the German muttered.

  Cartwright recognized him now. He was the deeply tanned soldier who had taunted him during the previous night. Or was it that morning? The soldier had the same smirk as when they had been in the wine cellar.

  Without warning and still keeping his pistol aimed at the two of them, the German started shouting at the top of his lungs. “Herr Hauptsturmführer! Hier bin ich! Hier können Sie mich finden! Hier, hier!”

  And then he turned and ran.

  “Gabby,” Cartwright said. “Run.”

  She looked back at him with wide eyes. If she understood, she was clearly horrified at the thought.

  “Get out of here. They’re coming. Hurry. Go!”

  He pushed her away and pleaded with his eyes for her to save herself. She stared hard at him. Then, mercifully, she turned and disappeared into the cave.

  “At least one of us will make it,” he muttered.

  He still didn’t understand what had happened with the German. Why had he run away? The “recapture” didn’t make any sense.

  In any event, he had to get ready. It took an eternity to crawl back to the edge of the barrels. Another minute to prop himself up into a sitting position. He didn’t dare check the ammunition in the machine pistol because he knew if he did, with his luck the enemy would pop around the corner as soon as he had the magazine removed. Instead he thumbed off the safety and tried to take aim. If this was where he was going down, he was going to do it with a fight and buy Gabrielle as much time as he could. Maybe the Goons wouldn’t even realize there were two of them.

  He waited as patiently as he could with the lightning bolts of pain in his leg. Time had seemed to slow. Cartwright couldn’t tell if seconds, minutes, or even hours had gone by. His arms started wavering as he held the machine pistol.

  “Halt!”

  The crack of a gunshot sounded loudly behind him, followed by the pop of a double geyser of wine flowing out of the nearby barrel that had received the bullet hole.

  Cartwright froze. He had been flanked.

  It was no use. He barely had the strength to hold his weapon. Turning around and trying to take a shot at a person behind him was ludicrous. Cartwright raised his right hand and the gun tumbled to the earthen floor. Angry footsteps approached and someone grabbed him roughly by the shoulder to spin him around. He looked up and saw the imposing figure of the SS captain towering above him, pistol in hand.

  * * *

  Tiedemann stared incredulously at the Englishman before him. He looked pitiful. With a quick step he walked over to Cartwright and kicked the MP40 away from his reach.

  “Springer,” Tiedemann hissed.

  “Here.”

  “I’ve got the Englishman.”

  A crouching figure slunk out of the shadows with pistol drawn. Knappe and Kohl stood nearby, scanning for more enemy.

  “Did you hear Eppler’s shouting?” Springer said. “It was from right around here.”

  Tiedemann understood. They were being baited. The fugitive Eppler must still be very close.

  “You and Kohl keep going. He’s got to be headed to the barn.”

  “Jawohl.”

  The two men left. With Krauss coming in from the surface, Eppler would be caught between two sides and killed.

  Tiedemann heard nothing but his own breathing, the splash of wine from the wounded barrel, and the panting from the Englishman.

  A few seconds ticked by as he thought of what to do next. Had Eppler freed the Englishman as an unwitting distraction? Possibly, though that meant he still would have had to overpower Gohler. He should just shoot the bastard now and tie off one of the variables. Look at the man, he wasn’t going to survive anyway! Shooting him would be merciful.

  Something told Tiedemann that there was still an important but missing piece to the puzzle, something that he needed to figure out before it as too late—

  A thunderous explosion from above shook the universe around them. Knappe let out a brief scream that was cut off sharply before a series of thuds. A moment later all Tiedemann knew was that the floor had suddenly rushed up to meet him.

  * * *

  Gabrielle coughed, and a cloud of limestone dust rolled into the air in front of her. Her ears were ringing church bells. As she gradually pieced together her senses she realized she was back down in the barrel cave. She looked behind her and the ramp that had led up to the barn was gone.

  Another person rustled in the wreckage of the barrels nearby.

  “Come on, monsieur!”

  Gabrielle crawled back to her feet. Where had she left Stefan?

  She darted recklessly back into the cave. The barrels nearest the ramp had toppled off of their stands and now formed a haphazard array that was practically impassable. Gabrielle had to push off of each of the casks to keep her balance after such a great concussion from above. As she worked her way around to the aisles that were still intact, she heard the person following her close behind.

  “Come on! Quicker!”

  Gabrielle began to jog back to where she thought she had left the Englishman. It took a turn or two to get past more upset barrels. A great number had tumbled from their neat stacks and several had splintered open, bathing the ground in puddles of half-aged Burgundy. A few moments later she saw a crumpled figure on the ground. She instantly broke into a sprint and rushed to the huddled form on the ground.

  “Stefan! Are you okay?”

  The Englishma
n stared at her without comprehension. He started mumbling a foggy question.

  Gabrielle gave him a quick kiss. He was covered in dust. “Le boom,” she said.

  “Le boom?”

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  Understanding slowly dawned on his face. He started to smirk. Then his jaw went slack and he turned his head over his shoulder to look down the aisle. Gabrielle followed his eyes and then she saw him too.

  Tiedemann was on his knees about ten feet away. With one arm he was steadying himself on the ground. With the other he held a pistol. And he was pointing it at them.

  As she looked into his eyes she could see the confusion as the German tried to piece together what had happened. Gabrielle supposed she wouldn’t have understood either. When her father explained to her what ammonal was and how he and her Grandpere had been stuffing wine bottles full of it for the past few months, the idea of their winery becoming a bomb factory belonged in a fairy tale. Never in a million years would she have thought of the Contis supplying explosives to the local Maquis fighters. Yet that is what they had been doing, led by her grandfather’s nationalism and balanced by Papa’s reluctant participation. The wine barn had cases of the stuff ready for delivery, and the quick application of a few blasting caps had been all it took to set it off.

  Of course, Gabrielle didn’t really know how to use a blasting cap. She had been lucky she had help.

  Tiedemann’s eyes raised up to look past her. He raised his pistol.

  Crack-crack-crack.

  Gabrielle dove to the ground and tried to cover Stefan. The sound of gunfire would have been deafening if their hearing had returned from the explosion, which it still hadn’t. A few seconds ticked by until she dared open her eyes.

  Monsieur Dubois stood a few feet behind her. He lowered the Sten gun he had just fired. “Come on, Gabrielle. We have to get moving.”

  32

  “He’s badly hurt,” Dubois said. “You’ll have to help me carry him.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gabrielle hoisted one arm over his shoulder while the stout man who lived down the road handled the other. “I still don’t understand how you knew to come help us.”

  “There was a red blanket out the window.”

  Gabrielle blinked as they dragged the stunned Englishman. “The blanket—”

  “An old signal for help, girl.” We can’t exactly use the shortwave to talk to each other, can we? Someone might hear.”

  They kept moving carefully back toward the wine cellar, toward the house. Every so often Dubois would stop them to listen. Listening was hard. Gabrielle still had the ringing in her ears from the deafening noise of hundreds of pounds of homemade explosives detonating.

  “Did you see Papa?”

  “I did.”

  Gabrielle turned her attention sharply. “You did? Where is he? Mama? Philippe—”

  “Settle down, girl. Charles has your mother and brother. We stumbled across them in the vineyard and he’s taking them to our house. Your father and Girard are helping me.”

  “Helping? How?”

  “Do you ever stop with the questions? Why don’t we worry about getting out of here first, okay?”

  They proceeded slowly until they were back in the corridor under the house. Dubois left Gabrielle to hold Stefan while he crept forward with his Sten. The Englishman was more lucid now and watching silently as this helpful, armed stranger scouted ahead. Gabrielle stole a few glances at him and on the third one he looked back at her and smiled grimly. Then he winked.

  All she cared about was staying alive and escaping to safety. And she wanted Stefan with her. Despite his condition she somehow felt safe with him. If she could have those two things, she could live the rest of her life without feeling that her grandfather had died for nothing.

  Dubois came back. “Come on.”

  They continued through the corridor, past the wine cellar, and up the rickety staircase until they were above ground in the kitchen. The sweet noontime sun was streaming through the dirty windows. Dubois peered out the glass before apparently being satisfied that danger was not lurking outside. He opened the kitchen door and motioned for them to step out of the line of sight from the courtyard while he scanned again.

  Gabrielle snuck a peek across the courtyard at the obliterated wine barn. She had spent many, many hours in there as part of her childhood. Now all that remained was the memories. It was absolutely and totally gone. Shards of wooden planks covered their estate from the massive explosion. By the far edge where the cobblestones would have ended, Gabrielle noticed two crumpled bodies dressed in gray. One of them was oriented toward her, and while the face wasn’t visible from the way the head was turned, the shock of blond hair was unmistakable. Springer.

  Gabrielle felt a faint smile creep across her lips at the satisfaction of knowing there was still some justice in the universe.

  She gradually became aware of Stefan studying her. He glanced across the courtyard at where she was looking and saw the bodies. Then he looked back at her.

  “Mon ami,” he said softly.

  “Not bad. You’re pronunciation stinks.”

  He smirked. Gabrielle didn’t know if he understood what she had said, but he acted like it. And he seemed to find it funny.

  Dubois made rapid motions with his hand for them to step forward. “Come on, come on, let’s go, now!”

  He grabbed Stefan’s other arm and the three of them dashed out the door. The Englishman grimaced as he dangled between them. They were out in the courtyard now and Gabrielle felt suddenly very exposed and vulnerable. There was no cover or protection. Were more SS watching them? Were they ready to pop out from around the corner and gun them down as they fled across open ground? It was all motivation to run as fast as possible and hope that three sets of feet didn’t stumble over each other. Her heartbeat quickened, the hairs on the back of her neck stood out, and she found herself running as fast as she could. They had to get to safety. They had to.

  33

  The fugitives stumbled through the vineyard between rows of trellises that stretched out on either side of them. Red and yellow grape leaves covered the ground after having just recently dropped from the skeletal vines still hanging over the wires. They made wet crackling noises with each step. The ground sloped away down the side of the great hill on which the Conti estate had been built. A small blessing that the escape would be downhill, Cartwright thought. He would have been delirious from everything that had just happened if not for the overpowering feel and smell of the outdoors hitting his senses square on. It was the feel and smell of freedom.

  “Vite, vite! Vous ne venez pas assez rapidement!” the Frenchman in the lead whispered harshly.

  Instantly Cartwright was being dragged faster than before, to the point that he thought he was the only one keeping Gabrielle on her feet rather than the other way around. The only way they could have gone faster was to tuck their knees and roll down the hill.

  As they put more distance between them and the manor house, Gabrielle began to start pulling back on her pace. It only took the arrival of the inevitable bad step to make Cartwright stumble and curse loudly as he forced them to a stop. The heavy-set man egging them on was not pleased.

  “Que faites-vous? Quel est le problème avec vous? Partons!”

  Cartwright thought of the rest of the Contis and prayed they were okay. He felt a sudden pang from having abandoned his mates once before, hurdling down from fifteen thousand feet and making the brutal choice between selfishly saving his own hide rather than remaining behind to die nobly together. He had chosen the former. It was not desertion. It was the grim reality of discretion.

  Gabrielle turned her body back into Cartwright’s torso and shouldered his weight again. Cartwright caught her eye in one long, lingering moment before they started moving again. He could see the determination that had gotten them out of the barrel cave, but also the same worry and fear that he felt. He didn’t know the fate of the others. Not knowing what else
to do, he extracted his arm from Dubois’s grasp and reached up so that he could gently stroke Gabrielle’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Her eyes locked with his. Cartwright ignored his own pain and, language barrier or not, tried to will her into knowing that he was grateful and would take care of her the best that he could. He owed them all his life. He owed her.

  The foursome continued down the hill, occasionally ducking under the rows of trellises and working their way parallel to the direction from which they had come. Finally they came around the edge of a deep furrow in the ground to see a horse and wagon waiting patiently by a large, leafless tree.

  “The getaway car?” Cartwright noted dryly.

  Dubois glanced at him without comprehension, which was just as well, then motioned for he and Gabrielle to get in the back of the wagon. It appeared to be full of barrels standing on end, but once they closed the distance, Cartwright could see that there was space in the center for them to conceal themselves. They hoisted the wounded Englishman over the rear cross-board while Gabrielle clamored in behind him. The force of the girl’s body on top of his made Cartwright wince. He was starting to think that death was preferable to the continual need to vomit.

  Dubois covered them in burlap sacks and climbed up front to take the reins. Gabrielle turned one last time to the stout Frenchman and tugged on his sleeve until he turned to face her.

  “Monsieur Dubois, que ferons-nous avec Stefan une fois que nous obtenons à votre maison? Il a besoin d'un docteur.”

  “Yes,” Cartwright said in agreement. He would indeed need a doctor.

  The Frenchman went back and forth with Gabby in hushed, quick tones, then turned his attention back to the reigns. The cart lurched forward. Cartwright could see the anxiety on the girl’s face—the worry about the others in her family, the loss of their home, what the future would hold as the shadow of war darkened around them. He lifted his arm and took hold of Gabrielle’s elbow to offer what small amount of assurance he could. He knew it was difficult to leave people and comfort behind. He knew it firsthand, from the moment his unexpected journey into Occupied France had begun by bailing out of a mortally wounded plane. But since then Cartwright had also found hope. Hope for life, for himself and for others. For Gabrielle. Perhaps, God willing, her life might be with him.