Blue Madonna (29 page)

An argument was in progress outside. The Kraut was on his knees, guns leveled by the
Maquis
, two of whom were in a serious disagreement. The
Leutnant
looked at me, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, perhaps looking for mercy from the man he'd surrendered to. No dice.

“What's the delay?” I asked Juliet.

“Those two both had relatives in Coudray,” she said as the argument grew louder. “They each want to kill him.”

“We don't have time for this,” Kaz said, stepping between the two men.
“Je suis de la Pologne.”

They looked at each other and nodded. Kaz was from Poland, a place of a thousand Coudrays. The SS man gasped. Kaz raised his pistol.

“Für meine Familie,”
he said. The German shook his head and mouthed,
Nein, nein
, as if all his crimes might be forgotten in that single split second before the grim Polish officer standing over him squeezed the trigger. The only sound was that of a bullet hitting bone as a rosebud of blood blossomed between his eyes before he slumped to the pavement.

“Are you all right, Billy?” Juliet asked as we grouped around the German vehicle, loading it with corpses. I didn't know if she was talking about the fight or the execution.

“I'm fine,” I said, and I was. Could I have been so cold-blooded two years ago when I first left the States? Would I have thought only a callous murderer could be capable of killing a prisoner? Probably. But that kid hadn't been to Coudray.

“There was no other choice,” she said, and I realized she might need to convince herself as well as me.

I took her by the hand. “No, there wasn't. If he ever got loose, they'd come back and burn this village to the ground. And he had to pay for Coudray.”

She nodded, squeezed my hand, and got back to business.

The uproar had brought people out of their houses, eager to view the dead Germans and congratulate Monsieur Dablin on his good luck. Men appeared with bottles of wine and buckets of water. The former were passed around and the latter used to wash away the blood in the street, in case more Germans came looking for their pals.

We got out of there before the party engulfed us. Maurice drove ahead with the knapsacks of gelignite next to him and the five Nazi supermen a bloody heap in the backseat. By the time we caught up with him, he'd dragged them off into the woods. The vehicle would give us an edge, getting us close without risking a fire that might attract unwanted attention.

The
Kübelwagen
wasn't built for a dozen passengers, but we crammed in, hanging off the sides along with two men balancing on the front fenders. Maurice stopped and killed the engine several times, listening for the sound of other vehicles. Nothing came to us but the muted sounds of distant bombing, searchlights, and the glow of fires giving the night sky a vivid electric hue.

We came to the outskirts of L'étang, the last village before Chérisy. Maurice pulled to the side of the road under the overhanging branches and switched off the engine. Motorized vehicles were moving through the village, coming in from the west and turning north at the crossroads ahead.

“We have to go around,” Christine said. Around was through a field, this one cultivated with cabbage plants. We took down a section of stone wall and followed on foot as the vehicle made its way through the soft soil, finally reaching a farmer's lane which ran by a dilapidated barn and emptied out onto the main road. Maurice turned off the engine and coasted up next to the barn, signaling two of his men to scout ahead. The sound of engines receded, and it seemed the tail of the convoy had finally passed through the village.

Minutes passed. Quiet filled the air, the silence intense after the passage of so many vehicles. Then footsteps. Not the hurried steps of our men returning, but the slow, methodical slap of leather on pavement. I glanced around the corner of the barn and saw two silhouettes headed our way. One wore the familiar German helmet, the other the oversized beret of the
Milice
.

I motioned for Maurice to look, and crawled back to the others.

“One Kraut, one
Milice
,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“A
collabo
, most likely,” Christine said, using the derisive term for a collaborator. “Someone in that village got to a telephone. Why else would they be guarding the crossroads?”

“How many?” Kaz said.

“I only saw two, but if Maurice's scouts haven't shown themselves, there may be more.”

“I'd guess two on each cross street, plus a machine gun aimed along the road we would have driven in on,” Topper said.

“What's the chance it's a normal patrol?” Sonya said, giving a little shrug as if to apologize for such a simple notion.

“Let us ask one of the gentlemen walking toward us,” Kaz whispered. “The Frenchman, I think.”

“Oui,”
Christine said. “We will have no trouble getting the truth from him.”

“We can't keep using the Welrods,” I said, glancing over to Maurice, who put a finger to his lips.

“If we need more than two shots each at the gun emplacement, we are already in trouble,” Kaz said. “And if we don't get there, it won't matter.”

“He's right,” Dogbite said, his knife drawn. “Ain't got time to do a lot of thinkin' on this one.”

“Okay,” I said. “Take two men. One to catch the Kraut before he hits the ground. The other to grab the Frenchie while you put that knife to his throat. Go.”

Kaz tapped two of the
Maquis
and scooted around the barn, aiming to get behind them. I leaned over Maurice and watched the two sentries strolling the quiet street. Suddenly the German dropped to his knees and lurched forward. A figure rushed from the darkness and caught him, dragging the body into the barn. Dogbite and his partner grabbed the
milicien
, knife blade pressed to his lips. He got the message.

“Vite!”
Christine commanded as they brought him in. She was right to tell us to hurry. We didn't have much time.

Kaz did the questioning. It made sense; the guy might expect mercy from an English soldier. From the
Résistants
he'd hunted, tortured, and killed, a quick death was the best offer he'd receive.

At first, all he did was shake his head. Dogbite placed the blade against his throat, and the shaking turned to trembling, but he still didn't talk. Kaz whispered soothingly, and I could imagine all the lies he was telling the man. Dogbite moved the knife to his belly, and he began to weep. Then below the belt buckle, pressing against the buttons. He talked. Fast.

There was a German armored car hidden near the crossroads. They'd been on patrol and sent here after a report of an expected Resistance attack on Chérisy, and to watch for a stolen German vehicle. A
collabo's
work for sure.

“We should leave the vehicle,” I said.

“No, it will only tell them we passed this way,” Christine said.

“So will the bodies,” Juliet said, nodding to our prisoner, who had returned to a vigorous trembling.

“Perhaps not,” Kaz said. He spoke to the
Maquis
who'd helped with the German's body. The Frenchman smiled, grabbing the rifle the
milicien
had been carrying, and snatching the beret from his head. From inside the barn we heard a hard splintering sound, followed by softer, spongy blows.

Kaz patted the man down, removing his identity papers from his jacket. Speaking quickly, he handed them to Maurice, then motioned for him to go, pointing across the open fields. The
milicien
jumped up, eyes wide in disbelief. Maurice gave him a hard stare, and he was off, clearing the stone wall like a jackrabbit.

“I told him the Germans would find his beret next to the body of their friend, whose head is now smashed in with his
milicien
rifle. Nicely disguising the bullet hole I put there,” Kaz explained. “And that if he were stupid enough to warn the Germans, we would find him and cut him most grievously—if they did not shoot him out of hand. Also that this was his chance to be a hero of the Resistance, that his name would be known by all as an agent of the
Maquis
who had saved the day.”

“Better than gettin' your balls handed to you,” Dogbite said, flashing his blade. For some reason, everyone understood that perfectly.

We rolled the
Kübelwagen
out onto the road and pushed it away from the crossroads, starting it up only when we came to a turn that led the long way around to the Chérisy viaduct. We'd run into the Germans twice, and our luck had held. Better than theirs anyway.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dogbite crawled like
a guy who'd raided a few henhouses in his time. Elbows and knees, butt down, face caked with mud, careful with each branch and twig in his path. I was right behind him, crawling through the brush at the edge of the river, trying to be half as quiet. Maurice, being a big guy and not what you'd call light on his feet, was wading through the water below. His plan was to climb up the riverbank at the base of the viaduct, over a thirty-foot jumble of roots and rocks, which would put him about thirty yards from the gun.

Dogbite turned to face me, palm down. I followed his lead, slithering into a drainage ditch. It wasn't deep, and we could see across the road to the field where the twenty-millimeter antiaircraft gun was set up. Of course, that meant they could see us as well.

A gentle wind rustled the trees behind us, covering the sounds we made advancing on the gun and the viaduct. There was Maurice, making his climb from the base of the bridge; Topper and three men in the brush behind us, knapsacks of explosives and lengths of rope at the ready; Kaz and Christine, outfitted in SS tunics and Kraut helmets, ready to start the
Kübelwagen
at exactly two o'clock and drive to the emplacement, headlights with the pencil-thin slits aimed away from our line of approach; then Sonya and Juliet, in position to sprint across the viaduct and watch for trouble from the other side. One man to guard the road from Chérisy, in case of a surprise visit from the nearby eighty-eight-millimeter gun crew. Two more behind me, holding our weapons. If we needed more than knives, we were lost.

I glanced at my watch: ten minutes to go. We crawled a few more yards and halted, the sandbagged emplacement about twenty-five yards straight ahead. Moonlight glinted off the long twenty-millimeter gun barrel as the gunner in his bucket seat swiveled back and forth, idly searching the starlit sky. He depressed the barrel and aimed it right along the bridge, and we both instinctively ducked. Seconds later it pointed skyward again, the routine of a bored crew playing out as we closed in around them.

A scrabble of rocks fell to the water to my left. Maurice? I watched the emplacement but saw no reaction, just the lazy movements of the gun above the sandbags. The sandbags we desperately needed.

One minute before two. I'd expected to catch a glimpse of Maurice by now, but he was either well hidden or not in place yet. I scanned the field ahead, watching for signs of an unexpected patrol. It was quiet. Tobacco smoke drifted in the breeze, along with murmurs and a quick, cutting laugh. Peaceful, in an odd sort of way.

The Germans heard the engine as we did. Two of them moved to the side, leaning on the waist-high sandbags to see who was coming. Curious, not alarmed, since it was probably normal for an officer to make the rounds. The smoker flicked his cigarette in the air, the glowing tip arcing toward me before hitting the ground. In the dark, two thin slits of light approached the Germans, demanding attention. It was what we counted on.

We rose, crouching, ready to sprint, knives unsheathed. The vehicle drew closer. I made myself count to three, not wanting to jump the gun.
That's funny
, I thought, then tapped Dogbite and launched myself, head down, watching the ground ahead, careful not to trip or give any warning. I ran over the still-smoldering cigarette, my stride lengthening, and saw a figure in the
Kübelwagen
stand, arm extended. Two figures within the emplacement dropped as I timed my leap, jumping over the sandbags and stabbing the first German I blundered into, my knife going between his ribs as he looked me in the eye before the blade sliced into his heart and stopped everything. Pushing him aside, I scrambled around the gun, grabbing at the gunner's helmet, trying to pull him off his seat before he could squeeze off a shot and alert every Kraut within a mile.

Too late, I saw it was a waste of time. The bullet hole in his helmet marked him as dead already. Dogbite grabbed a Kraut who had one leg over the sandbags, slit his throat, and pulled him back in. Six down, or maybe all seven, if Dogbite had gotten two. Where was Maurice?

Instinctively I put my arm up as I sensed movement from the side. A shovel hit me and bounced against the gun barrel, and I felt a boot in my gut. I reeled backward as a German vaulted the sandbags, running in the direction of the next emplacement. I bolted after him, barely able to get a lungful of air as I recovered from the kick he'd given me. An officer, judging by his fancy black boots, which didn't do much for his running style. I was on him as he gasped out a cry, taking him to the ground and falling on top of him, crushing the
Achtung
or whatever he'd been trying to scream right out of him. He punched at me, trying to throw me off, terror in his eyes as he realized his mistake and went to grab my knife hand instead.

Too late.

With all the force I could muster, I plunged the knife into his chest, once, twice, then a third time. He gasped, one hand still in the air, his fingers fluttering like an injured bird trying to fly away. It hit the ground, and he was dead. I rolled off, pulling the blade from his chest, and noticed something about him.

He looked like me.

Same build, same color hair, even the same color eyes. A mouth and chin I easily recognized.

“You got him, Billy!” Kaz whispered, kneeling at my side. “We did it!”

“Yeah. Help me hide the body, okay?” We rolled him down the riverbank. I didn't say anything about his looks. I thought maybe I was seeing things. I didn't know which would be worse, killing my double or imagining my face on a man I stabbed to death.

We ran back to the gun where the sandbags were already being removed and hustled out to the viaduct. Maurice was in the
Kübelwagen
, one leg up on the rear seat.

“He is sorry,” Christine said, as Maurice grimaced and nodded. “He slipped on the rocks. His leg may be broken.”

“We'll get him somewhere safe when we're done,” I said, figuring the Resistance had a friendly doctor or two in the area. I joined the group pulling sandbags and running them to the bridge. The burlap sacks were heavy and clumsy, and the best I could manage was one balanced on each shoulder. I dumped my first load near the rope tied off on the railing, where Topper had climbed to the first chamber, about five feet below. Knapsacks were being lowered by another rope and pulled in by a
Maquis
assisting Topper in the tight chamber.

“How's it going?” I asked, keeping my voice as low as possible.

“I'll need twenty minutes or so,” Topper said, sticking his head out. “I wish we had more cordex. I had no idea how long this damn bridge was.” He went back to work, and I ran for another load of sandbags. Cordex—we Yanks called it detcord—was faster than a fuse; when you set it off, the entire length exploded at once. Topper was running the detcord through blocks of gelignite. When he was done, he'd run it as far as he could along the bridge and connect a blasting cap, which would ignite the whole damn thing.

Being far enough away was pretty important.

I loaded Kaz up with two sandbags and hoisted another pair myself. Back when I'd first met Kaz, in the spring of '42, he probably couldn't have lifted one of these, much less run with two. War changed people. I bet both of us would scare the hell out of our former selves. I knew I wouldn't want to have met this new me in a darkened Boston alleyway.

When I got back for another load, the man we'd left to guard the Chérisy road was driving off with Maurice.

“I told them to wait down the road,” Christine said, running back from the railroad tracks. “We can't leave Maurice alone in case something happens.”

“Good idea. Anything happening in that direction?” I pointed downriver, where we thought the
Hitlerjugend
might be boarding a train.

“I felt the tracks vibrate, then stop. It means the train may have halted a mile or so away.”

“Jesus, they could be on us any time,” I said.

“Perhaps we should ready the twenty-millimeter gun?” Kaz said.

“It's not enough,” I said. “We might stop the engine, but we can't take on a whole trainload of SS. Let's get the job done and hope the timing works out.”

Christine eyed the twenty-millimeter and the stacks of ammo, and I knew she wanted to exact more revenge for Coudray. I did, too, but from a safe distance.

At the bridge, I dumped the sandbags and let myself down the rope to check on progress. Topper was bent over in the small circular chamber, a spool of detcord in his hand, a stack of sandbags about a foot high in front of him. “Done,” he said, handing me the detcord as he crawled out. “Let's get the rest of the sandbags down. The more the better.”

I climbed back up as the
Maquis
began handing the bags over the rail, fire brigade style. I handed the detcord to Topper, who began running it along the iron railing that ran waist high the length of the viaduct. I ran in the other direction to tell Juliet and Sonya we were almost done.

“Anything?” I whispered when I found them at a curve in the tracks.

“No,” Sonya said, resting her Sten gun on the rock she'd hidden behind. “We can hear the Germans on the hill when the wind is right, but they're not close.”

I told them about Christine feeling the rails.

“That's not good,” Juliet said. “The Germans are known to patrol vulnerable stretches of rail when a troop train is due to pass through.”

“Perhaps they think this area well guarded,” Sonya said.

“I hope. Listen, I'll come get you when we're done with the sandbags. We'll have to hurry. We have more bridge than detonating cord, it seems.”

I ran back. Topper wanted even more sandbags. We relayed another thirty, pretty much the last of them, and he thought we might have a chance.

“Damn thing is too well made,” he said, lowering himself down the rope to pack in the last of the bags himself.

“Vibrations,” Christine said, her hand resting on the rail. “We don't have much time.”

“Pull me up,” Topper said, grasping my hand. “I'll get the cord set. Toss the rope over.”

I made for Juliet and Sonya, stopping in my tracks at the sound of gunfire. From the direction of the Chérisy road came a volley of rifle fire and repeated bursts of machine guns. German patrols. Had they found Maurice? I raced ahead slouching low as I advanced, Thompson at the ready.

Sonya spotted me. She was hidden behind a rock, pointing down the track. A German patrol, four or five men that I could see, advancing at quickstep in response to the shooting across the bridge.

Things were going to get noisy. And deadly.

We couldn't pull back across the bridge; they'd be on us before Topper was ready. Shots picked up again across the river, and I began to worry we'd be trapped on this side if the Germans won that fight. Juliet and I were hidden behind the curve of the track, Sonya in the rocks ahead. The Germans entered a narrow cut, their boots echoing on the thick wooden ties. Even in the dark, they were bunched together. Easy targets.

Juliet whispered, “Now?” Sonya looked to me. I nodded, taking out a grenade from my jacket. I pulled the pin, let the safety go, and waited two seconds, then threw it into their midst.

An explosion, screams, and then I stood on the tracks, emptying the Thompson into whoever was left standing. One Kraut was still in business with his submachine gun, and I scrambled to the other side of the tracks as I reloaded. Sonya and Juliet each kept up with bursts from their Stens, forcing him to stay under cover. I crawled forward, looking to get an angle on him. Then I saw the grenade. The German potato masher with its wooden handle, sailing end over end. I yelled a warning, and then dove behind a rock, firing as the Kraut made his run for it, only to get a burst of .45 rounds in his back.

The grenade bounced about ten yards out. I huddled behind the rock as it exploded, the sound deafening in the narrow railway cut.

There were no screams. Only the silence that settled in after a fight, overlaid with the scent of blood, gunpowder, and violence. I checked the Germans to be sure they were dead. It needed to be done, but it gave me a few seconds to prepare.

I turned and saw Juliet standing over the body of Sonya.

“She's dead,” Juliet said, her voice ready to break. I felt nothing but relief, relief that Juliet—my Diana—was alive. The fact that another person was dead would sink in later, I knew, and I'd be ashamed. But now, I only cared about life. Her life.

“Yes, but we have to go. Now.” I tried to take her by the arm.

“No, Billy. We can't leave Sonya.”

“There's no time to worry about the dead.”

“It's the living I worry about,” she said. “The Germans will try to trace the identities of anyone they find. We don't carry our papers, but she's well known in the area.”

Of course. I hadn't thought of that. I knelt, picking up Sonya's shattered body, blood oozing from a terrible wound on her back. She'd tried to outrun the grenade, or hadn't seen it in time. Either way, it didn't matter. Sonya was gone, as was whoever she had once been.

Her body was slippery, the blood coating my hands and making it hard to keep a grasp on her dead weight as I stumbled along the railroad tracks.

“Here,” Kaz said, gesturing with his hand for us to hurry. He was at the end of the bridge, near the base where Maurice had broken his leg. Topper was busy connecting blasting caps to the end of the detcord.

“Oh, no,” Christine said as I approached, Sonya cradled in my arms. Her face crumpled. Then she recovered, calling for two
Maquis
, who took the body and headed downstream, leaving me exhausted and with bloodstained hands. “Maurice is dead. They fought off the patrol, but at least one got away. We must hurry.”

“Done here,” Topper said, wrapping waterproof tape around the blasting cap connections. We followed him down the riverbank as he unspooled the last of the detcord, stopping not twenty feet away. “That's it. I connect the detonator to the caps, and Bob's your uncle.”