Operation Kingfisher (25 page)

‘
Heil Hitler
!’ Then the phrase he had learnt from Hans. ‘A message from the colonel, Herr Major.’ He held out the envelope and as soon as the officer had taken it he jumped back onto the bike and gunned the engine.

As he roared away towards the turning to Chevigny, his spine
crawled with the anticipation of a bullet but there was no attempt to stop him. He rounded the corner and glanced behind him in time to see the head of the convoy following in his tracks. There was no sign of Gregoire or Hans now, of course. They would be hidden somewhere in the trees. He rode on, catching great gulps of air, until he came in sight of the barricade. There was a narrow track into the woods just before it; that was where he intended to leave the road and hide.

As he approached, he let out a whoop of triumph and raised his arms in a gesture of victory. Then the bike seemed to explode beneath him and he was hurtling through the air and into oblivion.

Gregoire, perched in the branches of a tree above the road, saw Luke go past. He waited until the last vehicle of the convoy and the troop carrier which brought up the rear were beneath him, then he fired a Verey pistol. As the flare rose into the sky, a cacophony of shots broke out. The Bren gun positioned below him chattered, and several men in the troop carrier screamed and fell. The rest vaulted out onto the road and flung themselves flat, firing blind into the trees. All along the road, rifles cracked and three hundred yards further on, the Bren on the barricade opened up. A random shot blew off the catch that held the door at the back of one of the cattle trucks and a stream of terrified sheep and goats poured down the road and disappeared into the forest.

For five minutes, chaos reigned and then the firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. There was a moment of eerie silence and then a cheer rose from the trees and the men of the
Maquis
broke cover. A blood-drenched face appeared from the troop carrier, followed by the muzzle of a rifle, and a shot rang out. One of the
Maquis
cried out and fell to his knees. Xavier shouted an order, there was another shot and the face disappeared. Xavier and six of his men began to work their way along the convoy, peering into the cabs of the trucks and searching the ditches. Occasionally another shot was fired.

Cyrano was standing with Gregoire at a vantage point a little above the road.

‘They are shooting the wounded!’ he exclaimed, aghast.

Gregoire shrugged grimly. ‘What do you expect? We have no facilities for keeping prisoners.’

At length, the firing ceased and Xavier joined them, grinning broadly.

‘We showed them, yes?’

‘Oh yes, we showed them,’ Gregoire returned, unsmiling. ‘Come on, let’s get these trucks up to Chevigny.’

As they approached the village, they found the street lined with cheering men and women. The trucks were drawn up in the square and then the process began of returning the animals in them to their rightful owners.

It was no easy task. Many of them were not marked with any kind of brand, each farmer relying on recognising his own beasts. Inevitably, disputes broke out and it took all Gregoire’s abilities as a diplomat to resolve them. And there was still the question of the whereabouts of the sheep and goats that had escaped during the fight.

The day was drawing to a close by the time all the farmers had departed with their flocks and herds. It was only then that someone had the time to say:

‘Where’s Luke?’

The men were called together and a roll call taken. Three had been killed in the firing, and five others wounded, but Luke was not there and apparently no one had seen him. Vincent’s men seemed puzzled.

‘Who is he?’ one asked. ‘What does he look like?’

‘You must have seen him,’ Gregoire said. ‘He rode right past you on his motorbike, just before the convoy reached us.’

A stocky peasant boy seemed to wake from a daydream.

‘Oh, you mean the German despatch rider? I shot him.’

‘You shot him! What do you mean? Did you hit him?’

The boy lifted his shoulders. ‘I dunno. I might have hit the bike instead. He crashed into the ditch.’

Gregoire turned furiously to Vincent.

‘I told you to warn your men! You were supposed to tell them that the despatch rider was one of ours and was not to be harmed.’

Vincent shrugged. ‘I told them, but that one there…’ he indicated the peasant boy, ‘he is stupid. Half the time he doesn’t take in anything he is told.’

‘So a brave young man gets shot!’ Gregoire ground out. ‘Well, we’ll take that up later. Right now, we need everyone back to the site of the ambush to search. And let’s pray the
Boche
haven’t got there before us.’

His prayers were not answered. Before they reached the section of the lane where the ambush had taken place, they could hear the noise of engines and shouted commands. Gregoire stopped and raised his hand to halt the men behind him.

‘Too late! They must have raised the alarm at Château-Chinon when the convoy failed to arrive, and it wouldn’t take a search party long to find the remains. There’s nothing more we can do. If Luke’s alive, he’s a prisoner by now.’

Cyrano clenched his hands so that the nails dug into his palms.

‘We should never have let him do it!’

Gregoire turned on him. ‘He took no more risk than any of the others. Three men are dead! If Vincent had made sure all his men understood….’ He stopped and softened his tone. ‘I’m sorry, Cyrano. I know you feel a special responsibility for the two of them.’ He hesitated. ‘Christine will have to be told.’

‘I know,’ Cyrano said dully.

‘Can you arrange a meeting?’

‘Yes, I.…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Christ! I’m supposed to be seeing her now, at the church! She’ll be waiting.’

‘Do you want me to come and talk to her? It is my responsibility, in the long run.’

‘No.’ Cyrano took a long breath. ‘No, I’ll do it. You need to get the men back to camp. I’ll see you there later.’

When Cyrano entered the church, Christine was waiting for him.
Before he could speak, she hurried to him, her face alight with excitement.

‘I’ve heard! It was a great success. Some men came into the bar at the hotel, talking about it. Of course, I didn’t let on I knew anything about it, but they were laughing, saying it was one in the eye for the
Boche
. So all the farmers have got their animals back. I’m so glad!’ Something in his face stopped her. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

He took both her hands in his. ‘Chris, it’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

‘Luke?’ She felt as if she had suddenly lost the ability to breathe.

‘He’s missing. We don’t know what happened exactly. It’s possible he’s been taken prisoner.’

‘How?’ The words were choking her. ‘How could it happen?’

‘Come and sit down.’ He led her to a pew and sat beside her. As briefly as he could, he explained the deception they had played and Luke’s crucial part in it. ‘He didn’t have to accept the idea, but he agreed, and he must have played his part perfectly because the convoy followed him into the side road, just as planned. It was one of our own men, well, one of Vincent’s men. He’d been told the man dressed as a despatch rider was one of ours, but it seems he didn’t take it in. He … took a pot shot at him. That’s all we know. By the time we realized Luke was missing, the Germans were searching the area. There was nothing we could do.’

Christine sat frozen, her hands clenched in front of her.

‘If … if he’s a prisoner, how will we know?’

‘We’ll … we’ll make enquiries. Gregoire has contacts. Word will get out, somehow.’

‘They will know, won’t they – the Germans. They will realize he must be with the
Maquis
. They will interrogate him.’ Her voice cracked.

Cyrano gripped her hand. ‘If he’s being held locally we will find out and somehow, somehow we will get him out!’

She shook her head. ‘You won’t be able to. Perhaps … perhaps it would be better if he was killed outright.’

He put his arm round her. ‘Oh, my dear child! I wish I could say something comforting. I blame myself. If it wasn’t for me, neither of you would be here.’

‘That’s not true. We came of our own accord. It isn’t your fault.’ Her voice was toneless but he could feel her shaking.

‘You mustn’t give up hope. He may just have been wounded. The
Boche
may not have found him. He could be hiding out, waiting for dark. Tomorrow we will search the area again. Nothing is certain, yet.’

She looked at him and nodded dumbly.

‘Do you want to come back with me? Back to the camp?’

She shook her head. Somewhere at the back of her mind, through the numbness of shock, a plan was forming: Gregoire might have his contacts; so did she.

She stood up. ‘I need to get back. It’s almost curfew.’

He rose too and took her by the shoulders. ‘Chris? Are you all right? Why don’t you come back with me?’

‘I’m OK,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Then meet me here again tomorrow night. I need to know you’re OK. And there may be news.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’

He looked at her, dry-eyed, pale as death, resolute. He took her in his arms and for a moment she nestled against him. Then she drew back.

‘Must go now. Curfew. ’Night.’

The door opened and closed behind her.

Isabelle was washing dishes in the kitchen at Cave des Volcans and humming softly. As the summer weeks had passed, the burden of anxiety seemed to have lifted from her. There had been another message on the BBC, telling her that ‘Michou’s pups’ were still safe. She had no idea where they were, or whether they had reached England or not; but all that mattered was that someone was obviously looking after them. There had been no further requests from the local
Maquis
for her to store arms or explosives,
and her father had finally reconciled himself to the presence of the two Germans in the house.

She turned her head as she heard her two lodgers coming in. As she dried her hands, there was a tap on the door to the kitchen and Hoffmann appeared, followed by Schulz. Something in the Leutnant’s face told her that something had changed.

She smiled at him. ‘Good evening. How are you today?’

He smiled back. ‘Better than usual, Madame. I have good news. From tomorrow you will be relieved of the intrusion into your privacy.’

‘What do you mean?’ She frowned. ‘Are you being posted away again.’

‘Yes, but this time it is not for active duty. The powers that be have finally come to the conclusion that I am not much use to them as a fighting soldier. I have been given a desk job in Berlin.’

She caught her breath. ‘Oh, my dear boy, I am so glad! Glad for you, that is. You will be out of danger. And you, Fritz? Will you be going with the Leutnant?’

‘Oh yes, Madame. Where he goes, I go.’

‘Did you say from tomorrow? That is very sudden.’

‘That is the way the army works, Madame. Those most concerned are always the last to know.’

She felt a sudden sense of loss. ‘I shall miss you, both of you.’

‘You are very kind to say so. And we shall miss your generous hospitality. Living here has been a bright interlude in this horrible war.’

For a moment no one said anything. Then Isabelle turned aside to take a bottle from the cupboard under the dresser.

‘We must have a glass of wine, to celebrate your release. Sit, please.’ She set glasses on the table and drew the cork. ‘This is one of our best wines. I have been keeping it for a special occasion.’

She poured the wine and sat opposite her two uninvited guests.

‘What shall we drink to?’

‘To a time when we can meet as friends, not as people divided by the stupidity of war.’

‘I shall always think of you as friends, war or no war.’

‘Then let us drink to the end of the war. To peace.’

‘Yes, let’s drink to that!’

The three glasses met and touched. ‘Peace!’

‘Peace!’

‘Peace!’

L
uke regained consciousness to a sense of total dislocation. A moment ago, he had been sitting by the campfire, listening to Cyrano playing his flute, and now he was lying somewhere cold and extremely uncomfortable with no recollection of how he had got there. Boots rattled on stone not far away from his head, and a German voice barked an order. Luke had started to struggle into a sitting position but at the sound he dropped back. Had the Germans overrun the camp? Why could he not remember any fighting? He began to lever himself up again. A shaft of pain stabbed up his left arm and he passed out.

Next time he came to, everything was quiet. He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying in some kind of ditch, overhung with brambles and ferns, through which he could see the last streaks of sunset in the sky. Or was it the first streaks of dawn? He ought to get up. There was something he had to do; words he had to remember.

He lifted his head and was seized by a wave of nausea. He twisted on to his side and vomited. Slowly, the memory of the last twenty-four hours reassembled itself; he had ridden the motorbike, delivered the letter. It had all gone according to plan; but now he was here with a throbbing head and an excruciating pain in his arm. He still had no idea how that had happened. Gregoire must be looking for him, he reasoned. He must find him and report.

Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself out of the ditch and staggered out onto the road. Opposite him, was the burnt-out remains
of a jeep and to one side, the tree trunks that had been used to build the barricade. The verges on either side of the road were churned up by vehicle tracks. But there was no sign of human beings, either dead or alive. Luke turned downhill and began to walk.

‘
Hände hoch
!’ The words were German but the voice was young, almost childlike.

Luke turned slowly, raising his right arm. His left hung by his side and any attempt to lift it sent pain shooting through him. A boy of about twelve, in rough peasant dress, was facing him. In one hand he held a German pistol and in the other the end of a rope, to which were attached two goats.

Luke attempted a smile. ‘It’s all right. I’m French, like you.’

‘Liar! You’re a filthy
Boche
.’ He raised his voice. ‘Papa! Come here! Come and see what I’ve found.’

A man appeared from the trees, leading three more goats. ‘Have you got them all?’ He stopped short and stared. ‘What’s this?’

‘He must have been hiding. I saw him coming out of the forest.’

‘Look, you don’t understand!’ Luke said. ‘I’m French. I’m with the
Maquis
. I’ve been wounded somehow. Can you help me please?’

‘Oh yes!’ the man said. ‘How come you’re in German uniform then? If you expect me to swallow that story you must think I’m stupid.’

‘But it’s true! I’m in disguise….’

‘What shall we do with him, Papa?’ the boy asked. ‘Shall I shoot him?’

His father frowned, obviously at a loss. ‘No, no. We can’t do that, not in cold blood. We’ll take him with us, give ourselves time to think. Give me that.’ He reached for the pistol.

‘But Papa…’ the boy protested.

‘I said give it here!’ He snatched the gun and jerked it at Luke. ‘Move! Not that way! Up!’

Luke’s head was swimming and he thought he was going to be
sick again. Argument seemed useless, so he turned and began to plod up the road, the farmer and the boy close behind him. How he stayed on his feet for the kilometre or so between there and the farm, he did not know. Every step made him feel as if his head was going to split open and set the nerves in his broken arm jangling. Finally, he found himself outside a darkened building.

‘What shall we do with him?’ the boy asked.

‘Lock him up with the goats until morning. Then we’ll decide the best thing to do.’

‘I tell you I’m with the
Maquis
,’ Luke croaked. ‘Contact Xavier. He’ll vouch for me.’

A door was opened in what appeared to be a shed of some sort. ‘Get in there! Move!’

‘Water, please! At least give me a drink of water!’ His pleas fell on deaf ears. He was thrust through a low door into a noisome darkness. He tripped on something, fell and lost consciousness again.

Christine hardly slept at all. After leaving Cyrano the night before, she had cycled back to the hotel as if she was doing it in her sleep. She had said nothing to Mme Bolu or Jeanette. They were not
Maquis
after all and the less they knew the better, or so she told herself. The truth was that some instinct told her that once she talked about Luke, she would have to confront the reality that he might be dead.

She went through the motions of her job behind the bar and in the dining room, and when people asked her if she was all right, she told them she had a headache. As soon as she could, she escaped to her room, but there was no respite. One thought churned over and over in her mind: she had to find out if her brother had been taken prisoner.

She could not eat at breakfast. The bread tasted even more like sawdust than usual and the ersatz coffee turned her stomach. Mme Bolu wanted her to go back to bed, but she insisted on going into Montsauche. There, she searched the streets for German soldiers,
someone who might be able to get a message to Franz. If she could find him, she felt sure he would tell her if any prisoners had been taken. But today there were none drinking in the cafés or loitering on street corners. All leave, it seemed, had been cancelled.

At last she saw a solitary figure sitting at a table outside the café owned by the man who was one of her regular contacts. He was a young officer, and she recognized him as one of the men who had started to frequent the bar in the
Beau Rivage.
She had always found him polite and she knew he spoke a little French.

She slipped into the café by the back door and found the proprietor pouring a glass of beer.

‘Is that for the German officer?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Let me take it to him. I want an excuse to talk to him.’

When she set the beer on the table, the officer looked up with a puzzled frown.

‘Hello. You’re the girl from the hotel, aren’t you. Do you work here as well?’

‘I’m just helping out,’ Christine said. She hesitated, her mind working overtime. She couldn’t come straight out with her question, as she might have done with Franz, but there must be a way to introduce the subject. She said, ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’

‘What about?’

‘It’s difficult. I heard there was some fighting yesterday.’

His expression was bitter. ‘A massacre, not a fair fight. Your so-called freedom fighters ambushed a convoy. But what has it got to do with you?’

‘I’m worried. You see, I’ve got a friend – a German soldier. We’ve been … well, seeing each other.’

His eyebrows went up. ‘I thought your people took a dim view of that kind of fraternisation.’

‘Yes, they do. That’s why I’ve kept it secret. But now – I keep wondering if he might have been caught up in the fighting yesterday.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Franz – Franz Weber.’

He frowned. ‘Weber? I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s bad news. Weber was one of the men escorting the convoy. There were no survivors.’

Christine gasped. Her shock was genuine. It was a development that had never crossed her mind.

The officer looked at her.

‘If you are going to tell me that he’s got you into trouble, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.’

She felt herself blush. ‘No! No, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to know … I suppose he could have been taken prisoner?’

‘No chance! The
Maquis
don’t take prisoners.’

‘Did you … did you catch any of them?’

‘Not yet. By the time we found the convoy, they were long gone. But we will find them, and when we do.…’ He broke off and looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘You ask too many questions. What are you after, really?’

‘Nothing!’ She felt panic rising in her throat. ‘I just wanted to know about Franz, that’s all. I’m sorry.’ She looked behind her into the café. ‘I’d better get on. The boss will be wondering what I’m doing.’

She hurried back into the shop and slipped out by the back door. A few minutes later, she was cycling back towards the hotel.

She could not decide whether what she felt was relief or greater anguish. The spectre of her brother in enemy hands, being interrogated and perhaps tortured was banished, but the necessary corollary was that he was probably dead. It was possible, she told herself, that Cyrano was right and he might be hiding out somewhere, but she could not see any reason why he should be; and she refused to allow herself to hope.

For Luke, the hours of the night passed with excruciating slowness. He drifted in and out of consciousness; the pain was so bad that it made his whole body shake and once he heard a high
pitched whine, which he did not recognize immediately as his own voice. Eventually, light began to show through the cracks in the wooden walls and he heard the family moving about outside. He shouted, begging to be let out, but no one came. Then, the door opened and the boy, Louis, called the goats out, but he had the pistol in one hand.

‘Stay back! Don’t move or I’ll shoot you!’

Luke remembered how the boy had wanted to shoot him the night before, and anyway he was not at all sure that his legs would carry him if he tried to escape, so he stayed where he was.

After another long wait, he heard a vehicle drive up to the farm and then a familiar voice called, ‘Hey, Gaspard! Got a minute? I need to talk to you.’

Luke wriggled over to the barred door and began to kick at it with all his strength.

‘Jean Claude! It’s me! Luke! I’m in here. Tell them to let me out!’

There was a confused babble of voices, then the door was flung open and Jean Claude leaned in.

‘Luke! What the hell are you doing there? We’ve been searching all over for you. There’s no need to hide.’

‘Not hiding!’ Luke managed to say. ‘Kidnapped by these people!’

Christine arrived at the church that evening with a sickening sense of foreboding. Cyrano would have news, and she thought she knew what that news would be. He was waiting for her just inside the door and before he could speak, she said, ‘He’s not a prisoner. The
Boche
didn’t take any prisoners.’

Cyrano came to her and took her by the shoulders. He was smiling. ‘It’s all right. We’ve found him. You needn’t worry any more.’

She stared at him, gulping for air. Then, she threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears. ‘Oh, Cyrano, thank you! Thank you!’

He held her tightly and said, half laughing, ‘You don’t have to thank me. I’m just the messenger.’ Then, as she continued to weep, ‘Come on. It’s all right. There’s nothing to cry for now.’

She swallowed and sniffed and lifted her face to look at him.

‘Sorry. It’s stupid, isn’t it? I didn’t cry yesterday, I couldn’t. Now I can’t seem to stop.’

‘It’s shock,’ he said. ‘It does funny things to people.’ He fished in a pocket and produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her wet cheeks. ‘Here. It’s not all that clean, I’m afraid. The laundry service isn’t up to much around here.’

She took the handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘And he’s all right, really?’

‘Yes. He’s injured, but it’s not serious – a broken wrist and concussion. He’s been taken to the
château
, and Dr Martell says he should be up and about in a few days.’

‘Do you know what happened to him?’

‘He doesn’t remember anything about it, but we found the bike when we went to search this morning and it looks as if the bullet aimed at him hit the bike instead. He was probably pitched over the handlebars into the ditch. It’s just lucky the
Boche
didn’t stumble across him while they were collecting their own dead.’

‘So where has he been?’

He smiled grimly. ‘It seems a local farmer found him when he was looking for his goats and thought he was a German. When Jean Claude went to the farm to ask if they knew anything, he found Luke shut up in the goats’ pen.’

‘Oh, poor Luke!’ In spite of herself she giggled, then added, sobering again, ‘When can I see him?’

‘Tomorrow. It’s too near curfew now. I’ll take you. Meet me at the ruined cottage at ten. OK?’

‘Yes. Oh, Cyrano, I can’t believe it! I’ve been so worried.’

‘I know.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘When you came in, you said you knew he wasn’t a prisoner. How did you know?’

‘I went and asked, this morning.’

‘You did what?’

‘It’s all right. I didn’t give anything away. I said I was looking for news about a German boy I’ve been seeing.’

‘What do you mean? What boy?’

‘One of the soldiers. His name’s Franz – it was. He died in the ambush.’

‘You’ve been conducting some kind of relationship with a German soldier?’

‘Oh, it’s not like that. I mean, it wasn’t real. He asked me to meet him and I said yes, because I thought it might be a useful way to get information. He’s the one who told me about the requisitioning of the animals.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘In the grounds of the hotel, down by the lake. I mean,’ she looked up at him and then away, suddenly uncomfortable, ‘we just talked, that’s all. He was quite sweet really. I feel sorry he got killed in the ambush.’

Cyrano sighed. ‘Oh, Chris! Don’t you realize what a risk you were taking? Meeting him secretly, and then going asking after him. Who did you ask?’

‘One of the officers. One that comes to the hotel sometimes. He was having a drink at the Cheval Blanc.’

‘So he knows where you work. Are you sure he didn’t suspect anything?’

‘I … I don’t think so.’

‘Look, I think you should come back to the camp with me. You’ve been out on your own long enough.’

‘No! No, I’m fine, really. I want to go on being useful.’

He looked at her for a long moment. ‘I’m going to discuss this with Gregoire. I shall tell him I think we should pull you out.’

‘Please don’t!’

He reached out and touched her face, brushing back a strand of damp hair. ‘I worry about you. If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.’