Cold Lonely Courage (Madeleine toche Series Book 2) (13 page)

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CHAPTER
THIRTY

In the basement of a nondescript home in the town of Nieul, a small group of
Maquis
fighters listened to their instructions via the BBC. Their leader, a man known only to his men as Richard, listened intently to the broadcast. He nodded his head as he committed the information to memory. It confirmed what he already knew. A huge convoy of SS trucks was moving north towards the invasion area and he was to proceed to a site north of the town of Siorac along the Limoges River and delay them with explosives.

He looked at his group of men. Few of them were even close to manhood. Most of them looked to be boys of sixteen or so, and much too anxious to get into the fight against the enemy. Hell, these ‘men’ had barely been out of short pants when the Germans first came. He was originally German, but also a Jew. His own parents had been denounced even though they had successfully hidden in the city of Toulouse. A neighbor and supposed friend had alerted the authorities to their location and religious heritage. Richard’s revenge had been swift. He had taken action quickly but he killed the bastard slowly. He took no joy in it but revenge needed to be carried out in a manner that ensured the traitor understood his crime. As Richard had slowly tortured him to death, his screams had given him little solace. Maybe getting the Nazis out of France would help. Then he could turn his attention to finding his parents who had been sent to concentration camps in Germany, torn from the life of affluence they had enjoyed in Germany prior to the rise of anti-Semitism.

Richard looked around the room and tried to formulate a plan to attack the convoy. He was trained in sabotage and had access to a large cache of explosives. Unfortunately, the boys gathered around him had no training, nor the time for it. He decided that their role would be a supportive one, not offensive. They would follow his orders eagerly, without question, but he was not going to send these green kids into the jaws of the
Das Reich
division. They truly were animals and would burn these kids alive if they took them prisoner, he thought.
Das Reich
was regrouping near Toulouse and it was known that when the invasion came they would be activated, charging into battle as fresh and seasoned troops. They were tough fighters who would chew up and spit out his boys without breaking stride. Regardless, I’m going to blow as many of the bastards to hell as possible, he thought.

Richard lit a cigarette and listened to the banter of the boys. Resources must have been thin for him to be saddled with this lot, he told himself. I’m not even sure they know why they hate the Germans, and that’s a dangerous thing. Had they personally suffered at the hands of the soldiers out here, away from anything of great strategic importance? They have been schooled in hating the Germans as an occupying force, but personal experience is the best and cruelest teacher. How do I know how they would react under fire? Nothing will be done in the open. I’ll use the boys as observers and execute the plan carefully.

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CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

John Trunce sat in a large airplane hangar among his buddies as they listened to their platoon leaders explain the situation. The atmosphere in the room was charged with a mixture of excitement and resignation. Most of the men had seen combat in Italy, but this was going to be the most important operation of the war. Everyone knew it. General Eisenhower had delivered a personal written message to each and every man concerning the importance of the mission. There was no mistaking it.

“This is it. No more false alarms; we go. Get together with your stick and remember your drop zone. If you get separated, find friends and we’ll regroup later. Good luck, boys. We finally get to get into this thing and get it over with,” a young airborne officer explained. He seemed barely older than they were, a boy leading boys. To an outsider it might have seemed that way but their confidence and long months of training gave them an air of confidence in themselves and their units. A blade any more finely honed might start to crumble and break. They were ready.

John felt relieved and anxious at the same time. He looked around as his friends readied their gear. I feel more like a pack mule than a deadly fighting man, he thought as he waddled towards the door of the transport plane. At the last second some idiot deciding that we needed to carry more gear strapped to us in leg bags. He moved towards the metal steps descending from the side of the plane and heaved himself up into the doorway. A guy behind him gave him a push helping him through. His gear weighed more than he did. What a relief it will be to get this stuff off me once I hit the ground. They don’t expect me to hump that crap all over France, do they? Once in the doorway he picked up his static cord clip and slid it down to his position in line and found a seat along the side. Every face reflected the emotions that were spinning through their minds. The one thing that was missing was banter among the guys. A subtle change had come over everyone. This was the real thing.

I know better than to believe the rumors that they would be fighting anything less than Hitler’s best. They’ve been at war for five years. Those boys wouldn’t break and run. They’ll be hardened veterans.

It didn’t seem like they had been in the air that long when John started to hear the flack exploding in the distance. Oh man, I hope we don’t get hit by it and go down without getting out. We’ll be jumping pretty low, which means we’ll make an excellent target. The plane started to get buffeted about and was pitching around as the pilot tried to avoid the worst of it. John kept his eyes focused on the jump light. Soon it would turn green and we’ll be out.

The first signal light came up, telling the men to assemble into their stick. As one the men stood, turning to check the gear of the man in front of him. The plane heaved and dropped altitude as a shell burst nearby. Men held on to whatever was at hand. The urge to move forward and jump was palpable; the open doorway looking like it was a mile away to the men in the back of the line. The green light snapped on and the men moved to the door without hesitation, jumping out one by one. John went out and was caught in the prop blast, propelled out and down. His chute opened up immediately and he oriented himself. As he looked up he saw countless planes dropping men. He winced when a shell hit one, exploding into pieces. The poor bastards, he thought as tracers from the ground flew all around. He wrestled his rifle from where he had strapped it to his body. Every direction he looked he saw explosions and ground fire. It’s like I’m in the middle of the Fourth of July fireworks. The display of firepower was overwhelming. He looked down and saw darkness directly below him. Maybe I’ll get lucky and not land in front of a German machine gun nest, he thought ruefully.

Ready to shoot back at anything on the ground he twisted around as far as his harness would allow, trying to get at least a glance in every direction. He drifted down and away from where he saw ground fire. He tried to see if he could make anything out that looked remotely like his drop zone. All he saw was a swamp. Just like he’d been told, the Germans had flooded the low areas once the invasion began. They had plenty of time to train and prepare for this, John reminded himself.

“Shit, I’m going to get wet,” he said aloud and came to a sloppy stop, his parachute billowing out in front of him as it came to rest in the muck.

“Welcome to France, Johnny,” he murmured. This isn’t my drop zone. He detached himself and looked around for any friendly faces. He rolled and crawled his way towards the nearest solid ground, staying low in the mess of mud and decaying vegetation. Swamps are for duck hunting, he thought, careful to keep the muzzle of his rifle covered and out of the muck. He didn’t much care if he was muddy, but his weapon was everything. I can’t do much damage to the enemy with a plugged up rifle. He made it to the edge and crouched down, looking around for movement. He saw a couple more chutes that landed on what looked like solid ground. He adjusted his helmet and moved towards them and the war.

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CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

“Normandy, not Bordeaux? I see. I’ll move my men in the direction of Caen immediately, Field Marshal. We should bring all
Panzers
up and push the enemy back into the sea. I must admit, sir, you were correct,” General Lammerding said into his phone. He listened to Field Marshal Rommel’s instructions. A great deal of what the Rommel demanded depended on Hitler’s permission. Hitler intentionally held the panzers back. The time it took for Hitler to release them would cripple a counter attacks and create indecision.

“Yes, Field Marshal, I understand,” Lammerding said, placing his phone back onto the cradle. “Well, it has come,” he whispered, picking the phone back up.

“Kampfe, Lammerding. Invasion in Normandy. Yes, Normandy. Prepare the shipment and see to it immediately. I have a division to move.” Without waiting for a reply, he dropped the phone back down and called his orderly.

“Klein! Get my officers together and coordinate a rail movement of our equipment. We have to be ready to move as soon as possible.”

Klein responded instantly, leaving the room for the phone on his own desk.

Lammerding paced back towards the windows of his ornate office. The morning light was coming in through the windows. Now I know where to send my men and armor. He had been preparing to do so for weeks. The trains had been readied for some time. He planned to be able to move as quickly as possible once the word came through. All he needed was a destination. The long guessing game was now over. I have my orders and my own priorities. I can’t think about the gold anyhow, he thought. I trust Kampfe. The gold is in the best hands possible. He turned and strode purposely from his office, wondering whether he or some Allied general would be calling it home in the next few weeks.

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CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

“I must have some help with the train,” SOE operative Brian McDermott said to a middle aged Frenchman standing in the storage room of a small
tebac,
a combination corner grocery and newspaper stand. The war years had not been kind to the shabby little store, and there were few items on the shelves, the effect of severe rationing. However, McDermott knew that the owner, Monsieur Pernod, in addition to being a Resistance leader, had a variety of items for sale that weren’t readily displayed. After all, he was a merchant. Who could better understand the value of things in short supply but available on the black market?

“I can’t spare any men. They’re already off with the
Maquis,
assisting with the invasion.”

McDermott shook his head, “We can save hundreds of lives, but we need to disable the flat cars. I have all of the necessary supplies but I can’t do it alone.”

“Explosives?”

“Non, Monsieur,
paste,” McDermott said smiling.

“Paste? How will you stop train cars with paste?”

“Help me and I’ll show you.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

“This far away, I doubt Jerry will be watching very hard. Most of the rail attacks come when the trains are underway. This will be different. We will be able to get to the cars long before they get started. We’ll disable them. If we’re successful, more than 300 tanks, 1400 vehicles and 15,000 men will have to go by road! Time is everything. The longer it takes Jerry to regroup and counterattack, the further inland we get and the more men and armor we can throw back at them if they try. You have to help me!”

Pernod smoked his cigarette and looked at McDermott. There was no mistake; he was measuring the man as surely as if he were being fitted for a suit. McDermott held his eyes and watched as Pernod came to some silent personal decision.

“Then I can offer you help.”

Pernod motioned to a young girl sitting quietly in the corner. She was school aged at best, but she didn’t hesitate for an instant.

“Marie, go and find your sister.”

McDermott watched the girl walk out of the room. Her sister must be a messenger, he thought. There was little time and no telling when the trains would leave, carrying death and destruction towards men who were fighting for their lives already. He needed help fast.

Shortly, a slightly older girl came into the room. The sisters stood next to their father, waiting patiently for him to speak.

“Here is your help; it is the best I can do.”

“These girls? McDermott asked incredulously. They’re children. Even young men would be better!”

Both girls instantly took offense. The change in them was dramatic. Their dark eyes burned with passion and their spines straightened as if they were ready to attack.

“We can do anything some silly boys can do,” the elder girl spat furiously. “We have been helping for years now. We’re brave and have seen more Germans than you have. We won’t cry like some lost little boy looking for his mother if things get scary. They are always scary when you are smuggling messages or guns. We know of the rumors of the
L‘ange de la mort,
she is a woman and a sister in the Resistance. She would kill you like swatting a gnat. We are daughters of France, and I don’t care if you think we’re old enough or not! The English, of all people, should remember the bravery of the young women of France when they are determined to drive invaders from their native land. You English have not lived with these bastards pawing at you, like some toy for them to abuse at will. I have smiled enough. I have kept my head down long enough. I have seen my friends sent away to work in their slave camps and factories long enough. The invasion has come. When I get the chance, I will kill Germans. Watch me!”

McDermott stepped back under the onslaught. It was if the girl grew in stature as she unleashed her diatribe, her tongue lashing raised to a crescendo that was almost a roar. The look in the eyes of the girls was frightening in its intensity. He had offended them deeply. The older girl was shaking with fury. Suddenly his mind understood her reference to Joan of Arc, who at seventeen had led French troops in battles to rid her homeland of the occupying English. He knew he had made a serious misjudgment. He had to correct it or all was lost.

“I am sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t always understand how things have been. My family lives under the bombs in London. My brother is on the bottom of the channel in his Spitfire. I spoke stupidly. I only know what has to be done.”

“Oui, Monsieur
and what will we do?” The younger girl asked gently, the fury receding as McDermott explained himself. The sudden pain on his face communicated more than his words ever could.

“We’re going to drain the oil out of the axles of three hundred flat cars and replace it with my special paste.”

“That will work?” the girls’ father said raising his eyebrows in amazement.

“Oh, it will work. You see, the paste works like oil for a little while, and then it hardens like cement. Those cars will seize up and be useless. Jerry will have to offload his nasty hardware and move it up the road. Other chaps and ladies,” he said with a nod to the girls, “will make their life hell all the way to the front.”

The girls and their father beamed. McDermott made what would undoubtedly be an incredibly dangerous mission sound like a monumental schoolboy’s prank.

“The only thing I haven’t worked out is what to do with the oil. It can’t be drained onto the ground, it’ll be noticed. We have to collect it and dispose of it.”

“I know exactly how to dispose of the oil,” Pernod said.

“How?”

“It will be sold.”

McDermott smiled at the wonderful irony of it all. They would not only steal Jerry’s oil, but they would add insult to injury by profiting from it. He had more than a little bit of rogue in him. He had been perfect for SOE, a natural grifter. He knew Pernod would make a tidy profit selling the oil to his friends and neighbors. Why not? The Pernods were the ones putting themselves at risk. A little compensation for the deed wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“You are a man after my own heart. We have to start now. We need a truck and a plan to get into the rail yard.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. With the invasion underway everyone is looking north,” the Frenchman said.

“Let’s hope so. Or, our trip to the station may be shortened a bit,” McDermott replied.

The tough little Pernod family nodded in unison, clearly understanding the immensity of the danger they faced.

McDermott and the two girls crouched at the end of the fence surrounding the train yard where there was a long line of flatbed railroad cars loaded with tanks and artillery. Loading had stopped for the day and each piece was covered with tarps in an attempt to mask what was underneath. McDermott sucked in his breath and was awed at the sheer volume of equipment that could be brought to bear by the
Das Reich
Division. The tanks alone would wreck untold havoc on ground troops as they advanced ahead of the armor being down loaded on the beaches. He already knew serious miscalculations had been made concerning Allied armor. Nobody had anticipated the nearly impenetrable hedgerows of Normandy. For generations farmers had built up the bramble and tree barriers on top of rows of earth. They served to separate and define individual fields. Tanks without infantry cover were vulnerable to attack from rocket propelled grenades. With every hedgerow a new hiding place, determined pockets of infantry could bring
Panzerfausts
up to shoot grenades at the allied tanks. If the Germans could combine their infantry and armor against the unsupported Allied infantry, their defense would be brutal. His mission, and that of so many others, was to cripple the French road and railway systems keeping the German reinforcements with their massive and heavily armored tanks from getting to the invasion area for as long as possible.

McDermott looked over at his companions. If the two sisters were frightened they certainly didn’t show it, he thought. We might just pull this off.

They had hidden a truck nearby that held the paste and empty tanks into which they could pour the oil removed from the train axles. Sentries were making perimeter sweeps at three hour intervals.

McDermott motioned to the girls to move and the three of them ran doubled over to the train, ducking under the side of the lead car and setting to work. They moved with machine-like efficiency. McDermott was trained specifically for the task and it had become routine for him. As the gear oil had to be replaced, the bolts that allowed for drainage loosened easily. Once the oil was drained into a large wine bottle, they squirted in McDermott’s paste like icing piped onto a cake. Several times they stopped and listened for activity. Nothing stirred.

The three worked through the night with no incident, moving away from the cars when the sentries came by.

With the sun starting to rise, McDermott and the girls parted ways back at the
tebac
with a promise to get together for a meal when France was free and the war was over. They were bonded together by the danger they had shared. It was an unbreakable bond that ensured that they would never forget one another.

As McDermott walked away he felt a strong sense of accomplishment for what he and a couple of French schoolgirls had achieved. I’ll never take the young for granted again, he thought. He was downright cheerful in his ignorance, not knowing that he and the girls had set a series of events in motion that would ultimately claim the lives of hundreds of innocent civilians but would save the lives of many more.