Shaun Clarke - Night Fighters in France

‘Ah, you speak English!’

Pierre grinned and placed his index finger just above his thumb, leaving a tiny gap between them. ‘Only a little.’ Then, reverting to his own language, he said: ‘But your French, I notice, is excellent.’

‘It’s good enough,’ Callaghan said, though he spoke the language well, ‘I’m sure we’ll get by with it. What was it like with the Germans here?’

Pierre shrugged and stopped grinning. ‘Not good, monsieur , but other villages had it worse. Here, though the Boche commandeered the best houses and took most of the food we grew, they were a disciplined bunch who neither harmed the older folk nor abused the women. They did take the few remaining young men away for forced labour in Germany, but as most of us knew they would do that when they came, we fled into the forest and made our own camps there.’

‘And were very successful at harassing the Germans,’ Greaves said diplomatically.

‘In a limited way only – at least until the invasion was launched. Before that, we had to be careful about coming out of the forest to attack the Germans, because if we did they would exact some terrible form of vengeance. Sometimes they shot three or four Frenchmen for every German shot by us, or even worse, in one case they herded every member of a village into the church and then set fire to it. So some of them have done terrible things, but here we were lucky.’

‘And your fellow Maquisards are now pursuing those same Germans?’

‘Sniping on them as they retreat. The main German supply route, along which they are retreating, runs through hilly, densely forested countryside. The Maquis are well protected by the trees and pick them off from the hills. This not only reduces the Germans in number, but also makes them constantly nervous. I wish I was there!’

‘You can be,’ Callaghan told him. ‘It’s imperative that we link up with the Maquis and learn all we can about the Germans’ movements and habits. If you act as our guide, you’ll be able to rejoin your companions.’

‘Then I’m your man, mon capitaine .’

‘Thank you, monsieur. ’

Callaghan glanced across the village square and saw that the SAS troopers not on guard at the edge of the forest encircling the village were sprawled around the fountain in the middle of the square, in the shade of the leafy trees, finishing off their bread and cheese, swigging calvados, and shamelessly flirting with the younger, bolder girls. The girls’ parents were looking on, not offended, simply thrilled to see the British soldiers here, scarcely believing that they were human like other men, and might seduce their daughters. The fountain itself, Callaghan noticed, had been hit by a bomb and was now half demolished and covered with its own rubble and pulverized cement. There was no sign of water.

‘When do we move out?’ the young Maquisard asked, removing his semi-automatic weapon from his shoulder and laying it across his thighs, where he lovingly stroked it.

‘When we’ve checked that the next village has been cleared, I want you to go with a forward patrol, lead them to the village, see what’s happening, then return here. If we know that the village is cleared, we can move on to link up with the Maquis.’

‘Very good,’ Pierre said.

Nodding at Sergeant Lorrimer, who was kneeling beside the young Frenchman, Callaghan asked: ‘Do you mind doing this?’

‘My pleasure,’ Lorrimer replied. ‘That calvados perked me up no end and now I’m raring to go.’

‘Then take Pierre with you and try to get back here as soon as possible. Be careful, Sergeant.’

‘I will, boss,’ Lorrimer said. ‘OK, Pierre, come with me.’ When Pierre stared uncomprehendingly at him, Lorrimer stood up and jerked his thumb, indicating that the Frenchman should follow him. With Pierre beside him, he walked around the smashed fountain to where Jacko and Rich were sitting on the steps of a house, enjoying themselves by trying to communicate with two giggling girls who spoke almost no English.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Jacko was saying, indicating himself and the dark-haired girl nearest to him by jabbing at her and himself with his index finger. ‘Me…love…you. Me want to get in your knickers.’

The girl, not understanding what he was saying, started giggling again, though Rich silenced her by saying: ‘That’s bloody rude, Jacko! They’re decent girls.’

‘And we’re their conquering heroes, so we might as well…’

‘Shut your filthy mouth, Jacko,’ Lorrimer growled as he approached the men, ‘and get to your feet. Before you cause offence here by saying the wrong thing in front of a Frog who knows English, I’m taking you on a little patrol.’

‘Aw, come on, Sarge!’ Jacko protested, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand and waving his bottle of apple brandy. ‘I haven’t finished my lunch!’

‘You’ve had enough for now. And if you have any more of that stuff you’ll be even more stupid and loose-tongued than you are normally. So put that bottle down, pick up your rifle, and get on your feet. You, too, Burgess.’

‘Very good, Sarge,’ Rich said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and winking at the moon-eyed French girl beside him. ‘Unlike some we could mention, I never complain about being asked to perform my duty. Backbone of the squadron, me, Sarge.’

‘And humble with it, I note,’ Lorrimer responded. ‘Now say goodbye to your two little girlfriends and let’s get to the jeep.’

Rich shyly mumbled his farewell to the girl sitting beside him, but Jacko, climbing to his feet, was considerably more theatrical, bowing, sweeping his beret across his chest and saying with a dreadful accent: ‘ Au revoir, mademoiselle. Je t’adore. ’ When the girl burst into giggles again, Jacko grinned from ear to ear, then followed Lorrimer, Rich and the young Maquisard across the square to their jeep.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ Rich said.

‘I don’t,’ Jacko replied. ‘Those are the only Frog words I know. Picked them up from the films.’

‘What a fucking prat!’ Sergeant Lorrimer muttered to himself, shaking his head in exaggerated disgust. Then, indicating the young Frenchman with the German rifle, he said: ‘This is Pierre, of the Maquis. If you understand what I’m saying, Pierre, this is Corporal Burgess, known as Rich, and Lance-Corporal Dempster, known as Jacko. As neither speaks French, you won’t have to put up with their bloody awful conversation.’

‘Well, thanks a lot!’ Jacko exclaimed.

‘I understand,’ Pierre said proudly, smiling at everyone. ‘Rich and Jacko! Nicked names!’

‘Nicked names,’ Lorrimer said. ‘You’ve got it.’ He sighed in exasperation and turned to the other two. ‘Pierre’s going to act as our guide and hopefully lead us to his fellow Maquis. But first he’ll take us to the next village on our route. If it’s been cleared, which we think it has, we’ll come back and tell the others about it. Then we head out.’

‘You picked the right men for the job,’ Jacko informed him.

‘I’m sure,’ Lorrimer said, then he clambered up into the driver’s seat of the Willys jeep, indicated that Pierre should sit beside him, and waited patiently until Jacko and Rich had climbed into the back, the former behind the twin Vickers guns mounted in the middle of the vehicle, between the front and rear seats, the latter behind the Browning heavy machine-gun mounted on the rear. ‘All set?’ Lorrimer asked.

‘Of course,’ Jacko replied.

‘Fire away,’ Rich added.

‘Hold on,’ Lorrimer said. Just to take the wind out of the sails of his two cocky passengers, he released the handbrake and accelerated quickly, making the tyres screech in the soil as the jeep shot forward, practically taking wing. Jacko and Rich were nearly thrown out and had to hold on to their mounted machine-guns to stay upright; they were still frantically trying to keep their balance when their SAS mates in the square, still eating and drinking, clapped their hands and cheered, before being obscured in the cloud of dust churned up by the departing jeep.