Never Leave Me (22 page)

His lips tightened as he rated their chances of survival. As a spotter pilot, his last message to the battleship
Texas
had been that truck convoys were moving rapidly towards Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts, the village only half a mile from where he was going to land. The Germans would be so thick on the ground that there would be no escaping them. Not with a smashed and shattered leg. The trees were only seconds away. He clenched his teeth against the pain and crashed into them.

His parachute was trapped high above him. For a few vain seconds he swung backwards and forwards and then managed to unclasp his harness and tumble in bloody agony to the ground. Someone was running towards him. He could feel the earth vibrate, see the movement of the trees. He drew his pistol and waited. However many of them there were, he'd see to it that he took one of the bastards with him.

Lisette raced across to the first body and faltered. She had never seen anyone dead before. He was only young. Not more than eighteen or nineteen, and there was a surprised look on his face. She stood for a second, gazing down at him, panting for breath, and then began to run again, into the woods.

He was lying on his stomach at the foot of a tree, his weight on his elbows, a pistol held unwaveringly in both hands. She burst out of the surrounding undergrowth and stood panting, gazing down into the Webley's barrel.

For a terrified moment she thought that he was going to shoot. His fingers tightened on the trigger, a spasm of incredulity crossing his face, and then he dropped it weakly to one side.

‘Excuse me,' he said, and his French had the clipped, precise accent of an Englishman. ‘I thought you were a German.'

She ran across to him, kneeling at his side. ‘Can you stand?' Can you walk?'

A lock of her hair fell forward over his brow as he shook his head, grimacing with pain. She hooked her arm under his. ‘Lean on me. Quickly.'

‘No, I'd be too heavy. My co-pilot came down not far away. Find him. Tell him I need him.'

‘He's dead,' she said steadily. ‘Now, lean on me and do as I say.'

She saw bitterness and rage flare through his eyes and then he did as she told him and she braced herself against his weight.

‘Are you on your own?' he gasped, beads of sweat scoring his face.

She nodded. ‘Don't talk. There isn't time.'

He was older than her, twenty-six or twenty-seven, with a cool, well-bred look that she thought of as being particularly English. Twice he lost consciousness and she had to lower him to the ground, waiting for him to recover.

‘Where the hell are you taking me?' he panted, his face ashen.

‘To my home. To Valmy.'

‘But this way leads to the coast!'

‘I know,' she replied calmly, ‘but there is nowhere else that I can take you. Please don't talk any more. Save your strength.'

He said something beneath his breath that she couldn't understand and then their tortuous progress continued.

Out of the wood and into the fields; out of the fields and into the gardens. Out of the gardens and into Valmy. By the time the kitchen door slammed behind them, she could barely stand. Her vision was distorted and blurred. Her breath came in harsh, savage rasps. She laid him down on the stone floor of the kitchen and then staggered over to the sink, running water into a bowl. He needed medical treatment. A doctor. And there was only herself. She hadn't saved his life yet.

The noise was indescribable. It was like being in the centre of a volcano. Dust rained down on her. Smoke billowed in through every crack and crevice. Her ears hurt from the concussion of guns and cannon. She threw a handful of rock salt into the bowl of water, carrying it over to the semiconscious Englishman, knowing that when the Germans fell back from the beach, they would overrun Valmy. She had to stop the bleeding. Had to hide him.

With a pair of kitchen scissors she slit open the leg of his trousers, peeling the blood-stained cloth away from the mangled flesh. At the sight that met her eyes she flinched, her jaw tightening. Dear God in heaven, how had he managed to limp and crawl so far, even with her assistance?

‘I can't take the bullets out,' she said, kneeling at his side, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. ‘I'm going to clean the wound and stop the bleeding …'

‘What time is it?' His voice cut across her, surprisingly strong.

‘Nearly seven.'

He winced with pain as she began to sponge leaves and grass and debris from his bloodied leg.

‘How far is it to the beach?'

‘A little under a mile.'

His eyes registered shock. ‘We were told there were no civilians so near to the coast.'

His head and shoulders were braced against the kitchen wall as she continued to clean the worst of the dirt away, the water in the bowl deepening from rose to scarlet to ghastly crimson.

‘There aren't many. A few farmers. That's all.'

‘And yourself?'

‘Yes.' She offered no explanation she was too busy tightening her stomach muscles against the awfulness of his leg and thigh. She staunched the blood with towels and then ran for sheets, rending them into strips, binding the gaping flesh with swift, trembling fingers. By the time she had finished, his face was grey.

‘You can't stay in the kitchen,' she said as she leaned back on her heels. ‘Germans could burst in at any moment.'

His lean face tensed against the pain. ‘So could the Americans,' he said, attempting a smile. ‘Is there a vantage point? Somewhere we can see who is approaching?'

‘Upstairs.' Her voice was doubtful as she regarded his leg.

‘Then I'll have to ask you to be my crutch again,' he said and this time his smile was steadier. ‘My name is Luke Brandon. I owe you my life. Thank you.'

She hooked her arm under his, taking his weight.

‘What's your name?'

‘Lisette,' she replied, bracing herself as he leaned against her.

He sucked in his breath as pain knifed through him and then said unsteadily, ‘I like it. It suits you. It's very pretty.'

A smile touched her lips. For the first time since she had run across him in the woods and seen his bloodied leg, she was convinced that he was not going to die. Dying men did not, surely, pay their nurses compliments.

‘We have to go into the entrance hall, to the main staircase.

It's a long way.'

He nodded, gritting his teeth, fighting against the longing to collapse where he stood. He'd been lucky. He didn't want his luck to come to a sudden end by being taken unawares by a party of Germans. It was seven o'clock. The Americans would have control of the beach. They would be coming ashore. He would be able to get expert medical aid and move inland with them. He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to be shipped back to England. The stairs stretched out unendingly before him. He drew a deep breath. They had to be climbed. He had to be able to see what was happening.

They were drowned in noise. Submerged by it. ‘Are those our guns?' she shouted, as Valmy's stout and ancient walls shuddered around them.

He nodded grimly. ‘That bombardment is coming from the battleships. They're decimating all opposition from the German gun batteries. There won't be a German left alive by the time they've finished.

She gave a small cry and stumbled and he had to fling himself across the bannisters to maintain his balance. ‘Don't be frightened,' he said, seeing how white her face was, how large and dark her eyes, ‘Another few minutes and the war, for you, will be over.'

‘When the Germans surrender, they'll be taken prisoner, won't they?' she asked urgently. ‘They won't be shot?'

She looked as though she were about to faint, and he didn't blame her. They could hardly make themselves heard over the roar of exploding shells. He heaved himself painfully up another step. ‘Germans aren't in the habit of surrendering,' he said comfortingly. ‘Don't worry. They won't trouble you again after the Americans gain Omaha.'

‘Omaha?'

He leaned on the bannisters, panting for breath. ‘That's the code name for the beach down there. American units are taking it. The British and Canadians and Free French are further east, beyond Arromanche.'

‘But you're not American,' she said as she half-carried him down a wood-panelled passageway and into a large, blue, silk-lined room.

‘No,' he said with a tight attempt at a smile. ‘I'm English.'

He looked out through the shattered panes of the large windows, and his smile vanished. He could see the headland and the distant sea, but there were no American troops swarming ashore; no US tanks trundling up from the beach, rolling inland. Instead, German shore batteries were blazing devastatingly down on to the beach; anti-tank guns raked the water with murderous fire; machine-gunners decimated the incoming Americans before they could even clear the landing ramps.

‘Holy God,' he whispered. ‘They're pinned down! They're not going to make it.'

He sank to the floor, staring out over the headland; at the hell that was Omaha. Beyond the landing craft, the battleships
Texas
and
Arkansas
directed a blistering barrage of fire against the German gun positions, but the guns still blazed. More men were disgorged from the ships: the 29th Infantry Division; the 1st Infantry Division. Battle-hardened men who had crossed the beaches of North Africa and Sicily and Salerno. But they were not crossing Omaha. The shoreline was thick with bodies. The water heaved with them. And still they came. Hurtling down the landing ramps and into the water, struggling for the shore.

She knelt at his side and wondered if she would ever again be able to think the Channel beautiful. It was red with blood, the tide high, four foot waves tossing and bucketing the landing craft as German bullets rained down on them. She closed her eyes, saying a silent and fervent prayer. For the men on the beach … for Dieter.

A blast rocked her back on her heels.

‘
Go back downstairs
,' he shouted to her as plaster and debris rained down on them.

She shook her head.
‘No,'
she shouted back stubbornly over the deafening roar of guns and mortar.
‘I'm staying here!'

All through the long, blood-soaked morning they crouched on the floor of the bedroom, lifting their heads whenever they dared, their eyes straining through clouds of dust and smoke to see what was happening down on Omaha.

Luke had expected the Americans to pull out. For the ships standing off to carry the men waiting to land to the other beaches. The British and Canadian beaches. They didn't do so. The battleships moved even closer to shore, firing flat-trajectory salvos towards the batteries. Allied fighter bombers swooped down on the German positions, bombing and strafing. Slowly, incredibly, over the bodies of the dead, men came ashore and stayed ashore.

‘They're going to do it!' Luke rasped tautly, dragging himself once more to the window. ‘The Big Red One is coming through!' She looked across at him, thinking that his carefully accented French was at last beginning to let him down. ‘The Big Red One?' she asked queryingly.

He flashed her a grin of elation and relief. ‘That's the nickname for the regiment down there. They're the toughest outfit that the Americans have. And they're winning through!'

Her eyes were still full of fear. ‘Are they taking prisoners?' she asked, crawling across to him as another salvo of bombing shook the chateau to its foundations.

‘If you had some binoculars I could probably see. As it is, all I can tell you is that they're on the beach and any minute now the Germans will be falling back.'

Her pretty face was flecked with soot marks, wracked with strain. He wondered what the hell she was doing in a large, rambling chateau, alone in an area of high German security.

‘Where are your parents?' he asked, easing his flying jacket off, revealing the shoulder flashes of an officer.

‘Balleroy. It's about sixty miles south of here.' There was a trace of huskiness in her voice that he found irresistible. When she had first run across to him in the woods, he had wondered if he was hallucinating. He had expected a party of Germans and instead the most beautiful girl he had ever seen had raced across to him and physically hauled him to safety. Even now, he had to keep looking across at her to make sure that she was real.

‘Why aren't you with them?' he asked curiously.

She shrugged delicate shoulders, her violet-dark eyes bleak. He had never seen eyes that colour before. They were like amethysts, the sweep of her lashes soft against her cheek. ‘I am to join them,' she said at last. ‘When it is safe to do so.'

She had promised Dieter that she would go at first light. It had been impossible. Now it was too late to go. She would not leave until she knew that he was safe. Her hands tightened in her lap. He
had
to be safe. The Americans would sweep ashore and Dieter and his fellow officers would surrender. They would be taken prisoner. He would be safe until the end of the war. Until the peace came and their life together could begin.

He noted her clenched knuckles and said comfortingly, ‘It won't be long now. Another hour, maybe two. Those Germans are going to wish they'd never set foot on French soil.'

Tendrils of hair curled damply against her forehead and cheeks. She pushed a strand away, changing the subject, saying unsteadily, ‘What were you doing when you were shot down?'

‘Spotting for the battleships. Relaying to them the targets they should be aiming for.'

He had a pleasant voice, calm and controlled; the voice of a man who would consider it ill-bred to panic. He was unexpectedly dark-haired for an Englishman, but that was his only Mediterranean feature. His eyes were blue, their rain-washed vibrancy almost Nordic, his mouth finely chiselled; his whole demeanour one of cool confidence.