Martin Walker - The Caves of Perigord

“What do you want the guns for?” Berger interjected. “You say your Colonel Georges has six hundred men up in the Limousin, and he hasn’t done much with them so far.”

“To assassinate your precious de Gaulle, of course. To kill priests and capitalists.” Marat laughed, showing bad teeth. “That’s what you think, no? Preparing for the great day when the Red Army marches in to liberate the groaning French proletariat. You are a fool, Berger, dreaming up your own nightmares and then choosing to live in them. Even if I wanted to turn my guns on to Frenchmen, how many of my boys do you think would be prepared to follow me? It’s hard enough to get them to kill Milice.”

“I thought the party prided itself on iron discipline.” Berger mocked.

“Maybe in Russia, where the workers already run the state. Maybe in Germany, because even if they are Communists they are still Germans. But this is France, Berger. Iron discipline is not in our nature. Steely courage sometimes, yes. Muddling through usually, yes. But discipline? You ought to attend a few of our party meetings, then you’ll see how little discipline we’ve got. You Gaullists probably do better. But my boys will be there when the invasion comes, if they have anything to fight with.”

“Thanks for the information. I’ll forward your request to London, and if they say yes I’ll come and approve your drop zones,” said Manners. He liked this man.

“Will you come and help my people with the training or should we request extra?”

“Training is what we are here to do. But London will decide. My time is getting very stretched, but there’s also an American with us.” Manners suddenly saw the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Marat’s men needed training, and it would be a good idea to keep McPhee and Francois apart for a time.

“An American? My boys will like that.”

“Wait till you see him. He insists on wearing his American uniform and he looks like a Red Indian. It’s a strange haircut they wear.”

“Even better-an American Red.” Marat laughed. “Perhaps you’ll join me in a final drink to the revolution? Or if that offends you, let’s just drink to victory.”

“We have a long ride ahead of us,” said Berger. “But thanks.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” said Marat, and turned to rap on the window again. “If Mercedes doesn’t get my signal, you’ll be shot as you leave.”

“Mercedes?” said Berger levelly, waiting by the door. “One of your Spaniards?”

“The revolution knows no frontiers, my friend.”

“That’s one of the things I don’t like about Hitler. He knows no frontiers either,” Berger retorted, and walked out of the door without looking back as Manners shook Marat’s hand.

“The Dunlop tire factory at Montlucon,” said Marat, keeping hold of his hand. “Your RAF bombers got it last September. I hear it will be in production again next month. One kilo of plastique in the right place and we can knock it out again before it starts. Will you help?”

“Montlucon-that’s some distance.”

“I can get you anywhere by rail. We have ways, hiding places.”

“How do we stay in touch?”

“Through Berger. Otherwise, he’ll never trust you again. But if you must arrange something fast, go to the Cafe de la Place in Perigueux, just behind the cathedral. You saw Mercedes, standing guard outside? She’s the waitress. Good luck, Englishman-and here.” Marat handed him the book he had been reading. “I know about secret work. One part acute terror, nine parts total boredom. You might enjoy a good book.”

The acute terror came quickly, when the demolition of the points at the shunting station of St-Felix went badly wrong. Young Oudinot, on his first mission, lit the fuse at the wrong place; the charge blew up in his face and took his head with it and the Milice post opened up with a machine gun. Two more men went down. Manners took a bullet through the heel of his boot as he came out from cover to help little Christophe get away from the killing ground of the railway lines, and then used his only handkerchief to make a tourniquet above the lad’s shattered elbow. There was no sole left on his boot but he felt no pain as he bundled Christophe over the cinders and then through the brambles and onto the hill above the village. His own charges went off, giving some cover as the Milice carried on firing bursts so long that they must be close to melting the barrel. They had cut the phone lines before moving in to place the charges, but the Germans would have a patrol here before dawn, and the rendezvous point was on the other side of the village. He had to get across, with Christophe.

He was limping now, his foot a mass of pain and Christophe an almost dead weight, as he ducked into the shelter of the churchyard and nerved himself to cross the main street. It was dark and silent, the locals knowing too well not to stir with all the firing, but he felt a thousand pairs of eyes watching him, and imagined Milice gun barrels trained on the pavement. This would never do. He slung Christophe’s good arm around his shoulder, and they hopped and tripped across, and up the side street by the shuttered bakery, and down to the stretch of waste ground near the old garage.

“Laval,” he whispered urgently. “Laval.”

“ Putain, ” replied Francois coolly, as if they were meeting on some Parisian boulevard. Heaven bless the man but he had got a van, a battered Renault with solid tires that stank of fish as they bundled Christophe into the back where another man lay groaning and clutching his stomach, blood on his chin.

The Renault refused to start. Francois swore as he worked the starting handle and Manners cocked his Sten and kept watch. Francois tried again, and with a noise as loud as the Milice guns, the engine coughed into a rough beat. Manners limped to the passenger door, which refused to open. He slid back the window and found the handle inside.

“The Germans like their fish fresh,” said Francois, settling behind the wheel and lighting a cigarette. “So the fishmonger gets a petrol ration. What’s wrong with your foot?”

“I can walk on it,” said Manners, and passed out.

He woke to the furious sound of barking, and clutched his Sten and looked groggily around for the tracking hounds and Germans that must be hunting him. But he was still in the van, the engine off, a darkened farmhouse looming close, and this monstrous din of dogs.

“It’s a kennel,” said Francois. “They raise and train guard dogs for the Milice. It’s the best cover I know.”

A man came to the door in a nightshirt and carpet slippers, exchanged a few words with Francois, and ducked back into the house. He and his wife then appeared in old raincoats. Manners fell out of the van, gasping with the flash of pain as his foot hit the ground. Then he hauled himself up and helped carry the two wounded into the barn beyond the line of kennels. They settled them on straw, and he fell again. Francois looked at his foot and pursed his lips. The farmer gave Manners some eau-de-vie that tasted of pears and he slept, his Sten gun still clutched fiercely to his chest. When he woke, Sybille was bathing his foot with a rag that came away sodden with blood.

“It’s very badly bruised, but the cuts are all superficial,” she said briskly, dressed as a nurse in a white jacket that buttoned to her long neck. It was tight around her breasts, and he blushed as she watched him stare at her. “You walked a long way barefoot on rough ground. Christophe said you carried him.”

“I didn’t feel much,” he lied. He looked down at his foot. Where the blood had been washed away, it was blue-black with the bruising.

“Perhaps the bullet stunned the nerves. I don’t know much about bullet wounds. The shock of it must have twisted your knee. It’s badly swollen, but not too serious. Keep on pouring cold water onto that bandage I’ve strapped around it. I want to keep it damp and cool. I’m treating you as if you were a horse, and I’m good with horses’ knees. You won’t walk for a week or so. Now brace yourself, this is going to hurt.” She dabbed iodine on the sole of his foot and he bit his lip against the unbearable sting.