Scorched Earth (27 page)

Wednesday 23 August 1944–Thursday 24 August 1944

Marc didn’t sleep that night. He thought about the truck exploding. Men not much older than himself grabbed their shirts off the grass and ran towards other men not much older than himself who’d just been killed or had bits of their bodies blown off.

Part of what troubled Marc was how easy it had all been. Finding the explosives was a stroke of luck. There’d been no problem getting into the compound. The escape was uneventful and once they’d switched to civilian clothes, the walk back to Saint Cloud was no bother either.

Marc thought about Jae and got scared. What if she was caught up in a battle near the farm? What if he got trapped inside Paris, or died somehow before he ever saw her again? Most of his stuff was already packed in a bag on the bedroom floor. There were bikes downstairs and if he rode off now he’d be with Jae by sunrise. And if anything went wrong, they’d at least die in the same place …

Paul spoke softly from his mattress down on the floor. ‘Are you OK, mate?’

‘Fine.’

‘I can hear you sniffling. What’s the matter?’

‘I’m just sick of everything,’ Marc said. ‘The sniper scope, plastic explosive, grenades, petrol bombs, trucks, dead bodies. And Henderson.’

Paul was surprised. ‘You’ve always been his favourite.’

Marc felt guilty as Paul sat on the corner of his bed and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Look at me crying,’ Marc said. ‘You’re the one who lost everyone. Your mum, your dad … Rosie.’

‘You never had family in the first place,’ Paul said, feeling tears well up. ‘I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I keep remembering one time. Me and Rosie were really little. Playing in the bath, and my mum sitting in a chair laughing at us. The memory hurts, but at least I lived it.’

‘I wanna make new memories with Jae,’ Marc said, choking back a sob. ‘The only ones in my head are shit.’

*

Marc was still depressed when he wandered down to the barricades on Thursday morning. His mood wasn’t helped by sickening tension in a community that didn’t know which to fear more: sudden death, or slow starvation.

Not long after sunrise there was a series of blasts across the river. A woman who usually walked over the bridge with communist news sheets came today in tears with a party of refugees.

Eighty Germans had been killed in the blast at the tank park. As day broke, tanks had poured on to the streets across the river, seeking revenge. Tanks smashed through homes, apartment blocks were set ablaze with flamethrowers and anyone who tried escaping the burning buildings had been shot at or beaten up.

Thick black smoke billowed across the river. Plenty of people around the neighbourhood knew that the explosives had been ambushed nearby and that Henderson was responsible for the attack on the tank park.

Besides grieving for people across the river, there was a terrible fear that the Germans would come here seeking revenge if they found out the truth. Henderson’s status as neighbourhood leader evaporated just as rapidly as it had taken hold a few days earlier. Nobody bothered manning the barricades or ambush points and Henderson found people looking away, or taking cover indoors when he approached.

He called a meeting of his own people in the apartment and gave a blunt assessment. ‘I have no vehicles apart from bikes. Guns and ammunition are critically short. Worst of all, half the neighbourhood knows I’m here and that I’m behind the blast at the tank park. The Germans are weak, but there’s still a chance they could send in a snatch squad to arrest us.’

‘That’s if the locals don’t shoot us first,’ Luc added.

Henderson continued. ‘Our only realistic option is to leave the area and head towards Beauvais. We’ll get food there and we left a significant amount of equipment with the Maquis in the woods. Assuming that our set is intact, we’ll also be able to re-establish direct radio contact with campus.’

‘Err, pardon me,’ Joel said. ‘But didn’t we leave Beauvais when the Maquis were under heavy shelling? Jean and his men aren’t
exactly
going to welcome us back with open arms.’

‘It could be delicate,’ Henderson admitted. ‘But there’s a lot of room in the woods and it’ll certainly be a lot less precarious than it is here.’

Edith looked at Marc. ‘You’ve been back to Beauvais – what do you reckon?’

‘The Milice are still in the woods. Jean’s only interest is in keeping the boys alive and I’ve not heard of any trouble.’

Luc felt miserable because the move would take him away from Laure, but he tried to hide his emotions. ‘When are we leaving?’ he asked.

‘It’s less conspicuous if we travel in two or three groups,’ Henderson said.

Marc nodded. ‘Everyone knows us here and things could turn nasty if they see us making a run for it.’

‘We’ll wait until darkness,’ Henderson agreed.

‘What about the curfew?’ Paul asked.

‘What curfew?’ Marc said. ‘Germans are way too scared to stand out in the open at checkpoints now. If anything we’re more likely to get stopped and harassed in daylight.’

Henderson spent a few seconds thinking. ‘Don’t tell anyone we’re leaving. We’ll keep showing our faces around the neighbourhood and act like we’re trying to get people back behind the barricades.’

Marc was longing to get back to Jae and cheered up knowing they’d soon be close. Henderson sent Luc and Edith down to the barricades, but everyone was indoors and even the Maquis had vanished.

Not long after 2 p.m., a German convoy crossed the bridge from the city. Twenty tanks thundered west towards the front lines, followed by half-tracks, motorised artillery and two dozen open-sided trucks crammed with soldiers.

Jean-Claude knocked on the apartment door just before 7 p.m. When he stepped inside, it was clear that Henderson’s team was preparing to leave.

‘I wanted to listen to the BBC,’ he said.

Everyone gathered around the radio, apart from Luc, who was downstairs enjoying a final chance to spend time with Laure. The broadcast mentioned that British troops had reached Rouen, while the Americans were across the Seine at Fontainebleau. Paris didn’t get a mention.

‘I’m sorry you’re leaving,’ Jean-Claude said. ‘At least you have the balls to fight.’

‘You’ll have to stay here now you’ve seen us packing,’ Henderson said, as he reached for a key off the table and held it up. ‘But it’s a decent apartment – you might as well make use of it once we’ve gone.’

‘Your radio?’ Jean-Claude asked.

‘It came with the apartment,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s staying here.’

As Henderson passed the apartment key to Jean-Claude, an American spotter plane skimmed noisily overhead.

‘Jesus,’ Paul gasped. ‘That practically stripped tiles off the roof.’

Marc and Edith watched out of the window as the aircraft turned, using moonlight reflecting off the Seine to navigate towards the city centre.

‘Bye-bye, Paris,’ Edith said gently. ‘I just hope the Germans don’t blow you up before I get to come back and see you properly.’

*

It was a quarter past one on Thursday morning as Marc’s bike led Edith’s and Joel’s away from the apartment. He had a pistol and knife on his belt and a few pieces of clothing in his backpack, along with his disassembled sniper rifle.

Marc led the group because he knew the route to Beauvais better than anyone. The plan was for Paul to follow twenty minutes later with Sam, then Henderson, Luc and PT would leave half an hour after that.

Marc was keen to get back to Jae, but he always got a tiny bit sad when he left somewhere. The hot weather had finally started to break. The cobbles were slippery under his slim tyres and there was a gentle drizzle in the air as he pumped his legs up the steep hill.

He had to dismount and lift the bike over the unmanned barricade at the top. After checking behind to make sure Edith and Joel were keeping up, he rolled left and started down a gentle slope.

The cobbles made things rough, but there was childish pleasure to be had from the shuddering handlebars and the drizzle felt refreshing after so many hot days.

Marc picked up more speed than he should have and the brakes squealed as he neared the bottom of the hill. The narrow road turned in a gentle arc, but he was shocked by a vehicle shooting out of a side-turning less than 20 metres ahead. Its headlamps were on full beam, which broke every German regulation, and the compact, open-topped vehicle was something he’d seen before but didn’t instantly identify.

Marc’s first instinct was fear but, as he braked hard, aiming to turn around and make a fast getaway, he worked out that it was a Jeep like the ones American aircrews used on the roads near CHERUB campus.

But what was a Jeep doing here?

As the bike stopped, Marc raised a hand to shield his eyes from the beam of light. A tall man stood up on the passenger side, looking downhill through binoculars. Edith had joined the dots much faster and rolled right into the light.

‘Are you Americans?’ she squealed, grinning helplessly. ‘Tom and Jerry? Mickey Mouse? Bugs Bunny?’

While Edith was reduced to spluttering the names of cartoon characters, Marc trembled and spoke half-reasonable English.

‘Do you need any help, sir?’

The tall man lowered his binoculars and was clearly surprised to hear English. ‘How’s the bridge down the hill?’

‘Intact,’ Marc said. Since it was dark and the headlight beams were blinding him, the scene felt a lot like a dream. ‘You’ve got a clear run down the bridge from here.’

‘What about Krauts?’

‘Not in this neighbourhood,’ Marc said. ‘It’s all residential. Turn left on to the bridge and it’s pretty much a straight ride to the city centre from there.’

The American gave Marc a little salute. ‘You might want to step off your bikes. This road’s about to get busy.’

As the tall American sat down, his driver spoke into a radio microphone. ‘Pathfinder six reporting. Bridge fifty-four is clear to go. Repeat, fifty-four clear to go. Over and out.’

Marc, Edith and Joel exchanged wary smiles as they stood astride their bikes.

‘Do we keep riding, or what?’ Joel asked.

‘In pitch dark, with a convoy on the way?’ Marc said. ‘We need to go back and warn the others.’

They’d been pacing themselves for a four-hour ride to Beauvais, but Joel had no need to hold back as he led the return, pedalling as fast as he could and almost losing it on the damp cobbles. When they got to the apartment, they bolted up to the third floor and encountered Paul and Sam coming downstairs with their luggage.

‘Nobody’s riding anywhere tonight,’ Joel said.

Edith charged up to the third floor and burst into the apartment. ‘Americans!’ she shouted jubilantly. ‘They’re at the top of the hill.’

Henderson shot up off the couch, but when he spoke he sounded suspicious. ‘What do you mean? Tell me
exactly
what you saw.’

‘Americans!’ Edith shouted, as she jumped in the air and clapped.

Marc arrived last and began a more detailed explanation. As he spoke, he became aware of a rattling sound. It was clearly tank tracks, but they moved faster than the German tanks they’d grown used to and their petrol engines purred, in contrast to the slow chug of German diesel.

‘
Now
I believe you,’ Paul said, as he opened the front window to get a proper look.

Several other locals had thrown their windows open and shouts came from all directions.

‘They’re coming,’ Paul screamed. ‘We’re gonna be all right!’

Luc burst in with Laure as the lead tanks started to cross the bridge. As Edith joined Paul at the window a squadron of British escort fighters swooped overhead, but apparently found nothing worth shooting at.

A nervous silence broke out as the American pathfinders made a dash for the city centre, but as clocks neared 02:30, the sound of Jeeps, tanks and trucks again filled the street. This time people shouting thanks to the Americans out of their windows found indignant shouts coming back in French.

‘We’re no bloody Yanks. We’re French!’

Even in daylight it would have been an easy mistake. The Free French Army wore rebadged American uniforms and rode in American-made vehicles. They poured down towards the bridge in such numbers that they were forced to knock down barricades and use other routes.

A church bell clanged as everyone headed downstairs. Luc caught up with Laure on the way down and raised one of her lads to his shoulders. As people poured out of their doorways, the street backed up with tanks and trucks painted with small French flags.

Girls in their night clothes jumped on the side of trucks and kissed soldiers. A French soldier shouted out of the top of a tank. ‘Are the telephones working?’

The woman downstairs, who had the only telephone in the building, shouted back, ‘Yes!’

‘Call my mother on o-nine-eight-one. Tell her I’ll be dropping in for breakfast!’

The single church bell became a chorus from all directions and someone placed a gramophone at an upstairs window and began playing
La Marseillaise
.

Henderson came down with his last bottle of champagne, to smiles and pats on the back from neighbours who’d been avoiding him all the previous day. After taking a couple of swigs Henderson passed the bottle into a truck, with no expectation of getting it back.

‘I called your mother,’ the woman downstairs cried, as the backed-up convoy started moving again. ‘She said she’s waiting for you and she loves you!’

Marc had tears streaking down his face as Edith jumped on to a tank and had her slender frame lifted into the turret.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Henderson shouted cheerfully.

‘Berlin or bust!’ Edith shouted back, though she changed her mind and jumped down as her ride neared the bridge.

PT danced around with Laure’s younger son balanced on his shoulders as the next line of trucks lit up the top of the hill.

‘I can’t believe they’re finally here,’ Paul said, looking at Marc. ‘I wish Rosie could see this.’

‘She
can
,’ Marc said, as he gave Paul an almighty slap on the back. ‘She’s up there watching, and I bet she’s bloody loving it!’