Walsh was making steady progress. He’d ruled out a descent from the top of the bridge, as the overhanging angle was not in his favour and the Germans had been inconsiderate enough to place barbed wire and sandbags in his way. Easier to climb from the foot of the bridge and try not to think about the drop if he fell, for he knew he would never survive it. The Maquis had suspended a long rope from the top of the bridge right down to the foot of the riverbank. Walsh used this to climb as far as one of the iron stanchions that supported each corner of the bridge. He told himself this should be no more nerve-racking than the numerous cliff climbs he had completed during his commando training when he first joined SOE.
Walsh reached the stanchion and was able to stand on it. He was just edging along the curved girder he had chosen to plant the charges when he heard Emma’s whistle. Walsh froze, for the prearranged signal could mean only one thing – a vehicle, a person or, worst of all, a patrol was approaching the bridge. He lay perfectly still upon the curved girder. As he did so, Walsh inadvertently looked down and caught a glimpse of the moonlit bank next to the dark flickering waters of the river far below him. It made him feel giddy and he clung harder to the girder, hoping his luck would hold out. Let it be a lone vehicle, or a couple of bored soldiers on their way back from a brothel on foot, drunk and with no inclination to peer too closely at a new rope hanging over a sandbagged bridge.
He could hear the low rumbling of an engine now, followed by its grating groan of protestation as the driver tried and failed to find a lower gear on his descent. The sound became more even as the lorry drove on to the bridge and began to slow down. Walsh knew if the driver stopped and got out he was completely trapped.
Walsh listened intently. There was a squeaking sound and a rattle from the chassis as the lorry drove by. The driver pressed the throttle, allowing it to accelerate over the wider section of the bridge right above Walsh’s head. The bridge rumbled under the weight of the truck and the girder he clung to vibrated beneath him, but a moment later it was gone. Walsh realised he had not let out a breath while the lorry passed and his arms had gripped the girder so tightly they ached from the effort.
Walsh knew he had to get the job done. He reached behind him into the sack on his shoulder. He retrieved a small canvas bag with a fuse coming from one side and a detonator hanging out of the other. This seemingly innocuous package contained enough plastic explosive to destroy the stanchion, rip through the concrete above it and send the bridge crashing down into the river below, or so he hoped. Walsh just had to set the charge and make sure he climbed back down again before it went off and buried him under the rubble. He primed the explosive and once he was satisfied he began his descent.
As he climbed carefully down the rope, with a sheer drop directly beneath him, Walsh told himself that if he survived the war he would never do another dangerous thing as long as he lived. He grimly pondered the safest, most boring job he could possibly take; bank manager, schoolteacher, insurance salesman, anything but soldier.
When the bridge finally blew, they were far enough from it to evade the first Germans on the scene but still close enough to hear the blast that ripped up through the concrete, propelling huge fragments of rock and metal high into the air and tearing a gap in the bridge that was yards wide.
Lemonnier was smoking nervously at the end of the alleyway that led into a side street at the edge of the town of Elbeuf, a little over twenty kilometres from Rouen. The glow of his cigarette was an unnecessary risk that might give his presence away to a passing patrol and the English soldier would probably have berated him for it but Lemonnier badly needed a smoke to calm his nerves. This was the first time he had ever had to kill someone who could actually fight back or run, and he had to make his move at exactly the right time.
They knew the routine Neuvetaille followed each night. The baker, a known informer to the State Police with friends in the dreaded Milice, left his wife at the same time each evening for a neighbourhood bar whose terrace overlooked the left bank of the Seine. There he would sit alone enjoying three perhaps four glasses of wine and a pastis or two before ambling back home in a fug of alcohol.
When the Maquisard commune drew up their list of targets, it included the road bridge, the rail track, the rolling stock and Neuvetaille the hated informer. Alvar had suggested they send a message on the folly of collaboration with the enemy. Lemonnier had hardly spoken during these meetings since the beating he had taken from Walsh, but it was he who suggested Neuvetaille – for his arrogance, his swagger and his assumption that nothing bad could ever happen to him while he was a friend of the occupier. They had all looked to Walsh for a decision. Would it be acceptable to gun down an unarmed civilian in the street to show others the fate that could befall a traitor? Perhaps this would offend his English sensibilities? Walsh took his time before answering. They expected dissent. However, he merely asked, ‘are you sure this man helps the enemy?’
Triboulet replied on their behalf, ‘Certain, Harry, he is known for it. He sells the Germans their bread and gives them information on his customers. Jews have been rounded up and information supplied on the resistance, he is not even discreet about it.’
The schoolteacher’s testimony was enough for Walsh. ‘Then he should die,’ he said quietly and that was the end of the matter.
Lemonnier had not expected to be given the job. Yet, for some reason, Walsh had trusted him with one of the key actions of the night. He now found himself perversely seeking to regain the approval of a man who had publicly humiliated him.
Lemonnier stubbed out his cigarette and stepped further back into the shadows for Neuvetaille was coming at last. The baker was walking unsteadily along the street towards him. Lemonnier weighed the Welrod’s length in his hand once more then repositioned it under his long, dark raincoat. He waited till Neuvetaille had almost reached his house then moved off at walking pace to meet him in the middle of his street.
Neuvetaille took his keys from his pocket, dropped them on to the ground and let out a groan of exertion as he bent to pick them up. He walked awkwardly up the five steep steps to his home and was about to put the keys in the lock when he heard his name being called. Puzzled, Neuvetaille slowly turned to find himself looking down into the face of an obviously scared young man staring intently back at him.
‘What is it?’ asked Neuvetaille when Lemonnier offered no further explanation. It was then he realised the youth was holding what appeared to be a short length of drainpipe and he pointed at the baker. Fearing assault, Neuvetaille tried to turn to let himself in but, before he could, there was a soft popping sound and the bullet from the Welrod caught him plum in the chest.
Lemonnier watched in fascination as Neuvetaille’s eyes bulged and his hand went straight to the wound. One of his knees gave way and the baker tumbled heavily down the stone steps towards his killer. Lemonnier had to jump back out of the way as the body rolled on to the pavement beside him.
The killer was rooted to the spot, unable to move or do anything except stare into the shocked face of the man he had just executed. He had done it and he’d done it right, he had made this man’s wife a widow and turned his children into orphans, ended his life and all his hopes for the future with a single squeeze of the trigger, so why was he not now running down the road?
‘Move, idiot,’ Lemonnier actually found himself saying the words out loud and it finally broke the spell. Walsh had told him to walk calmly from the body to avoid suspicion but the English soldier was more used to killing than he was. The young man did not stop running until he was at least three blocks from the traitor’s body.
31
‘One can be the master of what one does,
but never of what one feels.’
Gustave Flaubert
Colonel Tauber awoke the next morning to a series of alarming bulletins. A bridge across the river had been destroyed, causing a diversion of some twenty miles; the rail tr
ack was damaged also, in need of an expensive, time-consuming repair; and the locomotives earmarked to transport the tanks of the 2nd SS Panzer Division to the Eastern Front had all mysteriously seized up in the night. The cause of this baffling mechanical condition was yet to be determined, for the railway mechanics in Rouen were not familiar with carborundum grease, an abrasive formula designed by the Thatched Barn for just such a purpose.
As if all this were not enough, a prized informer had been gunned down in the streets of Elbeuf on his return from an evening drink. Suspiciously, not a soul had heard the shot that left this baker bleeding to death on the pavement, which surely pointed to a conspiracy of silence.
Tauber was embarrassed and this caused an impotent fury.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’ he demanded of Kornatzki. ‘A month ago no one could blow his nose in this region without me knowing about it, now, overnight, we have seemingly descended into anarchy. I’ll not have it! Send patrols out into the country and get those lazy swine from the Milice to start sniffing around. Find out who is behind all this and do it now! When they do catch the men behind this, Kornatzki, we will show no mercy. The whole country will learn their fate. Now get on with it!’
And when Kornatzki did not immediately move, ‘Why are you still here?’
‘That’s not everything, I’m afraid,’ he said timidly, ‘it’s the professor from Berlin. He has arrived.’
Tauber could not believe his own luck, ‘But, he’s…’
‘A week early,’ Kornatzki confirmed, ‘and I’m afraid he wants to see you immediately. It’s about the arrangements for his stay.’
‘What about them?’
‘I regret to inform you the professor will not accept our suggestion of living on the air base. Instead he is demanding to stay at the hotel.’
‘But it’s for his own security? Did you not explain this?’
‘I did, Standartenfűhrer, but he was adamant that security was your… our responsibility and must suit his requirements,’ he hesitated then continued, ‘and he has further demands.’
‘Demands?’ Tauber’s anger was growing. ‘Well, I’ll say one thing for him,’ he threw that morning’s reports back onto his desk, ‘his timing is impeccable!’
‘I hear Tauber is not happy,’ said Montueil, ‘there was a lot of shouting at his headquarters,’ before adding, ‘they need civilian workers there for administration.’
‘And one of them is sympathetic to our cause?’
Montueil shrugged as if that were of little importance. ‘She is my cousin.’
‘Here’s to family,’ said Cooper.
Montueil smiled then. ‘It is all anybody is talking about in the town, the night when quiet resistance became open defiance. There is not a man, woman or child who did not silently cheer inside when they learned of our exploits. What do you have planned for us now Harry?’
‘All in good time, my friend; let the Gestapo and the Wehrmacht chase some shadows for a day or two. Then we will make our next move.’
‘Very well but my men enjoy this work and they believe in themselves once more, so please, I beg you, do not keep them idle for long.’
‘Don’t worry, they’ll get plenty of chances to prove themselves.’
‘One other thing,’ Montueil said it as if he had almost forgotten, ‘I have a man at the best hotel in Rouen. He sends me a message. The Germans have thrown everybody out, even some of their own senior men kicked from their rooms to make way for an important guest, a scientist and his team, who will be working on the air base.’ Cooper and Walsh exchanged a look. ‘It seems like this professor you asked us about has finally arrived.’
‘Thank your contact. Tell him any information on the professor will be most welcome,’ said Walsh, ‘it’s lucky you had a man there Montueil.’
‘Harry, please, a hotel in Rouen permanently filled with senior German officers and you are surprised I have a contact there? More than one my friend, more than one, how could you ever doubt me?’
‘My apologies,’ said Walsh, ‘please ask them to keep a close eye on the scientist for me. What he does, where he goes, when and with whom?’
‘Sure, Harry, whatever you say.’
Days passed without incident or, frustratingly for Walsh, any news on the professor or his daily routine at the hotel. Walsh could do little while he waited but arrange further training sessions for the men of the Maquis to improve their hand-to-hand combat skills and improve their familiarity with the various explosive devices he had brought with him. ‘Pay attention,’ he would urge them, ‘and you might not lose an arm.’
As time slowly passed, Walsh was beginning to doubt whether Montueil’s much vaunted contacts at the professor’s hotel would ever amount to anything. Then the Maquis leader finally approached him with news.
‘It’s my man at the hotel in Rouen, I’ll call him Romain, it’s better you don’t know his real name. He has information on the scientist, this Professor Gaerte.’
‘Good,’ Walsh was reassured Montueil was taking security so seriously, ‘what did he tell you?’
‘All I know is he has news but it is very dangerous for him. He won’t write anything down and cannot risk coming here but he is prepared to meet you, Harry, in a room at another hotel, the Europa on the Rue L’Eglise. He will make himself known to you there.’
Sam Cooper overheard this, ‘That’s risky, don’t you think?’
‘Everything we do is risky,’ commented Walsh, then he turned back to Montueil. ‘Tell your man I’ll meet him.’
Montueil arranged for Walsh to join one of Simone’s labourers, as he took produce into Rouen in the farm’s little green van. That morning they drove into the capital of Normandy, a city that had once been the centre of an Anglo-Norman empire but was now ruled over by Nazis and their collaborating French officials. Simone’s worker took a back route to avoid a known roadblock then drove deep into the city, past the ancient cathedral and along the banks of the Seine. He dropped Walsh at the humble hotel chosen for the rendezvous.
Walsh checked in and there was a moment’s unease when he presented Clavelle’s papers but they passed the scrutiny of the disinterested middle-aged woman on the front desk. He asked for a particular room, which Romain had given him via Montueil, explaining he had stayed there before and liked the view of the square from its window. The woman was happy enough to accommodate him and it meant Romain could come directly to his room, attracting less suspicion.
Walsh was shown to a spartan room at the rear. Its solitary window allowed a little daylight to illuminate the faded wallpaper. The room was clean but quite bare save for a good-sized bed, a small wardrobe and tiny chest of drawers. The only decoration came from a bland landscape painting, depicting a ploughman in his field, and a notice pinned to the door outlining the hotel’s regulations, chief among them the absence of guests after a certain hour and the need to keep the water level in the bath to a minimum.
Walsh had expected a shared bathroom some way along a corridor, so he was pleasantly surprised to find a small door that led to a tiny bathroom for his sole use. Six weeks ago he might have considered the room basic but, after cold damp nights in the camp, it now seemed impossibly luxurious. Walsh still had hours before his meeting with Montueil’s man. He drew a warm bath to scrub away the grime of the camp then fell on to the soft mattress and was asleep almost immediately.
Montueil approached them while they ate. He was grim-faced. ‘There is a problem.’ As always he addressed Cooper and Valvert directly but Emma, because of her sex, was ignored. She was well used to such treatment by now on both sides of the Channel but it still galled her. Why ever did men assume they always knew best when there was a mountain of evidence to the contrary?
‘Harry is waiting for my man at the hotel but I have received a message. The plan has changed. He wishes to meet Harry away from the hotel, at a café, s
omewhere more public where he can see everyone and not today. It may sound foolish to you but he is worried about security and has good cause. We have lost many people since the struggle began so I cannot ask him to stick to the plan. He will simply not comply.’
‘Then give me the name of the café and the time and I will get a message to Harry,’ said Emma. They all looked at her. ‘Well, it will be less suspicious if I go to his hotel than if it were one of you, wouldn’t it?’ She had them there. If Emma were seen entering Harry’s room, most onlookers would assume it was an everyday instance of adultery, the married man and his mistress in the discreet hotel room, and Emma had played that role before. Even these days, it wasn’t necessary to report an extra marital affair to the Gestapo. Emma could see the look on their eyes as the men all arrived at the same conclusion at roughly the same time. If a man were seen to enter the hotel room of another it would be little consolation to them both if passers-by assumed the assignation was sexual.
‘Okay, good idea,’ conceded Montueil hastily.
The time for the appointment had long since passed so Walsh finally ventured out. He would stay one more night at the hotel in case his contact was unavoidably detained but after that he would return to the camp. It was too risky to stay any longer. Hopefully Montueil’s man would follow the agreed fall-back plan and visit his room at the same time twenty-four hours later.
For now, Walsh was determined to salvage something from the considerable risk he was taking by his presence in the city. A look at the professor’s hotel would be a start. He hurried past it in the manner of a worker who is late home for a dinner being prepared by an unsympathetic spouse. Without gazing directly upon the building, Walsh took in the elaborate carved entranceway of the Hotel Meurice with its permanent armed sentry, and he spotted the second man who stood back in the shadows of the main door. Above the entrance were three more floors. Each room had its own shuttered window and balcony. Behind one of these windows was the man he had come to kill, presumably resting after a long day working on one of the Fűhrer’s miracle weapons.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 19
