Michael Grant - Purple Hearts

“This new captain’s a . . .” the sailor pauses, searching for the appropriate insult before coming up with, “. . . a landsman.”

It amuses and even touches Rainy that the old petty officer is concerned for her feelings. The trip down from Southampton to this insignificant town on the Bay of Biscay has not been pleasant. An undisciplined and all-male crew had run through every version of leer, wolf whistle and mangled French proposition. The phrase “ voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir, ”—would you sleep with me this evening—had been carefully learned by every serviceman with even a slight chance of reaching France, where the women were reputed to be plentiful and plenty ready. The line had been repeatedly tried out on Rainy.

There had also been a couple of unfunny practical jokes, the sort of pranks no one would have dreamed of playing on a male officer, not even a lowly second lieutenant. Not even a lowly army second lieutenant aboard a naval vessel.

Just before Rainy had gone over the side and climbed down to the waiting rubber boat, half a dozen sailors had said a cheery “farewell” by exposing themselves.

Yes. Definitely not the sort of thing enlisted men would have pulled on a male officer.

But then, Rainy reminds herself, they are boys, mostly. For most of them it is their first time at sea aside from training, the closest they have come to the war. In many cases it is their first time away from home, certainly their first time abroad.

Anyway, she has bigger worries.

They come to shallow water, with the waves piling up a bit, seizing and surging the boat forward. A single light shines in the dark village, perhaps over the church door. Off to the left Rainy sees the old Napoleonic-era Vauban fort, just like she’s seen in the aerial photographs. It is a square with stumpy towers at the corners and a squat stone keep rising in the middle. It even has a moat according to the photos.

They are to pass the fort then turn toward shore. A smaller beach will be there and—she profoundly hopes—a member of the FFI, the French Forces of the Interior, which people mostly called the French Resistance, or the maquis.

If there is no one waiting for her, the orders say she is to abort the mission and return to the destroyer. This makes sense unless the ship you’re returning to is like some disreputable fraternity house.

The contact had better be there.

The rowers are no longer thinking of giggling by the time the bow scrapes sand—it has been a long, hard row. The destroyer captain, in addition to being no disciplinarian and a landsman, is not overly brave and has kept his ship well out of sight of the shore.

To her left now a bluff blocks her view of the Vauban fort. To her right the beach curves in a perfect crescent. There are trees along the shore, but of the sort that shade homes, not of the sort that conceal machine-gun emplacements.

She hopes.

One of the sailors is panting far too loudly.

“Silence!” Rainy snaps in an urgent whisper.

“Who the fug do you think—” the sailor says in a nearly normal speaking voice which anyone—French or German—anyone within a hundred yards could hear.

Rainy puts the barrel of her Walther PPK—a German weapon, a souvenir—against the bridge of his nose. He goes cross-eyed to focus on it.

She puts a finger to her lips and says, “Shhh.”

Silence. It extends. Nothing but the soft shush shush s-i-i-i-g-h of the waves and the flapping of a decorative flag on the short pole that marks the rendezvous.

Then comes the crunch of footsteps on sand. Rainy strains to hear. Yes, just one set of feet. One person.

He appears as formless movement within shadow, then comes at last to where the fluorescence of the hissing surf illuminates his . . . no, her face.

In French Rainy says, “ Où est la tortue? ” Which in English means, “Where is the tortoise?”

A girl’s voice, high-pitched despite her attempt to lower it to a husky whisper, says, “ Allée à la mer. ” Gone to sea.

“Is it the season for it?”

“Tortoise is always in season.”

With the exchange of code phrases concluded, Rainy exhales. “All right, Navy. Put my gear ashore and you are free to go.” There’s some grumbling, but it’s very, very quiet grumbling.

Rainy slips the automatic pistol into the leather holster sewn into the back lining of her formless black coat.

“I’m Lieutenant Jones. Alice Jones.” She extends her hand.

The girl, a rather lovely young woman of maybe seventeen, shakes her hand firmly. “Marie DuPont.”

This, like Alice Jones, is most likely an alias.

“I have some things to carry, if you don’t mind helping,” Rainy says.

“Of course!”

They divide the weight: a radio encased in a rubberized, waterproof container; a locked tin box containing five thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit Vichy French francs and German Reichsmarks; a satchel containing thirty-two pounds of TNT in half-pound blocks helpfully labeled, “High Explosive” and “TNT” in red block letters on tan cardboard, and, “Dangerous;” a separate, smaller canvas pouch with thirty-two fuses; and a broken-down-for-easier-shipping Fusil Mitrailleur Modèle 1924 M29, the standard French infantry light machine gun, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.

All told it is something like a hundred and twenty-five pounds of gear and it is a struggle for the two of them to drag and haul most of it across the beach to the road. Waiting there is an aged Renault, still with wooden spoked wheels, which has been somewhat crudely remodeled as a panel truck.

Seeing them struggling, a man emerges from the Renault to help, gathering what they’ve left. A burning cigarette butt illuminates a craggy, whiskered face. They dispense with introductions and quickly load the gear into the back and drive off.

They go through town which takes very little time, Fouras being no metropolis, then they head east, keeping near to the north bank of the Charente River, and come at last to a small wood and tin shack beside a tiny jetty.

They unload the gear onto dirt and the Renault promptly drives away.

“Do not move, mademoiselle,” Marie says. “They will wish to look at you.”

Rainy nods. She raises her hands above her head and slowly turns a complete circle. She can’t imagine what the unseen watchers will be looking for, but she generally applauds caution.

The door of the shed opens. It is dark within.

“After you,” Marie says.

Rainy hesitates for a moment to let her senses take in the scene, the area, the placement of a row boat at the jetty, a second shed a few dozen feet away. She notes deep tire tracks in the mud at her feet, too big to be the little Renault. Then, satisfied, she steps into the shack.

Hands grab her, twist her around to face the wall, and begin a rude examination of her body. The searching hand quickly finds her Walther and draws it out. Then they find the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the dress.

A match flares and a flame glows from an oil lamp set on a small table. The dim light reveals two people. One is an older man, short, dark complexion, pitted as if by smallpox or an adolescent bout of severe acne. He wears a shabby gray suit that looks as if it was cut for a man two sizes larger. His eyes are yellowed but alert, suspicious, cautious, skeptical.

Rainy is obscurely gratified to see that he is wearing a dark blue beret, just exactly what she expects of a maquis fighter.

The second man is younger, perhaps midtwenties, a bare inch taller than Rainy herself. He has an impressive pile of dark hair, clear dark eyes, an idealist’s wide brow, and a nose that looks as if its lines were drawn by an artist. He’s a good-looking fellow, or would be if not for the surly expression on his lips. He strikes Rainy as wishing to convey that he is not impressed by her. Which is fine, since she’s not bowled over by him either.