Stranger at the Gates (32 page)

‘Yes,' Régine said. ‘It will be most amusing.'

The sound of the plane woke Louise. She had refused to go to bed, but stayed in the salon in a chair. Jean de Bernard had come to her quietly and kissed her goodbye. She had given him her hand and pressed her lips to his cheek. Savage was standing in the doorway. She could sense him watching them, fighting against Jean. She looked into her husband's face.

‘Take care; and God bless you. I wish I was going with you.'

‘You have a long time to wait,' he whispered. ‘Hours and hours before anything happens. Stay calm, and try not to be anxious. I believe we'll succeed.'

‘Not if we hang around here,' Savage said. He came to Louise and she gave him her hand too. You love me, his eyes said. He kissed you like a brother.

‘We'll be back,' he said. ‘Just stay quietly here.'

Then they had gone. She got up, shivering because the fire was almost out, and listened to the sound of the engine. And if it was seen to land … She turned and suddenly dropped on her knees. Her prayers were incoherent, helpless. She got up again and went upstairs to see if her father-in-law had awoken. His light was on and he was sitting up when she-went in.

‘An air raid? Are they dropping bombs?'

‘No, Papa. It's just a passing plane. It means nothing. Go back to sleep.'

‘I can't sleep,' the old man quavered. ‘Jean hasn't been to see me—the children never came—nobody cares about me!'

‘That isn't true!' Suddenly she lost her temper with him. ‘Don't be so selfish—if you knew where Jean was tonight and what nearly happened to the children …' She checked herself. ‘I'm sorry. Papa. I didn't mean to shout at you. But you're not being neglected. Go to sleep.'

‘I know there's something wrong,' the Comte said. ‘What do you mean? Where is Jean? What about the children?'

‘You wouldn't understand,' Louise said slowly. ‘And you're lucky. I'll go and make you a hot drink. Then you'll sleep.'

‘It's the Germans, isn't it?' he said. He pulled himself upright. ‘Go to my chest of drawers and get me my revolver. I won't let them hurt Jean. I'm not afraid. Go to the chest of drawers!'

‘No.' Louise shook her head. ‘Please, Papa, don't get excited. It's my fault for saying anything about it. There's nothing you can do. There's nothing I can do either.'

‘I fought them in the First War,' the Comte said fiercely. ‘I'll fight them now!' He threw back the bedclothes and before she could reach him he was stumbling to the chest. He pulled open a drawer and turned to her, triumphant. His face was very flushed and his eyes shone. ‘There! You didn't believe me—but I've always kept it. Just in case we were in danger! And it's loaded, ready …' The long-barrelled revolver hung down in his hand, its weight too much for him. Louise ran forward and took it.

‘Papa, for God's sake! Give me that. Lean on me now and come back to bed. You'll make yourself ill.'

He fell onto the bed and it was a struggle to lift him into it. At last he lay exhausted on the pillows; his high colour was receding, his eyes were still too bright. He breathed through his mouth.

‘Hot milk,' Louise said to him. ‘You'd like a nice glass of hot milk. I'll get it for you.' She took the revolver with her and went downstairs to the kitchen. Even the old had their secrets. Nobody knew of the gun's existence. The old man had kept it hidden in the drawer against some imaginary need. She picked it up and saw that it was fully loaded. She went upstairs and hid it in the bureau in the salon. Jean's revolver was gone; he had taken it with him. When she went back to the kitchen the milk had boiled over.

The Hudson stood on Lavallière field, the dawn light showing it up like a huge primeval bird. Savage ran to it first, followed by Jean de Bernard. The villagers hesitated; they seemed almost afraid to approach. Camier's van was hidden under some trees on the edge of the field. It had been pushed off the road. The trees round Lavallière provided an impenetrable screen of the field from the road. The moon still shone brightly, giving the scene a still, lunar quality. The sun had not risen yet. The pilot dropped down from the cockpit and Savage held out his hand. He was followed by his navigator and his airgunner. All three shook hands with him.

‘Right on time. Where's the stuff?'

‘Inside. Get your chaps together and we'll get it unloaded. I'm not too crazy about standing out in the open like this.' The pilot unbuttoned his helmet and took it off; he looked around him at the figures of men swarming round the plane. The big American was obviously in charge. And he knew how to organise. Within ten minutes the supplies were on the ground and being neatly stacked into piles. A Frenchman came up to him and spoke in excellent English.

‘I'd like to express our gratitude to you for coming here. It's a tremendous personal risk for you, but the lives of every child in our village is at stake. The Germans have taken them and they're going to send them to Germany. Thanks to you, we may be able to stop them.' Jean de Bernard held out his hand. The pilot took it.

‘Kids?' he said. ‘They've taken your kids?'

‘Yes,' Jean said. ‘They're being held in the school.'

‘The bloody bastards!' the pilot exclaimed. ‘You can count me in on this. The Yank's in charge, isn't he?'

‘Yes,' Jean said. ‘He's coming now.'

‘Let's get this stuff into the trees,' Savage said. ‘Then we can sort it out; and this plane's got to be hidden. How the hell,' he swung round to the pilot, ‘are we going to do it? It's like a bloody battleship!'

‘The ops boys thought of that,' the pilot said, ‘seeing I've got to hang around. You'll find some tackle inside for pulling her. And camouflage nets.'

It was obvious that there weren't enough of them to move the aircraft, but they tried. Heaving on the ropes attached to the undercarriage. Savage, the crew and the men of St. Blaize strained and struggled, but the load was too heavy. The pilot offered to start the engines and taxi, but Savage refused.

‘Too big a risk,' he said. ‘Something might pass on the road over there; we wouldn't hear it but sure as hell they'd hear us. Camier—get that van over here! The rest of you, move the guns into the trees. And be careful of that crate, it's full of grenades!'

Camier ran back to his van, his breath tearing through his heaving lungs. Sweat had soaked his shirt, his legs trembled. They had been stopped once on their way out of St. Blaize by an S.S. patrol. Luckily for him, the check point was at a junction which allowed him to insist that he was on an extra supply run to Headquarters at Anet. Sitting in the van, Camier allowed himself a moment of collapse. He sank against the steering wheel, his head supported on one arm, and closed his eyes.

He would never forget that moment, when the guards surrounded him and the face of an S.S. corporal peered through the window. He had felt physically sick with fear; at the memory his stomach heaved again. There were eight men hidden in the back of the van, crouched on top of each other. All the S.S. had to do was open the back doors … He had his papers ready and the pass which he had been given to enter the Château Diane; he had thrust them at the corporal, and the semi-darkness before dawn hid his livid face and the sweat running in trickles down his neck.

The van was well known at the Château. The pass was signed by the Wehrmacht commander of the Dreux district, General Fielder, and it was stamped and re-stamped for many journeys in the past weeks. The corporal had hesitated.

Camier had found a voice from somewhere.

‘I shall be late,' he croaked. The Standartenführer wants duck eggs for breakfast. I'm bringing them specially …'

They had stepped back and let him go. He had no idea what made him think of the excuse. Duck eggs. He raised his head, drew a deep breath into his aching chest and wiped his oily forehead on his bare arm. Then he started the van, and bumping over the soft, uneven ground, he drove it slowly out towards the plane.

It was an old pre-war Renault; its chassis rattled and its engine protested at the strain being put upon it. But with the human power pulling on the ropes and the van dragging at the tow, the plane began to move across the open field until it came to rest under the shelter of some trees. Camier helped to spread the camouflage nets, instructed by the pilot. Savage ordered some branches to be cut, and these were laid along the wings; the tail was in deep shadow. They gathered to open the boxes of arms and the small wooden crate marked ‘Grenades', with a skull and crossbones painted in red on one side. Every man present had experience of hunting. Hate and terror for their children sharpened their perception. Clumsy hands imitated the actions of Savage as he showed them how to use the sten guns.

To Jean de Bernard he tossed one fully loaded. ‘Set a man to watch the road for patrols,' he said. ‘And tell him for Christ's sake not to open fire on any Germans. Just report back here and run like hell if they look like stopping.'

‘If they reckon I've landed,' the pilot said, sounding casual, ‘how long would it take them to get here?'

‘They'd have been here by now,' Jean de Bernard answered.

‘Incidentally,' Savage looked up, ‘being in uniform won't protect any of you from these boys. They don't go by the Geneva Convention. They'll kick your balls off and then shoot you. So get yours in first if they come.'

‘Don't worry about us,' the pilot said. ‘I've got my instructions. I know what to do.' Looking at the clean-cut, pleasant young face, Savage doubted it. Brave, cheerful, typically English. He had as much hope against the average S.S. soldier as a child threatening a man-eating tiger with a pop-gun.

‘Right,' Savage said. The sun was rising; the sky was blushing on the horizon; obstinately, the silver moon still hung above them. ‘Let's have a look at the grenades.' He glanced at the faces of Camier and the eight men. They looked gaunt and grim. Poor bastards. He was surprised to feel sorry for them. To him this was a well-practised exercise, something for which he had been trained. These people had lived in peace; their children's lives depended upon their learning skills in a few minutes which he took for granted. He reached in and took out a grenade.

He held it up for them. ‘Pineapples,' he said. ‘The pin has a ring in it; pull that, release the catch on the side, count to three and throw. I once heard of a man holding one of these in live training and saying, “But I never learned to count, Sarge …” There were so many pieces of him nobody else counted
them
. So remember. Pull, release catch, count, throw. I know they're pretty, but don't stop to admire them.' One of the men smiled; some of the tension relaxed. ‘We'll use these for the engine,' Savage explained.

‘Nobody tosses one near the cattle truck, whatever happens. We don't want any of the children getting hurt. A couple of these well aimed will bring the train to a halt. And get rid of our pals who may be inside the driver's cabin.'

‘Would they use a driver from St. Blaize?' That was Jean de Bernard.

‘Unlikely,' Savage countered. ‘It'll be one of the regulars from Paris. He may be Boche or he may be French. Anyhow we can't worry about him. It's just his bad luck.'

‘I'd like a cigarette,' the pilot ventured to Jean de Bernard. ‘It's getting very light now. Have one?'

‘Thank you.' Jean bent over the lighter flame.

‘Have you got children in this too?'

‘No,' the Comte answered. ‘Mine were lucky. They escaped.' He looked at his watch. ‘We've a long time to wait. They're not taking them out of St. Blaize until tonight.'

‘Tonight!' The cigarette dropped. ‘Christ, I'm willing to wait for an hour or even a bit over, but tonight! There isn't a chance—we're sure to be seen here! Look, it's daylight now …'

‘Planes have landed here for the last two years.' Savage had come up to them. ‘Not a Hudson, maybe, but aircraft carrying agents. Nobody guarded this place or gave it a thought. I landed here myself by parachute. You were told to wait. If we get the children out you'll fly them back to England. If we don't, you can get the hell out yourself. But not till tonight.' He turned away and called out to one of the villagers. The pilot looked after him. He replaced the cigarette and sucked on it.

‘Nasty piece of work,' he remarked to Jean de Bernard. His tone was low. ‘Typical Yank.'

He dug into the pocket of his flying jacket. ‘I've got a drop of something here,' he said. ‘Keep out the cold.' He offered a small flask to Jean, who shook his head.

‘No thank you. You'll need it for the flight back. Why don't you relax now? Perhaps you could sleep.'

‘I might.' The young Englishman stretched his back. ‘I think I'll go and take a zizz inside.' He smiled at Jean and stamped on his cigarette end.

He climbed up into the belly of the aircraft and disappeared. Jean de Bernard stood apart, listening to Savage demonstrating and explaining the small-arms. There were pistols as well as the sten guns. He was a good instructor, precise, and patient. It was a side of his character which the Comte had not suspected. He couldn't understand Savage; the type was completely alien to him. But then he was too European. He hadn't really understood Louise either.

He only loved her. With the prospect of fighting the S.S. in front of him, he faced not only the fact of loving his wife, but of being killed before he could do anything about it. She had forgiven him; he knew that. The moment when he found her kissing Savage had roused him to contemplate murder. He looked at the American and wondered how deep his hatred of him went. Morality, sensitivity, nothing so effete as ethics would trouble Savage. He wanted Louise and he would do his best to take her. Unless, in the heat of the battle … Jean de Bernard dropped his cigarette close to the mashed stub left by the pilot, and stepped on it. Savage could have stood aside from what was happening. The children of St. Blaize were not his concern; his job was done. He could have used his permit and left them. Jean knew that there were men who would have done exactly that. He went over to the group and touched Savage on the shoulder.