Martin Walker - The Caves of Perigord

“A fortress? The damn fools-it’s not even a sandcastle. What do you think?”

“Well, since they have left me cooling my heels for the past couple of hours, I’ve worked out three answers to that question. The military one is the easiest. They haven’t got the heavy weapons to hold the bridges, and somehow I don’t see these guys making a Stalingrad out of Brive,” said McPhee. “That leaves Tulle. It doesn’t make a lot of difference. We aren’t going to stop an armored division.

“Then there is the political answer. Our dear Francois, who is one smart guy, is trying to manipulate the Communists into holding Tulle and Brive because he thinks the Germans will kill them more efficiently than he ever could. Francois has worked this out, but the other Gaullist chiefs don’t understand it yet, and Francois dares not tell them-at least not in public. Fighting for Tulle and Brive will wipe out the Reds in this part of France, and leave it open for the Gaullists. I’m sitting here wondering how to get that lesson into Marat’s thick head. And that brings me to the third answer, also political, which is that the French aren’t listening to us foreigners anymore. They won’t even let you in the door.”

The armed guards on the door were respectful but firm. They had orders to admit nobody. Manners suddenly realized, and he supposed he should take a certain pride in it, that his job was virtually done. This was now a French battle, being fought and run by Frenchmen. Finally one of them understood his urgency and went in. After a few minutes, he came out with Francois, who was wearing a British Army battledress with a Tricolore on his sleeve, a Cross of Lorraine on his chest, and the rampant eagle on his shoulder that gave him the rank of colonel. Manners raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

“This will go on for some time,” said Francois blandly. “Marat is making a speech.”

“You haven’t got much time. There’s not a roadblock worthy of the name between here and the river. The panzers could be here tonight.”

“We are assured the panzers are taking the road to Tulle, to relieve their garrison.”

“Assured by whom?”

“It’s the one thing on which the Communists and we agree. We’ve both had reports from our men at Figeac.”

“Well, get me a car and an escort and I’ll drive down to Souillac and come back within the hour with an eyewitness report because I think they’ll be coming up this road too.”

“Wouldn’t you do better to drive back to the cave and get the bazookas?”

“Not until we know where best to use them. I don’t think you’re going to stop them at Brive, but the rails are all blown north of here. I think they’re going to have to head for Perigueux and go north by rail from there. When we know, we throw everything we have at them. But we have to know where the hell they are, and right now we don’t.”

“Agreed.” Francois waved across to an elderly police sergeant and told him to give the capitaine some transport, and went back inside. The sergeant looked baffled, so Manners looked inside a sleek black Citroen traction-avant, and saw that the key was in the ignition. He climbed in.

“You can’t take that. It belongs to Colonel Malrand,” shouted the outraged sergeant, as Manners fired the engine and turned the car with a squeal of tires. He braked to a halt beside McPhee, leaned across to open the door, and yelled at the American to jump in.

Thus they had got to Cressensac, and had seen the tanks and armored cars coming straight up the road that the Germans were supposed not to be taking. They had raced back to the monastery, the horn blaring nonstop, and this time Francois was already outside and waiting. Manners forced himself to climb out sedately and walked up to the gate. Never show panic before the men. Then he gave Francois a crisp salute.

“They’ve just come through Cressensac, destroying it on the way. McPhee and I saw it happen. It’s certainly the Das Reich. They had Mark IV tanks, self-propelled guns, and half-tracks full of panzergrenadiers in camouflage smocks. They were right behind us, and there’s one roadblock at Noailles that won’t last ten minutes. If you don’t end this meeting now and get dispersed within the next twenty minutes, they’ll round up the lot of you. And that’s the end of the Resistance for this part of France.”

“Come with me,” said Francois, and they went into the monastery where he told the story all over again. By the time he came out and jostled his way through some Spaniards to climb into Marat’s car, they could hear the German artillery. The escaped Russian prisoner of war who had appointed himself Marat’s bodyguard thrust a Schmeisser into Manner’s neck.

“Spokoyno,” Marat growled. The Schmeisser was lowered.

“You want to come to Tulle?” asked Marat, amused. Manners put his hand on the gear lever to stop it moving, and urgently made his case. Tulle might stop the armored column heading its way. There was nothing to slow the one coming through Brive. Except Marat the ruthless and his Spanish haters.

“The English gentleman wants me to hang some German prisoners at the side of the road and slice their balls off for their friends to find them?” said Marat levelly. “It sounds as if you have learned something about war, here in France.”

“I leave the details to you. The only way to slow the Germans now is to get them so furious they start burning and killing here.”

“So in the absence of English guns, we have to slow them with French blood.”

Manners said nothing. He had nothing more to say. He began to climb out of the car and look for Francois. Then he heard a car door slam behind him as Marat emerged, and saw the Communist’s spectacles glint as he walked to the back of the truck where his men sat, armed to the teeth.

“I want some German prisoners and some rope,” he rapped. “And a blunt knife. From now on, we’re fighting this war Spanish style.”

There was a truck parked at la Ferrassie when the fast black Citroen that Francois had commandeered drew to a halt on the road from le Bugue. In the headlamps, it was empty and deserted.

“Ours?” inquired Francois, as Lespinasse cocked his Sten gun. Manners shook his head as he saw “Madrid” scrawled on the tailgate. “Marat’s Spaniards.”

The three of them toiled up the hill to the cave, guided by the sound of work and curses, and found Marat and McPhee standing by the uprooted tree while one man labored to widen the hole and more were at work inside.

“How thoughtful of you to bring an electric torch,” said Marat amiably. “Our hurricane lamp ran out of paraffin.” He raised his voice. “Igor? Gdye ty?”

“Vot ya, tovarishch,” came the reply from the Russian behind them. He must have been watching them from the moment their car drew up and followed them up the hill. Manners recalled the Schmeisser.

A head emerged from behind the uprooted tree. It was Florien, one of the lads who had helped them put the bazookas into the cave. He must have guided Marat here. Manners sighed inwardly at the complications of French politics.

“We have come to take the bazookas to Terrasson,” said Manners. “It’s a joint action of the Armee Secrete and your FTP comrades to try and hold the road to Perigueux. We might as well go together.”

“I regret that my orders do not mention Terrasson,” said Marat. “I am not throwing away my men’s lives on foolish gestures against tanks.”

“And no doubt your orders tell you to keep the bazookas as souvenirs,” mocked Francois. “They’ll come in useful after the war.”

“Hey, calm down,” said McPhee. “We’re taking them to Perigueux, to blast our way into the Gestapo building in the Credit Lyonnais, and some others to hit the Hotel Normandie at Bergerac. It’s my idea, the only artillery we’ve got to take out their HQs. The battle of the Das Reich division is over, you guys. We lost it. They roll on. We stay, and take out the garrisons they leave behind.”