Clash by Night (5 page)

He closed his eyes and rubbed the shirt over his damp hair, and then mopped his upper body, jingling his dog tags with the motion. He glanced at his watch. Reveille was in five minutes. He stretched and wondered how long he would have to wait before getting some kind of word on his candidacy for the mission.

* * *
 

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. Of the men present for Forrest’s announcement, thirteen asked to go on the mission, and the commander interviewed only half of them during the following week. Five days after Harris notified Gray that he wanted to be considered he was ushered into Forrest’s office, where Forrest and Lieutenant Gray were already there. He presented himself, saluting, and then waited for direction. Gray nodded to him and then quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Sit down, Captain,” Forrest said, shuffling through a pile of papers on his desk. “You may smoke if you like.”
 

Harris lit up gratefully and noticed that his fingers were trembling.
 

He wanted this very much.

“I have your records here before me, Dan, and they create an impressive picture. Top grades in college, second in your class at Quantico, flight school at Cherry Point, 150 safe jumps,” Forrest began, perusing the file and then looking up at Harris. He nodded his head slightly, tapping the manila folder with a nicotine stained forefinger. “We don’t have time to waste, so I’ll fill you in as much as I can at this point. The man chosen for this enterprise will be on his own in a foreign country, hostile territory, without support from this service or the government. You’ve shown yourself capable of handling those conditions or you wouldn’t be sitting here right now, but I would like to know why you want to go.”
 

Harris examined his cigarette thoughtfully. All his prepared rhetoric fled his mind and he spoke his feelings plainly.

“The whole world is going to be turned upside down by this war, sir, and we can’t escape it. I want to get into it early and help out on the right side. If we say that it has nothing to do with us, before we know what’s happened that will change, and by then it might be too late.”

“That’s all you have to say, Dan?”

Harris frantically searched his consciousness for some brilliant final comment, some pithy remark that would convince Forrest the operation could not possibly proceed without him. But he’d never been a talker and he came up empty.

“Yes, sir, that’s it,” he said firmly, as if reinforcing a point of staggering weight.

Forrest nodded slowly, dropping the cover on the file he held. “All right, son. Fair enough. You’re dismissed.”

Harris rose, unable to look at Forrest for fear of the rejection he might see in his face.

He was notified that he’d been chosen the next day. Elated, he was already packing when Forrest sent for him to inform him of the details.

Lieutenant Gray accompanied him into the hot, bright morning. The two men strolled across the compound, loud with the droning of bees and the incessant chirping of cicadas. They were swatting at the gnats which swirled around their heads like shifting clouds as Gray said, “They wanted God for this mission, Harris, but I guess you’re the next best thing.”
 

Embarrassed, Harris said nothing.

They stopped outside Forrest’s office. Gray, a slight first lieutenant with the air of a man who could take care of business and keep his mouth shut, extended his hand.

“I envy you,” he said, as Harris shook it. “Good luck.”

Harris nodded.

“At least you’ll be escaping these goddamn bugs,” Gray added, and Harris grinned. Gray trotted down the wooden steps of the building as Harris knocked on Forrest’s door.

Forrest stood up as Harris entered and he too shook his hand. “Congratulations, Captain,” he said, gesturing for Harris to be seated. “In order to reach you we bypassed some very fine men.”

Harris sat in a chair facing Forrest’s desk, and noticed that there was an enlarged map of France taped to the wall behind the major’s head. So it was to be France. His heart began to beat faster. He’d thought so.

Forrest folded his arms and surveyed the younger man. He had a kindly, ascetic face, like the housemaster in a British public school, and behind his back the men called him “Mr. Chips.”
 

“You’re facing a challenge, Dan,” Forrest began, “but I have every confidence that you’re equal to the job. Relax and just try to take in as much as you can. This is only one of several briefings you’ll receive, but I’ll lay out the general details of the plan today.”

Harris’ gaze shifted from the commander’s face to the map, and Forrest smiled. “As you may have guessed from the decor,” he said, “you’ll be going into occupied France to work with a newly formed Resistance group. The target is in the northeast sector, in an area called Meuse. The Germans moved in there about a month ago.” With a pointer, the major indicated the town of Bar-le-Duc, a dot on the map highlighted by a flagged pin. “Just beyond Bar-le-Duc, here, is the village of Fains-les-Sources. Bar-le-Duc isn’t really a big town, and Fains is nothing more than a village. Neither place would seem to be of much interest to the Germans, and so it is curious that they chose to set up shop in the region.” He turned back and faced Harris. “But there is a glass factory in Fains, and we have reliable information that they plan to turn it into a munitions factory.

Harris didn’t reply, too riveted to speak.

“The head of the resistance group, called
Vipère
by the way, is an Alsatian named Curel,” Forrest continued. “Very tough old bird, a recipient of the Croix de Guerre in the first war. He comes from a town in Alsace, Merlebach, which was ceded back to the French by the Germans in ‘18. In ‘21 Curel came to Fains to work in the mine outside the town. Now he’s too old to fight, but the hate is still there, and he’s organized this group to do what they can.”
 

Forrest put down the pointer and sighed. “Unfortunately, his band consists mainly of kids too young for conscription who’ve escaped deportation to the labor camps by one chance or another, and veterans like himself who are past their salad days. That’s one of the reasons they need you.”

 
Harris leaned forward in his chair.

Forrest held the younger man’s gaze as he said, “We want you to help build the Résistance in the area, develop these people so that they can carry on without you after this mission. They’re eager, and tough, but untrained, disorganized. If you can get them going and show them the ropes, they’ll be able to continue the work against the Germans when you’re gone.”
 

Harris’s blue eyes were fixed on Forrest’s face. He didn’t say anything, merely waited for the major to continue.

Forrest studied the captain for a moment, then proceeded. “The Germans have established their headquarters in the hospital at Bar-le-Duc. The commander is Colonel Anton Becker, old school, regular army. He’s way out of favor with Hitler’s boys, but his father, now dead, was an aristocrat with an ancient title and plenty of money. The Krauts didn’t want to antagonize the rest of the family, some of whom were contributing heavily to the war effort, so instead of punching his ticket they sent him to France. Ostensibly he’s just babysitting the locals, making sure they don’t get out of line. But Curel and his boys have noticed a lot of activity around the factory lately, the Germans asking questions about the maximum temperatures the furnaces will bear, advisors being sent in, that sort of thing. Last week one of the kids in Curel’s group spotted one of the ‘advisors’ melting metal bars and pouring the liquid into bullet molds. It seems pretty clear what they’re up to, and they’re apparently counting on using the regular staff at the factory as the labor force. All it would require would be some retraining and they’d have a ready-made munitions machine.”

Forrest sat once more at his desk and folded his hands on the blotter. “You were selected for a number of reasons, only one of which is that you’re a crack jumper. You’ll be flown in at night and you’ll parachute into the woods on the shore of the river L’ornain, a branch of the Marne which flows through Fains and Bar-le-Duc. Your contact will be a teenager named Alain Duclos. Curel is so sure he’s right about this German plan for the factory because they’ve allowed this Alain, and a group of other Fains boys who work there, to remain rather than sending them over the border to Germany for forced labor. The Krauts don’t do anything without a reason and Curel is betting that they’ll need the young men for the new scheme. This Duclos kid will hide you out and put you in contact with Curel. Duclos is ideal because his sister-in-law is an American who speaks French and German, the widow of Duclos’ brother, who was killed fighting the Germans last year. Duclos senior, the boy’s father, is the mayor of the town, but a collaborator.”

Harris raised his brows. “Interesting family,” he said dryly. It was the first comment he’d made.
 

Forrest nodded in agreement. “Obviously the father could be a problem, but Intelligence says the kid and the widow are absolutely reliable.”

“It’s odd that she hasn’t gone back home,” Harris observed thoughtfully. “The American woman, I mean.”

“Not so odd,” the major said significantly. “I’m told she wants to stay and work for Curel.”

“Good for her,” Harris said softly, not looking at Forrest, who seconded the sentiment in silence.

“I know I’m throwing a lot at you,” the major went on, “but all this must be done quickly. You’ll be going immediately to Parris Island for instruction in French. I know you had it in school, but you need to be fluent, conversant with the local idiom of the Paris region. You’ll also receive further training in blind jumping at night, and a crash course in demolitions.” For the first time Forrest’s serious demeanor relaxed. “You, my boy, and this gutsy bunch of Frenchies are going to blow that factory sky high.”

Harris grinned widely. “Yes, sir!”

Forrest permitted himself to smile back. “You’ll be on your own, son,” he warned again. “Officially we’re not in this war yet. If you’re caught we’ll deny any knowledge of your existence. We’ll have to, do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Dan. Get your things together. You’ll be moving out today, your language course starts tonight. The Duclos woman will translate for you once you get there, but if you’re stopped en route you have to sound enough like a native to pass, so get on it.”

“I will, sir.” Harris rose, eager to begin, and Forrest shook his hand again.

“Good luck, Captain, and Godspeed. As you said, today it’s the French, tomorrow it could be us. I know you’ll do the Corps proud.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As Harris left the commander’s office, he found it difficult to control his exhilaration. He was finally going on a real mission with a real goal.

He couldn’t wait.

He was back at the barracks, stowing the last of his effects in his duffel bag, when Gamble sauntered up and watched him in silence for a few moments before saying, “So you’re going.”

“Yup,” Harris replied, tossing him a half empty carton of cigarettes. “You might as well keep those,” he said to the other man. “I have enough.”

Gamble shook his head. “I knew they’d pick you.”

Harris half smiled. “Oh, yeah? And how did you know that?”

“You have it. Whatever it is they’re looking for, you have it, and they know it. Even
I
know it.”

Harris snorted. “You’ve been getting too much sun in this burg, Gamble. You’re babbling.”

“Do you always get what you want?” Gamble asked, ignoring him.

“Not always,” Harris replied. Then he added thoughtfully, “But usually.”

Gamble had to laugh.

“Well, good luck, chump. Better you than me.”

Harris said goodbye and walked out to the jeep that was waiting to take him off the base. Gamble shrugged philosophically and sat down on the empty bunk to smoke one of Harris’ cigarettes.

Wherever they were sending Harris, whatever happened to him, he would survive. And survive in style. The guy led a charmed life.
 

Chapter 3

On the other side of the Atlantic, Lysette Remy was standing behind her desk in the library of L’Ecole Ste. Pierre when Colonel Becker entered without warning, Kurt Hesse hurrying in his wake. She realized that the German commandant was about to conduct his inspection, and she watched, frozen, as Becker strode up to the bank of low shelves which separated her cubbyhole from the rest of the room.

He was in full uniform, and he faced her with one hand on his hip, his greatcoat draped through the crook of his arm, in the formal posture he’d been taught at the academy. He was an imposing figure, and she remained immobile as he said curtly, in French, “Have I your permission to examine the contents of this room?”

She nodded once, wondering irrelevantly what would happen if she refused him. His request was just a formality, of course, but it struck her as odd that he’d said anything to her at all. She was powerless to stop him from burning the place to the ground if he wanted to do that, and they both knew it.

She stood rooted to the spot as Becker took off his cap and held it in one hand, his fingers locked behind his back. The sun glinted on his black hair, burnishing it, as he walked up and down the rows in the single, vaulted room. He paused occasionally to examine a volume, and finally stopped before her again, with Kurt at his heels.