Blue Madonna (13 page)

“I can see how that'd be a hard name to shake,” I said.

“Lot less hard than the damn dog was,” he said, laughing and slapping his thigh. He looked to the
Maquisards
, who gave no response.

“Don't mind those two,” Fawcett said. “When Juliet brings them in for a job, there's little said, whether they speak any English or not.”

“Let me guess: need to know.”

“Right,” Babcock said. “You have to assume if anyone's captured, they'd talk, sooner or later. Best not for anyone to know too much. No one except Juliet and Sonya know all the tunnels and exits out of that place, for example. Smart women, those two.”

“How smart is it to be attacking a bridge in broad daylight and driving around in a truck? Won't the Germans stop us?”

“Billy, I got this here bite goin' into a henhouse in the dead of night, back when I had next to nothing to my name and less on my feet,” Dogbite said. “Figured I'd snatch a few eggs and be on my way. Never saw that dog until he knocked me down and started chawin' on my face. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because that's what a farmer's dog does, dammit. And because I was too hungry to wait for him to go off with his master in the mornin'. I coulda walked in there and took a damn chicken after the sun went up if I'da waited.”

“I guess the Germans guard this bridge at night, then,” I said. “What about the truck?”

“Hell, I don't know nothing about the truck,” Dogbite said. “I'm just glad not to be walkin'.”

“No airman likes to march,” Babcock said with a grin, his fingers playing along the red and swollen line on his jaw.

“How'd you get that wound, Babcock?” The scar wasn't much compared to Dogbite's, or even Kaz's, but it was worthy of comment.

“Nicked by shrapnel when we were shot down,” he said. “Down to the jawbone. Fawcett patched me up, and the Resistance got me to a doctor. Didn't find out until later he was a vet. Not that stitching up a cow or a Canadian is that different.”

“Cow's gotta be tougher,” I said. It looked like the vet had done the job well, but with as much cosmetic concern as he'd have for a bovine patient. “You know where we're headed?”

“This is part of the Forest of Dreux,” Babcock explained. “The Germans don't often patrol here. We can drive to within a mile of the bridge, then use cover to make our approach. No one has petrol, but the
Maquis
stole a few jerricans to keep this heap running.”

“Tell me about the target. Why is this bridge so important?” I asked.

“It's part of the rail line between Chartres and Dreux,” Babcock said. “It's a small bridge, too hard to hit from the air. It crosses over a road, which makes it hard to see, not like spotting a river crossing.”

“How many guards?”

“Combien de gardes?”
 Babcock asked the
Maquisards
. One of them raised four fingers.

“Only four guards? Should be easy,” I said.

“If we're quick about it,” Dogbite said. “Damn quick. We gotta be gone quicker than cake on a fat man's plate.” He cackled, looking to the Frenchmen, who sat impassively, clutching their weapons. The truck rolled to a halt, and that ended the conversation.

We left the truck in a shaded grove and scrambled down a hill to the edge of a field of sunflowers, dazzlingly yellow and green in the bright morning sun. Sten gun in hand, Juliet motioned for all of us to go low. The plants were less than five feet high, and we had to run in a crouch to avoid being seen. We hustled through the field single file, cutting a swath through the young plants on our way to kill young men.

I was behind Babcock. The advance slowed until he and the others went prone and began to belly-crawl. I followed suit, slithering out of the field into a wet drainage ditch next to a hard-packed dirt road. Pushing off on my elbows and knees, I kept my head down as mud soaked my torso. The earthy, damp smell of fetid standing water and decaying vegetation filled my nostrils. Ten minutes of slogging got us to a spot where the road curved, and Juliet called a halt, whispering to Sonya who passed the order down the line.

“Billy, up front,” Babcock said. I should have been excited, but I was too focused on keeping my hands from shaking. I couldn't see a thing except for mud and slime, and I had no idea how close we were to the Krauts. But it was nice to be wanted.

“I'm here,” I whispered as I got close to Juliet. I almost whispered
Diana
, but held my tongue.

“Sergeant Boyle, take a quick look,” she said, her head inclined toward the top of the ditch. I took off my helmet and inched my head up slowly until my eyes cleared the edge.

I saw the bridge. It wasn't much more than a cutout under a raised embankment. The railroad ran over it, and the road we were following went under it. A thick vaulted arch of red brickwork with several feet of soil on top supported the tracks. Two Germans stood guard facing us, and one sat on the bridge, his legs dangling. That meant one or two more on the other side.

“I see three,” I whispered to Juliet.

“How far can you throw a grenade?” It was about a hundred feet.

“I should be able to make it on a bounce. It'd be easy if I stood up, but one of them is up on the bridge. He'd spot me in a second.” I couldn't get any closer. The ditch curved with the road ahead, which would put us right in their line of sight.

I took a grenade from my web belt and waited for the signal. Whispers went down the line. Juliet gave me a nod when everyone was ready. I pulled the pin, keeping a tight grip on the safety lever. I arched my arm back and rose up enough to see the target. The tunnel under the railway seemed smaller, and at the same time the Germans seemed to be right on top of me. I threw, putting as much weight and momentum into it as I could. The German on the bridge lit a cigarette, his feet swinging back and forth. The grenade bounced in the road, and he dropped the cigarette, his mouth in a round
oh
of shock and surprise.

I ducked.

The grenade exploded, a harsh echo sounding from within the tunnel.

I stood and fired a short burst from my Thompson at the guard on top, his legs still hanging over the edge. I dropped him, and he slid off, hitting the road as everyone else fired, filling the bricked arch with hot lead and ricochets.

“Now!” Juliet screamed, and we ran for the bridge. Rifle shots came at us in quick succession. There were two or more Germans on the other side. I ran to the left side of the bridge and flattened myself, another grenade in hand. Dogbite grabbed a potato masher grenade off one of the dead guards and went flat on the opposite side. We exchanged glances as he unscrewed the bottom cap and held the detonator cord. I pulled the pin. He pulled the cord. We tossed our grenades into the tunnel, aiming for the far side where the Germans had taken cover.

Twin blasts sounded, and we moved in, the enclosed space thick with smoke. I fired a few quick bursts, and a scream rose from a form writhing on the ground. One of the
Maquis
silenced him with a rifle shot. Juliet dropped her pack, and the two Frenchmen began to work with the plastic explosive, setting it along an ornamental ridge that ran the length of the tunnel.

Juliet sent Dogbite and Sonya to watch the way we'd come, and Fawcett up top. Babcock and I stood guard on the far side as she checked the explosive charges. I walked a few paces out, scanning the terrain ahead. Thick-trunked trees lined the roadway, whitewashed for visibility at night in the blackout. I caught movement from the corner of my eye and saw Babcock take cover behind the nearest tree. A submachine burst came from ahead, aimed at the tunnel. Another shriek, and then another burst.

I ran full-tilt, hoping the Kraut bastard wouldn't expect anything so stupid. I had no idea who'd been hit, but this was going to stop now. I went left, firing a burst as I rounded the first tree. No one there. I skidded past the next tree, emptying the magazine. I heard footsteps and dropped my Thompson, pulling my .38 Police Special from my holster. I zigged inside the trees this time, running straight up the road and finding my Kraut kneeling, ready to fire at where I would have been. One shot through the helmet took care of him. I looked around, waiting for the next threat, but there was no one.

Through the distant trees, I saw the faint outline of a large building, a grand château, maybe half a mile away. The muffled sound of engines rumbled across the fields, my ears still ringing from explosions and gunfire. Vehicles were streaming out of the château and headed in our direction.

“Come on!” Babcock yelled, waving his arms. I picked up my Thompson, ran back to the tunnel, reloading as I went. I was relieved to see Juliet still standing, but one of the Frenchmen was down and, judging by the amount of blood, dead.

“We have company,” I said.

“Right, we'll set a two-minute fuse,” Juliet said. “Sergeant Boyle, come with me. The rest of you get ready.” The remaining
Maquis
busied himself with setting the timing detonator in the
explosif plastique
on both walls. Everyone stepped around our dead companion without a second glance.

Juliet took a block of plastic explosive and a detonator. I followed her outside to the road, keeping an eye on the steadily approaching vehicles. She worked the block into the roots of a tree, and jammed in the pencil detonator. She glanced at the Germans, then back to the tunnel. None of our people were in sight. She crushed the end of the detonator.

“Two minutes,” she said, looking me straight in the eye for the first time. Then she leaned in and kissed me. It was a kiss that could have lingered forever on my lips. Enemies approaching, friends fleeing, and less than a hundred and twenty seconds to oblivion, nothing else mattered but the taste of her, the scent of her hair, the salt of her tears, her warm lips, and her body pressed close to mine.

We opened our eyes, and in a second we were running, jumping over the bodies of the dead, elbows pumping, heads thrust forward as we burst into the sunflower field, making for the Forest of Dreux.

The explosion was sudden and sharp, shock waves bending the stalks and sending us stumbling in the dirt. Debris rained down around us as we turned to watch the arched bridge collapse, steel rails twisted and tumbling to the roadway. Smoke and dust filled the air, covering our escape in case any Germans were left standing.

Chapter Sixteen

Halfway back to
the château, we dropped off the surviving
Maquisard
. He vanished into the greenery without a word. We rattled on in the ancient truck, Juliet at the wheel and Sonya at her side. The idea, Babcock had told me, was that it might give us a couple of seconds to get the jump on the Germans if we had the misfortune to run into a roadblock. A couple of smiling girls might distract the Krauts if they didn't stop to wonder how the girls had managed to get any petrol.

“Lucky for us, we haven't had that problem yet,” Fawcett said, grinning as if this had been nothing more than a grand adventure. With his small stature and freckles, he looked more like a Boy Scout than a commando.

“You've done this before?” I asked as the truck negotiated some deep ruts.

“Couple of times,” he answered. “Small stuff, cutting telegraph and phone wires, raiding for weapons, that sort of thing. Risky, but the boredom was driving me crazy.”

“We're careful not to attract any attention to the château,” Babcock said. “That's why the location is perfect. The forest lets us drive undetected for miles in almost any direction.”

“I think it spooks the Krauts,” Dogbite said. “They done sweeps through the woods, but always in broad daylight.”

“Nah, they can't take those stories seriously,” Fawcett said.

“What stories?” I asked. Before he could answer, the truck braked, and we readied our weapons.

“It's Vincent Labiche,” Babcock announced, peering through the canvas flap. “Time for us to get out.”

I caught a glance of the same fellow who had limped away earlier, hoisting himself up into the cab. This time, we followed the truck right to the driveway, clearing away tire tracks in the dusty lane with leafy branches. When Juliet was satisfied the coast was clear, she signaled him to proceed down the drive.

At the back of the stables, where the land sloped away to reveal the stone foundation, Juliet opened a weathered wooden door. Inside were empty barrels and dusty shelves—the root cellar Vera had told us about.

“Here,” Sonya said, handing me her weapon as Juliet lit a candle. “I will clear away our tracks and return to the house.” She took a deep breath, brushed off her clothes and shut the door, leaving us in the dark, crowded room. Juliet pressed on the far wall, and a section of shelving swung outward, leading to another tunnel. Or the same tunnel we'd entered before, it was impossible to tell. I ducked my head, following the feeble light as Juliet led the way, her hand cupped around the small flame. I felt dizzy, uncertain of where we were, the fear of being lost deep underground growing stronger with each step. By the time we came to a door that opened out into the larger and well-lit tunnel, my heart was hammering in my chest and sweat soaked my shirt.

“Next time, Sergeant Boyle, secure permission from your commanding officer before going off on your own,” Topper said once we'd reached the main underground chamber. He stood with his chest puffed out, playing the role of the aggrieved officer. “You showed decent initiative, but follow the chain of command from now on, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” I said to his back, rolling my eyes and playing the aggrieved noncom for Dogbite's benefit. “We blew up the bridge, by the way.”

“That will buy a day or so,” Juliet said, her brief but confused glance telling me she was unsure how to play this. “If the wireless is working, we can notify London. Until the Germans repair it, there should be a nice backup in the Chartres rail yards.”

“Not yet, it isn't,” Topper said. “Boyle, come take a look.”

“Wait a minute,” Juliet said, laying her hand on my arm. “What about my equipment canisters? We need those weapons and supplies. Our orders are to keep that rail line out of service.”

“Lieutenant Kazimierz is hurt,” Topper said. “Bruised ribs, maybe broken. He'd be useless in the field. I need to get that radio working. That leaves Boyle here. He could lead you to them, couldn't you, Boyle?”

“Sure, after some shut-eye. I'm exhausted.”

“Right,” Topper said. “Can you wait, Juliet? We haven't slept for thirty-six hours or more.”

“We leave at dusk,” Juliet said. “I'll have some food brought down, and you can eat, meet the others, and get a few hours of sleep.”

That last part sounded good. As much as I wanted time alone with Juliet, I could feel my eyelids getting heavier by the moment. I watched her leave as I introduced Topper to Fawcett, Babcock, and Dogbite. Dead on my feet, I shuffled along with Topper down a limestone corridor reinforced with timbers. Electric lights were strung along the beams, giving the stone a soft yellow glow.

“How big is this place?” I asked after a couple of turns. We'd passed sleeping quarters cut from stone, set up with two or three cots in each. Not the Ritz, but better than a POW camp.

“No idea,” Topper whispered. “It's a honeycomb with plenty of locked doors. I got lost looking for the loo.”

“All the comforts of home,” I said as we entered a large room with a workbench. Kaz looked up from the wireless parts spread out in front of him and shot a look at Topper. He gave Kaz the all-clear—no one within earshot.

“Are you all right, Billy?”

“Yeah. One of the Frenchmen didn't make it, but the trains won't run on time tonight. How's the radio?”

“We can't find anything wrong. Topper has replaced all the parts for which we have spares. Coils, adapters, fuses, valves, nothing works.”

“What about the vacuum tubes?” I asked, pointing to a variety of tubes on the bench.

“Those are valves, at least in England,” Topper said. “Whatever they call them in France or America, they're not the problem. We're about to take the whole thing apart and put it back together. Again.”

“Good luck,” I said, my voice low. “And keep riding me, Topper. That'll play well with Blake. Maybe we should throw a few punches at some point.”

“Leave me out of it,” Kaz said. “My ribs hurt enough already.”

“Blame Billy for your fall,” Topper said. “Then I'll step in, and we'll let the fireworks happen.”

“Okay, after some chow and shut-eye,” I said, and headed out, checking for the end of the tunnel. I came to an intersection and took a right. It was unlit, pitch black after a couple of steps in. I steadied my hands against the cool limestone and walked farther. The tunnel curved, and when I turned around, there was no light at all. I backtracked, feeling that sensation of being buried alive again. The main corridor branched out into a series of connected spaces. Sleeping quarters, weapons storage, even a washroom with a faucet attached to a pipe. Running spring water and an old galvanized metal bathtub. I'd been in worse hotels.

“Have a seat, Sergeant,” Sonya called to me. “Welcome to our
salon
.” I took a spot on the bench as she ladled hot turnip soup from a pot. There was warm bread and wine. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Here in the larger room, I didn't feel the dread of the shadowy tunnels. I didn't normally get spooked that easily, but this setup reminded me of nights when I was a kid scampering up the dark stairs at the back of the house, certain a ghost was at my back.

“Do you cook down here?” I asked Sonya as I inhaled the steaming soup.

“No, the cook brought this through the tunnel, fresh from the kitchen,” she said. “She's been with the count forever, so there's no need to worry.” She must have read my mind.

Babcock and Fawcett were already digging into their food, and I nodded to the other men sitting around the wood table, the planks shiny with age and use.

“How soon we gettin' outta here?” The question came from one of my fellow Americans, a squat guy who needed a shave and a lesson in manners. “I can't take no more turnips.”

“Billy Boyle,” I said, extending my hand across the table. He took it and gave me the briefest of shakes, as if he wasn't used to friendly gestures.

“Roy Meyer,” he said, crooking his thumb in the direction of the guy sitting next to him, leather flying jacket draped across his shoulders. “Me an' Switch is with Armstrong. We been here since our Marauder got hit awhile back.”

“Alvin Blake,” Switch said, standing to give me a solid handshake and a once-over. “Everyone calls me Switch.” He had an easy smile and striking blue eyes that bored into mine. Switch had an air of easy authority about him, as if he were more used to giving orders than obeying them. He was freshly shaved and wore his brown hair short, unlike his pal Meyer, whose thick black hair curled around his face and blended in with the dark stubble.

“There's what, seven crewmen on a B-26?” I asked. “Any others make it?”

“Copilot and bombardier got it when a Focke-Wulf 190 came at us head-on,” Switch said. “Rest of us bailed out, but Armstrong, Dogbite, Meyer, and me lost sight of the other guys on the way down. We got separated on the ground, and the Resistance brought me, the skipper, and Dogbite here. Meyer a few days later.”

“That bastard Riley better be alive,” Meyer put in. “He owes me fifty bucks. Say, Boyle, what are you, some kind of hero, goin' out with them others?”

“I like a walk in the country now and then,” I said. “And I like putting distance between me and officers even better. Where's Armstrong?”

“Dunno,” Meyer said with a shrug.

“Armstrong's a good pilot,” Switch said. “But he's nothing special on the ground. He spends all his time moping around and reading. A lot like Brookie the Canuck, except
he
don't read.” They both laughed, a harsh cawing that made the kid at the end of the table flinch.

“Paul Brookes,” he said, giving me a weak wave, and then returning to an intense study of the wood grain. He was pale and thin, with long shallow cheeks and a droopy mouth that looked like it had forgotten what a smile was.

“So you don't like officers?” Meyer said, lighting up a cigarette with all the joy of a smoker long denied. “Thanks for the smokes, by the way, even though they're Chesterfields.”

“Chapman ripped into me for going along on the raid without asking,” I said, keeping my voice to a whisper. “He thinks I'm his goddamn servant.”

“I don't like officers on principle,” Switch said. “Asshole or prince, their job is basically to get us killed, that's how I got it figured.”

“Dogbite doesn't seem to agree with you.”

“That guy is certifiable,” Meyer said. “One helluva gunner, I'll give him that. But he loves a fight, and it don't matter with who.”

“Fawcett didn't seem to mind going along, either,” I said. “What's his story?”

“Ask Brookie, why don't you?” Switch said, his lips forming into a sneer. “You and Fawcett are buddies, aren't you, Brookie?” He and Meyer rocked with laughter as Brookes rose and left the room, his eyes riveted to the floor and his hands stuffed into his blue RCAF tunic. His drawn, pale face was expressionless, as if he'd hidden all emotion away. I was about to ask what the hell they were talking about when Juliet burst into the room.

“The Germans searched the château this morning,” she said. That got everyone's attention.

“Was anyone taken?” Sonya asked.

“No. It was only Zeller and a few men. He said there were reports of parachutists and that he was obliged to search. He was almost apologetic, according to the count,” Juliet said.

“No one's seen Armstrong for a while,” Switch said, shaking a cigarette loose from his pack.

“No more smoking,” Juliet said.

“There are air vents,” Sonya explained. “It wouldn't do for a German to smell cigarette smoke in an empty stable. Especially American cigarettes. And Switch is right. We need to look for Lieutenant Armstrong.”

“How many places can he be?” I asked.

“He's been to the château,” Juliet said. “There had to be someone down here who knew his way around. There are lots of secret panels and hiding places. Maybe he heard the Germans and hid himself.”

“I'll help,” Switch said, pocketing his smokes. Meyer said the same, which surprised me. These guys didn't impress me as the volunteering type.

“No,” Juliet said. “I want everyone in this room in case we need to leave in a hurry. Sergeant Boyle, Sonya will show you to a place where you can sleep. One of us will get you when it's time to leave.”

“What about Armstrong?” I asked.

“Sonya will look for him,” she said. “I need to go to Dreux. The count told Zeller I was there on business. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Zeller, that's the
Abwehr
captain?” I said to Sonya as she led me to my room.

“Yes. Juliet knows he might check on her whereabouts, so if she gets stopped at a roadblock, it will be an alibi. Or close to one, at least.”

“Do you think Zeller suspects anything?”

“No, he is naturally suspicious,” she said, pulling aside a curtain and showing me a room with a rough cot and a wooden table with a single unlit candle. “Our finest accommodation. Sleep well, Sergeant.” She smiled and dropped the curtain, leaving me in darkness.

I dropped my gear and found the cot. Unlaced my boots, pulled off my field jacket, and began to take off my shoulder holster. Then I thought about Zeller and his pals. They might be back, looking for those parachutists who blew up his bridge. The Police Special revolver dug into my ribs, but it was a comforting pain, and I left it there. I stretched out on the bed and felt exhaustion claiming me as its own. I'd awoken almost two days ago in England, and now I was falling asleep in occupied France, buried deep in the count's limestone caves. Strange.

More strangeness swirled through my mind. What was there about the Forest of Dreux that frightened the Germans? They'd conquered all of Europe; what was so scary about a patch of woods in France? Or was it a story people told because it made them feel safe?