‘Don’t move,’ ordered one, followed by ‘do as we say.’
Cooper and Valvert complied, standing stock still as they were patted down in a cursory manner. The search seemed to be carried out for the hell of it as nothing was taken from their pockets; they retained their side arms and commando knives along with the false papers.
‘Say something,’ urged a middle-aged man in a black cap as he prodded Valvert in the ribs with his gun.
‘Don’t do that!’ answered Valvert sharply, and they all stared at him as if he had just landed from the moon and not jumped out of a Halifax. God, they were almost as nervous as he was. The reception committee demanded names so Cooper and Valvert gave the legends assigned to them by Baker Street.
‘Who are you here to meet?’ asked another man who cloaked his identity with a scarf tied tightly across his face.
‘Stendhal,’ answered Cooper then added in his most reassuring voice, ‘don’t you think we should be leaving now, in case anybody else saw the chutes come down.’
The young man he addressed looked barely out of school. ‘Come with us,’ he said unsurely. Valvert and Cooper trudged ahead of his rifle towards the hedgerows. They were met there by a large, muscular presence; a huge man with a balding head, red face, angry frowning countenance and the crushed nose of a boxer.
‘I am Stendhal,’ said the man as he took a measure of them. Judging by the look that crossed his face, he was immediately dissatisfied. ‘Where is Walsh?’ he demanded.
Valvert looked about him – where indeed was Harry? Pushing his face out at the newcomers, Stendhal asked again and this time there was anger in the words, ‘I told them it had to be Walsh! No one else!’ His voice shattered the calm of the night and Valvert instinctively expected German soldiers to appear at any moment. ‘Where is Harry Walsh?’
At that moment, Walsh stepped from the shadows and into the Maquis leader’s view. ‘Here,’ he answered simply as Stendhal’s men turned and trained their guns on him, ‘and if I was a German soldier I’d have aimed for all the hot air and noise and you’d have a bellyful of bullets now.’
‘Harry!’ cried Stendhal joyfully, ‘they sent you! I knew they would,’ and his face broke from its frown into a broad smile. Stendhal’s own men watched in bemusement as he marched the few yards between them then scooped the Englishman up in his arms, lifting him clean off his feet in a bear hug. ‘Now the war is ours!’
Walsh winced at the grip. Stendhal’s strength was formed from hard outdoor work over long periods in all weathers. He had been a fisherman before the Germans turned him into a killer.
Valvert was noticeably relieved, ‘So you do know him?’
‘Oh yes,’ answered Walsh, ‘not by this name but I should have guessed when he chose a libertine for an alias.’
‘Now that’s not fair, Harry,’ Stendhal forced a frown, ‘the man was a writer of exception and a scourge of the establishment. My real name is known by all here, so I only use Stendhal for the radio.’ He held out a coarse hand to Valvert, ‘Philippe Montueil.’
The relief Walsh felt outweighed the knowledge that all of Montueil’s men already knew his real name thanks to the Maquis leader’s exuberance – so much for the secret agent codenamed ‘Gloucester’. As usual the first casualty of war was the plan.
Overhead the plane passed by for a second time, shedding its precious cargo of supplies. The parachutes on the ten containers snapped open like umbrellas, one after the other, and floated gently to the ground, some landing in the field in which they stood, the rest coming down beyond the trees. Montueil gave a low whistle and waved a hand. The men under his command wasted no time in obeying his unspoken order. They scampered off in different directions to collect the containers and bring them in but Montueil looked worried.
‘What’s wrong, Montueil, not enough?’
‘No,’ he scratched his head, ‘too much. I mean we were not expecting such a bounty, a few rifles maybe, some grenades. How will we get it all away from here?’ As soon as he had spoken the words he seemed to have made his decision, ordering some of his men to fetch more carts to transport the containers; others would use what they had to get the equipment to higher ground. A few of the larger items would be buried or hidden in barns. The maquisards moved quickly and never once questioned Montueil’s instructions.
Montueil glanced about himself uneasily. ‘We must get you away from here now. It’s not safe to stay long.’
‘Your men are well disciplined,’ said Valvert as he watched them load the equipment.
‘Some of them; the ones I brought with me tonight,’ and Walsh saw the frustration in his eyes when he added, ‘others less so, as you will see.’
It took them an hour to reach the Maquis camp and the journey was almost entirely uphill. The camp lay on high ground overlooking the surrounding terrain, a good position, making it hard for anyone to approach it unseen and it was still shrouded in darkness when they arrived. They were greeted by the full complement of the maquisards, around thirty sorry-looking men, some of whom held oil lamps to light their way into the camp. These scruffy, exhausted-looking men peered at the new arrivals with undisguised curiosity and a measure of sullenness.
The Maquis base was a makeshift collection of small shelters made from wood or canvas, some exposed to the elements on one side. Homemade tents were dotted here and there between the larger wooden dwellings. Even in the darkness it was possible to imagine thirty men living here at close quarters, judging by the unsavoury smell that hung about the place.
Montueil wasted no time in ordering the majority of the men away, then he led them to the largest shelter, a three-sided ramshackle wooden building that could have passed for a small hayloft. The embers of a fire still burned here. It was replenished with fresh wood then jabbed at with a stick to coax new flames while Walsh and his companions were urged to sit round it and get warm. Men continued to walk by and stare openly at the newcomers.
‘Who have you got here, Montueil? A mixed bag by the look of it.’
‘You can imagine. Politically, we have socialists, communists, nationalists and anarchists. You should hear the arguments,’ and he shook his head at their lack of accord. ‘One or two of my men are crooks, professional thieves who would be in jail if they had not evaded the so-called authorities; then there are soldiers who did not want to give up the fight when our nation surrendered,’ he deliberately raised his voice a notch when two younger men walked by and said disparagingly, ‘and some are little more than hot-headed young boys who think that war is a game.’ Then he concluded, ‘Mostly it is men who wanted to avoid the service du travail obligatoire in Germany, and who can blame them? This is not paradise but it is better than forced labour in the service of an enemy far from home.’ He sighed, ‘Leading them is not easy and I sometimes wonder how they will be if we ever have peace. They’ll probably kill each other, Harry.’
‘Let’s worry about that when we have won, shall we?’ said the Englishman.
‘That is probably best,’ conceded Montueil.
‘So, how come you know each other?’ interjected Cooper.
The two other men exchanged glances and Montueil raised his eyebrows at that. It was Walsh who put it into words, ‘That’s a long story, Sam,’ he said, ‘and one for another night.’
Cooper and Walsh were shown to a rickety lean-to that would serve as their shelter until dawn.
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Cooper as they began to bed down.
‘They have few able-bodied men and, till now, very little equipment,’ answered Walsh. ‘They live like outlaws and spend more time evading the Germans than tormenting them. There is at least one rogue faction in their group, which Montueil is probably losing control of because he has nothing to offer the young ones; meaning no quick victories or easy glory. The camp smells like an unsanitary mess and I’ve no doubt it will look far worse in the mornin
g. In short, I think this particular branch of the Maquis is so downtrodden it is a miracle they have been able to survive till now.’
Cooper was deflated, ‘So we aren’t likely to turn them into a force that’ll trouble a crack German unit?’
‘Of course we are,’ Walsh sounded surprised at his pessimism, ‘they are good men, Sam, no shortage of courage round here, that’s for sure. It’s almost exactly as I would have expected it to be in fact. You try living rough for years, being constantly hunted and you might not notice the smell so much. It’s a miracle they are here at all and still up for the fight. They will be okay; we just have to take them in hand.’
‘Take them in hand?’ asked Cooper.
‘Starting tomorrow.’
24
‘Stir the torpid Frenchman!’
Unofficial instruction given to the SOE,
attributed to Winston Churchill
‘It ain’t much but it’s home,’ said Cooper dryly, as he surveyed the camp for the first time in daylight. Living conditions here were grim, with everything caked in a mud churned from the constant action of boots on the same patch of muddied ground. It was difficult to tell where the living quarters, dining area, laundry and latrines began and ended, as the whole thing had been thrown together in such haste. Here and there, items of dripping washing hung from ropes stretched between tents and shelters. ‘Looks like the Klondike just after they discovered gold,’ and the American shook his head.
‘Nothing we can’t rectify,’ said Walsh.
‘I’d rectify it with a large fire.’
There was no sign of Valvert, who did not emerge from the tent he had been given until much later and, when he did, he was grim-faced. Straight away he sought out Walsh and Montueil.
‘It’s the radio,’ he told them, ‘at first I thought it was my fault but no, I have stripped and reassembled it twice and still it won’t work. It’s useless.’
‘What can be done?’ asked Montueil.
‘Nothing with this set. We need another radio. How do you get your messages to London?’
‘There is another group. They have a radio,’ explained Montueil.
‘Then I must go to them right away. I’ll contact London and ask them to drop us another set. How far is it from here?’
‘A day to walk there and a day back but you cannot go alone. You’ll never find them and if you did, they would likely kill you for an impostor. You must go with one of my men.’
Walsh was not happy at losing Valvert from the camp so early in the mission. ‘Be careful, Valvert, no risks, okay?’
Valvert nodded dismissively, ‘Sure, Harry, don’t worry.’
‘Just don’t get caught.’
He could have added: And if you do, don’t betray us.
Their first day in the camp passed quickly. The guns had to be unpacked from the crates, the grease removed and all the weapons cleaned. While they worked, Walsh and Cooper quizzed Montueil about German activity in the area and began to build up a picture of life in the area around the camp, down in the little town of Elbeuf and the nearby city of Rouen.
That afternoon, Montueil called a meeting of what he termed the Commune; half a dozen men who acted as the camp’s decision makers. They included Alain Triboulet, a former schoolteacher, whose resolutely cheerful disposition they instantly warmed to. He had left a wife and son behind to escape the compulsory work details. ‘I look forward to practising my English with you, if you will permit it?’ he told Walsh.
‘Of course,’ said Walsh, noting that Triboulet might just be the one man in camp other than Montueil that he might be able to discuss books with.
Next was Alvar, a Spaniard, who might have been around fifty. His rough tanned skin was leathery and his eyes narrowed into a squint when he spoke, as if the sun shone permanently into them. Alvar explained he had begun his fight against fascism back in his homeland. Now he found himself exiled with the French resistance, still hating the Germans for the help they gave to Franco, determined to exact revenge. Alvar was keen to salute ‘my international brothers’.
Other men introduced themselves and finally there was the brooding presence of Hervé Lemonnier; a strong muscular man in his early twenties who scowled at them suspiciously, and made no secret of his distrust. ‘We were winning before you came and we will continue to put the fear of God into the Germans long after you have gone,’ being a typical example of his opinions, ‘so don’t try to tell us what to do.’
‘Shut up, Lemonnier,’ snapped Montueil as wooden mugs of Normandy cider were filled and passed between them. He turned his attention back to his guests, ‘I’ll drink to your safe arrival, which can never be guaranteed. We’ve had ambushes and treachery and learned of the deaths of many old friends, which is why my people are edgy. We can trust no one.’
‘What’s the situation, Montueil?’ asked Walsh. ‘You’ve got maybe thirty men here?’
‘Thirty-two,’ confirmed Montueil, ‘that’s just my group but there are others all around here, hiding in the hills. There are miles of fields and woodland all around us here so we can see anyone coming. Also, we have men who risk their lives every day by staying put in Elbeuf, the nearest town to here and Rouen, which is twenty kilometres north. They are our eyes and ears, without them we would know nothing.’
‘Good,’ Walsh nodded, ‘they will be very useful.’ Then he asked delicately, ‘Recent activity?’
‘You want the truth, Harry, not too much. We caused them problems at first, sabotaging everything we could. That was the early days but we had so little equipment and not enough men. Plus, there are traitors everywhere. Soon we became the hunted ones. The Germans, they don’t know what mercy is. If you are Maquis then you are a terrorist, so you die. No trial, no appeal, you die. If you help the Maquis it’s the same. If you are related to Maquis, still the same. I have lost men, good men, and it is hard to trust the new ones. How do we know where they are really from or who sent them? We have caught traitors.’ Montueil seemed to share their shame. ‘Those men I kill myself.’
‘But the Germans kill quicker than you can,’ said Walsh.
‘It’s true, though if you are very lucky,’ and he raised eyebrows at the ironic use of the word, ‘they only send you to Le Struthof.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Cooper.
‘A camp in Alsace,’ said Montueil, ‘for the few captured resistance fighters who aren’t killed immediately. We don’t know much about the place as nobody has ever come back from it.’
‘Well,’ said Walsh, searching for a crumb of comfort amongst the bad news, ‘at least now you have equipment.’
‘Yes and I am grateful for it but tell me the nature of this bargain I struck with the British. You need our help with a mission…’
‘All in good time,’ interrupted Walsh, ‘let’s see what your men are capable of first and we’ll take it from there?’
Montueil nodded doubtfully.
‘We are capable of anything, English,’ said Lemonnier, ‘and don’t expect a bargain to stay a bargain when we don’t know what you want from us. We might just change our minds.’
Montueil ignored the young man, ‘There’ll be some food later, though I cannot promise much. The Germans,’ and he literally spat into the fire at their mention, ‘they steal everything; all of the food, most of the wine, the good stuff at any rate. We eat worse than peasants these days.’
When evening drew near, Walsh was surprised there was no effort made to start the preparation of the meal he had been promised. An explanation came with the appearance of a dot on the horizon that gradually became a figure. The figure was leading a donkey by its reins and, as they came into view, Walsh realised he was looking at a young girl.
‘That’s Simone,’ explained Montueil as the girl drew nearer, ‘our saviour.’ Simone looked to be around eighteen years old. She was strikingly pretty with olive
skin, long, dark hair and a lean, strong frame that showed she was used to outdoor living. ‘It is because of her that we eat. She lives on a farm near her mother, they make the food and each night she drags that stubborn old donkey up the hill with two big pots strapped over its hide.’ He chuckled, ‘Every day I worry that donkey’s heart will give out, then we will surely starve.’
Simone reached the edge of the camp and the men all gathered round her. The donkey came to a sudden halt, the two huge lidded pots swinging precariously on its flanks, a little brownish liquid spilling on to the ground. Simone ignored the teasing questions: ‘What is it today, Simone, do you have something special for me?’ and ‘Simone, when are you going to marry me, eh?’
‘Idiots,’ said the Maquis leader as he regarded his men contemptuously.
‘She’s a brave girl,’ said Walsh ‘if the Germans ever stopped her up here…’
‘It would be hard to explain,’ conceded Montueil quickly, as if he didn’t want to entertain such a thought.
That night during dinner, Simone waited patiently for the men to finish their meal, while Montueil held court.
‘The Germans treat France like a mine,’ he said, ‘they empty our country of everything; food, wine, men to work their factories, then leave us barren. Look at this, just look, Harry,’ and he tipped his bowl so Harry could see into it. ‘We are used to eating cassoulet round here but where is the sausage, the pork, the duck? This is pea soup with a scrap of bacon in it and we are grateful for that, I’m telling you. Don’t be angry, Simone, but for you we would eat like pigs but even you cannot weave gold from straw.’
‘I’m sorry for you,’ Simone said to their guests, ‘you are used to better.’
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 14
